#it can also be important to recognize when someone is in a place where they are willing to learn vs when they are not

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 4

I wanted to write more events for this part, but there’s a limit sadly and I underestimated it waaay too much. Anyways, shit starts to get intimate in the sweet way.

cw: physical fights, cursing, still a lot of sexual themes, Stockholm Syndrome developing, dumbass men

The thing is, the girls want their assistant back.

And not just because you’re important. Not just because you know the girls’ patterns, where Rumi stashes her favorite backup daggers, Mira’s real name (which nobody is supposed to know), or Zoey’s weaknesses. It’s not even about strategy anymore. They want you back because you’re theirs. Their little right-hand angel. You brought them tea before demon hunts, patched up wounds, stayed up researching until your eyes burned and your hands shook.

Now you’re gone.

Yeah, turns out, you had them all wrapped around your little finger, and never even tried.

It’s been—what? A month? Two? You stopped counting after the second week because time gets weird when you’re basically a prisoner in a loft that has seven bedrooms and zero privacy. They’ve all got supernatural senses, so nothing is secret. Jinu can sense your mood from down the hall. Abby can hear your heartbeat spike if you so much as think of escape. Romance just…knows. You have no idea how. But he knows when you’re lying, when you’re sad, when you’re lowkey horny (which is so annoying, because he acts like it’s about him—it’s not). Even Baby—little brat Baby who looks like he should be in detention—is constantly sniffing around, only to get bored and poke your shoulder like a child just to piss you off. Mystery doesn’t note on anything he can feel about you, but once he growled at Romance once when he tried to kiss your hand.

But somehow, despite the kidnapping, the light torture, and being the world’s prettiest emotional support hostage—you’ve… adjusted. Kind of.

Even though Romance tried to woo you with supernatural roses he bought up to the human world that screamed when they died.

Even though Baby offered to kill Bobby for you, said it like he was asking if you wanted fries.

Even though Abby carried you to the roof one night—literally picked you up—just so you could watch the stars, and said, “Don’t say I never do anything romantic.” Then promptly tried to kiss you.

Even though Jinu is worse. Gentle. Careful. Never tries anything. Just exists near you like he’s waiting for your soul to recognize his.

Even though Mystery… Mystery claps when Abby does a flip and also claps when you squeeze a lemon into Romance’s eyes

You know they like you.

You know. You’re not an idiot. Not blind, either.

You don’t need a vision from the heavens or a love confession, though you got many of that already. You’re not fourteen. You see the way they look at you. The way they move around you.

You’ve known for a while.

God, you remember when Jinu simply told you he’s interested. Just the truth.

He didn’t even touch you. Just stared across the battlefield of little black and white pieces and laid his feelings down like a move. Your hands were trembling so slightly then, you thought he might’ve noticed. Of course he did. They all do. There’s no hiding in a place where you can’t even sneeze without someone five rooms down saying “bless you” and be so proud of themselves too for knowing human things like this.

And then there’s Romance. Gods, Romance. Subtlety? He doesn’t know her.

You could be brushing your teeth, and he’ll walk in all dressed up, acting like he’s there to borrow toothpaste when everyone knows he’s just there to be seen. The man purrs. He purrs. That’s not a metaphor. He’ll lean against the doorframe, arms folded, voice dropping just low enough to be illegal in several countries, and say something like—

“Let me know if you ever get lonely at night. I don’t snore. Much.”

He doesn’t even care if you roll your eyes. He loves the chase. Loves when you tell him off gently, when you glare at him across the kitchen counter or throw a pillow at his head.

Abby’s not much better.

He’s the type to act like he’s not even trying. Just walks around shirtless, flexing. Pretends not to notice when you do notice. Every touch is casual, but not casual. Every time he calls you sweetheart or cupcake or worse—good girl—you want to set something on fire. Preferably his abs. For the greater good.

But you’ve caught him staring when you aren’t looking. He tries to laugh it off, but it cracks something behind his eyes. There’s real shit going on under that cocky exterior, and it wants you.

Even Baby, for all his “I’m too cool for this” energy, is obvious in the way that makes you want to scream into a pillow. He’s horrible. Picks fights with you over the dumbest things. Snaps gum in your ear when you’re trying to read. But he’s always around.

You’ll sit down in one of the ridiculously plush armchairs, and within five minutes, he’s there. Perched on the armrest, legs dangling, pretending to be bored. If you ignore him, he sighs dramatically. If you look at him, he sighs as if you’re annoying him.

You almost punched him. You also almost kissed him. Which is… terrifying.

And then there’s Mystery. The flower. Him trying at small talk, opening towards you, no more needed to say.

So yeah.

You know they like you. Every last one of them.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do about that?

Because it’s not just harmless flirting. Not just attention.

It’s heavy. It’s real. It’s aching.

They’re not playing games, not really. They don’t have time. They’ve seen too much, lost too much, been used too much.

You’re their first love in centuries. And it’s not a soft thing. It’s a suffocating thing. A hungry, endless, terrifying thing. They want you in ways that have nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with fate.

You miss the girls.

You miss freedom.

You miss peace.

But every time you think about leaving, there’s a tug in your chest.

What’s happening now?

Mira’s blade slashes through the air. Jinu blocks it with one arm like he means to get cut—show-off. Sparks fly. The wind howls. The rooftop is chaos.

Three girls against five ancient, demon-marked, cocky-as-fuck man-children who just will not die. Or stop talking.

“God, you’re all so loud.” Zoey huffs, leaping back from Mystery’s claws. She lands with a spin, barely catching her breath before going in again.

Mystery doesn’t say a word, so she obviously wasn’t talking to him. He just growls low in his throat, eyes glinting. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smirk.

Because Zoey’s been giggling. She tries to swing at him, dead serious—and still, still she giggles when she misses. Every time.

Mira’s faring better. She’s relentless. Precise.

Jinu is not even trying. His shirt’s half-torn open (like he planned it, asshole), and his arms are crossed while dodging. Calm. Elegant. Smiling. He doesn’t block—he flows.

Mira screams something wordless and furious at him, and he bows. Actually bows. Then catches her blade mid-swing with two fingers.

“Careful.” he says, voice syrupy smooth. “You’ll chip it.”

Abby is doing what Abby does.

He’s shirtless. Obviously. Gleaming with sweat. Just flexing and dodging, muscles moving under skin.

Baby is on his phone??

Well, he was, until Rumi noticed him and took the chance to attack. Suddenly Baby’s behind Rumi now, twirling a blade like it’s a fidget toy, expression completely blank.

Unbothered. Unbothered like he didn’t just try to stab her ribs. Unbothered like he didn’t vanish and reappear behind her within half a second.

“You’re so slow.” Baby says, like he’s disappointed in her for being mortal.

Rumi snarls, swings at his neck, and he disappears again, laughing quietly—more breath than sound. But Rumi ducks past Baby and nearly lands a hit on him.

He hums. “Almost.”

Now Mira’s holding her own with Abby—barely. Mira actually snarled the first time he winked at her mid-swing. (He’s winked three more times since. She’s missed twice.)

Zoey’s tangled up with Mystery. Which is a sentence that sounds more sexual than it should, but really it’s just fast, brutal, and completely quiet—except for Zoey’s occasional giggle, just again.

Romance, unbothered to help, rolls his shoulders. “Can’t we just agree you all missed us? You clearly came looking for a reason to see us again.”

“No, we came to end you.” Rumi hisses, cutting through the air with a blade that actually manages to scrape Jinu’s cheek.

“Mm. You always say that.” Jinu murmurs.

Romance pushes off the wall, finally stepping into the fight with a little spin. “You act like you don’t love playing with us. But you do. I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just Y/N rubbing off on us.”

Everything stops.

Everything.

A beat.

Rumi drops her blade an inch. Mira’s punch falters mid-air. Zoey—giggles stop.

“What,” Rumi says slowly. “did you just say?”

Romance freezes. Looks at the girls. Then at the boys.

“…What? I’m just saying she’s rubbing off on us. Her little quirks. The sighing. The eyerolls. The way she complains when we track mud into the—”

“YOU DICK.” Abby snarls, charging at him and shoving his shoulder hard.

“Are you stupid?” Baby mutters.

Mystery hisses. Not growls—hisses—like he’s ready to physically maul Romance on the spot.

Jinu grabs Romance by the collar, dragging him a step back like they’re not in the middle of whatever this is. His voice is low, barely audible. “Do you want her taken from us?”

Romance blinks, realizing a half-second too late that he just lit the wrong fuse.

“Oh.” he says. “Oh.”

Mira steps toward them, blade dropped at her side, forgotten.

Zoey’s hand trembles near her belt. “She’s alive?”

“No.” Rumi says, almost choking. “She’s there. She’s with them.”

Mira looks at each of them. Her face is unreadable. Flat and dangerous. “You kidnapped her.”

None of the boys speak.

Romance swallows.

Baby won’t meet their eyes. Not because he feels bad, just the little bird on that lamppost is way more interesting.

Abby’s mouth opens, then closes. Then he mutters, “Fucking idiot.” and punches Romance in the gut. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to say you fucked up.

“She was ours,” Zoey whispers, eyes glassy. “She’s—she’s ours.”

And maybe that’s the thing the boys didn’t calculate properly. Because in their little yearning hearts, they thought they were the only ones who needed you. But the girls? The girls have bled with you. They’ve cried in your arms. They had done this and that and whatnot and everything that makes them want you back.

Romance opens his mouth. Mystery kicks him in the shin. “OW! What?!”

“They didn’t know.” Mystery says flatly. First words of the night.

Romance finally glances at the girls properly, face sobering as reality sets in. “…Okay, yeah, we should go.”

“Now you think that?” Baby snaps, turning on his heel.

“She knows we’re coming.” Mira growls, stepping forward.

“Knew that already.” Baby mumbles. “She’s not stupid.”

Zoey finally cracks. “Is she okay?! You took her, and now you want us to believe—”

“Shut up.” Jinu says. (AN: guys I’m cackling up at myself it’s fucking HILARIOUS that he’s mean like that)

Abby looks at Romance. “You’re such a dick, bro.”

“I’m not leaving.” Baby says, crossing his arms. “Not after all that. Now I wanna see what happens next.”

“What happens next,” Jinu says like he’s talking to a child. “is we get killed.”

“I kinda like those odds.” Mystery says darkly.

Of course he does.

Then Zoey speaks, voice shaking just slightly—“Did she… did she say anything about us?”

Rumi doesn’t wait for a cue. Doesn’t wait for answers. Just screams bloody rage and grief and fuck you forever and charges.

Mira follows instantly, eyes flaming.

Zoey’s scream is less words and more war cry.

And suddenly the girls are everywhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Romance blurts, eyes going wide. “Okay okay OKAY—”

“I TOLD YOU.” Abby roars, grabbing his wrist.

Jinu steps back with perfect posture, calmly cracking his neck like it’s just time to clock out of work. “Let’s go.”

Mystery doesn’t even blink. Just vanishes—one blink and he’s gone.

“Are we teleporting or running?!” Romance yells, backpedaling fast as Mira’s blade nearly takes his face.

“YES.” Jinu shouts over the wind.

Abby grabs Baby by the collar. “We’ll go—NOW—”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF—”

“DON’T CARE—”

Romance grabs onto Abby with one hand. “CAN WE ALL AGREE THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT—”

“IT WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—”

And just like that, the rooftop is silent. Boys gone.

The wind dies.

The girls stand alone.

Fuming.

Abour an hour later, the door bursts open.

They’re loud. They’re bleeding. They smell like smoke and wet asphalt and one of them is holding something wrapped in someone’s jacket sleeve.

You blink. Petting the tiger, sitting on the carpet. Its tail swishes once. “Hi.” you say, not looking up.

You feel the way the boys freeze in the doorway. There’s a split-second of silent debate, like someone might just back out and pretend they walked into the wrong house. But then—

“Heyyyy.” Abby drawls, walking forward like he hasn’t got a cut across his cheek. “Look at you, still awake. Missed us?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

Romance appears behind him next, limping slightly but smiling. "You would not believe what just happened to us. Jinu?”

Jinu sighs, so fucking done with Romance starting shit and Jinu having to finish it. Not even only in this scenario. Then, he quickly makes something up. “We saved a kid. From a burning building.”

Abby waves his hands. “A dog! It was a dog. A whole dog shelter. We saved like… twenty-five dogs.”

Romance nods. “There was an alien. I swear. This thing came outta the sewer, babe, big eyes, like wet beach balls, all like blee-blop, and I—“ he points to himself “—punched it.”

They all pause. Realize. They just said completely different things.

You stare at them for a beat. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Jinu rolls his eyes at the other two then keeps going. “Okay, technically it was a burning animal shelter. So Abby isn’t wrong. You’re not wrong, Abby. But the fire started ’cause someone knocked over a candle. There was a candle. For the dogs.” Jinu is such a loser. Such a loser, god. And he’s supposed to be better than the others.

Abby nods quickly, walking towards the kitchen already. “Yeah! Candle dogs. Like aromatherapy. For their nerves. They were…” he squints, struggling for words. “stressed dogs.”

Romance raises his brows at you. “You should’ve seen me. Shirt off—obviously. Fire blazing behind me. I had this kitten in one arm—little guy was shaking, scared shitless—and I look back, flames in my eyes, and I saved it.”

“Sure you did.” you say dryly, watching as the tiger-cat leans its entire head into your hand. “Is that why Abby looks like he got tackled by a lawnmower?”

“I’m fine.” Abby calls from the kitchen, already chugging on something.

Then Baby walks in, dead silent. Expression bored. Disinterested. Pacing straight past you toward the fridge.

You say nothing. He says less.

Which means: he’s really happy to see you.

“—and I was nearly kissed by a banshee.” Romance continues, “but I told her I was taken. She screamed anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine. You should’ve seen us. Heroes. Real shit.“

You finally glance at him. “Romance.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Shut up.”

Abby snorts into his shaker bottle.

While Mystery just lowers himself slowly, settling beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushes your thigh. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But his head tilts just slightly toward your hand as it runs over the tiger-cat’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes from the kitchen. “And I kicked a dude. In the head! Like whack! His whole tooth came out. Might’ve been mine. But still.“

Jinu sighs. “That wasn’t a dude. That was a fence post. You roundhouse-kicked a fence post. And then apologized to it. There was no dude.”

“Not with that attitude.” Baby mutters, digging out a can of something vaguely carbonated.

Romance doesn’t listen to you telling him to shut up. Why would he? “Listen. What we went through tonight… I looked death in the eye. But I thought of you. I said, “No. I gotta get back to her. Can’t die here. Not like this. Not with this much chest out.””

You turn to look at them fully now, petting slowing. Brows raised. “So let me get this straight. You all went to the same place. Fought the same thing. And yet every single one of you has a different version of events?”

Romance: “Multiverse?”

Jinu: “We split up.”

Baby: “Can you stop talking to us?”

Abby: “I peed in a bush.”

That’s not a lie.

You sigh.

God. You should care more. You should press. You should catch the lies and squeeze the truth out of their cocky throats. But… You don’t. You don’t even suspect what actually happened out there. You don’t see the bruises for what they are. Don’t notice the way Jinu keeps glancing at you to see if you believed the lie. Don’t hear the way Baby breathes a little easier the longer you sit next to them. Don’t realize Mystery’s quiet lean is the closest he’s come to comfort in centuries.

Because all you see are idiots. Sexy, beat-up, broken-nosed idiots trying to lie their way through an obvious catastrophe.

All five of them? Tripping over each other’s fake stories? Really?

You lean back into the couch, pretending you believe them. Just for tonight.

Because they came home.

They came home to you.

And even if they’re lying bastards with god complexes and way too many abs between them…you’re still glad they did.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wrong for what they’ve done. You know that. You never forget it. They held you against your will. They kept you from the girls—your girls—who would’ve torn the world open to find you if they knew where to look. And now they do. (You don’t know that yet. But they do.)

And still…

You don’t even try to leave anymore.

But they changed, too. Not all the way. Not enough. Not where it counts, but… enough.

So yeah. They’re wrong. They’re still lying to you—badly, tonight—but it’s desperation. It’s fear. It’s the only way they know how to keep you.

Because they know—they know—that if you had the chance, the real chance, the safe one…

You’d leave.

You’d go running back to Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You’d take the hand they offered and vanish into the night with them, never once looking back.

So they lie.

They lie like children.

They lie with the panic of five lonely immortals who got one taste of softness and can’t stand the thought of going back to their hell without it.

You never asked for this. You didn’t want to be their comfort, their strange little mercy. You were supposed to be their enemy. A little help then a soul taken. And now you’re sitting in their living room, heart thudding slow, steady, full of goddamn dread because you caught yourself thinking—

“I’m glad they came back safe.”

You are.

You’re not okay with this. You’re not forgiving them. They’re still dangerous. They’re still wrong. They still can’t let you go.

But…

But.

Mystery’s shoulder is pressed into yours.

Romance is humming something low. Abby’s looking at himself in the hallway mirror. Baby’s doesn’t put gum in your hair anymore. Jinu is mostly an asshole to everyone except you, you just don’t know that.

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You don’t cry.

You just sit.

You’re still not free. And you’re still staying.

Jinu disappears toward the hallway, muttering something about a shower.

Romance follows, winking at you before you can say anything. “Don’t miss me too much, sweet girl.”

“I never do.”

“You doooo.” he sings from down the hall.

It’s been two months.

Two whole months.

Which meant when you ovulated, Romance went feral. (AN: y’all asked for it)

Not in a hot way. In a “we’re going to need a spray bottle” kind of way. He followed you around the entire apartment with dilated pupils and this low, mewling sound in his throat. At one point, he sat on the floor of the laundry room with his forehead pressed to the dryer whispering, “Just one bite. Just one little bite.”

You had to barricade yourself in your room for the day. Abby called him a pervert. Baby told him to go jack off and shut the fuck up. Mystery stared at the wall and didn’t come near you. Jinu rolled his eyes at Romance but listened to him talk about you anyway. Abby kept offering to “get it out of your system.” whatever the fuck that meant.

Back around your first period here, you cried once. Just once. Just out of nowhere. Sat on the floor in your bathroom with that aching pressure in your back, and your hormones all upside down and stupid, and cried.

And Romance—that sick son of a bitch—moaned through the wall. Actually moaned. “Are you crying? Is that real? Oh my GOD, she’s crying, this is the best day of my death, I’m gonna cum—”

So yeah.

Now, though?

Now you’re back to the start of the cycle. The cramps hit yesterday. The bloating. The grump.

Which brings you to the current situation:

Period cramps. Nothing world-ending, just enough to ruin your posture, your mood, and your ability to trust god.

So you’re in the kitchen. Fruit salad. It’s pretty. You’re pretty. The knife glides across strawberries, the lemon juice stings your fingers. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Yooo.” Abby calls, walking in. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Fruit.” you mutter. “Your brain would reject it.”

“Ouch.” he raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t just at the gym bench pressing Jinu. “Also, that’s not cooking.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

You don’t even look at him. Just cut another kiwi slice. You feel like shit. Your lower stomach’s twisting. Your back’s sore. But instead of anyone doing something nice like shutting the fuck up, you get Abby.

He reaches for a piece of mango.

You smack his hand with the flat of the knife.

“WHOOOO!!” he hollers. (Just hootin n hollerin🥀)

“Don’t touch my shit.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It’s my bowl.”

“You’re being kinda gatekeepy right now.” God, he looks so proud that he knows that word.

“You’re being kinda concussed in two seconds if you don’t leave me alone.”

He grabs a strawberry anyway.

You flick a piece of orange peel at him. He dodges, but still yells “AHHHH!” like you just shot him.

“You’re a child.” you mutter.

“Sexy child.” he replies instantly.

You grimace. “That came out so wrong.”

You resist the urge to throw the fruit bowl. Mostly because it’s your fruit bowl and you like it.

“Baby’s a fucking nightmare, by the way.”

“Oh?” Abby leans on the counter, brutal forearms btw.

“He unplugged my fan while I was sleeping. Then tried to gaslight me into thinking it was never plugged in.”

Abby snorts. Like, whole chest laugh. Head thrown back. Bastard.

“What’s he even doing right now?” you mumble, cradling your chin in your palm.

With zero hesitation, he starts making the wanking gesture with one hand, raises his brows, then adds the second hand for emphasis—like it’s a two-person job—and finishes it off with a dumb throat-clearing groan.

“Abby.”

He does it harder.

You close your eyes.

He adds a grunt.

You slam the knife on the cutting board. “Shut up.”

“Hand against the wall. One leg up. Really getting into it.”

“Abby.”

You hear him moving closer behind you. Not too close—he’s not completely suicidal—but enough that you feel the vibration of his voice when he speaks again.

“…You alright though?”

You stiffen.

He doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say you smell like pain today or your uterus is screaming, or I can hear your joints aching from three rooms away.

He just says that. You alright.

You nod. Quiet. Focused on blueberries now.

Warm hands land on your shoulders.

You tense.

Because—what the fuck.

They’re big. Warm. Too warm. You forget, sometimes, how hot their bodies run. It seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

You don’t move.

Because oh god.

He’s massaging you.

“Jesus Christ.” you breathe, not even meaning to say it.

Abby laughs, low, smug, voice too close to your ear now.

You glare at the cutting board. “Why are you touching me.”

“Just shut up, baby.”

God.

You hate that he’s good at this.

Not in a professional way, you can feel he’s rusty. His rhythm is weird, uneven. He clearly hasn’t given a massage in like three hundred years. He’s doing that thing where one thumb pushes too hard and the other forgets it’s supposed to help. But even so…

You sigh, soft. Accidentally. Almost a moan.

“Yeah.” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Say please.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

He snorts. Adjusts his grip. Presses the heel of his palm into the meat of your shoulder. It hurts. In that good way.

You mutter something between a groan and a prayer.

Abby’s hands move lower. Carefully. Slowly. Like he knows he’s testing your limits but doesn’t want to scare you off. Which is shocking, honestly. He’s not exactly known for tact. More known for shirtlessness, swearing, and shoulder-checking Mystery into walls when bored.

But now? Now he’s… being good. Well. As good as he gets.

“I’m genuinely impressed.” you say flatly, staring at your half-finished fruit bowl. “You haven’t tried to motorboat me once.”

“Tempting.” he says. “But I’m saving that for when you cry at a movie and need comforting.”

He doesn’t know what MySpace is but knows what motorboating someone means, fantastic.

“Do you even know how to comfort someone?”

“Yeah.” he says, dragging his thumbs down your spine, making something in you flinch and melt at the same time. “Like this.”

You let out a bark of laughter. Can’t help it. You tilt your head back a little and look up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That cocky little smirk still on his lips, but softer now. Faint. Barely there.

His eyes flick over your face, quick, like a scan. He sees the flush. The tiredness. The pain you’re trying not to show. He always does.

And for once—he doesn’t tease. He just keeps massaging. Hands steady. Fingers firm. Breaths slow.

You look away first.

His hands trail back up, thumbs circling behind your neck again. Your eyes flutter. You hate that it feels good. Hate that it’s him giving it to you.

But hate isn’t the right word anymore.

It hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s evil, sure. Still cocky, still loud, still dumb as a sack of rocks when it comes to boundaries. But he touches you like… like this. And right now? He’s the only thing keeping the pain at bay. So you don’t stop him. You don’t ask him to let go. You just let yourself be. For once.

Until he ruins it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, breath hot against your neck. “if you need me to help alleviate the cramps—”

You elbow him in the stomach. Hard. He laughs through it, wheezing a little. Still proud.

Still a fucking idiot.

And yet—his hands never leave you.

And then, there’s that weird, tight ache like a sob forming out of nowhere. The stinging behind your eyes. A single sniffle that escapes before you can catch it.

“Hey.” Abby says quietly, still behind you, still massaging. “…What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens. But you can’t talk. Not really.

He takes his and off you and turns you around by the shoulders, and god, you’re crying.

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” he says, voice going from smug to soft in a heartbeat. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that—what’s going on? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

You hiccup. “Noooo—You’re—” you choke out. “You’re just—!”

Abby blinks. “I’m just…?”

“You’re so—” your hands flap uselessly near your chest. “You’re just—!”

He stares. “…I’m what?”

“Nice!” you sob

“…Nice.” Even he doesn’t believe that.

You nod violently. A hiccup punches out of your lungs. “You’re so nice to me, and—and—and you were massaging me and you didn’t even try anything and, and you’re such an angel, and I don’t deserve—”

You’re a mess. Shaking and clutching your little fruit bowl like it’s a teddy bear. Cheeks blotchy. Mouth open and useless. Hormones and hunger and affection all conspiring to break your soul.

You’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen kittens. This is worse.

“I—I just touched your back, man.” he says, holding up his hands like they’re evidence. “It wasn’t that deep.” He takes one hesitant step toward you, then takes it back like he’s afraid you’ll cry harder.

Which—you do. Wipe at your cheeks with the back of your wrist. Nose red, eyes glossy, lips wobbling. You are so, so done.

That’s when Jinu walks in.

Buttoning his crisp shirt. He opens his mouth to ask something—maybe about the smell of fruit or where Baby put the remote—and immediately freezes.

Because there you are. Crying in the kitchen. Smelling like fruit. Looking like an angel.

And Abby looks like he just got caught breaking a fucking law.

“…What happened?” Jinu asks, slowly, stepping into the room.

You spin toward him.

“Jinu.” you sob. “He’s so nice.”

Jinu’s brows draw together. “Who?”

“HIM.” You point to Abby like you’re accusing him of murder. “He massaged me. And didn’t even grope me! And he was helping and he’s an angel and I just—!”

You hiccup. Sniffle. Blubber. You’re basically melting into your own hands now. Entire body trembling.

“He’s so nice, Jinu.” you whisper.

Jinu glances at Abby.

Abby stares back at him, mouth agape. Then he gestures helplessly, mouthing I didn’t do anything!!

Jinu blinks, then takes a single step closer to you, reaching slowly.

“Y/N…” he says gently. “It’s okay. Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself into his arms.

Jinu freezes. Then gently wraps his arms around you, wide-eyed, careful, calm. One hand rubs your back like he’s petting something small and traumatized. The other hovers awkwardly for a second before settling on your waist. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt, while he strokes your hair and murmurs something soft in a language you don’t understand.

And behind you, Abby is standing completely frozen. Still gaping. Mouth open. Eyes wide. One hand still in midair like he forgot what hands even do.

What the fuck is happening.

What the FUCK is happening.

He’s not built for this. He’s not equipped. This is an emotional boss battle and he’s only got a sword made of dick jokes and gym stats.

Jinu, to his credit, is the picture of calm. Even when you start babbling he just shushes you, nods, murmurs soft encouragement like it’s nothing. You’re mumbling shit into his shirt that don’t make sense at all.

Jinu leans down a little. “…What’s that?”

“Bleeeehhh.”

He nods, seriously. “Okay. Okay.”

Your words are incomprehensible.

“B-but h-he—and—and th-the thing with his—shoulders—and he’s like—rrghhhhhh—and now—bweeeeeh—”

“I know.” Jinu says softly, glancing at Abby in complete shock. “I know.”

Abby just stares.

Mouth open.

Hands on hips.

A man defeated.

He mouths: what the fuck did I do.

Jinu shakes his head.

He pulls back after a minute to check your face.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

You nod.

Abby finally speaks. “Can I—can I get it—?”

“No.” you and Jinu both say in perfect unison.

Jinu leads you gently to the stools, arms still loose around you, like he’s worried if he lets go, you’ll evaporate or explode into more bleh noises, then he presses a glass of water into your hand. He does it slowly. Gently. Like the water might tip and you might tip with it. And honestly? Not far off.

Your hands are trembling. Eyes still leaking. You take it.

“Thank you.” you whisper through your snot, voice wrecked and watery, and then—oh, for fuck’s sake—you immediately burst into another wave of silent, gasping sobs right onto the rim of the glass.

Water splashes onto your chest. You don’t even care. You don’t even notice.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, standing beside you like he’s ready to catch you if gravity wins. “There we go.”

You try to drink it.

You fail.

It’s like you forgot how to swallow. You’re crying while sipping and your throat closes halfway through and it becomes a horrifying hiccup-gulp-weep hybrid. Abby winces.

“You good?” he asks, mostly because your entire body just twitched.

“Yuh.” you manage, half-drowning in your emotions and saliva.

You try to set the glass down. Miss the counter. Abby catches it mid-air, miraculously. You make a pitiful noise.

You sniff, loudly. “It’s so cold.” you whimper. “It’s such a good temperature, Jinu—do you even know—?”

“I do.” he says.

“You’re so good at everything.” you sob, wiping your face with your sleeve. “And he’s such a bitch.”

Abby blinks. “Still me?”

“Always you.”

“It’s okay.” Jinu says again, doing that thing where he shhh-es you without making a sound. His hand’s back on your upper back. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you be.

And be, you do.

“Oh god.” you sob, eyes wide and staring at the cabinets. “I miss Rumi’s braids.”

Abby drags his mouth. “That’s specific.”

“And I—I miss the girls.” you sob. “I miss Rumi’s ugly-ass laugh. I miss Zoey stealing my lip balm. I miss Mira calling me a bitch when she means ‘I love you.’”

Jinu nods slowly. Abby freezes, looking vaguely guilty for the first time in… ever.

“I’m sure they miss you too.” Jinu says gently.

You sniff hard, face splotchy and eyes red, then lift the glass of water again, holding it with two hands. You squint at it, voice going high and tired and miserable: “Why do I cry like thisssss.”

Jinu leans closer and gently pushes a bit of hair off your face. You flinch, not from fear, but because you didn’t expect it.

Being a demon and living in shame sucks, but they’re kinda grateful that they’re not human girls at this moment.

Abby clears his throat, then walks over to the counter where your abandoned bowl sits, glistening with juice and slices of something soft and pink. He picks it up carefully. Offers it.

“I didn’t spit in it.” he says, smiling. “Yet.”

You blink at him through your tears. Sniffle once. “You can eat it.”

His eyes light up.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” he mutters, already reaching for a fork. “Best day ever.”

Jinu stays close. Doesn’t leave your side. Just watches you with a quiet patience that you never asked for and desperately needed.

“You cried because I was nice.” Abby says, grinning. “That’s actually the sickest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sniff hard. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m a hero.” he mutters under his breath.

You lift your teary eyes to Jinu, lip wobbling. “You’re the only normal one.”

Jinu pats your hand. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

“I’m just so tired, Jinu,” you say. “and there’s fruit and a bird with six eyes and someone keeps putting their used straw in my skincare draweeeeeer.”

“That was Baby.” Abby mutters.

“He found my lip tint.” you mumble.

“Yeah. He liked the color.”

You make a mournful little noise and stare down at the water again like it’s supposed to fix any of this.

Jinu’s still beside you, hands on the counter, watching you. Abby is now licking the juice off his fork and humming something in a… in a beautiful voice, fuck, okay. He’s in his own world—shirtless, sticky, glowing.

Movement.

You glance up toward the arch into the hallway, and—

Oh.

Mystery.

Peeking in, barely visible through the shadows and his hair.

He’s not saying anything. Just watching. His head’s tilted slightly. Half-hiding behind the doorframe, strands of hair in his mouth, his eyes peeking out like he’s shy—which, in some ways, he is.

Until he sees you looking.

And he smiles.

Sweet and genuine. His cheeks barely move, but it’s so cute, so soft, so rare, that it takes the breath straight out of your throat.

You smile back.

“Ohhh shit, MYSTO!” Abby shouts, talking through peach chunks. “Get your ass in here, bro! Look what Y/N made. It’s got strawberries and whatever the fuck this thing is—” he holds up a piece of dragon fruit.

Abby sets the bowl down. Leans a hip against the counter. And slaps the back of his own hand loudly against his thigh before striding over and giving Mystery a massive clap between the shoulder blades like he’s trying to knock him through the wall.

You hear the clap of skin on skin. Mystery stumbles half a step back.

Mystery laughs.

Like laughs-laughs.

A sound you barely ever get to hear—soft and breathy and unreal. And then he reaches out, and slaps Abby right back. Mystery’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. A full, real sound. They’re having fun.

It’s so… sweet.

So boyish.

So dumb.

So—fuck.

You sniff.

It’s because they’re friends. Because they’re evil little shitheads who keep you kidnapped and lie about things and slap each other for fun and still—somehow—you can see the real thing underneath.

You see it.

How Mystery’s face softens when Abby laughs too hard and bumps his head into the cabinet. How Abby nudges Mystery like “don’t be shy bro” and Mystery doesn’t even growl. How boys are so dumb and stupid and ridiculous but also how boys love. How they show it through violence and bad jokes and too-hard pats on the back.

You start sobbing. Loudly.

They enjoy each other. They make each other laugh. They’re idiots together. They fight like wolves and then joke like kids, and there’s something… pure about it.

Something devastatingly human.

You’re hiccuping.

“Okay—okay.” Jinu says, head turning like a hound the second your breathing skips. He’s beside you instantly, crouching slightly, rubbing your arm like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t. “What happened? What happened now?”

“Nuh-nothing, I just—” you hiccup through the words, trying to explain, trying to form a sentence that matches the mess in your head. “They’re s-sooo cuuuuteee.”

Jinu blinks.

Abby blinks too, fork in mid-air.

“They’re so—” your voice breaks, chest heaving. “They’re such boys, Jinuuuu.”

“Yeah.” Jinu murmurs. “We are.”

“They keep—touching—and yelling—and laughing, and they don’t even know how to do it right, and it’s still cute!” You sob harder. “Oh god,” you gasp. “they like each other. They like each other and they like me, and they’re demons and they’re so stupid, and I l-live here now, and I miss my g-girls and I’m bleeding and I didn’t even finish my f-fruit, and—Jinuuuuuu—”

Jinu steps in. Hands up, palms out, the calmest in this deranged storm.

“Okay.” Jinu says, stepping in front of you and gently taking the water glass. “Okay, let’s—let’s not drown right here in the kitchen, yeah?”

“But it’s—so sweet.” you squeak, tears rolling down your face. “I never see them laugh like that—he smiled—Mystery smiled—and I can’t h-handle it—”

He takes your arm gently. “I know, I know.”

“I—” you hiccup, voice warbling. “They like each other.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a little walk now, yeah?”

“Nooo—”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Holding your shoulders, he drags you up from your seat and starts pushing you out of the kitchen softly.

You protest. Weakly. “I—I was watching them—”

“You can watch them later.” Jinu says.

Abby calls out from the kitchen behind you, voice loud and teasing: “Hey, if you guys are gonna make out, just say so! We’ll leave!”

Mystery chuckles.

Jinu just rolls his eyes. He walks slow. No rush. When he gets to your room, he pushes the door open with his foot and steps inside with you.

He sits you down on your bed, tucks a pillow behind your back. Your face is red and miserable and soaked in saltwater and hormones, and still, still, when you look at him? You manage a watery little: “They’re such good boys…”

Jinu presses a hand to his forehead. Breathes in like he’s praying to some god that hasn’t answered in centuries.

“Sure, Y/N.” he says softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “They’re angels.”

From the kitchen, you can still hear Abby yelling.

You laugh. Sputter. Cry again.

You can’t help it.

It’s all too much.

And yet somehow…

Not enough.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Listens. Breathes with you. And it’s weird, because he’s not trying to be a prince right now. He’s not trying to seduce or coax or manipulate or even soothe, not really. He’s just here. Present. And that… is so rare. Especially in this place. With these boys.

He glances over at you again. You’re rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm, smearing saltwater across your cheekbones, your mouth wobbling in the most adorable little way.

And Jinu—more than four hundred years old, the favorite of Gwi-Ma ever and the most selfish person probably—feels his chest ache.

It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. Not even fascination.

It’s… awe.

Because you feel everything.

Because you can’t help it.

And you don’t even hide it.

He thinks of how it started. And now… this.

Jinu’s not naïve. He knows you’re not safe here. Not really. Not emotionally, not spiritually, maybe not even physically. They’re demons. They’re wrong. They lie to you. Trap you. Keep you like something precious locked in a chest with no key. Because if they let you go—

They know they’ll never see you again.

That’s how much you matter. That’s what they can’t stand.

You breathe in.

And somehow, it’s not awkward.

Even though you rejected him before. Well, didn’t straight up reject, just didn’t say anything when he told you he was interested. Even though he’s Jinu. The leader of the demons who kidnapped you. Even though he wants you in ways that stretch centuries deep and he could have any soul in the underworld if he wanted—and still he’s sitting on your bed like the wind might break you.

Because he knows. Somewhere deep in his demon marrow. This isn’t about romance. It’s not about him. It’s about you. And what it takes to simply be you right now.

He studies you again, quietly. Takes in the red blotches under your eyes. The slow, sleepy shiver in your breath. The way your hair’s tangled at the nape of your neck and the blanket is half tucked under your leg and you’ve still got a little piece of strawberry stuck on your cheek.

Humans are so ridiculous.

So soft and loud and inconvenient. So emotional.

And so fucking magnetic.

He leans back slightly, resting one ankle over the other, posture lazy but gaze sharp. He doesn’t say it—but he’s thinking it:

What would they do, those girls of yours, if they knew how you are here? That you’re being cared for by the enemy. That you cried into my shirt. That you call Abby evil and still let him eat your little salad. That they like you here.

He exhales slowly.

Because he knows what he’d do.

He’d tear the sky open to keep you.

And he’s not alone. Behind every sarcastic quip, behind every stupid grin and ridiculous flex and forced “unbothered” act, they all feel it.

They ache for you.

They know what they did was wrong.

But that doesn’t stop them.

Because wrong is all they’ve ever known.

And you’re the only thing that’s ever felt right.

Jinu doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a full five seconds until your fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket, barely shifting, barely there—and something in his chest pulls.

Not tears this time. Not pity. Just want. Heavy and sinking, like it’s dragging him under the floorboards.

He can’t stand it.

He wants to protect you, yeah. Wants to shield you from the noise, the blood, the fire in his head, the guilt that gnaws through the others, the ache that claws up their spines every time they think about you going back to your team.

But more than that?

He wants to touch you.

To press his mouth to that pretty little throat and see if you’ll make a sound. To slide his hands over your hips and feel you tremble. To pin you down, gently—never forcefully, never—but completely, utterly, so you remember what it feels like to belong to someone ancient and aching and full of things you’ll never understand.

He wants to ruin you softly.

Break you open with worship.

Leave his mark in a way that isn’t demonic but still damn near holy.

He wants you to choose them.

To say fuck the girls, fuck the hunters, fuck everyone—and stay. With them. With him.

Even if it’s not just him.

Even if he has to share.

Because Jinu is a demon—but not the possessive kind. He knows Romance would kill to get his tongue on you. That Abby would go feral if you ever so much as asked for him. That Baby would climb into your lap like the little terror he is and Mystery would melt against you, desperate and dangerous and way too quiet about the way he worships you already.

Jinu would let them.

He’d step back, even. Watch, even. His spine would go stiff, and his fists would clench, and jealousy would rise—but he’d still let it happen.

Because as long as it’s you—alive, warm, touched with love, and not gone—

Then fuck it. That’s a victory.

That’s enough.

He clears his throat suddenly, head dropping, gaze dragging toward the floor, he just caught himself fantasizing.

So instead of saying any of it, instead of giving in to the rot twisting low in his gut or the softness that makes his ribs ache, he just stands up.

“I’ll go now.” he says simply.

Your eyes blink open in the most precious way—like you forgot he was even there, like he’s not the reason you’re calm again.

“If something else is up…” He keeps his tone neutral, easy. “You can find me.”

You nod.

He hesitates at the door.

Because what he wants to do is crawl back into bed with you and bury his face into your neck and tell you he’s so, so glad he met you. That he’s glad they kidnapped you. That you’re the worst sin he’s ever committed and he’d do it all over again if it meant holding you like this once.

But all he does is let the door close softly behind him and walk through the hall. His steps are soft. Bare feet against the cold hardwood. Dim lights glowing overhead. He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow.

He opens the door to his room quietly. Steps inside. Doesn’t turn on the light. Just moves to the edge of the massive platform bed and sits down, rolling his shoulders, bones heavy from centuries of guilt and something else. Something new. The tiger is already there, curled up in the corner, watching. Its eyes glowing. It stretches when it sees him, as if sensing Jinu’s energy, the way his heartbeat isn’t steady.

He lifts a hand and the beast crosses the room without hesitation. Its massive head lowers into his lap, pressing there, warm and heavy. Jinu rests a hand on its fur. The other hand curls into the dense muscle of its back, smoothing down along its shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares into the dark, breathing slow. Thinking about you. Your eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your dumb little sleepy bleats of “blehhh” and “he’s so nice” and “I just—I just—bweehhh—”

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

He wants you.

So bad it makes him sick.

And not just to touch you—though, god, he does. Not just to pin you to a wall or get on his knees or bite your lip and leave it swollen just so you’d remember it was him.

He wants the other stuff.

He wants to know what your first thought is in the morning. Wants to hear your opinion on dumb, mundane shit like oranges or show reruns. Wants to know how you hold your toothbrush and which songs you hate and why you keep rearranging the throw pillows even though you act like you hate the place.

He wants time with you.

He wants a life with you.

He smooths his hand again over the beast’s shoulder. The fur ripples under his palm. Then he leans back against the bedframe, lets his head drop, staring at the ceiling.

He’s glad he met you.

Even if you destroy them.

Even if you leave.

Even if you never look at him that way.

He’s so fucking glad.

Meanwhile, Romance is a mess.

A hot, sweaty, brain-rotted mess sprawled across his bed. His shirt’s been discarded somewhere (he genuinely doesn’t know where—it might be on the lamp) Just breathing hard, a hand resting dramatically over his chest like he just ran a goddamn marathon—and not, you know, jacked off to the memory of you saying his name once while you were annoyed.

Yeah, his hand was just down his pants five minutes ago.

For the fifth time today.

He had to stop himself—again—not because he’s shy or ashamed(not of this, at least), but because it’s starting to feel pathetic. Like he can’t go five goddamn minutes without thinking about you.

“Fuck.” he mutters to no one, arm flung over his face. His voice is hoarse. Disgusted. Still dark with that voice he only ever uses on his worst days. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me, pretty girl.”

He’s obsessed. It’s terminal.

And it’s not just the sex stuff, either.

Okay, it’s mostly the sex stuff. He’s made up so many scenarios. Some of them are honestly creative—like, he’s impressed with himself. There was one where he runs into you during a thunderstorm and you’re soaking wet in white linen and begging to be touched. Another one where he wakes you up from a nightmare and comforts you with something far more intense than a lullaby.

And then there’s the really deranged ones. The domestic ones. He made one up earlier where you were brushing your teeth beside him, hair messy, shirt too big, and you handed him the toothpaste wordlessly. That fantasy made him whimper. WHIMPER. Out loud.

He’s always been a flirt. That’s just the role. A wink, a purr, a little brush of his thumb on a lower lip—he’s been doing that for literal centuries. He’s good at it. It’s a performance.

But with you? It’s not a performance anymore.

It’s sick.

You don’t even let him kiss your cheek, and he’s still acting like he’s in heat every time you say his name. He tried to casually lean against the fridge next to you a few days ago and almost broke it because he slipped on condensation and nearly fell into the fruit drawer.

You didn’t even laugh. You just looked at him, blinked, and said, “You good?”

He pulls the crook of his arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His painted nails dig into the pillow under his head. Then he sits up with a grunt, dragging his hand through his hair until it flops back into his eyes.

He doesn’t want just your body. He wants your yes. He wants you to choose him. He wants to hear you say it. That you like him. That he makes you feel good. That you want him back.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like that’ll squash the yearning down. It doesn’t. It just makes his head hurt more.

God, he’s a boy. He’s such a dumb boy. He’s writing love letters in his head like you’ll ever want him. You’re too good. Too nice. He tortured you, kind of, in the beginning. All of them did. You shouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him forever.

He groans again.

He misses you.

And you’re just down the hall.

If he knocks on your door now, what’ll happen? Will you scream? Will you sigh? Will you let him lay on your floor like a kicked dog and read you poetry in a see-through robe?

(He does have one. Just in case.)

God. He needs help.

But also… maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he just needs you.

He lies there now in the afterglow of his own depravity, legs twitching occasionally, eyes open and glazed, like he’s astral projecting into a parallel universe where you actually want him, not tolerate him. Where you’re touching him instead of the tiger that Jinu keeps feeding better cuts of meat than the rest of them get. Where you’re whining for him instead of Jinu.

(Not that he’s bitter. That would imply he didn’t just make up a full-fledged fantasy about you licking honey off his fingers in the middle of that kitchen. So, yeah. He’s fine.)

He shifts slightly, makes a disgusted sound.

Not because he regrets it. Hell no. He’s a demon, not a fucking monk. And he’s been around long enough to know there’s no shame in need. In want. He wants you in every way a boy could want a girl—yes, even though he’s centuries old, he’s a boy about it. He’s so stupid. So obvious. So pathetic.

Would you braid his hair if he sat real still? Would you lean your head on his shoulder if he shut the fuck up for once? Would you kiss him if he asked nicely for once in his goddamn life?

He’s never been this bad. Not even in the 1800s when he accidentally got obsessed with a courtesan who spat on him in public. (Okay, not accidentally, he chased her halfway across Europe, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, you’re so good. He wants your mouth. Wants your laugh. Wants your moods, your messes, your little mumbles when you’re in pain or pissed. He wants to taste your tears and your gum and your shampoo. He wants to ruin you, yeah—but only because you’ve already ruined him.

And worst of all? He’s romantic about it.

He’s not just jerking off to your face. He’s imagining stupid, soft, idiotic scenarios. Like you pulling him by the wrist into your room and saying something like “I guess you’re not the worst.” Or you sleeping on his chest and drooling a little and him being honored to be the one you chose to lean on.

It’s humiliating.

He would rather be smited by an archangel than admit this to anyone.

He hears movement down the hall—maybe Jinu’s footsteps—and snorts out loud.

Romance is full filth and desperate little poems that he scrawls mentally with your name tucked into every line. Romance wants to spit you open and slow dance with you in a rainstorm. He wants to fuck you on the couch and send you letters. He wants you, in every version, in every mood, even the ones that slam doors and roll their eyes.

You’re in his nonexistent soul and it’s driving him fucking nuts.

He’s going to combust.

He’s going to write you poetry and never let you read it and also try to get his hand under your shirt while you’re complaining about cramps. He’s going to lose his mind over you and still act like it’s your fault.

Because he’s the worst.

And also because he’s hopelessly, brutally, comically in love with you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

Romance rolls over, half-naked and fully rotted from the inside out. Not from lust, not even from longing—but from something far worse.

Shame.

“Ohh, what’s this now?” Gwi-Ma’s voice. “Crying again because the little human won’t kiss you?” “Can’t even lie to her right without your voice shaking.” “You should see yourself.”

Romance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. Like maybe if he just squishes his own brain for a second, the thoughts will settle.

“Let me tell her what you really are. I’ll show her.”

Romance chokes out a bitter laugh. He swings his legs off the bed, leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands like someone two seconds from praying even though there’s no god left who listens to demons.

He’s full of feelings. A disgusting soup of them. Sloshing around in his stomach with nowhere to go.

Horny? Yes, of course. But he’s also so tired. It doesn’t help that Gwi-Ma claws at the weak spots. Knows where to press.

“You’ll rip her apart. She’ll hate you for it.”“Oh, is this the one you think will save you? You pathetic little mutt.”

“Shut up.” Romance mutters under his breath.

No one’s around. Just him and the slow drip of his own humiliation. The weight of everything he wants and doesn’t deserve pressing in on his temples like a migraine.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the—”

His voice cuts off.

His jaw clenches.

He hates this. Hates that he has someone to lose now. That he cares. That he walks past your bedroom and slows down like a coward, just to hear you snoring softly, to feel the low tug of comfort knowing you’re behind that door, safe.

What is he even doing?

He’s a fucking demon. A creature made of sin. He’s killed people for less than the flutter he feels when you hand him a spoon and say, “Don’t eat it with your fingers, you animal.”

God.

God, he loves you.

“You missed your chance.” Gwi-Ma hisses, voice thick with smugness. “The ‘nice one’ has her wrapped up. You think she’ll ever want the loud-mouthed pervert?”

Romance lifts his head and hisses, low and sharp. “Go haunt a cliff.”

But the truth is? Gwi-Ma isn’t wrong. He is the loud-mouthed pervert. The ridiculous one. The one who flirts all the time.

You probably do think he’s a joke.

You probably don’t take him seriously.

And he doesn’t blame you. Not when he can’t even sit still with himself without having emotions like this. Not when his chest feels like it’s full of razor wire and honey and rage. Rage at himself. At his body for betraying him. At Gwi-Ma for always being there.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like that’ll clean out the thoughts too.

He knows sleep isn’t coming tonight. But maybe if he lays there long enough, staring at the ceiling, he’ll finally shut his brain off. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear you breathe through your bedroom door again. Maybe that’ll be enough to survive another night like this.

As this is going on with Romance, Baby sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, one knee bouncing absently while he pinches sunflower seeds between his fingers and offers them to Jinu’s bird. The bird chirps with exactly one ounce of gratitude and a shit-ton of judgment. Baby glares at it.

“Eat it or don’t.”

The bird hops closer. It does eat it.

Baby leans back on his hands, smirking.

He wins. Always.

He looks bored. The usual. But it’s not fair how fucked you’ve made his brain. And it’s not just the usual dumbass guy shit. It’s more. It’s worse. It’s not just boobs and voice and legs and eyes and the way you hum under your breath when cutting things.

It’s the fact that he remembers everything about you. And he likes remembering it. He’s holding onto it like a sick little freak. Like it’s his.

He shifts, drags the bag of bird seed toward himself again. Tosses a few seeds at the dumb hat-bird without even looking. Nails it. Obviously.

What a shame you can’t see how cool he is.

But behind the fuck-you energy and the smug one-liners and the absolute feral desire to shove Romance down every single flight of stairs in the building?

There’s a mess.

A massive, sticky, snarled-up mess of a crush that started the second he laid eyes on you and has been crawling deeper into his nonexistent soul every single second since.

He knows he’s an asshole. He’s a bitch. He’s awful. He literally threatened to lock Abby in the dryer last week because he said “Y/N’s cute today.” He pushed Romance into a bookshelf yesterday just for breathing weird around you. Tripped Jinu six times a day and didn’t listen to shit he said. Mystery is the only one Baby doesn’t throw hands with, because Mystery will literally bite. But still. Baby side-eyes him when he gets too close to you, and once even fake-fell just to crash between you and him.

He’s so fucking annoying.

But then again… so are you.

So are you with your sleepy face and your tiny gasps and your fruit salads and your long stares and your petty silent treatments. You stomp past him and he acts like it’s nothing, but damn.

He flops back against the floor now, arms spread. Looks like he’s relaxing. He’s not.

You make him insane. INSANE.

And he hates that he likes it. It’s like this cursed, fucked-up dopamine hit. He likes being mean. He likes being him. But somehow you just… fit in there.

He doesn’t want to be a better person.

But he’d let you put a leash on him.

And not in a normal way.

(Or maybe in a very normal way, depending on who you ask.)

He snorts at his own thoughts. Catches the bird staring. Stares back. “What.” he mutters, deadpan.

The bird chirps once, like judged.

Baby kicks the bird seed bag away lazily, smirking at nothing.

This is hell.

And he’s gonna enjoy being the brat of it as long as you keep stomping around in your dumb slippers, scowling at him, smelling like sweet soap.

Evil. He’s evil. Like, unapologetically, certifiably, Olympic-grade evil. He steals things he doesn’t need. He breaks things just to watch someone cry. He lies for fun. He once slipped Romance sleep poison for no other reason than the guy looked too happy.

That’s normal for Baby.

What’s not normal? Liking you this much. Liking anything this much.

It makes him want to throw up and kiss the floor and set it on fire all at once.

You… you’re a mess. So annoyingly good and soft and real. You don’t beg for his attention like a fan. You don’t worship the dirt he walks on. You reject him.

Which is hilarious.

Because you totally like him.

You must.

He’s too hot. Too cute. Too Baby. You’ve got to be frontin’. You’re just playing hard to get. Classic. (You literally don’t. You don’t like him like that I’m not even kidding)

But in his head, you think about him late at night. In his head, you’re in your bed, rolling over and giggling his name into your pillow. He bets you dream about him. About his mouth. His hands. Things he does to piss Jinu off.

Yeah.

You’re down bad.

(You’re not.)

He rolls over, lets his head loll onto his arm like he’s about to take a nap, and then—

“Wow.” It’s in his brain. Inside it.

“Fuck off.” Baby mutters instantly, eyes shut.

“No, really, I just… I’m in awe.” Gwi-Ma’s voice says, slow and cruel and dripping sarcasm. “This is truly pathetic. And I’ve seen Romance hump a pillow.”

“You sound jealous.” Baby says, unbothered, even though his stomach’s doing flips. “You wouldn’t get it, I do.”

“You’ve got nothing but your face, no worth at all, that’s what you get.”

Baby kicks at the air.

“Listen, child—“

“I’m three hundred and seventeen.”

“Then act like it.” Gwi-Ma hisses.

Just to make it clear, Baby doesn’t keep track of things most of the time. But he always, always keeps track of how old he is, hurts or not.

Baby gets up. No, he launches upright like a demon possessed (which he is, technically), and shakes out his limbs with an annoyed little growl. His hair’s a mess. He doesn’t fix it. That’s the charm. He stomps to the mirror just to look at himself.

He’s flawless.

“Can’t blame her.” he says to his own reflection. “I wouldn’t survive me either.”

Gwi-Ma hums darkly, slipping back into his own world and out of Baby’s head.

Baby glares at himself for another five seconds, then slowly—painfully slowly—lets the grin slide back into place.

Evil. Evil down to the bones. A menace. A psycho. A brat.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve got his entire demonic heart in your pretty little hands.

He hopes you never figure it out.

Or worse…

He hopes you do.

As we’re talking, I have to note that Mystery doesn’t look in mirrors very often.

Not because he doesn’t like what he sees, no, quite the opposite. He’s just not… interested in himself. Not the way Romance is, always adjusting his collar, biting his own lip in the reflection like he’s flirting with himself. Not like Abby either, who flexes abs in passing windows. Baby straight up glares at mirrors until they crack. Jinu doesn’t like looking at himself.

Mystery just doesn’t see the point.

But tonight… tonight, he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom. He combs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing it out of his face. He could cut it, but he doesn’t. He likes it. He smiles at his reflection—and fuck, he’s beautiful. A face sculpted by hands that wanted him to ruin people. Something about his features makes it hard to tell if he’s about to kiss you or kill you.

He raises a brow at himself, tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, then lets it fall again. His lips are slightly parted. Always are. The reason fans scream when he glances up mid-performance. The reason girls can’t get enough of him. The reason HUNTR/X gets so pissed when their fans drift toward Saja.

He’s not sorry.

He didn’t ask for his voice to sound like that, either. But he’s used to it now. Used to stealing hearts like it’s nothing. Used to being a weapon.

He leans in closer. Blinks once. Stares himself down.

And then thinks about you.

He bites his bottom lip without meaning to.

You’re cute. Always trying to stay mad at them. Always failing. Your little hands balling into fists when you tell him off, your voice all shaky when you’re tired or hormonal, the way you tuck your knees up when you sit on the couch. Your smell in the hallway.

He likes you.

He turns away from the mirror but doesn’t leave the bathroom. Just leans against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms, letting his hair fall back over his face. He doesn’t move for a long time.

Mystery is not sweet. He breaks fingers. He growls in fights and kicks people in the teeth. He lets Gwi-Ma feed on people’s dreams just to quiet the voices in his own head. He’s a bad person.

But you smiled at him today like he’s not.

He likes liking you.

He likes that he doesn’t understand it.

He’d gut the whole world for you if it meant seeing you laugh just once.

Mystery giggles. He giggles like he heard a really funny secret. One that only he gets. A little sway in his step. He doesn’t even look like himself when he’s like this—so damn… boyish. So not the feral menace that people see in the spotlight or in battle.

When he gets to his room, he shuts the door with the softest click. The kind that lets everyone know he’s done being social. If any of the others knock, he’ll kill them. Not metaphorically. The lights are off. He yanks his shirt off over his head in one go, ruffling his already-messy hair more, then lets it fall somewhere by the bed. Doesn’t even care where.

He plops onto the mattress like he’s been out in a war.

But the battlefield isn’t where he got hit.

It’s you.

Been a while since he talked to a girl who wasn’t a fan. God. That alone is enough to make him laugh again. The fans all scream and cry and faint like they know him. They don’t. They know the makeup. The voice. The poses. They don’t know that he used to stutter in front of mirrors. That he still chews on the drawstrings of his hoodie when he’s nervous.

Been a while since he made friends. Jinu, maybe, is closest.

Been a while since he had sex.

He won’t lie. That one kinda hurts.

Long since he had sex that didn’t end in some kind of bite. Not that he minds bites. Or scratching. Or being called names. But he hasn’t liked someone in… how long? A hundred years? More?

Been a while since he had a thing with a girl. Long time. Longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Even before the demon thing, he was never good at love. Too awkward. Too distracted. Too intense. He always came off cold or wrong or creepy. So he stopped trying. Let the stage version of himself flirt and play and pretend. The real version? Locked up. Silent. Hands in pockets. Heart in mouth.

Been a while. Been a while. Been a while.

And now you’re here.

He just needs you to like him. That’s all. Then maybe everything else will follow. The closeness. The talking. The touching.

But he’s not the best at communication.

He’s actually horrible.

He tries. He does. But most of the time it comes out in shrugs. In soft grunts. Growls. In too-long stares across the room that you either ignore or don’t see. He doesn’t know how to tell you “I think you’re the best” without sounding like a complete psychopath. So he just… doesn’t.

And he thinks he might die for you if it came down to it. But for now, he just giggles again.

Abby in the shower is one of the most ridiculous sights in the multiverse. Let’s just get that out of the way.

While the others have these little mental fucks, the water is running hot—too hot, probably—but Abby doesn’t turn it down. It’s pounding down his back, his neck, his shoulders, and he’s just standing there with both hands on the tiled wall, head down, drenched, steaming. The mirror across the room is fully fogged, but if it wasn’t, he’d probably flex at himself out of muscle memory.

Because here’s the truth:

He’s a whore.

Like, clinically. Professionally. Spiritually. To make that clear, right now, he has one palm dragging over the slick plane of his stomach, just because he can. His hand slides over the ridges of muscle like he’s proud of them. (He is.) A thumb glides up the V of his hip, not even sexually—just admiring the structure.

Abby thinks he’s a masterpiece. A hot one. A mean one. A very evil one.

But then… then there’s the second truth. There’s the one that hits a little lower in his chest. The one that won’t get the fuck out of his head. The one that’s got nothing to do with his abs, or his power, or his demonic charms.

The one that starts and ends with you.

“Fuuuuuuck.” he breathes out, forehead thunking against the wet tile like it owes him money. “Get outta my head.”

You’re not listening.

You’re everywhere in there.

And that massage earlier? Holy shit.

He didn’t even think. He just saw you slumped and pissed off and bleeding, and his brain went, be useful, dumbass. So he put his hands on your shoulders and dug in. And you… you melted. You fucking melted under his hands. He felt your whole body shift like a sigh, and he knew he was doing good—but it wasn’t until you started crying that he froze.

You said he was nice.

Nice.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t mean to be nice. He didn’t try to be. That was just his dumb, big-handed, hot-bodied brain doing something functional for once. And now here he is, in the shower, water running down his back and steam curling around him, thinking about the way your voice broke when you said it.

“You’re so nice.”

Bitch, no he’s not!

He’s mean. He steals. He punches. He calls Baby a bitch three times before breakfast and once more before bed. He leaves empty chip bags in the couch cushions and plays music at 2am just to see who snaps first.

But he was nice to you.

And you cried about it.

Now his whole chest is tightening in this horrible way, and his hand has not moved off his abs. He clenches his jaw. He’s got his hips angled into the wall like the devil himself might come slap him for his thoughts. Which are… filthy. They always are, when it’s you. Because you’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re weird. And when you looked up at him earlier, lip trembling, voice soft—

He had to physically bite his tongue.

And now he’s hard.

“Fucking hell.” he hisses, slamming a fist against the tile like it’ll knock the heat out of him. (It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes him harder. He’s an idiot.)

He angles his body away from the spray, breathing heavy. He’s still got your face in his mind, your voice, your whole tiny form leaning back into his hands like you needed him.

And that—that’s the thing, isn’t it?

You needed him.

You trusted him for a split second.

And Abby? Abby hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

It’s not just about wanting to get you under him anymore. He wants that, sure, but it’s not the only thing. He wants to make you smile. He wants to pull your hair just to hear the sound you make when you’re mad. He wants to carry you around the apartment and not explain why. He wants you to lean on him again. Cry again. Breathe against him like you trust him.

Fuck.

He palms a hand over his face. Then braces that same arm above his head, steam curling around his arm, the other resting loosely on his hip—because if he touches himself now, he’ll never recover. Like, ever. His brain will shut down. He’ll combust. They’ll find him in the morning curled up in the drain, dead from horny.

And it’s all because of you.

He glances down at himself and sighs. “Look at you.” he mutters, grinning like the fool he is. “Pathetic.”

It’s not even bad pathetic. It’s adorable pathetic. And he knows it. He even flexes a little just to show off to nobody. Watches water track down the curve of his stomach and thinks, She’d like this. Right? She’d stare.

He leans back against the tile with a dopey, crooked grin, water dragging through his hair. The heat’s still in his body, but the urgency’s softened into something almost sweet. Almost painful.

You’d kill him if you saw him right now—naked, proud of his own dick, giggling like a dumbass, cheeks flushed and grinning at nothing like a lovesick idiot.

And he is. He is a lovesick idiot.

An evil one. A demon. A bastard.

Maybe he’ll go eat another of your fruit salads the next time you make one.

Because that, at least, will give him a reason to see you again.

And steal another smile.

He thunks his head lightly against the wall again, because what is he supposed to do?

You’re in the other room, probably curled up, probably crying into a pillow because of your weird little hormone breakdown—which was adorable, by the way. You full-on melted in Jinu’s arms, oh his god.

And now he’s here. With a problem. And that problem is that he really likes you. Like a lot. Which is a huge problem. Also the one between his legs, but that’s another case.

Abby is a man of extreme talents. He can scale a wall with his bare hands, snap a demon in half like a glow stick, flash a smile and have fans screaming for mercy—and still somehow, somehow, fuck up taking care of his own goddamn boner in the shower. Because as soon as he handled business—loud, desperate, gritted-teeth, thinking-of-you kind of business—he’s already broken three things. First, the glass bottle of Jinu’s fancy cologne he “borrowed” (read: stole) last week—the one with the scent so ridiculously good it made Baby sniff the air like a feral dog. Yeah. That’s on the floor now. Shattered. Perfume everywhere.

Second, the towel rack. Don’t ask. It was already loose. Maybe. Whatever.

Third, his pride.

Because listen: Abby’s done this before. Plenty of times. Hundreds of years. His own hand, a nice daydream, sometimes a mirror if he was really in love with himself (he usually is). But this? This was different. Messier. More intense. Like the very idea of you was wired into his nerves—his body reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.

It was too fast. It was too much.

You should hate him. You probably do. But he’s clinging to every moment that says otherwise.

And that’s why the cologne bottle is on the floor in glassy shards.

That’s why his knees knocked into the bathroom counter when he tried to stabilize himself and sent a bunch of skincare products tumbling.

Abby slaps off the water and yanks the curtain back like it insulted his mother. Then he rubs the towel roughly over his head, mussing his hair, then knots it around his waist and steps out of the steam.

He walks down the hall, not bothering to hide the low, frustrated grunt he lets out when the perfume stench follows him. Baby makes a gagging noise as he passes by. Abby flips him off without looking.

“Tell Jinu his perfume has no structural integrity.” he mutters. “Broke the moment I looked at it wrong.”

“You broke it.” Baby calls back from somewhere, not even needing to see it to know.

“No, I didn’t.”

He walks back to his room, water dripping onto the hardwood as he goes, still thinking about you. Still hearing the way you whispered, like he’d just handed you the stars instead of touched your shoulder blades for two minutes and called it a day. Still seeing the way your eyes welled up before you could say anything. Still remembering how warm you were when you leaned back into him. Like your little body just knew his touch was safe.

Which it’s not.

Let’s be so fucking clear: it’s not.

He could crush bone with a single hand. Could flip a car. Could eat someone whole, metaphorically or not. He’s a monster. He lies. He manipulates. He steals and fights and flirts because it’s funny, not because he cares.

But with you?

He cares.

He throws the door to his room open, steps inside, and exhales like he’s been holding it in since he left you in the kitchen. His bedroom door slams. The tiger in Jinu’s room huffs like it’s annoyed. Abby doesn’t care.

Because he has a crush, okay?

A massive, stomach-churning, lip-biting, idiot-making crush. And he’s not gonna apologize for it, even if it means stepping on broken glass and breaking a second perfume bottle by accident later.

You’re not even being nice to him most of the time. You try to act like you don’t even like him.

(But you do, right? Right?)

Abby’s convinced. He has to be right.

That’s what makes this worse. You’re nice, yeah—but you’ve got this bite. You’re sweet and smart and helpful and tiny and annoyed all the time, and he swears if you really didn’t like him, you wouldn’t let him breathe down your neck every chance he got.

You’d scream. You’d slap him. You’d tell Jinu. You’d stab him. (He’d let you.) But you don’t. You sigh. You roll your eyes. You tell him to fuck off, but gently. You let him sit too close. You give him your fruit salad and tell him to eat it.

And he does. Because it came from you.

He throws himself down onto the bed face-first—hard—like he’s trying to break the mattress with his skull. The second bounce nearly knocks his towel off, but he slaps a hand over his ass just in time.

Now he’s stomach down, ass up (well, towel-wrapped), legs swinging in the air.

If anyone walked in right now, he’d die on the spot.

He should be ashamed. But no—he’s just lying there on his stomach, grinning like an idiot, face buried in the sheets. Kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl.

He tries to stop.

He can’t.

Fuuuuck, you’re so pretty. Like. So. Fucking. Pretty. Jesus.

Abby’s in love.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself. “I need to get laid.”

He probably won’t, though.

Because he only wants you. And you’re a problem. You’re good and soft and quiet and mean in this really, really pretty way. You make his skin crawl with the need to bite something. Preferably you. Not hard. But, like… enough.

He flips onto his side, towel slipping, and clutches a pillow to his chest like it’s his girlfriend. It’s not. But in his delusional little mind? That’s you. That’s you sobbing against his chest, your voice breaking because he was nice and massaged you and didn’t make a single joke about it except seventeen.

The towel falls halfway down his ass.

He doesn’t even bother pulling it up. Because what’s the point? His brain’s too full of you to function.

So he lies there, cheek to pillow, one leg hooked over the other, thinking about your dumb cute face, your voice, the way you whispered you’re so nice through a tear.

He wants to make you laugh.

He wants to make you scream.

He wants to make you cry again but in the good way.

He wants to give you a massage and hear that little sound you made when he hit the spot near your neck again and again and again.

He wants everything.

But he has nothing.

Just a memory. A moment. Your voice in his head like a fever dream.

Fuckin’ angel girl, you’re going to kill him with a simple look if not break a plate on his head the next time you see him.

He smiles.

Because wouldn’t that be a good way to go.

“Ohh, Abby.” Gwi-Ma.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs against the sheets. “Sleeping.” he mumbles. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re thinking about that girl.”

No shit.

“I said I’m fucking sleeping.” Abby grunts louder this time, face still planted in the pillow. “Go harass Romance.”

Gwi-Ma pauses. “You dare speak to me like that?”

Abby doesn’t even get the chance to roll his eyes before it hits him, unbearable pain and loud, loud noises echoing inside his little head.

He flinches so hard he slams his knee into the bedframe, rips the pillow off his face, throws it across the room, and then just grabs his skull with both hands, teeth clenched so tight it feels like his molars might crack.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck you, man—!” he shouts into the mattress, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I don’t take disrespect, Abraham.”

Gwi-Ma is ridiculously funny because both of them know Abraham is not Abby’s name. Just making fun of the boy at this point.

It’s not just a headache, it’s a punishment. It’s like having sirens screeching directly into his temporal lobes, every nerve in his skull having reaction. He kicks his legs, fists knotted in his hair, chest heaving.

He will never learn.

“How do you like that, my prince?” Gwi-Ma purrs, fucking gleeful now. “Next time, think before you cum and get cocky.”

And to make it worse—to really just put a cherry on top of the pain sundae—another boner, because Gwi-Ma is an asshole.

Abby lets out an actual, guttural groan—not sexy, not tortured in a good way, just miserable. He rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead into the mattress.

“Dude,” he gasps out. “you’re so fucking weird.” His whole back is sweaty now, his hair sticking to his temples, muscles tensed. He lifts his face just barely, panting, eyes red.

“And you’re so fucking pathetic. If I could put your little angel in your lap right now, I would. Just to watch you explode like a virgin.”

The sudden slap of arousal. Unwanted. Forced. Embarrassing. Immediate. Abby lets out an inhuman noise, part-choke, part-growl, part a whispered “fuck me” that he doesn’t even mean to say out loud.

His voice cracks before he can yell. He’s breathing heavy, sweating through the towel, red in the face, head pounding, body betraying him entirely.

“Sleep tight.” Gwi-Ma whispers, fading from his mind with one final twist of something sharp in Abby’s temple.

And then… silence.

Finally.

But Abby’s still clutching his head, naked except for the towel that’s mostly around his thigh now, on the verge of crying, hard again, and thinking about you.

What a loser.

What a fucking loser.

He drags a hand over his face, groans one more time into the empty room, then mutters like a deathbed confession:

“…worth it.”

Because you always are.

The boys all went to bed thinking about you.

No—obsessing. Stomach-knotting, aching, stupid-boy obsessing.

That was the truth of it.

They each had their little ways, their little styles, their private rituals of shame and longing and delusion, but it all ended the same: a pillow, a room, a mind full of you.

Jinu, for example, is lying with his back against the mountain of soft fur that was his tiger, stroking its ears absentmindedly, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved much.

He kept replaying it all. Your tears. How you’d hugged him. You’d buried your face in his chest and mumbled gibberish at him, and it had been the most sacred moment he’d had in four hundred years.

And you don’t even know.

He wants you so much it’s starting to embarrass even him.

And you don’t even know. He’d told you, calmly, clearly, over the chessboard weeks ago. But that was nothing. That wasn’t this.

This is need. This is yearning. This is waking up in a cold sweat because he dreamt of your smile fading.

Meanwhile, a few doors over, Romance is suffering. Lying face down on the bed, pillow over his head, trying not to feel the ache in his gut that came with thinking about your smile.

He’s making up scenarios. Like a high schooler. In one, you knocked on his door late at night in nothing but a hoodie and socks and whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. Can I stay with you?” In another, you leaned into him on the couch while watching a dumb movie and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?” In another—the best and worst one—you kissed him just to shut him up.

He rolls over with a groan, fist his hands in his own hair, and hiss into the dark. He doesn’t even know what he wants more, to be alone with you or to scream into the void. Both felt necessary. And all this over a girl who doesn’t even know how bad he has it.

And Gwi-Ma’s taunts only made it worse. That sick fuck in his head laughed at him. Mocked him. Fed on his shame.

Still, he can’t stop.

He fell asleep eventually. Arms over his head. A little drool on the pillow. Dreaming of you laughing at his jokes and maybe, just maybe, calling him baby.

Now that I said Baby, let’s talk about the one who’s in the house.

He’d fallen asleep sideways across his bed, birdseed still on his shirt from earlier, hand tangled in a notebook full of angry scribbles and lazily drawn boobs. Your name is in there too, like five times. With different handwriting. Some of it looks like it was written by his left hand.

He’d never admit it. Not even under torture. But he was thinking about you. Always does. Even now, drooling onto his pillow, hair a mess, one sock halfway off, he’s dreaming of you laughing at one of his asshole jokes and maybe calling him mean but smiling anyway. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you actually gave in. If you liked him back. Probably explode. Or pass out. Or cry in a way that no one would ever hear about, or he’d kill them.

Mystery’s not sleeping at all. He’s lying in bed, touching the ends of his hair, staring at the ceiling. Not even blinking much.

He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand himself around you either. But he likes it. He likes you. The way you smile. The way you praised him back when he shot his shot in small talk.

And he likes that you didn’t know.

Abby’s still recovering from the post-shower brain-damage Gwi-Ma blessed him with, ass half out the towel, lying face down on his mattress like a dead fish. His head hurts. His dick hurts. His pride hurts. He doesn’t deserve you. But he’s obsessed. And he’s still kicking his legs a little.

While the five ancient, tortured, overpowered, emotionally constipated men are individually spiraling into full-blown madness over you—hands down their pants, heads in their hands, boners under their blankets, Gwi-Ma in their ears—you’re standing in front of your mirror in a giant t-shirt, drawing something with a pen that was almost out of ink, looking at yourself occasionally, twerking a little maybe.

No idea. None. Not a single goddamn clue about the chaos you’d left in your wake.

You know they’re interested. But you don’t know… You don’t know what it’s doing to them.

You don’t know that while you’re staring into the mirror making kissy faces at yourself, Romance is dreaming about it and completely destroyed by the fact he can’t have you. In his dream you just snuck into his room and crawled into bed with him just to tell him you liked his voice. In his sleep, he whispered a fake “I like you too” to no one.

Mystery has absolutely no game, doesn’t know how to talk to you, but he wants you anyway. Desperately. Silently. Painfully.

Baby is still asleep, but I’ll talk about him anyway. You’re the only person he thinks about when he’s not thinking about himself. You’re soft, and pretty, and a bitch, and he loves it. He’s convinced you have to like him. You must like him. You’re obsessed. He has to believe that, because if you don’t like him, then he’s nothing.

Jinu’s still up, though his eyes are closed. His tiger’s breathing slow with him. He hasn’t moved. But he’s not sleeping either. He’s thinking of your soft voice. The way you leaned into him. The way you melted. The way you didn’t flinch when his arms came around you. He tells himself it’s because he’s the only one who treats you gently. But he’s wrong. It’s because you trust him. And he’ll burn down cities for that. He’ll kill gods for it.

Abby fell asleep by now. He calmed down. Probably dreaming about you.

And here you are. In your room. Still twerking. Drawing little doodles in your sketchbook. Chewing on your pen. Thinking about if you should eat cereal or a granola bar. Blinking at your reflection and wondering why your nose looks uneven from this angle.

You have no idea what you’re doing to them.

No idea that your little human feelings and hormone meltdowns and random soft sniffling has broken five men who’ve been alive for over 300 years. No clue that you’ve taken root in the marrow of their bones.

My ass timeskip contains hours, and it’s morning now. You’d think, after all the thirst, shame, fantasy, masturbation, crying, brain trauma, demonic torment, friendship bonding, and twerking-in-the-mirror that happened just last night…there’d be tension in the air. But no. These assholes are actors. Pop stars. Demons. They’ve been lying professionally for centuries. They do this thing, all five of them, where no matter what happened the night before—whether they’re screaming inside, plotting world domination, or jerking off to the thought of you crying—they still get up like everything’s fine.

Jinu’s getting ready to go. Romance has sunglasses on. Abby’s already taken his shirt off again for absolutely no reason. Baby’s slouched against the kitchen island with a banana in his mouth, the slowest chewing on the planet. Mystery has Abby’s shirt in his hand.

So normal.

And then you walk in. Sleep shirt, mismatched socks, and a war-torn look on your face like you’ve just crawled out of a time hole. You stayed up too late. You haven’t even brushed your hair.

And all five boys look at you. Just a glance. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s the same way they’d look at the mailman.

And you—grumpy and still a little puffy-eyed from the emotions of yesterday—just whisper, “By the way. What happened yesterday between us?” You point at Jinu and Abby specifically, each one receiving a cold, squinty stare. “Didn’t happen. I don’t ever wanna hear about it again. That shit? Deleted. Erased. Nonexistent.”

Jinu just raises his eyebrows at you and sips from his matte black mug. Doesn’t even argue. “Understood.” he says. “Wiped from memory.”

“Gone.” Abby nods, already opening the fridge. “Never happened. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Great.” you nod. “Good.”

“What’s this?” Romance purrs. “Something happened yesterday? With you three?”

Your eye twitches. “Romance—”

“Y/N,” he murmurs. “tell me what happened. I’ll trade you. You can spank me if it’s embarrassing.”

Abby just grins like a smug piece of shit and keeps digging in the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be shy, baby.” he says, grinning down at you. “I think it’s beautiful that you’re finally cracking. You held on so tight for two months. But it’s okay to want us. I’d cry too if I wanted me.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Tell me what happened. Come on, sweetheart. I’m gonna be thinking about it all day now. Was it something… scandalous? Did one of us make your heart go pitter-patter~?” he says, using that hot voice, swiping a berry from the bird’s dish and tossing it in his mouth.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Why can’t I ever get anything good?” he goes on, dramatically throwing himself around. “What’s Abby got that I don’t?! I’m just as hot! I’m—more hot! I even smell good!”

“No, you don’t.” Baby says around a mouthful of banana.

Romance flips him off, not even looking.

You try to walk away. You genuinely try. You even make it two feet toward the hallway before Romance grabs your wrist—not hard, not mean, but persistent. Desperate.

“Y/N. Come on. Tell me. What happened? What did Abby do? Did he—what did he doooo, beautiful? I can take it. I need to know. Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I know everythingp about you. You always say no—but you want to tell me. I can see it. Look at you. You’re practically vibrating with guilt.” He takes a step forward. His tone’s way too soft. Way too slow. The kind of slow that melts girls. A voice that makes people confess. Die. Orgasm. Or all three. He takes a step forward. “I’ll listen real close. I’ll keep it between us. Just whisper it into my—”

“Nothing happened.” Mystery. He says it calmly. From across the room.

Romance freezes. And for a full beat, the whole room goes silent.

Mystery???

Romance turns slowly toward him, eyes squinted, mouth curled into the most suspicious grimace you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’ Were you there?”

“I was close enough.” Mystery shrugs. Which is both a lie and not a lie, knowing how he always lurks.

Romance stares at him. He’s clearly trying to calculate if this is a genuine answer or some mind-game trick, but Mystery doesn’t give much away.

Grumbling under his breath, Romance is muttering, “Y’all are so secretive. No one loves me.”

You glance toward Mystery.

He glances back with the smallest smile. One that says you’re welcome.

He saved your ass.

From Romance of all people.

“I would’ve kept it secret, too.” Romance sulks. “I’m so good at secrets. Ask Baby. I know everything about his porn stash.”

“Shut up, dude.”

But they’re already grabbing bags and keys and jackets. They’re getting ready to leave. Showtime. Another appearance. Another day to be evil, cocky, and extremely fine in public.

You watch them go. Just sit back down at the counter. Pour your cereal. Pop your feet up.

My pathetic time skip later, the backstage smells like ego.

Too many colognes. Too much energy bottled in glittering outfits, half-finished soundchecks and makeup chairs abandoned mid-brushstroke. The Saja boys were already bored, leaning against the sleek black walls of the green room, sprawled on couches, chewing on toothpicks and smug silence. But they can feel it, people approaching. Three of them, actually.

“Oh,” Abby says, mouth curling into something cocky. “hi.”

The HUNTR/X girls walk in. Rumi’s blade is already out, Mira has that look she got right before punching someone in the throat, and Zoey is practically vibrating.

Abby just folds his arms. Romance tilts his head, so pretty. Jinu smiles the way only someone invincible can. Mystery steps slightly behind them, silently. And Baby, chewing gum, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Rumi is the first to talk. “Where is she?”

Romance laughs.

Mira’s blade is up in half a second. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re never stupid,” Jinu says, serene. “Just better.”

“You kidnapped our assistant.” Zoey hisses, like she can’t understand it. Because she can’t, not really.

“You lost your assistant.” Baby corrects, finally looking up.

That nearly got him stabbed.

Romance, ever the showman, steps forward, both hands raised like peace signs, though there isn’t a single peaceful thing about his expression. “Let’s not do this here, ladies.” he purrs. “You’re gonna crease your cute little stage outfits.”

Zoey makes a sharp step forward, and that’s enough for Mystery to growl.

And we know that the boys can feel this and that. Perhaps the changes in human body when you talk or think about someone you really really like.

Romance blinks. His nostrils flare. His grin slides sideways.

Abby cocks his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They sensed it. The girls’ bodies—changing. The tiny, unspoken betrayals of physical attraction. The flush, the pulse, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

The crushes.

The desire.

The way they feel about you.

“Ohhh nooo.” Romance says, one hand over his heart, pretending to faint. “Girls—how cliché.”

“Shut up.” Mira snaps, swinging her blade.

“We understand.” Jinu says, calm but so obviously not taking the girls seriously. “You want Y/N back.”

“And we want her now.” Mira hisses.

Mystery growles. Not at the girls. At Romance.(??)

Abby smacks Mystery’s chest “Bro. Chill. You’re gonna pop a fang.”

“I like her.” Zoey says suddenly, a little too loud, a little too honest.

All five boys paused.

“You’re so late.” Abby mutters.

Romance collapses into Jinu’s shoulder like he’s fainting. Jinu steps away so Romance nearly falls over.

“We’re done here.” Baby says, brushing past, utterly bored.

Uhuh, no they’re not, the girls attack them. But Romance is laughing, ducking and weaving and dodging blades and yelling over his shoulder: “Y/N has options, ladies!”

Abby blocks a swing and winks. “Don’t worry, we take good care of her.”

“You kidnapped her!”

“Same thing.”

The lights backstage are flickering now, disturbed by the energy in the room. And the boys are laughing. It’s like they’re drunk on the moment, hyped up on adrenaline and too many centuries of not giving a fuck. Abby takes a hit to the shoulder and doesn’t even grunt. Just spins backward, and grins at Romance. “She wants to fight.” he says, clearly delighted. “She’s mad-mad.”

Romance, breathless from laughter and dodging Mira’s blade, nearly falls into the wall as he slaps Abby on the back. “Bro, she said ‘You kidnapped her.’ Like we didn’t know!”

Even Jinu cracks a smile. Zoey throws a knife at him. He catches it mid-air. And just gently… drops it. Baby isn’t even fighting anymore. He’d stopped in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the cut on his lip. Mira tries to strike him again and he dodges, still looking at his reflection. Mystery hid in the fucking shadows?? Asshole. But the smile he wears as he watches Zoey scream? He’d missed this. Missed watching people care this much.

Because they do. The girls care. Zoey has tears in her eyes. Mira’s fists tremble harder than they need to from just combat. And Rumi, god, Rumi looks horrible.

“She helped us.” she says, voice hoarse, blade still raised. “She loved us. And you took her.”

Romance tilts his head. “You ever tell her that?”

Silence.

He smiles. “Didn’t think so.”

“Tell me this isn’t funny.” Abby says, still grinning, rubbing his bruised jaw.

But the girls aren’t stupid. They see it. The way the boys react when they said your name. The twitch in Jinu’s jaw. The split-second flinch on Mystery’s mouth. They know now.

Abby grabs his pecs—yes, full-on cups them—and squishes them together, doing that exaggerated little bounce like he’s got a push-up bra on. Then he lifts his chin, throws his voice a whole octave higher, and croons: “Bring her back… she was, like, our little sunshine… our moral compass…” He fans his face. “Y/NNNN!”

Romance collapses onto Mystery’s back, wheezing, holding his gut like he’s about to die. Even Baby, who hasn’t laughed in a week and a half, snorts and turns to the wall to hide it, shoulders shaking like he can’t help it.

Rumi actually growls. Growls. Zoey throws a blade. Romance catches it and spins it in one hand, still grinning, smug as hell. “Look at ‘em. All protective now. Little too late, don’t you think? You should’ve put a ring on it.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word, but his smirk says plenty. Thriving. His smile only widens when Zoey catches his gaze and freezes for just a second. The tiniest flinch. She’s always flinched when he looked straight at her. That shit is better than drugs.

“Seriously,” Romance says, fake-exasperated, looking between the girls. “you’re all jealous because we’re funnier. And hotter.”

“I’m not jealous.” Rumi snaps, shaking. “I’m angry.”

“Same thing.” Abby shrugs, still jiggling his chest just to be a dick. “We win.”

Suddenly, a headset-wearing staff member pokes his head in through the door, looking very much like someone who had to scream over ten security guards just to get here. “Uh—Saja boys? You’re needed onstage. Now.”

Jinu looks at him. “Already?”

Mystery peels off the wall, calm as ever. Jinu’s already brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves and walking like the hallway is a runway.

And as the boys walk off, shoving each other in that obnoxious way only boys can, still laughing, the girls are left in a storm of fury, desperation… and something they hate more than anything:

Jealousy.

Because the boys don’t just have you. They know it. They revel in it. And worst of all? They’re so fucking funny about it.

Hours later, the front door slammed open like someone kicked it. Laughter exploded down the hall. Loud, messy, boy laughter. Shoes thudded against the hardwood, someone bumped into the wall (probably Abby) Romance is laughing so hard he’s leaning on Baby, who is not laughing. Just smirking a little while elbowing him in the ribs. Abby’s halfway shirtless again, sweat still drying on his skin, flipping a bottle of water upside down over his head like he thinks it’s hot. Jinu looks calm as ever, but his sleeves are a little too perfectly rolled and there’s a gash on his shoulder. Not much to say about Mystery, what do we expect?

You’re on the rug. Some huge designer monstrosity, handwoven by someone who probably had no idea it would become the lounging spot for a tiger the size of a bathtub and even bigger because I’m bad at comparing sizes okay the fuck am I kidding a big cat okay?!

You’re sitting cross-legged, humming to yourself while scratching under his monstrous chin. His tail thumps once. Twice.

“—AND THEN SHE THREW THE DAGGER AT ME,” Romance is shouting. “AND I CAUGHT IT WITH MY MOUTH—”

“No, you didn’t.” Abby interrupts, throwing the bottle across the room(?? asshole). “You screamed like a child and Baby had to teleport you out.”

“I choked on it!” Romance snaps back. “That’s basically the same thing as catching it! Besides, Baby’s obsessed with me, that wasn’t a rescue, it was a kidnapping—”

Baby trips Romance.

You glance up lazily, still scratching Derpy’s jaw. He purrs. The floor vibrates. “Hey.”

They all greet you back at once. A useless, overlapping chorus of:

“Hey, princess.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wassup.”

“I missed youuuuuu.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop petting the tiger. He lifts his head and rests it against your shoulder like a house cat. You smile a little. He’s warm. Your eyes flick up. And boy, they’re beat the fuck up.

Mystery’s knuckles are cut. Romance has a split lip. Jinu’s shirt has three claw marks across the back like someone raked through it (Zoey, probably). Abby’s hair is still slick with sweat, and Baby’s shirt is literally smoking.

Do they say anything about what happened? No.

Abby starts pushing Mystery’s shoulder. “Come on, leg day. You promised.”

But then you get up. Smoothly. Without warning. Grabbing Mystery’s hand.

Deadass.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Gentle.

“Mm-mm.” you say sweetly. “Mystery’s hanging out with me.”

…to be continued ❤︎︎

Thank you babeee💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[rosesforshouto]

marked in your heart | 2

marked in your heart | todoroki shouto x reader

chapter 2: heroes that live | length: 7.8k

chapters: 1

Summary: A peaceful life was all you strove for ever since the war, avoiding heroes seemed to be a surefire way for that. It really didn't help though when you had the name of one of Japan's top heroes marked on your skin. Content: soulmate au, pro-heroes, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, pining todoroki shouto, todoroki shouto is a tease, overthinking/spiraling thoughts, noodles, books Missed tags/warnings: fem pronouns/afab reader, mentions of suicide, mentions of mental illness, canon-typical violence Soulmate Mark: 75% of the world was born with their soulmate’s name inscribed on their skin. The inscription changes color upon first skin-to-skin contact with your soulmate. Notes: ooo the drama ^^ haha, thank you to everyone who read chapter 1, it really means a lot to me!! i hope you enjoy chapter 2 as well, it’s quite a lot to take in but i really wanted to set up shouto’s and reader’s relationship given the physical boundaries they have! let me know what you think! :) also will be setting up a masterlist very soon!

There were superstitions on why a person had a soulmate. 

Not everybody had a name on their skin. If they did, the relationship between the two didn’t always become romantic, even if it was extremely common. It served as a connection that worked best for the pairing, whether they chose to be involved with each other or not. 

Some believe that your soulmate is your destined partner, someone to nurture and love. Others may believe that it doesn’t mean anything other than an unwanted anchor to your side, a reminder that you can never escape fate. 

A rather popular belief is that your soulmate would be the one to teach you an important lesson. That their impact will be like no other, a ripple in your life that only them themselves can create. 

What purpose did Todoroki serve in your life, you wondered. 

What purpose would it be? If not for showing up at times you’d least expect it. 

All these thoughts swirl in your head as the both of you stare at each other, frozen. 

Seconds pass, possibly the longest seconds of your life. 

It was Todoroki that broke out of his trance first, reaching down to pick up the book that slipped from your hands. He dusts off the cover before wordlessly handing it to you. 

You look down, taking the book from his long fingers, making sure to grip the part that would give you the most distance from his touch. You hold it tightly in your hands, thinking of an excuse to stall looking up at him again. Nothing comes to mind. Was it tension in the air? Whatever it was, it suffocates you, making your throat dry. 

“I see that this is where you work.”

His voice drawls in the quiet space of the bookstore, deep and smooth. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with his impassive tone. You force down the ball in your throat and move to put the fallen book on the shelf. 

“Yeah. I actually… I own this place. The Book Nook.” You make an awkward show of your hands as you say the name of your store. Choosing to busy yourself instead of facing him, you begin slowly cleaning the clutter of boxes on the floor, moving at a pace that even Goya would balk at. “Was there something you were hoping to find here?”

“Yes, there was,” he states dazedly. You hear the sound of ruffling and chance a glance over to find that he was pulling his phone out of his pocket. After a few quick swipes, he turns the screen over to you and shows a picture of a manga cover. 

“My brother is looking for this manga. I tried three other places but it was all sold out. Would it happen to be here?”

You squint at the picture and recognize it as the new underdog shonen manga that just released. Those have been flying off the shelves. Letting out a humorless laugh, you pick up the book you just set down. “Easy. That would be this one right here.”

Todoroki glances up, as if he just noticed that the manga cover on his phone screen occupied an entire section of the shelf right in front of him.

You see the tips of his ears turn just the slightest shade of pink and you have to swallow down all thoughts of it being the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Walking over towards the cash register with the book, you call out behind you, “It’s your lucky day. All those copies would’ve been sold out by tomorrow.”

“It is my lucky day indeed,” he says so quietly you barely catch it. His brother must’ve given him a hard time for the painstakingly sought-after book. He follows you hot on your heels to the register, only stopping when you round the counter. 

“That will be 500 yen,” you say, pushing a couple of buttons on the register as Todoroki digs his wallet out. You now notice that he’s in his hero suit. He did say that this area was new on his patrol. 

Damn. He sure does fill out his suit quite nicely–

“Here, 500 yen.” 

He places five neat bills on the tray in between you two and you quickly swipe them, turning away as a blush rises to your cheeks. Damn it, control yourself! 

You promptly wrap the book and place it in a paper bag, lifting it up to hand it over. 

But Todorki’s hand was already stretched out to take it. Much farther than you anticipate. You let out a choked gasp and drop the bag like a hot potato right before your fingers come into contact.

Oh god. 

Great. Just fucking great. Not only are you making a fool out of yourself with how jumpy you’ve been but now you have to worry about this stupidly anticipated manga having creased pages upon opening. 

Apologies sputter out of you as you frantically pick up the bag that dropped on the floor. Perfect, even the book slipped out too. Your eyes dart around, locating the book under the counter and shoving it in the (dented) bag. For crying out loud, you couldn’t even think of getting a new bag. 

Cradling the sorry excuse of a sold item from underneath, you move it so that the handles slot over Todoroki’s upturned palm. A palm that you now notice hasn’t moved an inch during your embarrassing episode.

His fingers slowly wrap around the handles. With how impassive he usually is, I guess even he couldn’t hide how shocked he was at witnessing the absolute mess you were. 

You wince as you watch his face go from shock, to confusion, to… frustration? 

The paper bag swings against his side as he moves to say something but stops. He’s silent, wearing a calculative look on his face the entire time and you wait with bated breath. Is he angry? God, obviously he would be! He didn’t go around four different bookstores for a fucking creased book!

Before you could offer a refund and a new (uncreased) book, Todoroki drops his head slightly and looks up at you through his bangs. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” 

It’s like a pin dropped. He asks this question almost timidly and if you didn’t know any better, you would even say he looks the slightest bit hurt. 

It takes you aback, making your mouth drop slightly at the confrontation. 

Uncomfortable? 

You guess your behavior up until now would say so. You know you didn’t make much effort to conceal your feelings and if anything, this would be the perfect time to tell him you didn’t want anything to do with him and his pro-hero likeness. 

Respectfully, of course. 

But the words die on the tip of your tongue when he looks down at the ground. His brows were slightly downturned and fucking hell, he looks like a kicked puppy that was thrown out into the streets. 

Guilt immediately floods you, making you sigh and drop the tension in your shoulders. “No… I– It’s not you. It’s–” You bite your lip in anxiousness, racking to come up with anything to say other than the truth. “I’m… I’m a bit of a germaphobe. It’s a thing I have… I usually avoid touching people if I can, skin-to-skin contact kind of freaks me out.”

You’re not exactly sure what kind of expression is on your face while stammering out your excuse. You could tell that he didn’t buy it one bit.

If he called your bullshit and walked out right now, how would you feel?

As much as you’d hate to admit, you can’t help but feel sad at the idea of it. Out of anything, hurting him was the last thing you wanted to do. 

So you look at him, almost pleadingly, and Todoroki takes a contemplative second before sighing. 

“I understand. I’ll do my best to avoid touching you.”

You quietly breathe out a sigh of relief. Relief of what? You don’t know. 

“Thank you,” you say and Todoroki gives a half-hearted hum in response. 

A part of you feels empty as you wait for him to walk out the door, out of your life. 

“Sorry… before I go, there’s actually something I need to give you.” Todoroki rummages through what seems to be an endless amount of pockets in his suit and fishes out a small colorful object no bigger than a ping pong ball. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of the familiar small clay piece resembling a bowl of ramen, attached to a keychain. 

A keychain that usually dangles from your purse.

You immediately crouch down to snag it, checking that the keychain indeed was missing from its spot near the zipper. You bring the bag up onto the counter and put two and two together. 

“How? Where did you find this?” You ask in bewilderment, kicking yourself for not noticing sooner. Even though it made its way back, devastation slowly creeps up as you think about having almost lost the keychain forever. And you didn’t even notice.

Todoroki gingerly sets the keychain down next to the purse, “It dropped at the soba place. I tried to find you after my phone call but you left rather quickly.” You miss the pointed look he gives you as you eagerly hook the keychain back to its rightful place. 

Smiling widely, you look up at him with gratitude plain on your face. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would do if I lost this forever.”

“It seems to be very important to you,” he treads lightly. 

“Yeah. I…” You cradle the clay ramen in your hands carefully, looking at it longingly. “I made this with my parents. Honestly, with how rough I am with my purse, maybe hanging it on it isn't the best idea.” 

Laughing lightly, you decidedly take the keychain off, tucking it safely away inside one of the pockets of the bag. 

“Thank you, truly. I owe you one.”

“No need to th–” Todoroki stops short and you tilt your head in confusion. He then smiles, almost playfully, and outstretches both arms to press his palms against the counter edge. Leaning forward but not close enough to be in your space, he cocks his head to the side and looks up as if in thought. 

“Actually, there is something I want that you could give me.”

“Me? What could I possibly have that you want?” Your eyes crinkle and you grin, matching his playful attitude. Yeah, this versus the hurt expression from before definitely looks better on him. 

He holds two princely fingers up like a peace sign, “Two digits.”

Two digits?

“One, two–”

“No. The last two digits of your phone number.”

You look at him with even more confusion. Realization finally dawns on you as the contact page that harbors almost half your number displays in front of you. 

You can’t help laughing when you see that he named you under “Noodle Connoisseur”. You laugh even harder at the look of pride on his face, but it immediately shifts back to his impassive one. 

He sets the phone in between you two and taps the section containing your number, letting the keyboard pop up for editing. 

Warmth spreads through you at the sight of his eager eyes. It should be criminal to be walking around with that kind of face. 

In the moment, no thoughts of what kinds of repercussions this would reap enter your mind. One look at his face led you to taking his phone and inputting the last two digits of your number. He reads the numbers back and mumbles something about not having tried that combination but the clock in your peripheral distracts you from asking him to repeat himself. 

“Oh man! I should really get to putting these books away before the day ends.” 

Todoroki follows your line of sight to the clock on the wall, “Ah, I should get back to my patrol as well.” There’s a hint of disappointment in his tone and you can’t help but secretly feel the same way. You push those feelings aside and bow your head in customer-service fashion, repeating the same words you say to each customer as they leave. 

“Thank you for your patronage. We hope to see you again.”

“I’ll be back soon.” He lingers in his spot for a couple more seconds, gazing at you with a look you can't decipher. With a straightened back, he finally turns and walks out the front door. You don’t miss the way he glances back at your store as he continues down the street. 

When his head of red and white hair eventually goes out of view, you clutch your heart that is beating a million times a minute. 

Willing yourself to calm down, you resume restocking the books. 

“I’ll be back soon.“ 

His words kept repeating in your head and you found that nothing could stop the racing of your heart. As each book was set down, the manga cover stared back at you, reminding you of his soft smile and the wondrous feeling that envelopes you at the idea that you are the cause of it. 

You spend the entire next day pondering over your interaction with Todoroki. 

Goya hasn’t been in all week due to exams and thus, isn’t able to distract you with his pettiness that you so desperately need right now. 

Leaning back against your chair and resting your head on top of it, you stare up at the ceiling, unblinking.

Was it really okay to give him your phone number? 

You hear muffled sounds of an argument outside but make no move to shift your position. Finding the grid lines on the ceiling more interesting, you follow along with it. 

Line, corner, line, corner.

It’s not the end of the world. It shouldn’t be. Who knows if he would even contact you. You gave him the tools but that doesn’t mean he has to use them. 

Groaning in frustration, you cross your arms on top of the counter and plop your cheek on them, staring out the window. 

But what if he does text you? Or call you? Would you pick up? What if he leaves a voicemail? That would mean a permanent message recorded on your phone from the Todoroki Shouto. A message for your ears only, spoken in that deep and melty voice— 

You shoot up from your seat, so quick that it makes your chair scrape harshly against the flooring. The screech was comically similar to the screech in your mind as your palms come up to slap both your cheeks. 

Fuck! This will not do. This will not do at all. 

Let's water some plants. Yes, let us go do that.

You grab your metal water pail, filling it up in the bathroom sink before walking towards the front of the store. 

Humming a made-up tune, you slowly move your pail over all of your pots, letting each plant drink up the water like it's a summer afternoon. 

He did hold onto your keychain though. A really important one at that too. 

You stop the small downpour that comes from your water pail, letting the cool metal bump against your side.

Yeah, he did. 

You had basically ditched him back at the soba place, yet he kept your keychain on him ever since. It’s not like he knew where you worked. He just… had it on him… just in case?

The sting in your nose makes you take a deep breath, looking up towards the ceiling to center yourself. 

It was a stupid keychain. A stupid keychain that you made with your parents before the war. Before everything went wrong. Before they died. And you almost fucking lost it.

Correction, you did lose it. You were just lucky enough that someone was nice enough to pick it up and not chuck it straight into the trash.

That someone turned out to be Todoroki.

Movement from outside the window catches your eye. You look to the side and see a familiar group of middle school boys waving enthusiastically at you and a giggle breaks from your mouth. 

They’re jumping up and down and that’s when you notice them pointing and gesturing to a book one of them held up. You lean slightly forward for a better look and recognize it as the previous volume to the newly released underdog shonen manga. 

Ah. You give them a look of exaggerated pity and shake your head, pointing to the sign outside your shop. A sign with a picture of their sought-after manga and a piece of paper taped over it stating, “SOLD OUT! :(“.

You could hear their cries of exasperation through the window and it makes you snicker. 

Looking back at the sign, you’re reminded of him again. 

… Maybe you could keep him at a distance? 

You can become friends without it leading to anything more than that. Why should it be an all or nothing deal? There are plenty of platonic soulmates. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

Todoroki’s words echo in your mind. It’s odd. You don’t know whether the churning in your stomach came from dread or excitement. 

“Soon” came faster than you expected. It also scared the shit out of you. 

It’s Friday evening and you were locking up the front gate, closing up shop for the day. 

That’s when you hear it. Rapid footsteps coming up from behind you as you turn the lock, making your heart start beating in fear. What is it now? Were you getting robbed? Fuck, your taser was somewhere deep inside your purse. 

You whip around with your fist clenched and drawn back, ready to take the perpetrator on by surprise but freeze when you see a blob of red and white bent forward, the body attached to said blob panting heavily. 

“Fucking hell! Please don’t do that again, I thought I was getting robbed!” You exclaim, releasing your stance and heaving out a big relieved sigh. 

“If you thought that was happening,” Todoroki huffs out, stopping to take a breath. His hands were on his knees as he slowly bent his head up, “You should run instead of confronting them.” He’s still panting heavily when he comes up, sweeping back his bangs and letting them fall messily to the side, the action revealing his scar more than usual. It’s like he just ran a marathon and more with the way his face was flushing. 

Your eyes roam over his figure. He changed out of his hero suit and into casual clothes consisting of loose jeans and a structured oversized plain t-shirt. God, how could someone look so effortlessly good? His flushed face and heavy breathing sears itself in your mind and you have to look away, mentally slapping yourself to get a grip. 

“I throw a mean punch” was all that came out. 

Todoroki hums, “Scary. I would hate to get on your bad side.” He takes a final heaving breath and gives you the most earth-shattering smile you’ve ever seen. You stare blankly at him, an imaginary star knocking into your forehead. At this point, he was no better than a robber, taking everything and leaving you breathless without a care in the world.

Shoving, stuffing, and violently kicking all your thoughts aside, you force yourself to speak. 

“What brings you here?” 

“I’m here to take you to dinner,” he states, as if simply reminding you of perhaps forgotten plans. 

As if a tape rewinds in your mind, you recall the conversation of unplanned plans to introduce him to new noodle spots. You didn’t think it was that serious but seeing him running to you as if his life depended on it did something to your heart. 

Giving another good kick to your set aside thoughts, you let out a laugh. “You didn’t have to run, you have my number, remember?”

Todoroki glances off to the side and even though he already caught his breath, his flushed face remains. 

“I didn’t think you would answer so I wanted to come to see you in person,” he mumbles, feet shifting awkwardly. 

Your heart slightly drops at the thought of him thinking you would outright ignore him. 

It seems like he ran all the way here and you’re not even sure how far his agency is. 

… Just one more dinner couldn’t hurt, right? Dinner as just almost friends, that is. 

You ignore all the warning bells in your head and give him a soft smile, turning and motioning for him to walk with you. “Come on, I was thinking of going for udon tonight.” 

You made a point to not look at his reaction when he comes up to your side, feet pattering happily next to you but keeping a safe distance. 

A silence washes over you two, neither a comfortable or awkward one. You didn’t feel the need to fill in the empty space but at the same time, felt conscious of his each and every move. Maybe he thought the same? What with the way he kept glancing at you but also not saying a word. 

The silence continues even as you both walk through the udon shop’s threshold and sit at a small table meant for two, away from the bar this time. 

“Since it’s your first time here, I recommend getting the kake udon. Their curry udon is also solid but I’m not sure if you’re in the mood for something light or heavy?” Your sentence trails off into a question as you look at him inquisitively. 

He gives you his signature impassive face, “What will you be getting?”

You hum, deciding between the two. “I think I’ll get their curry udon this time. I’m in the mood for something spicy.” 

Todoroki for some reason looks satisfied at your choice and nods definitively, “I’ll get the same.”

That’s funny. He wanted you to introduce him to a place but ignored your recommendation? You shrug your shoulders with indifference as Akira-san comes over with two cups of tea, setting it down on the table. 

“Back for more?” Akira-san laughs, the corner of her eyes wrinkle with amusement. You open your mouth to respond but shut it quickly when you find that instead of you, she’s facing Todoroki, expecting him to answer. 

The man in question looks at Akira-san, impassive face not breaking but you see the tips of his ears slowly turn into that shade of pink you saw two days ago. 

You couldn’t help but blurt out, “It’s not your first time here?” He didn’t say anything when you stopped in front of the shop. Didn’t so much as glance at the nameplate before entering! 

Todoroki’s eyes dart from Akira-san, to you, back to Akira-san, and back to you. He has that calculating look on his face again that makes you narrow your eyes in suspicion. Before you could further question him, Akira-san throws her hands up as if just realizing something, “Ah! I must’ve gotten you mixed up with another handsome boy! My apologies.” 

With his hair? No way. 

She turns to you without missing a beat, stroking your hair fondly, “What can I get for you, my dear? Curry udon again?”

You nod in excitement, her sudden affection makes you forget about that weird interaction for a second. “Please make that two for the both of us,” you say, motioning between you and Todoroki.

Akira-san yells out “two curry udons!” to the kitchen, giving your head a final pat and Todoroki another glance. She disappears without a word, leaving the two of you alone again. 

Right as she leaves, Todoroki’s voice fills the empty space almost hurriedly, “I’m curious on why you decided to open a bookstore. Would you be willing to tell me more about it?”

You grab a cup of tea and take a sip, thinking. It’s a question that you’ve been asked numerous times ever since you opened up shop four months ago. People are often surprised with how young you were, owning a store all by yourself. 

You begin your speech that you’ve repeated probably about fifty times, “I didn’t initially own the store, I was working there all throughout university. As a literature major, I thought it was pretty fitting.” You look up nostalgically, “At the time, Book Nook was owned by an elderly couple, they were already well within their retirement years but had no one to pass off their store to. It’s the only bookstore within the area so they didn’t want to close up shop.”

Setting down your cup of tea in front of you, you cradle it for warmth, “When I graduated last spring, they offered me to take over if I wanted to. I didn’t have to think twice before accepting and after working there for so long, the transition was smooth. Now they’re happily enjoying retirement in their beach house near Takoba Municipal Beach Park.” Finishing off the speech, you make a show of your hands as if to say “Tah-dah!” and smile fondly. 

Todoroki silently listens to your story, hanging onto every word. “Do you enjoy owning the store?”

This in turn makes you laugh, “I wouldn’t have said yes if I knew I wouldn’t enjoy it!” 

He gives you a small smile and a look of amazement, “That’s nice to hear. It’s not easy finding something to be passionate about and following through with it. Especially being so young.”

“Yeah,” you agree, looking at your reflection in the cup showing raised cheeks and a bright smile on your face.

“… It's nice. I never thought I would be a business owner but here we are,” you gesture towards yourself. “I get first dibs on new books and can read on the job. I always love interacting with customers and it feels stable, safe.”

“Peaceful,” you end with. Normally when you mention this bit, you feel nothing more than content and finality. But this time, you couldn’t ignore the slight bitter taste in your mouth. As if you were stating something you wish weren’t true. 

But how could that be? Wasn’t this what you always wanted?

“How about you? You’re also just as young as me. How does it feel to own your agency and save lives like clockwork?”

If Todoroki noticed your hesitancy, he didn’t point it out. Instead, he brought up his hands to cradle his own cup of tea, mimicking your position. 

“I wouldn’t describe it as peaceful as yours is but in its own way, it also feels stable and safe.” Todoroki opens his left palm and stares at it. “Safe as in I’m confident in what I do and how I do it. Keeping everyone safe and sound has always been my top priority ever since opening my own agency. Even before that.”

You nod your head along with his words, bitterly thinking that it’s nothing you haven’t heard before. 

“Must be a lot of pressure. Managing your own people, making sure no one gets hurt, putting your life on the line like that. Takes a lot of… sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice…” he repeats contemplatively. 

You await on what he has to say next, dreading but also curious. He takes a moment to think about it and you can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“I used to think that sacrifice was a hero’s pride. That there was nothing more honorable than willing to risk your life for the better good.”

Your breath hitches and unknowingly, you cling onto his every word. 

“It seems self-explanatory. Going into battle, with the mindset that you’re ready to lose it all. To do no matter what it takes to save someone’s life. But…” he trails off. 

Todoroki’s mismatched eyes meet yours, unwaveringly. The sheer intensity makes you want to look away, but you force your gaze to remain steady, not noticing how you hold your breath. 

“I find it a little sad. It makes it seem like the hero has nothing to lose. Of course, there are inevitable situations. But I think that fighting to sacrifice and fighting to live are two very different things. Lately… I’ve been finding that the latter makes me a stronger hero. A hero that lives to see it through.”

His words hit you in the heart, breaking and mending it at the same time. How badly did you want to hear these words? To hear it coming from him?

It’s only been a week, a week since you officially met and actually had a conversation with him. No turning away from his billboard eyes when you found that it was too overwhelming. No running away when you felt consumed by the mere concept of him at the mention of his name. 

When did your expectations from Todoroki pile so high? And why did it feel so good to hear those words coming from him? 

You drop your head, unable to say anything that won’t come out choked up. He didn’t need to know how his words affected you so much. You want to save your last line of defense so badly, so badly that it hurts. 

After giving a couple of seconds to pull yourself together, you lift your head with what you hope to be a smile. 

“You really have a way with words,” you breathe out. “How relieving. To know that the hero who patrols my neighborhood thinks so nobly of his life and others.”

Todoroki gazes at you so softly. So tenderly that it makes you want to run and hide. You hate how vulnerable you feel in front of him. 

Letting out a shakier than you’d like to admit breath, you move aside your cup of tea as Akira-san approaches your table with two bowls. Two bowls of piping hot curry udon that would surely make you ask for four cups of water within ten minutes of the meal. 

“Let’s dig in. This time, I want to hear what you think first.”

The rest of your dinner is filled with easy conversation and picking apart each aspect of the dish. After the first bite, Todoroki’s small smirk and knowing glance told you all you needed to know. His smirk deepened just the tiniest bit at the sight of your pride-written face. 

You learn more about how Todoroki started his agency. How he seemed to be in a who’s-the-better-hero competition with Pro-Hero Dynamight, not failing to mention that the competition was completely one-sided and unprovoked on his part. Though the subtle glint in his eyes told you otherwise. 

You talk about your current favorite book series and how you made an Instagram account for your noodle adventures but never had the guts to post anything. You found that Todoroki can be very convincing when he wants to be. With your first post waiting in your drafts, he promises to be the first like and comment, once he makes an account at least.  

You also learn that he doesn’t do well with spicy foods, if the eight cups of water showed anything for it. And that his sister, Fuyumi, is the one who bought all five sweaters of the Animated Cozy Animals series for him. 

It’s like a dam was broken, conversation after conversation flowing between you two. Sometimes awkward, but mostly natural. Your chest felt lighter with each laugh he made come out of your mouth. And the tips of his light pink ears make two more appearances when you tease him about his spice tolerance and inability to say no to his sister. 

After saying goodbye to Akira-san who surprisingly left you two alone for a majority of the night, you and Todoroki leave the shop, not breaking your conversation. 

“So, you’re telling me that a soba fanatic such as yourself never went to Soba Survivors growing up? Every kid has tried the 20lbs soba challenge at least once in their life!” 

Todoroki glances to the side minutely before looking at you, breathlessly laughing, "I couldn’t… go out often as a kid. While that experience seems like something that would give me digestion problems, it sounds fun. I probably would’ve gone every day if I could, it’s unfortunate that the place has closed down. I missed my chance.”

He says this a bit longingly and with a far-away look in his eyes. Recalling what you know based on public knowledge about his family’s past, you guess that this wasn’t just about noodles. It grips your heart and you find that you want to soothe that longing, bring him back from that far-away place. 

“Who needs Soba Survivors?" you quip, mouth running faster than your brain can keep up. “I’m not sure if my kitchen can handle 20lbs of noodles but… um…” You fumble, hands gesturing wildly as if they’ll tell you what to say. 

“Since you can’t go there anymore, I’ll— I’ll bring it… to… you,” your voice trails off, cheeks turning tomato red at just how cheesy and awkward that came out. And you had to just follow up with, “The noodles… that is.”

As if you could mean anything fucking else!

Turning your head to the side, you bite your lip to prevent yourself from spouting more shitty one-liners. 

Todoroki laughs out loud for the first time. Despite your head remaining in the same position, the sound makes just your eyes dart over to his frame. You study the way his cheeks rise with each laugh and how his tone comes out a little more high-pitched, albeit smooth. 

What a wonderful sound. 

He leans forward and tilts his head to look at your side-turned face, catching you by surprise. The close proximity makes you take a step back, putting a couple of feet in between you two. Todoroki doesn’t follow after you, rooted in his spot. 

He gazes at you again with that look you just can’t quite decipher, “Is that a promise?” 

“Maybe…” you mumble out. Todoroki smiles brightly and you scowl in further embarrassment, cheeks still red. His insistent eyes make you look away and you point in the direction of the nearest train station, “I’m headed that way, how about you?”

“I am also headed that way,” he says but his gaze is still set on you, not even glancing in the direction you’re pointing.

You roll your eyes as he lets out another deep chuckle, “Let me walk you.” 

Wordlessly, you let him lead the way, a comfortable silence settling over the two of you. 

Tonight was fun. More than fun. 

How did it become so easy with him? You’ve never connected with someone so fast, so effortlessly. It only took three days. 

Maybe the both of you really can become just friends. Friends who find new noodle spots together, friends who can introduce each other to the world of fashion outside of animal hoodies. 

That sounds nice, you settle. But maybe the animal hoodies can stay. 

As you stop at the train gate, you take him in. This was no longer the billboard face that you were so scared of even glancing at before. In front of you stood a man, with his own ideas about pro-heroness and blushed from the tips of his ears when he got embarrassed. 

He was a real person, not someone to be afraid of. 

A hero that lives to see it through.

For a moment, you don’t think about where this could lead to. You let yourself indulge in the idea of him. Of you and him learning more and more about each other. All the little and big things. 

Todoroki stops to take you in as well. What you would give to know exactly what was running through his head right now. 

“You know, it’s rather a little embarrassing to bring it up now,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

You shamelessly perk up at his words, patient but eager to know what he has to say. 

He glances down, then peers at you between his bangs again, his expression reminding you of his confrontation two days ago. 

His next question really made you wish you had said your goodbyes earlier when you stopped at the gate. When you were so convinced that nothing could go wrong and selfishly indulge yourself just a bit longer.  

Todoroki’s voice rings out through the night, deep and smooth as he asks a simple innocent question. 

“Would you be willing to tell me your name?”

It was a low blow and you know it. Every time you think back on that night, you can’t stop the feeling of shame that overwhelms you. 

“I know that it’s odd and I apologize if I’ve offended you in some way by not addressing you by your name. I wasn’t sure when was the right time to ask.”

You stare at him, surprisingly calm while he rattles off, taking your silence as being offended. 

Todoroki couldn’t meet your eyes, seemingly nervous at the way you’ve gone quiet. 

“I… I had fun tonight and would like to keep seeing you. I think I missed a few steps though, so if you can excuse my manners…”

He finally looks at you, with pleading eyes. 

“Would you be willing to tell me your name?”

The way he was asking, his demeanor, his tone. Did he know?

You utter your last name. Not giving anything more than that. You watch as he waits, waits for you to say your full name, for your first name, but it never comes. 

You remain quiet, waiting for the realization to kick in. And you know it does when his body stiffens and his eyes widen in surprise.

“That’s… Isn’t that the name of–”

“The #14 hero at the time of the war, Daybreak. Yes, it was and I’m his daughter.”

Todoroki furrows his brows in confusion. Although his lips are tightly shut, you can tell he wants to question but doesn’t want to pry. You take this opportunity to follow through with what you’ve practiced multiple times, for the inevitable question to be asked.  

“After so many heroes stepped down during the war. My father was one of those who chose to stay, who chose to fight. My mother was quirkless and so am I. We evacuated with the rest of the citizens.”

You pause, and the heavy stillness of the night suddenly feels suffocating, wrapping around you like a vice. It’s silent, eeriely so, and nothing could hide the tremble in your voice, “He died in battle and my mother committed suicide not longer after because she couldn’t take it anymore. He was her soulmate, and she couldn’t stand living in this world any longer without him.” 

As if you weren’t there. As if you weren’t the product of their love. As if you were just an afterthought. 

You clench your fist so tightly you could feel your nails nearly breaking skin. Nevertheless, you continue on. 

“He died sacrificing his life and the last thing he said to me was that it was a hero’s honor to fight till the bitter end.”

At some point, your head drops and you couldn’t bear looking up and seeing Todoroki’s reaction. Would it be sadness? Shock? Pity?

If it was pity, that would help your case. 

You force a light tone to come out, “But that’s all in the past now. It took me years to really think things through but I don’t resent them for their choices. He was a hero after all. And my mother… Well, those were probably the worst days of her life.”

Yes, you know that their best was all they could do at the time. You’ve accepted it but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, doesn’t stop you from wishing things could’ve gone another way. 

“I’m doing a lot better now. Being a little removed from the hero world helps, it keeps my life peaceful, just the way I like it.”

Todoroki doesn’t say anything. The worry in his eyes surprises you when you look up and his expression doesn’t change despite the nonchalant facade you don. It saps your every being to keep it from faltering. 

“Does it hurt you to be with me?” he bluntly asks, though it was timid, and his eyes search your expression for anything he can read. 

You choose your words carefully, “… No. I had fun tonight too, you’re good company and I haven’t connected with someone like this in a while.”

He appears relieved at that. At the sight of his face finally showing anything else other than worry and anguish, you also feel an involuntary shiver of relief.

“Then, can we… remain as friends?” He gives a half-hearted laugh. “Only if you’re alright with it. I’ve never met anyone who is as passionate about noodles as you are.”

It kills you every time you think of his face at that moment, the troubled look mixed with restraint and desperate hope. You’ve never seen such emotions on him before, never seen such a despaired look on his usually apathetic face. 

Why? What did you do to deserve his undying attention? 

“… That’s alright with me” you say passively. Guilt crushes you though, and you want to give him a choice. “I know I just dropped a lot on you, please don’t feel like you need to take pity. You don’t have to force yourself to–”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” he says, tone clearer than before. “If you’ll let me, I want to be friends with you.”

You try to come up with something, anything to question his intentions. To give him a chance to step away and not look back. But his resolute tone renders you speechless, unable to look away from his determined face. 

“That’s enough for me.”

You drew a line then. A line that even the #2 hero couldn’t cross. It’s pathetic really, using your sob story as a cover up to avoid giving him your first name. Distracting and slamming an obstacle right in front of him, making him afraid to move it. An unspoken boundary that separates your world and his. 

Because in the little time that you’ve known him, a part of you knows he wouldn’t want to hurt you. Wouldn’t want to force you to give more of yourself that you couldn’t. He’s too perceptive and kind for that. 

It mars your dignity. To know that you would resort to such a manipulative way to keep him at a distance.

Almost two weeks have passed since and the topic of your parents never came up again. 

After agreeing to become friends, Todoroki has been visiting you everyday, meeting you just as you lock up shop and walking you to the train station. Sometimes grabbing a pre-dinner bite or window shopping in between. 

Everyday. 

Even on weekends during his patrol. The second he sees you out and about doing errands, he’d be glued to your side the entire time, holding your grocery bags and opening all your doors. 

He had the audacity to say that it was all in the name of friendship. And protecting a fellow citizen he quickly added. You’d be an idiot to not notice his attachment, how long would you be able to turn a blind eye?

You burrow your head into your arms as they rest on top of your legs, knees drawn close to your chest. You’re currently tucked into a corner of your couch, bundled up in three blankets and mindlessly watching the nightly news. 

Being with him feels nice though. 

It does. Your body feels lighter after getting your daily dose of him and everything just comes naturally. 

Todoroki also hasn’t mentioned anything about your first name, which you feel both thankful and shameful for. 

Did he know?

“Would you be willing to tell me your name?”

Who in the world asks someone if they’re willing to tell them their name? If they’re willing? It doesn’t make sense and you can’t imagine why he would phrase such a customarily normal question so cryptically. 

Unless he knew what it meant for you to say your name. 

There were so many opportunities where he could’ve easily asked. Even when he did, he didn’t press you further and has kept true to his word on keeping your distance physically. Why? Why go through all this trouble?

Would he know just like how you knew? He could confirm it anytime, literally and figuratively at the tips of his fingers. 

This is so infuriating. 

You stand up, rubbing your temples harshly as you feel a migraine coming on. You haven’t moved from your position ever since you came home. Maybe it's time to finally eat dinner? Yeah, let’s go do that, there’s probably a couple packs of instant ramen somewhere in your cabinets—

You gasp as the left side of your rib cage starts flaring hot. Excruciatingly hot. Like someone just poured molten lava all over you hot. The ferocious spark of pain makes you weak in the knees and you double over whimpering, clutching the arm of the couch with one hand and your mark with the other. 

You scrunch your face in extreme agony. Holy fucking hell, it hurts so fucking much. What is going on—?

“Pro-hero Shouto just barely makes it out of the building with Pro-hero Dynamight and appears to be badly hurt and unconscious. From afar, it seems that his entire right side is critically injured and his head has taken a severe hit.”

You snap your head towards the TV so fast that it gives you whiplash. Your migraine intensifies with the motion as you strain to focus on the screen, eyes wide as saucers. 

The live camera zooms in on Pro-hero Dynamight holding up Shouto’s limp body, head fallen over and swinging with dead weight. Shouto’s left arm is haphazardly slung over Dynamight’s neck as they both struggle to come out of a building. Your eyes zero in on Dynamight’s right hand clutching Shouto’s right side and it's bloody. Oh it’s so, so bloody–

“The ambulance is on standby ready to take Shouto to what we assume is Hosu General Hospital. Other heroes have arrived on scene and are currently– wait– hold on– CLEAR THE AREA–!”

You watch with trembling eyes as the reporter’s camera shakes and knocks into the ground, cutting the feed in and out. From an upturned view, you see the building shaking, crumbling, and then completely collapsing in on itself. Dust and debris overtake the entire screen. 

A mix of rumbling and screams hauntingly fills your living room. But all of it seems to fade as your breaths come out heavier and heavier, your heartbeat roaring in your ears becoming the only sound you hear. 

[keferon]

Guys. Hear me out.

Remember when in Cyberverse everyone got their minds transferred into fake artificial digital simulation of an infinite fucking parade while their bodies were imprisoned? Now. Imagine Shockwave trying to pull that kind of move on First aid.

Under the cut:)

First aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like he's a lab mouse running through a maze.

There's the cheese. There's the electric shocks. There's no way out and never has been.

He thinks it might be the fault of Pharma's new drug. Or his fucking pilot position is finally eating away at him, or Vortex is finally done playing with him and just broke his brain.

There are people running around him, each of whom definitely knows what their place is and where they need to go. Everyone has a purpose and a position and some important job to do. They hardly even talk to each other, just nod and run on.

Amazing synchronization.

First..Felix feels like a kid lost in the mall.

He has. He has to do something, right? What does he need to do? Fuck. What day is today anyway?

He heads over to the schedule board and stares at it like an idiot for a couple minutes. It's Tuesday. The work day is in full swing. All the shifts are here. But he doesn't recognize the names of the employees. All the pilots are accounted for, but his name isn't on their list.

Must be a mistake?

He turns away from the board and looks around the room once more, this time more carefully. He just needs to find someone to ask. Preferably someone familiar.

He can’t recognise anyone.

The feeling of strangeness doesn't get any less.

The uniforms on the people around him are similar. But not the same.

The badges are all another color.

And he's surprised by this, but at the same time some part of his brain tells him that it's all familiar and he's seen it before.

“.... then I thought, we could do something different, you know?”

Felix flinches as Swindle and Onslaught walk past him. They are clearly in the middle of some sort of discussion and don't notice Felix staring at them.

Swindle is wearing a pilot's suit. Onslaught is wearing one, too.

Screw the weird schedule. THIS is wrong.

Onslaught frowns, but when he opens his mouth there's a strange amused respect in his tone

“You slippery eel.”

Swindle smiles. His smile, Felix notices, is not the same at all. He doesn't look like an actor from a commercial. He looks like a worn-out but proud of himself man.

It's wrong, but he's seen it before, it's strange but it's familiar. He wants to go up to Swindle and ask what's going on. He wants to understand the damn schedule. He wants to...

…

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not the nausea from the drugs or the weird withdrawals after a neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like being a lab mouse running through a maze.

You got the cheese. And here's the electric shocks. No escape. Never has been.

It's all the same.

He's not sure where he's going. Everyone around him seems very busy. Running about their own business, not paying attention to him and--

What is he supposed to do? He can't remember what day of the week it is. Shit. Is it Tuesday? He can't remember.

Does he need to find a schedule?

Everything feels weird.

By the schedule board, he almost crashes into Swindle.

“...You realize, if we can both get out of this shit, we can get others out too.”

Onslaught...still looking strange in his pilot suit instead of his usual uniform. Swindle pokes him in the side with his elbow as they both walk past Felix, completely ignoring him

“You just. Think about it. Even if you can't fire Offy from the pilots, you can at least free him from these disgusting experiments.”

Felix wants to go over and say hello. Politely and unobtrusively. And also kindly ask, “what the hell, boss?”

But you see it every day, his brain tells him. Have you forgotten?

It makes him feel wrong.

Here's the board, here's the schedule, just lift your stupid head up and see what you're supposed to be doing.

He looks at the board. It's Tuesday. It's dumb sheets that don't have his name on them. He wants to go up to Swindle, he should go up to Swindle, right?

…

It's all wrong, but it's a new kind of wrong. It's not from drugs or neural connection. And it's almost certainly not a concussion.

He's feeling.... hell, what day of the week is it? Tuesday right? He looked at the blackboard yesterday.

He stops. And makes a titanic effort to concentrate the jelly his head is now filled with instead of his brain.

Today is Tuesday because?...because yesterday was Tuesday? And the day before that, too? This is some kind of trippy shit, not a broken neural connection….

He's not looking for the schedule. He's seen the schedule a million times and he knows what's gonna be on it.

He's not sure where he's even going. The layout of the base is different. Not much, but enough to confuse him. He's still stubbornly checking out every familiar place he can find.

He doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't.

He still doesn't see a single damn familiar face.

Ambulon's gone, Pharma's disappeared somewhere too. No Tailgate or Wheeljack anywhere to be seen. And the layout is a little different and all the badges are the wrong color and Felix can't even read what's written on them because every time he tries all the letters blend into an indistinguishable blur.

He's trying to talk to someone. Anyone. But everyone either brushes him off or straight up ignores him. It's like he's a ghost or a lunatic or all of the above.

Everything is so familiar, but at the same time it isn't and his brain frantically clings to the last possibly familiar thing.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

Even if it is him who is going insane and not everyone around him. Vortex is insane in his own, unique way, but he won't ignore him. He may get a good laugh, but it's still better than blindly poking around every corner by himself.

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion....

He snaps at himself. NO. Hell no.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

The hangar looks surprisingly dark. The people look unfamiliar. And another schedule board beckons him to come over and check to see if it really is Tuesday, but he ignores everything and heads straight for his Mech.

Vortex hasn't changed a bit. Even the radius at which people avoid him is exactly the same.

And looking at him doesn't give Felix that fucking sense of wrongness.

He sees Vortex a lot. He just knows it. The thought is natural, in contrast to the others. That's good, that... It may sound strange, but Vortex is the most normal thing he can perceive right now.

He feels like he's grown little wings. His feet carry him up to the open cockpit and he barely notices the steps beneath him.

Vortex is here and he will understand and even if he doesn't, at least he won't ignore him. Vortex gets bored too quickly so he never minds distractions, no matter how absurd and...weird..they…

Huh…

Felix almost climbs into the cockpit, but freezes, right on the way in.

It's empty.

He crashes into that realization like an invisible wall.

The cockpit.... is clean.

It doesn't smell of chemicals or scrubbing agent. There are no thin streaks of old browned blood in the seams and crevices. There are no dents or stains on the edge of the visor.

The cameras are dead still and the screens are off.

There's no smell of stale blood or decay.

There's no one here.

But the back of his neck still tingles with the sensation of someone else's eyes staring at him.

“The fuck do you think you're doing?“

First Aid flinches startled and turns around.

There is a pilot standing a few feet away from him with a cigarette in his hand.

“..I’m..”

“I wouldn't stand there if I were you” smiles the stranger eying him with a suspiciously bloodthirsty smile “those things are glitchy as fuck. Might chop off something important.”

First Aid continues to stand just under the open visor. Maybe it's surprise or maybe he's too used to the idea that Vortex won't cut him in half. The pilot in front of him looks.... geez, where has he seen him???

Has he ever seen him at all? That green suit looks awfully familiar.

And the voice. There should be more mechanical notes in that voice, First Aid thinks. It should have more static and reverb and squeaks and rumbles and clicks and that quiet hum that sounds when the cockpit systems are turned on...

First Aid jumps off the Mech.

“Vortex...?”

The pilot casts him only a slightly surprised look at first, but a moment later recognition flares in his eyes.

“What the fuck....AID??”

First Aid instantly takes a swing and punches him in the face hard enough to send him wiping the dust on the floor.

“You!!!”

“Ha,” says Vortex from the floor. “Hahahahah ooooh Do it again! ”

First Aid kicks him. Vortex laughs like he's been told the world's happiest joke.

He sounds…alive. Alive and human and there’s no metal in his voice and

“What the fuck?”

Vortex stops laughing, but still doesn't get up off the floor

“What's the last thing you remember?”

First Aid still does nothing but stare at Vortex stunned. The human Vortex. Victor? Shit

“Until Tuesday, you mean?”

Vortex hums

”Till Tuesday.”

What was before Tuesday?

Another Tuesday. And another and another and another and another.

Someone from downstairs bangs loudly on the railing and berates Vortex for a safety violation, ordering him to put his cigarette away.

Vortex points his middle finger down somewhere and throws the cigarette over the railing.

Oh god. Oh shit.

First Aid swallows nervously.

“Shockwave...he used something...to control you-Mech...I mean. He did something, I think. I remember I couldn’t move couldn’t do anything. And now I’m in this hhhhplace? I don’t really recognise it.”

Vortex twitches the corner of his mouth and finally rises from the floor.

“Well I do.”

He looks like he is sick, First Aid thinks. He looks sick and he looks human and he has arms and legs and eyes and that stupid curly strand of dark hair sticking out from under his helmet and the dark eye bags.

“The bastard made up some sort of dumpster to transfer your consciousness in while he does shit to your body.”

First Aid clenches his hands together

“But there were two of us in the neural connection. And it took two of us to transfer here too...”

It suddenly dawns on him

“Wait. This base, these, everything. This is what the Mech project looked like in your time?? And Swindle and Onslaught and the staff is different and...”

Vortex raises his eyebrows smugly.

“...Here you are ...you're a human...” finishes First Aid.

Vortex pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

From somewhere below, a loud angry bang is heard again

“Tex, you bastard stop smoking in here.”

“Fuck you, Off,” Vortex yells back.

Then shrugs his shoulders

“I've always been human. No matter how hard Shockwave and his science shithole try to change that.”

He holds out an opened pack to First Aid

“Want some?”

First Aid feels awful. Terrible as if from the drugs, terrible as if from the neural connection. Terrible as if he had a concussion times two.

But Vortex is here and Vortex believes him and even if it turns out they're the ones who are crazy and not the world around them, at least they're crazy together.

First Aid takes a cigarette

“Thanks...”

_______________

Previous

[dissociacrip]

disability and chronic illness and whatnot are really complicated sometimes and can result in a lot of complicated, messy feelings, but the pervasiveness of ableism and the fact being disabled doesn't exempt you from participating in it (yes, including on a violent interpersonal and an also an institutional level, as there are disabled people that work in the very healthcare system that neglects and violates many of us! there are disabled people that work as caregivers who are capable of abusing that power!) makes it important to discern whether you need to be airing out those messy feelings in public vs. working through them on a private level, not just for your own sake

people with terminal cancer, ALS, etc. aren't somehow "luckier" than those with PASC/long covid for having research and awareness and they aren't automatically treated well or taken seriously despite what one might assume

obligate wheelchair-users aren't "lucky" for having no choice but to navigate a world that is built for ambulatory people with a mobility device that is expensive/difficult to acquire, requires routine maintenance, can wind up damaged and destroyed, etc. and bars them off from being able to participate in all the same areas of life as the able-bodied because - again - society is physically constructed with ambulatory people in mind

people with visible disabilities aren't "lucky" for being recognized as having something "wrong" with them by other people (because "visible disability" does not necessarily mean others thinking "oh that person is a real disabled," it's more complex than that)

someone having a very visible aspect of their disability like a limb difference doesn't mean their disability can be reduced to just that limb difference (e.g. there are a lot of ways someone might end up medically needing an amputation, including forms of chronic illness, like diabetes leading to nerve damage, leading to infected wounds that then can't heal properly!)

having assumptions made about your intelligence or "mental age" by strangers based off visible aspects of disability is 100% a form of ableism but there are ways of discussing and addressing this that don't contribute to ableism against people who are genuinely intellectually disabled (some of whom might have the same condition you're talking about!)

autistic people who require caregivers for survival aren't somehow privileged compared to autistic people who can live independently but get burnt out, living independently = not having to worry about getting abused or violated or neglected by people you have no choice but to depend on to feed you, bathe you, attend to medical equipment, clean your living space to prevent bugs or mold, etc.

i also highly doubt sensory disabled people are automatically taken seriously in terms of "oh they're actually disabled" either, even people with total vision or hearing loss, so excluding sensory disabled people from the label of "invisible disability" (in cases where it isn't accompanied by visible disability, like strabismus impacting vision) based on that is purely something out of ignorance

too many people in online disability spaces (physical or psychiatric) actively spit on other highly vulnerable groups of disabled people by saying/doing these things and it needs to end, especially as the overton window continues shifting to the right when it comes to ableism in the western world and elsewhere

and don't sit around waiting to be corrected and instead deliberately expose yourself to the experiences of disabled people whose lives are unlike yours and are continuously shut down in online (and offline) spaces, which is part of the reason these prejudices and misconceptions exist in the first place; if we don't have solidarity, then we have nothing

[coolemmasulivan2]

Nightmares

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Summary: You sneak out of the bed to avoid waking Mason with your nightmares, but he wakes up anyway, because he can't sleep without you.

Word count: 1025

Home A place where I can go To take this off my shoulders Someone take me home

Work had been overwhelming lately, the kind of stress that clings to you even in sleep. For days now, your nights had been filled with nightmares, each one jarring you awake, and waking Mason with you. And every time, you felt even more guilty.

"You don't need to sleep in another room." He had whispered the night before, brushing your hair back gently after you startled awake again. "I'm fine. I don't mind. It's easier for you if I'm next to you."

He meant it. You knew he did. But you also knew it wasn't true, not completely. The tiredness was written all over his face. Mason, who usually sprang out of bed for training without a hint of complaint, had started lingering under the covers until the last possible minute.

After he left that morning, and before you headed off to work, you quietly made up the bed in one of the guest rooms.

Tonight, once he was asleep, you would sneak out. You hated the idea of being apart from him, but the coach was trusting him more and more, and the least you could do was let him rest.

You were cuddled up against Mason on the sofa, the familiar weight of his arm around you. Your new favorite show was playing softly in the background and Ace was snoring quietly from his bed on the floor.

These were the moments that let your body truly relax after another long and draining day at work. You let out a deep sigh and closed your eyes for a second.

"You should quit." Mason said, fingers tracing slow and soothing patterns along your arm. "You know that, right?"

"I know. I know!" You replied, opening your eyes with a small groan. "I just… I don't want to leave the team buried in more work."

He shook his head gently. "Babe, you've got to think about you for once. That job is messing with you. You're not quitting because you want to, you're quitting because your health is more important."

You hesitated, eyes flicking back to the TV. He was right. You were exhausted, inside and out.

"I'll give them my resignation letter at the end of the week." You said quietly.

Mason gently grabbed your jaw so you had to look at him. His gaze was steady, warm.

"Promise me."

You nodded. "I promise."

He smiled and kissed your forehead. He pulled you even closer into his arms and you finally let yourself melt into him.

When it was time to go to bed, you made sure to stay awake until Mason had drifted off. It wasn't hard, he had nearly fallen asleep on the sofa before you both made it to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, when his breathing had settled, you gently slipped out from under the covers. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and took one last glance at your boyfriend, before you silently left the room.

You chose the guest room furthest from your own, just in case you made any noise in the night. The room was colder than you expected, but you climbed into bed quickly, pulling the covers tightly around you. With a quiet and tired sigh, you closed your eyes.

Mason stirred, reaching out for you, but his hand was only met with cold sheets.

Frowning, he sat up, glancing around the dark room. The ensuite bathroom light was off. He grabbed his phone: 3 am.

"Y/n?" He called softly, but there was no answer.

Throwing off the covers, he got up to look for you. Ace was curled up alone in the living room and the kitchen was also empty. His brows furrowed.

When he found you, you were tangled in the sheets, tossing and turning, having another nightmare.

He turned on the light and rushed to your side, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently shaking your shoulder.

"Y/N." He said. You mumbled something under your breath. "Babe, wake up." You jolted awake, your heart racing. Sweat clung to your skin and for a moment, you didn't even recognize where you were. Then your eyes locked on Mason's. "You're fine. Everything's fine."

"I'm sorry." You whispered.

"Why are you apologizing?" He asked, gently cupping your cheek with his hand.

"I woke you up again. You need your rest." You said. "You shouldn't have to keep waking up because of me and my nightmares."

His expression softened. "Wait… is that why you're here? You didn't want to wake me up?" You nodded. Mason let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. "I didn't wake up because of your nightmare, love. I woke up because you weren't in our bed." He reached for your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours gently but firmly. "I can't sleep without you."

You looked at him, eyes glassy with emotion. "Mason…"

"I mean it!" He said, voice low. "It doesn't matter if I wake up a few times, or if you need me in the middle of the night. I just… I want you next to me."

"But I hate that I'm messing with your sleep."

He leaned in and rested his forehead against yours. "You're not messing anything up. You're going through something, and I want to be there for you. That's what love is, right? Not just the easy stuff."

You hesitated for a moment, then took a shaky breath. "I'm going to hand in my resignation letter tomorrow."

Mason's eyes softened even more, a proud smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "I can't keep putting myself last. I'm tired, Mase."

He grabbed your hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you." You whispered.

He stood up and offered his hand to you. "Come back to bed?"

You took his hand and let him pull you up, wrapping yourself in his warmth as he guided you back down the hallway.

Once you were both tucked under the covers again, Mason pulled you close, your head resting on his chest.

"I love you." He murmured into your hair.

You smiled into the dark. "I love you more."

[badgalsasuke]

Have people discussed why when Naruto is thinking about the bonds he eventually formed he places Sasuke on the side of the girls?

Other people noticed it but they didn't actually analyse anything out of this. And it's interesting because Kishimoto could've had Naruto placing Sasuke by Kakashi's side and that'd make the composition symmetrical and more visually appealing, but he didn't.

Some people in the post I linked above think it's related to Sasuke's heroine-type of status in the story.

Which reminds me of Hayato Date's conversation with band FLOW, Date was director of the Naruto anime from its inception until before Madara's fight against the shinobi alliance.

And it was also pointed out by Ito Go in his essay for the Kizuna: The Words that Bind Heaven Scroll book.

This is a translation published by the University of Minnesota Press for Mechademia: Second Arc which a biannual journal series designed to promote academic and professional discourse around East Asian popular cultures.

However, I noticed they skipped certain sentences (including the title of this excerpt of the entire essay where Ito Go calls Sasuke the heroine) from the original Japanese essay. So I will post another translation here

Sasuke's "heroine" status (サスケの「ヒロイン」的関係性)

The person whose "true feelings" are the least visible is Sasuke, the core of the story, who stands opposite Naruto. The deepening intimacy and repeated "denial" that unfold between the two are the axis that drives the story of this work. Sasuke leaves his friends and becomes a runaway ninja, and Naruto pursues him. Compared to Naruto, who has grown into a hero recognized by those around him, Sasuke, who has been popular from the beginning and is still wanted/sought after by many characters, is treated like a heroine, even though he is a man.

Among them, the strong feelings that Naruto has for Sasuke are like friendship and brotherly love. Let's call it "love" in a broad sense. Think of it as a higher concept that refers to intimate feelings such as friendship and familial love, rather than romantic feelings.

Sasuke's motivation for leaving the village was to take revenge on his brother, Uchiha Itachi, and to gain strong power to do so. However, he strongly asserts his reason for actively cutting off ties with his friends and the village of Konohagakure. This behavior can be interpreted as an escape from the close community with his comrades. It is due to a "denial" of acknowledging the affection directed towards him. In particular, it is a "denial" of his intimate relationship with Naruto. The psychology of this "denial" is fully depicted in the long sequence in which Sasuke tries to kill Naruto at the Valley of the End. He tries to kill Naruto, following his brother's words that he can awaken his Mangekyo Sharingan by fulfilling the condition of "killing his closest friend." However, he is unable to kill Naruto. By trying to kill Naruto, he unintentionally acknowledges that Naruto is his most important friend. The act of "killing for a purpose" itself denies friendship and love towards the other person. Can someone who is willing to kill for one's own purpose really be called "the closest friend" in the true sense of the word? However, the choice of who to kill can only be made by asking one's own heart. In the dilemma of "killing his closest friend," Sasuke chose Naruto. By denying the very existence of friendship, he acknowledged it. It's a "denial" in the literal sense of the word. Sasuke says that the reason he couldn't kill Naruto was because he resented having to get the Mangekyo Sharingan as a result of his brother's influence. But was that the truth? We readers know that it wasn't. In the middle of their fight, a "mental landscape" appears. It shows two children holding hands. The psychology of "denial" occurs without the awareness that one is "denying." In "inner speech," it is still possible to lie to oneself, that is, to lie against one's true feelings to convince oneself. But that is not the case with mental landscapes. Sasuke's "true feelings" are something that Sasuke himself cannot see. The more "invisible" something is, the more one can believe it. I think this principle is probably the idea that runs through the foundation of "Naruto." As the story progresses towards its finale, I am looking forward to seeing how this principle will be reflected in the story.

What's interesting here is that, even though Ito Go acknowledges Sasuke is in the position of a "heroine", he doesn't want to call Naruto and Sasuke's feelings for each other romantic. Makes you wonder what's the line that separates a heroine from a love interest.

But back to the images at the very top of this post, I'd love to hear what you guys think about it.

[siggiedraws]

Sonic is fundamentally unrelatable and unrealistic - and that's a good thing

I want to address a common sentiment in the fandom that I've seen countless times over the years - the idea that Sonic should be more humanlike. Specifically, the idea that Sonic should have more human traits, such as anxiety or insecurities, that make him emotionally vulnerable in some way.

I have always felt that this sentiment strips away what I love about Sonic so much—that it goes against his character as someone who is meant to be inspirational rather than relatable. From the bottom of my heart, I truly believe that making Sonic more relatable ruins his appeal and misses the entire point of what role he is meant to fulfill. Sonic being the way he is, an inhuman being that is extremely strong and unyielding mentally and emotionally, makes him an inspirational character that is appealing outside of the realm of relatability.

Please note that I am discussing Game Sonic for this essay, not any versions of Sonic from spinoff media.

(Special thanks to @blurredblu for helping me write this essay!)

Relatability =/= likeability

First, it is important to define "relatability" for the rest of the essay, as what is seen as relatable can vary across countless different cultures and lifestyles.

In this case, we are discussing facets of the human psyche. Traits such as emotional vulnerability, insecurity, or trauma are traits seen as humanlike because they imitate the depth of the human mind. They come across more realistic, and thus relatable to people in real life who have generally gone through emotional hardships.

Relatability is also considered with the implied audience in mind, according to Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses.

If relatability were somehow a goal of craft, then the question should be: How can a writer go about trying to make a piece of fiction relatable? If we mean “relatable” as sharing a reader’s experience, the first place to go is audience. We must always ask: Relatable to whom? Which brings us back to the elephant in the room—to call a manuscript “relatable” is really to make a claim about who the audience is or should be.

When writing relatability in fiction, what is important to recognize is who the target audience is. Sonic is a character that was initially created to appeal to a wide target audience, not only meant for young boys but for girls, women, and an older age range in general. When it comes to marketability however, Sonic is almost always advertised towards children, and this demographic is the most pertinent when we look at versions of Sonic written with relatability as a goal. With this idea of the target audience in mind, a character who is portrayed as young and having a childish temperament would be more relatable. The Paramount Sonic movies are a great example of a version of Sonic explicitly written to be relatable to the target demographic on a broad level, heavily influenced by the culture that the movies derive from: specifically a middle-class, suburban, small-town vision of American life. Sonic is portrayed as dependent, inexperienced, and abiding by a nuclear family structure who idolises many elements of American popular culture, such as Keanu Reeves or Marvel/DC superhero comics. Compare this to the games, where Sonic is shown to be self-supporting, wise, and living life as an unfettered vagabond, all without a trace of any pop culture utterances.

In other words, Sonic was created to be the height of unrelatability to his target audience.

It is not lost on me that the prevalent desire for Sonic to behave realistically ties into the idea that the goal of crafting a good character is to emulate realistic human characteristics. A character's relatability is what allows audiences to connect with the character, which is considered unequivocally a good thing.

What is forgotten in this rudimentary line of thinking is that characters in media need to fulfill a role. Characters are not people like you or me, but fictional creations made to serve a particular purpose. There needs to be thought put into what narrative role the character fulfills and why they are portrayed a certain way to the audience. Hence, there must be a reason for the relatability, instead of employing it haphazardly.

To quote Craft in the Real World once more:

"readers’ expectations for fiction are created by their previous experiences with fiction—in other words, by culture."

The desire for Sonic to be relatable can be attributed to people recognizing pervasive tropes present in their previous experiences with fiction, internalizing these commonalities as the correct way to write good stories, and assigning these to Sonic as a result. While I can understand the logic behind this thinking, it is crucial we don't limit our appraisal of media by saying a protagonist ought to abide by a certain limitation, when it's the breaking of rules, however rigid they are, that allow for different methods of storytelling. Sonic breaks the so-called rule that a protagonist must be relatable, and it's this unrelatability that enhances and strengthens the narrative in many Sonic games. In other words, writing Sonic in a relatable way can be a way to write him; that does not mean it is the only or correct way to do so.

We should bear in mind that there are usually financial incentives to cast characters as mentally or emotionally relatable to audiences. To create a protagonist that appeals to all audiences to maximize revenue, the solution is typically to make them broadly relatable. While this can be a successful formula, it is important to not apply it to media indiscriminately. If a myriad of works all prioritise having characters be relatable over what makes them unique, you may end up sacrificing creative integrity for the sake of following a trend. In Sonic's case, you would lose the inimitable appeal that makes him stand out. While relatability can be valuable in certain contexts, it should not dominate all other considerations of writing a character, especially when it is done for the purposes of profitability as opposed to earnestly conveying a character to, ultimately, tell a story.

What makes Sonic stand out

What, then, makes Sonic stand out as a character? His inhuman mental fortitude. In a wide and varied cast of characters such as the Sonic cast, each with their own unique emotional struggles, Sonic stands out as the sole character with no struggle. He has no weak point, no Achilles' heel. Though he is weak to water, that is only a physical weakness. Mentally, he is too strong for anything to affect him long-term.

As stated before, characters are designed to serve specific creative purposes. In Sonic's case, his striking mental resilience is to highlight other messages and characters in the story. This is because Sonic usually plays the guiding or support role in his stories. He is not the sole focus. There is always at least a second character that the story focuses on to highlight that character's problems and struggles, and how that character ends up overcoming that conflict, often with Sonic's help.

With all this in mind, would Sonic stories be improved if Sonic was, instead, a human-like character with human flaws and insecurities? Or would this muddy his core concept and require all Sonic stories to be changed unrecognizably to fit this new, different character?

Sonic has no backstory - and that's a good thing

Understand that this section is not an attack on backstories in general. For the most part, backstories provide insight into a character's motivations and personality. They are effective in accomplishing what they were meant to do - creating characters that are meant to be realistic.

Sonic is not meant to be realistic.

Yuji Naka once stated the reason behind Sonic's lack of a backstory in an interview: if you uncover all the mysteries, then the character will become uninteresting.

Very little information of Sonic's backstory has been revealed. We know that he is from Christmas Island (same interview link as above) and it is implied in the Sonic 1 manual that he and Eggman already know each other and have been regularly tussling before the events of the first game. These are vague and unspecific details that are not brought up in Sonic games at all, and for good reason.

Distance is required to portray a character who you are meant to be separate from rather than analogous to. Maintaining a certain level of mystery around Sonic creates intrigue, as a question is begged but never answered or even brought up in Sonic stories. This is because Sonic's backstory has no relevance on the narrative and delving into it is not necessary.

Sonic's motivations are simple and straightforward. He likes to run and go on adventures because it's fun. He likes to help people not out of some heroic obligation but because he wants to do what he feels is right. There is no need for a backstory to explain Sonic's motivations when they are plainly presented to you in such an uncomplicated manner, and what's on the face of it is just wholly what it is.

Sonic is also a character that remains static rather than having a major character arc. While he can grow when it comes to things that don't affect his overall character, such as Sonic learning and overcoming Shadow's Chaos Control technique in Sonic Adventure 2, he has no emotional conflict to overcome. He has been a fully realized character since the beginning of the franchise.

Compare this to a character like Tails, whose character arc is about him being bullied for his two tails in the past and being inspired by Sonic to be more confident in himself, as communicated in the Sonic 2 manual and his Sonic Adventure campaign. Divulging Tails' backstory is necessary for the improvement of Tails' circumstances and confidence levels to be effectively communicated in the story.

Fictional characters are narrative devices created to tell a story. They are not real. Again, there must be narrative reasons for them to be the way they are.

Providing Sonic's backstory would serve no narrative purpose—none that would serve the themes his stories and character are meant to serve, at any rate.

Sonic has no trauma - and that's a good thing

Upon analyzing Sonic's character in the games for so long, it has become astoundingly clear to me that Sonic does not have an ounce of mental trauma from everything he has been through. This should not be seen as a bad thing, but rather a well-thought-out and deliberate decision that serves to reinforce the role his character serves.

In the face of situations that would be considered stressful or traumatic to the average person, Sonic remains unfazed and even excited. There are countless examples of this: Sonic jumping from a plane with nothing but shrapnel to use as a surfboard in Sonic Adventure 2; Sonic expressing excitement that he's near an active volcano spewing lava in '06; Sonic exuberantly grinding over pits of lava in Black Knight; Sonic burning up with excitement at the prospect of dangerous stakes in Team Sonic Racing while everyone else seems to be concerned.

For Sonic, danger and near-death experiences are not a source of emotional struggle, but rather a source of fulfilment and joy. He lives life on the edge; the excitement of diving off of a plane or nearly falling into lava only fuels his love for life.

Additionally, Sonic also enjoys the simpler pleasures of life. Exploring the world. Reading books. Going on relaxing vacations. Racing through open fields. Life is one big adventure and Sonic is having a blast living it.

The idea of Sonic having some kind of secret, hidden trauma that he hides under the guise of a fake smile can be a fun fanon trope, but, for the purposes of canon and official Sonic stories, there are clear reasons why they should stay as fanon. If Sonic had trauma, it would undermine his unrelatability and make no sense given his role in his stories. Tropes such as Hurt/Comfort and Angst are ubiquitous when it comes to fandom culture, and this could be a case of those tropes appearing in the Sonic fandom simply due to the nature of fandom itself. Enjoying fanon in and of itself is all well and good, but advocating for it in canon will homogenize it by stripping away what is unique about the media we love.

In the end, there is no reason to believe that Sonic pretends or does not behave genuinely when it comes to expressing his true emotions. Sonic simply has nothing dark inside of his heart to hide. This is confirmed in Unleashed, where Sonic's heart is strong enough to resist the negative emotional forces of Dark Gaia without him even realizing. The subconscious nature of the action combined with his humility even leads him to initially think it to be Chip's doing. His heart is so strong and so pure that it is incorruptible by negative forces. This shows how Sonic's resolve is effortless and practically baked into who he is.

Sonic's internal strength is completely unconscious on Sonic's part. He doesn't actively try to be the way he is. He just is.

Sonic doesn't cry - you get the idea

It has become a hot topic in the fanbase in recent years that Sega once provided a revision note for Sonic to not express excessive emotion such as outwardly crying or sobbing.

This idea has generally been met with hostility and aversion from fans. However, this negative reaction has always confused me, and I hope to offer a different perspective to the issue.

Why does Sonic need to cry?

Let's expand on this argument for fairness' sake. A common rebuttal grants that Sonic doesn't usually cry. But in extremely emotionally difficult situations, such as loss or mourning, Sonic should cry because it is only natural to cry in such a situation.

Again, I want to challenge this notion. We could approach it from the angle of human psychology and behaviour—it is far from the case that everyone cries in response to severe adversity, belatedly or otherwise—but instead I want to explore this with respect to the narrative angle we have covered so far. Specifically, with respect to the idea that characters, unlike you or me, are designed and portrayed with certain purposes in mind.

Why would it be natural for Sonic to cry?

To help understand Sonic's handling of loss, let's analyze four examples from the series of Sonic losing someone.

In Sonic Adventure 2, Sonic stays strong and composed right after Shadow's presumed death, paying respect to his fallen ally.

In Sonic Unleashed, after Chip leaves him, Sonic takes a deep breath before moving forward with a smile on his face.

In Sonic Battle, Sonic is desperate for Emerl to live and expresses this openly.

In Sonic '06, Sonic expresses a great amount of despair when Elise dies in an explosion aboard the Egg Carrier.

It is clear from the outset that Sonic is not an uncaring individual - he wouldn't do all the selfless things he does if not because he didn't care about people. He also still feels strong emotion at losing those close to him, but he handles those emotions with a great deal of fortitude. In Adventure 2 and Unleashed, his reaction is more subdued, while in Battle and '06, it's clear that Sonic is upset and isn't afraid to show it. The difference could be due to that in the prior examples, Sonic watched them die in front of his eyes, while in the latter examples, they were already gone by the time we see Sonic's reaction.

Nevertheless, Sonic feels emotion. It is only because he does not express himself in an adequately typical way that this idea is met with so much outrage and pushback. Because Sonic does not cry, and because an expected response in certain scenarios would be to cry, it is perceived as a writing mistake that must be fixed. Sonic is perceived as a bad character because he does not fit into a rigid box of socially acceptable expressiveness.

But why is Sonic acting outside the norm necessarily a bad thing? The fact that Sonic can go through such hard situations and remain positive is a testament to his strength. The fact he doesn't cry makes him come across as superhuman when it comes to mental fortitude. That is not a mistake of his character that needs "fixing." That is the entire point.

The animosity towards the idea of Sonic not crying, that he must express himself a specific way, a distinctly normal and humanlike way, is stirred from the irrational, yet sadly common, leap in logic that Sonic must behave and experience life like you or me.

There is an irony, too, to how localised this demand of realism is of Sonic. I've seen no outrage demanding that he spill blood or break bones like us. But, apparently, he must shed tears to be a good character. Sonic is superhumanly resilient while running, or fighting, or taking on the miraculous powers of the Chaos Emeralds. Chaos is power and power is enriched by the heart. Sonic's is shown to be one of the strongest and purest out there, one that moves ever on from and through the pain of loss, grief, and tragedy. Isn't it bizarre, then, that this is considered a defect to him?

The messaging of Sonic

Sonic's core concept as an inspirational character must be maintained because it is key to the emotional messaging of nearly every single Sonic game.

Right from the very first game, you play as a plucky little hedgehog, fighting against the tyranny of Eggman's industrialization threatening to destroy all life on the planet.

Sonic is small and unassuming. But he fights anyways, determined to stop Eggman. And he does.

This concept remains throughout the franchise. Sonic always remains steadfast in the face of great adversity. From Sonic CD's "You Can Do Anything" vocal theme telling the player to believe in themselves to simple yet motivational phrases—ones that Sonic himself has given to the likes of more normal characters such as Elise: "If you have time to worry, then run!"

There is even a quote on the Japanese box art of Sonic & Knuckles comparing Sonic to the Sun, the far and unreachable star in space that our entire galaxy revolves around.

We look up at the Sun like how we look up to Sonic.

As brought up earlier, Sonic is the antithesis of relatability to his target audience, children.

This is because he is meant to inspire children.

The fact that Sonic remains so popular and successful to this day is undeniable proof that relatability is far from a necessary ingredient for likeable characters. Given the fact that Sonic is such a strong-willed character, that he fights endlessly against adversity with a smile on his face, that he always gives positive words of encouragement, is it any wonder why he is so popular with children? Sonic is a wonderful role model that promotes living life to the fullest. Sonic is deceptively wise, seeming to know simple yet effective solutions to every problem. Sonic encourages you to chase your dreams, to stay strong through hard times, to enjoy life.

Sonic is a friend who is always there for you.

Not only does Sonic provide guidance to characters, he provides guidance in the real world as we navigate our lives and the trials and tribulations that come with them. Each character that presents a problem is the character we are meant to connect with, and Sonic is who we strive to be.

CONCLUSION

I do not hold any grudge against relatable characters. I love them, just as I love all kinds of different characters in all kinds of media.

I believe that coexistence is possible. I believe that you can praise a character for their relatability and realism, just as you can praise a character for being the antithesis of both of those things, and these do not have to be contradicting principles for one to have. It all depends on a character's narrative function and how their character traits – both relatable and unrelatable – serve the story that is being told.

Sonic the Hedgehog is a character whose role in the narrative is to inspire and guide other characters. From a Doylist perspective, he represents the prominent, all-embracing messaging about staying strong and positive despite all odds, inspiring and guiding his target audience.

Every decision put into Sonic's character traits serve his role perfectly. Of course this extraordinary character does not behave like you or I do. Why would he? That's simply not his nature; a gust of wind in the breeze, moving endlessly all throughout the world. A pure and positive heart who has achieved the innate desire of all humankind in a way that we will never truly understand, free from the burdens of human nature. Freedom.

Sonic is unrelatable and unrealistic. And he is an amazing character.

[tarotwithavi]

What is coming into your life?

+ some messages that you need to hear

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

How to choose a pile?

Close your eyes and take a deep breath and ask the angels to show you the right pile for you and open your eyes. The first pile that catches your attention is the right pile for you.

This is a general reading so take what resonates and leave the rest.

Masterlist

paid services

Thank you so much for your love and support 💕🫶🏻

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 1

The first thing I’m getting is that many of you have been focusing on personal growth, and it’s paying off. I see a lot of you realizing that you’re truly capable of achieving anything you set your mind to. You’re stepping into a powerful energy of self-confidence and self-love, and this shift is going to attract a lot of good things into your life.

Keep your eyes open for new ideas, projects, or invitations that come your way. Whether it’s a sudden thought or an offer to attend an event, these opportunities could be really beneficial for you. Trust your instincts.

Some of you might be considering doing something that no one in your family has done before. This could be a bold move or a unique choice. I want to encourage you to take that leap. By doing so, you will break a cycle of family patterns, especially around standing up for yourself and your dreams. It’s a brave step, but it’s one that will bring healing and growth.

I’m also picking up that some of you will soon spend quality time with an important male figure in your life. This could be your father, grandfather, or someone you look up to with strong masculine energy. This time together will feel meaningful and may even strengthen your relationship. Some of you are thinking about having an important conversation with your parents. This could be about expressing gratitude for everything they’ve done for you, or it could be about something else on your mind. Either way, I see this discussion changing perspectives in a positive way, bringing deeper understanding.

I also sense that many of you will receive a new opportunity related to making more money. This might come through a job offer, a project, or a chance to use your talents in a way that allows you to earn from them. This is a great time to explore how your skills can be turned into something valuable.

However, I do feel that some of you are worried or stressed about something, particularly when it comes to the outcome of an exam, test, or project. Let me reassure you—you don’t need to worry. The results will be positive, and you’ll feel satisfied with how things turn out.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 2

You need to stop giving your time and energy to people who don’t appreciate or value you. If you are in a position where you can protect and care for the people you love, then do so without overthinking the outcome. However, if you’re not in a place to make decisions for them, it’s important not to try and control everything. Remember, before you can protect or help others, you need to protect yourself first. Secure your own place, take care of your own well-being, and then you can support those around you.

It’s also important to understand that you don’t always have to be strong. It’s okay to just be yourself. You don’t need to carry the weight of everyone else’s problems. Be honest about how you feel, and don’t be afraid to show vulnerability.

I see that many of you are incredibly talented, with unique skills and gifts. But what’s holding you back is your own self-doubt. You might feel like your talents won’t be appreciated or recognized, so you keep them hidden. But how will you ever find people who truly appreciate you if you don’t share what makes you special? Take this as a sign to put yourself out there. Show your talents to the world so you can connect with those who truly see your worth and value your skills.

For some of you, there’s a big change coming. You may be pushed in a new direction or forced to change the path you’re currently on because it’s no longer good for you. Don’t see this as a bad thing; instead, view it as an opportunity for growth and self-improvement. This change could lead you to a better version of yourself.

I also sense that some of you are stuck in a confusing or unstable relationship. The person you’re talking to or have feelings for might be giving you mixed signals , one moment they seem totally in love with you, and the next, they act like you don’t matter to them. If this is the case, it’s important to recognize that this is not a healthy situation. When someone’s actions make you doubt yourself, it’s a clear sign that something isn’t right. It’s better to walk away now, before it hurts you more in the long run.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 3

I see that in the coming weeks, you’re going to need to work very hard on something important. This could be related to a project, job, or personal goal you’ve been focused on. However, all this hard work might take a toll on your health, so it’s important to be extra careful and take good care of yourself. Don’t push yourself too hard. If you feel stressed or overwhelmed, make sure to take small breaks when needed. Remember, it’s okay to slow down sometimes.

The good news is that what you’re working on ; whether it’s something you’re involved with now or something you’ll start soon , is something you’ve been wanting for a long time. You’ve probably dreamed about this moment, so stay positive and trust the process.

I feel the need to remind you that you are deeply loved by the higher power, whether you believe in God, the universe, or Mother Nature. No matter how many mistakes you make or how unworthy you may feel at times, you are always loved and supported. You are part of something greater, and that love is unconditional.

Now, take a moment to think of a yes-or-no question that’s been on your mind. The answer to that question is “no.” This might be the guidance you need to help you move forward.

Back to the main message, something significant is going to happen within the next few weeks. I would say by the end of this month or the first week of October, you’ll experience an event that will bring up strong emotions. It could be overwhelming happiness or sadness, but either way, the feelings will be intense. Be prepared, and try not to let the situation control how you react. Stay calm and centered, no matter what comes your way.

Also, a little advice: some of you need to wear more yellow or add yellow to your wardrobe. This color might bring positive energy into your life. If you’ve been feeling unwell, like having a fever or headache, I see that it will likely pass within 48 hours. But if you’ve been having constant headaches, don’t ignore them ,it might be time to see a doctor just to be safe.

Lastly, angel wings and a purple or pink dress will be meaningful symbols for you, so keep an eye out for them. They might show up in your life in some special way.

I also feel like adding this

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

[babyhatesreality]

Could you write something where there’s an emergency and stucky have to go help and reader is being so brave in the safe room? Or something else.. I trust you💗💗

Over a year later....I'm sorry for the delay. Please believe me it eats at me. Hope you're still around for this, and I love you <3

Take One Down

Pairing: Daddy!Stucky x Little!F!Reader, featuring big Peter

Warnings: DDLG (SSC), f! reader, reader is named but name scarcely used, language, pet names, attack on the Tower during the night, Bucky is armed, slight alcohol reference, angsty/scared baby, a few tears, safe room. Happy Ending- always :)

A/N- also Happy Birthday to me :D

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION. THIS STORY IS SFW- THE REST OF MY BLOG IS NOT NECESSARILY SO. MINORS DNI. I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE STOLEN, COPIED, OR TRANSLATED ONTO ANY OTHER SITE BUT MY OWN. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated.

The first thing you became aware of was that Papa was breathing hard. And you were in his arms.

Then you realized you weren't in bed, and you were moving. Fast.

"Papa?" you whimpered sleepily, not being awake enough to understand what was happening.

"Shh, shh, it's okay baby, you're okay," Papa said instantly, pressing a quick kiss in your hair. Despite his soothing words, he didn't slow his pace at all.

You forced your heavy eyelids to open, and then almost immediately shut them again as the flashing red lights in the hallway were too bright. You were still in your pajamas, but you definitely weren't at home. Steve could feel that you were waking up and becoming more alert, but he couldn't stop. He had to get you to safety.

"Where's Daddy?" you asked, your voice trembling as you started to realize something was wrong. "Daddy okay?"

"Right here, Trouble," came Daddy's voice from farther away. You tried to twist in Papa's arms to see where Daddy was, but Papa's iron grip on you didn't leave much purchase.

"It's okay, princess, you're safe, but I need you to be a good girl and be quiet for us right now, okay?" Steve said, deliberately keeping his voice calm and low even through the exertion of running.

"'Kay," you said as quietly as you could, holding on to Papa tightly, shutting your eyes tightly, and trying to be brave. Steve kissed your hair again and kept running.

Within 30 seconds, you felt Steve stop. You opened your eyes and looked around. It took you a second, but you recognized this place. You'd been here before, back when you very first came to live with Steve and Bucky. You were in the panic room.

The reinforced steel walls were made slightly less intimidating by the giant sofa that could convert into a bed, the soft rug that nearly covered every inch of floor, and the overwhelming amount of toys and stuffed animals in baskets and boxes all around the edge of one wall. You hadn't been here in a while, but you could never forget this place.

Your eyes darted all around, trying to get some answers or understanding as to what happened, but before it came to you, Steve set you down carefully on your feet and took you gently by the shoulders. You heard Bucky shut and lock the door, but before you could turn to look Steve gently guided your face back towards his.

"Katie-Cat, I need you to listen to me, okay?" Steve said, looking you very seriously and directly in the eye. "Someone is in the Tower. Someone who's not supposed to be here. We don't know how they got in, but right now, we need to keep you safe so we can go get them out. Do you understand?"

"I- yes, Papa," you said shakily. You swallowed your nerves down and tried to be brave.

"Good girl," Steve said, as a fierce wave of protectiveness rushed through him. "Peter is on his way, and he's going to stay in here with you and keep you safe while Daddy and I go get the person out. Okay?"

"Petey coming?"

"Yes."

"He don't need to fight?"

"Right now, he needs to keep you safe, that's his most important job."

"But...who gonna keep him safe?"

"He's Big Peter right now, munchkin- he's going to be okay. Can you be a good girl and listen to what Peter says and do what he tells you to?"

"Um- yeah. Papa-" "Good girl. You remember the rules of the safe room?"

"Papa..."

"The rules, Katie-Cat."

"Don't leave the room unless you, Daddy, or Aunt Nat comes to get me, don't open the door for nobody, and....and be good."

"That's my girl," Steve said, his heart both proud and shattered that you had to know these things.

"Papa?" you tried again.

"Yes?"

"You gonna come back, right? You and Daddy?" you asked in a small voice. Steve pulled you into his chest immediately in the biggest bear hug.

"Yes, baby," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Daddy and I will always come back for you. Always."

Just then, you felt another pair of arms wrap around you two. "Try and keep us away, Trouble," Daddy added in a light, joking tone, but even you could feel the tension underneath it. "Here, I brought you someone who can help you too." Bucky reached behind him and pulled Jellybean out of his back pocket, where he had unceremoniously stuffed her as he and Steve were racing to get you out of the apartment.

You gasped sharply, and pulled your beloved bunny in so tightly to your face that her little button nose left a slight imprint on your cheek. "Tank you Daddy," you said, trying hard not to cry. "AND tank you Papa for carryin' me," you added quickly, not wanting him to feel left out. Both men responded by hugging you tighter.

Just then, the panic room door clicked, announcing that someone else was coming in. Bucky immediately dropped his arms and spun so you and Steve were behind him, his gun appearing in his hand as if by magic. However, once he saw that it was Tony and Peter, he instantly lowered the gun and ran to bolt the door back behind them.

"Pete, you sure you're good?" Tony asked immediately the second the door was shut.

"I'm good Dad, I swear," Peter said. You looked at him wide-eyed- it had been a while since you had heard his big voice.

"Okay. Only if you're sure," Tony pressed.

"I'm sure. I wouldn't take a chance if I wasn't."

"Atta boy."

Tony turned towards the three of you to find Steve smiling at him. "That's good enough for me," Steve said kindly to Peter. "But if there's any trouble at all, and I mean anything, you radio us. Copy?"

"Copy," Peter nodded quickly. "I'll link with your comms now," he said, before pulling out the large, black case from underneath the sleeper bed sofa. He quickly opened the case and got to work on a radio comm.

You watched him carefully. He was so...different and serious when he was Big- not the silly, carefree bestie you immediately recognized- so it was always surprising to you when you saw it. Of course, YOUR definition of 'serious' was much, much different than Tony's or Steve's or Bucky's, but that didn't matter now, as you watched Peter's fingers fly over the machinery.

"Okay, we should be linked," he said into the comm. All three men immediately nodded, confirming that they could hear him in their earpieces. Steve and Bucky spun back to you.

"Do what Peter says. We'll be back as soon as we can," Daddy said gruffly, taking your face in his hands and pressing a long kiss to your forehead. "We love you so much. Be good, got it?"

"Got it," you said, trying to match his gruff tone to show him you could be serious too. That made the ghost of a smile cross his lips, and as Steve kissed you too, it stayed. Tony even came over, quickly, giving you what he hoped was a carefree grin.

"Alright, have fun, stay safe. Don't tap the keg unless you really need to," he said, tapping your nose and grinning when you looked confused and Steve tutted loudly. Bucky was the last one out the door, and before he left, he turned to Peter.

"You remember the code word?" he asked the young man brusquely. Peter nodded, but due to the door being opened, didn't say it. "Good job," Bucky said with that faint grin again, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was deathly silent in the room. You swallowed hard, gripping Jellybean tightly, almost afraid to move, even though you knew you were in the safest spot imaginable (outside of your daddies' arms). Peter immediately noticed your distress.

"Hey Katie, hey Little One," he said softly, holding out his arms to you. "You wanna come here?"

You nodded, then slowly walked towards him. You cautiously stepped into his arms. Once he folded them around you, you inhaled. His scent never changed, no matter if he was big or small, and you knew this was your Petey, no matter how he was feeling right now. You threw your arms around him and hugged him back tightly, and felt him give a soft chuckle. "It's okay, you're okay. I'm gonna keep you safe- you know that, right?"

You pulled back a bit, nodding. "Tank you, Petey. I mean...Peter."

Peter smiled. "Ah, that's okay. You can call me Petey right now if you want to."

"I can?"

"Sure you can."

"Otay Petey," you said, suddenly feeling a little better upon hearing that. "What's happenin' in da Tower?"

"What did Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky tell you?" Peter asked carefully.

"Um, dat someone got in dat wasn't a'sposed to be in?"

"That's right. And they'll get 'em out, so you don't have to worry about them anymore, okay?"

"Um....okay," you said, wanting to trust Peter with your whole heart, but still uncertain due to the nature of the circumstance. Peter saw pretty quickly that he would need to distract you.

"Hey, you wanna sit on the couch and read some stories while we wait?" He trotted over to the box containing tons of books and started pawing through them. "You can pick out whichever stories you want. Okay?"

Curiosity peaked, you trotted over to look. You recognized The Gruffalo and Frozen, pointing at them. "I like those!" you said excitedly, and Peter snatched them up.

"Let's get to reading!" he said. "Race you to the couch!"

Since it was only a couple feet away, it wasn't much of a race, but it was still fun. It was always fun when you got to run. You both jumped onto the couch enthusiastically, and Peter opened up the first book and began to read. You inched closer and closer to him as he continued, eventually snuggling into his side, your thumb in your mouth and Jellybean in the crook of your arm.

He finished off Frozen in about ten minutes, then turned to you. "Alright, Katie, you ready for...THE GRUFFALO??" he said in a mock scary voice that made you laugh. But once you stopped laughing at his silliness, you had another question in mind.

"Petey, what's a keg?" you asked innocently.

Poor Peter nearly broke his neck doing a double take. "Wh-what?" he asked, not sure of what he heard. When he was in little space with you, your random questions and changes of subject made perfect sense to him, but when he was bigger it was hard to keep up sometimes.

"Unca Tony said don't tap da keg unless we needed to. What's a keg?"

"It's nothing....he was just being silly. Let's read."

"Is a weapon?"

"No...it's....hey, look, books. Let's read."

"But what IS it?"

"Ahhhh...it's....you know....it's...hey, you wanna sing a song?" Peter said, loudly and excitedly, hoping the non-sequitur would distract you.

It worked. "What kind of song?" you asked, intrigued.

"Umm..." Peter thought quickly, trying to get your mind off of what a keg was. He felt a flicker of compassion for Uncle Steve whenever his Dad did this to you, but mostly he was trying to come up with a song. "Hey, do you know Ninety Nine Bottles of...." he said suddenly, his brain both working and failing him miserably all at the same time.

"Bottles of what?" you asked, now completely invested. Peter broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn't teach you a song about beer, for goodness' sake.

"Did I say bottles? That was silly. I meant...boxes. Yeah, boxes!...of... juice! That was it! Ninety Nine boxes of juice on the wall! Do you know that song?" he improvised wildly. You tilted your head, trying to think, but then shook it.

"How's it go?"

Peter cleared his throat awkwardly. He wasn't much of a singer, but he knew he was going to have to give it a go if he had any hope of distracting you from asking about kegs. Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky would rip his head off if he told you, and he knew that you were stubborn enough to keep asking. But man...he REALLY didn't want to sing and embarrass himself in front of you....

Just then, you both heard a loud crash coming from somewhere below. It was loud enough that it made you both jump, even though the room didn't even shudder. Peter watched as your face turned pale and you gripped your bunny tighter. You pinched your lips together and breathed slowly. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were trying to calm down and being as brave as you could be. His heart melted for you.

And he found his courage in that.

"So...the song," he said, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to regain your attention and hopefully calm you a bit. "It goes..." he coughed again, took a deep breath, and went for it. "Ninety nine boxes of juice on the wall....ninety nine boxes of juice....you take one down and pass it around...ninety eight boxes of juice on the wall!"

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, and waited for the rest. He looked back at you hopefully to see how this was going down.

"Short song," you said, tilting your head, confused. Peter rolled his eyes and chuckled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A short time later, Steve and Bucky were finishing sweeping their own floor and apartment. "Clear," Steve said definitively into the comm. "Natasha, Tony, Thor, what's your status?"

When everyone came through confirming the all-clear, Fury came through the line. "Rogers, Barnes, Stark- go get 'em." It was all the permission they needed.

Steve got their first, but instead of punching the code in immediately, he stopped and stared at the door. "Steve?" Bucky asked in a tense voice, instantly on alert. To his immense surprise, Steve turned to him, a look of astonished humor on his face.

"Buck, listen," he whispered. Bucky strained his ears...and then couldn't believe what he was hearing. The room was sound proofed, but hey- they were super soldiers.

"Twenty-three boxes of juice on the wall, twenty-three boxes of juuuuuicceeeee...."

Bucky punched in the code. The second before he touched the keypad though, he heard Peter's voice cut off suddenly, and then within .5 seconds, your voice cut off too. The button panel lit up green and the door unbolted. Bucky threw the door open, Steve right behind him.

Peter was standing in the middle of the room, his suit in the last phase of forming around him, in his classic Spiderman pose. Bucky raised his hands immediately.

"Password?" Peter asked firmly.

"Trouble," Bucky replied immediately. Peter instantly relaxed and stood up straight, his suit disappearing, knowing for sure this was Bucky. "Good job Peter," Bucky said gratefully, even as he and Steve were rushing to the secret panel they knew you were hiding in. The second they slid the door back, you threw yourself into their waiting arms.

Bucky held you so tight you could feel his every breath, and Steve kept kissing your hair and murmuring what a good girl you were. Eventually, you looked over and saw Tony and Peter in an embrace as well, Tony clapping his young charge on the back proudly.

"Are you okay, angel?" Steve asked you, his eyes lovingly scanning your face. You nodded happily.

"Yeah, Papa! We good! Did you get the bad guys?"

"We sure did."

"YAY!! Who was dey? How did dey get in? What did-"

"Okay, angel, that's too many questions for a little girl right now," Steve said gently, nuzzling your nose with his. "We're safe and it's time to go home. Can we go say goodbye and thank you to Peter?"

You nodded again, suddenly very sleepy from all the receding adrenaline. Bucky carried you over to Tony and Peter.

"She was so good and brave, Dad," Peter was saying enthusiastically to Tony. "She picked out books and sang and we jumped on the couch and everything!"

"You did so good, buddy, I couldn't be more proud of you," Tony said, his seams bursting. He grinned at you as you approached. "Hey, thanks for taking it easy on the kid, little one."

"Petey was da best!! He taught me a new song. Papa, you're gonna love it!"

Steve smirked. "I'm sure I will, baby. Can you say thank you please?"

You wiggled a bit, wanting Bucky to let you down, but you gave up pretty quickly. After being separated from you during a stressful situation, Bucky didn't like to put you down for anything. You leaned forward towards Peter, however, and he accommodated you. You gave your big bestie the biggest hug you possibly could.

"Tank you for taking care of me, Petey," you said lovingly. He squeezed you back.

"Thank you for being so good, Katie!" he responded. Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder. He could hear it in Peter's voice- he was getting close to becoming small again, and he wanted to get his brave boy home. You all said your goodbyes and headed home.

You were cuddled between your daddies and asleep again before you knew it, secure in the knowledge that you were safe and loved by the best people in the galaxy.

[bellestarot]

Pick a Pile

What's Next In Your Love Life? 🩷

♡ Take your time to choose

︵‿︵‿︵ʚĭɞ‿︵‿︵‿

Pile I

This is a journey where you'll become more emotionally independent. It's about loving yourself first and getting to know who you are before being with someone else.

You're a very empathetic person, extremely kind to others, and I can see that your circle of friends is always there for you in both good and bad times. These people will have an even stronger presence in your life during the next chapters of your romantic journey as well.

You might meet someone who initially seems like the right match for you because they understand you and connect with you emotionally. Another person might appear too, someone younger and grounded, but still building their life and figuring out what they truly want. I see that both of these people will be interested in you and will try to reach out. However, I honestly see you thinking that you can find someone you truly connect with, as most of the people who approach you don’t really capture your interest. It’s easier for you to treat them as friends rather than romantic interests.

I see you becoming more financially independent, advancing academically, and taking better care of yourself—not just emotionally, but also focusing on your physical health. You’ll be buying clothes, treating yourself well, and caring for yourself in the way you want to be treated.

This is about how strong you are. I believe you’ll face some obstacles, situations where you’ll feel deep pain that seems impossible to resolve. But the universe is speaking to you, showing you signs and guiding you on the path you should take. Some challenges make us stronger and wiser, and I see great potential in you to become stronger and wiser amidst difficulties and the unknown. You will be led into unfamiliar territory on a new journey, a chapter of your life that you don’t yet know how it will unfold.

This is a reading about self-love, not love with others, because you can only love someone else when you truly love yourself.

Pile II

You're definitely going to be getting out of the house more, going places, meeting new people, and opening your heart to them. You'll discover what happens when you truly embrace who you are, when you're in your essence. Are you allowing yourself to be happy in the moment and enjoying what you're experiencing? Because in the past, some of you were hurt by someone who came into your life.

Maybe it was someone you thought was your ideal type—physically attractive, someone you really believed would be the love of your life, your soulmate, or something like that. But in the end, this person betrayed you, lied to you, said hurtful things. Perhaps this was someone who was closed off from the beginning, and you thought you could win their heart. But in the end, you discovered they were exactly who they seemed to be all along. This experience might have left you nearly depressed, unable to see your own worth, and lacking the motivation to go out and meet other people.

And yes, you might have had help from a friend, a relative, or a female figure who came to you and told you that you are worth it, that you have all the potential and capacity to find someone who will recognize you and not deceive you in the end.

What you heard from these people might have been hard to accept at first, but it’s true. You have the capacity. I see you meeting someone new, perhaps around your age, someone very intelligent and creative. This person will be interested in you, but I see you being a bit tough with them because of what happened to you.

I see you taking your time to reply to their messages when they invite you out, playing a bit hard to get. But every time you meet with this person, it's positive; it’s an important moment.

It's fun!

You’ll find yourself in a stable relationship with this person. I see you two becoming best friends first, and then evolving into something more, into love.

This person will show you a very romantic side, perhaps a part of them that you didn’t expect. At first, they might have presented themselves in a certain way, but as your relationship deepens, things will evolve and become more natural. That’s what you’ll need to pay attention to. You need to let things flow naturally, stop trying to control or idealize too many people, too many conversations, behaviors—just let things happen as they will.

And while this person from your past may still be on your mind, still in your thoughts, the universe wants you to let that go. Move on—it's in the past. You deserve to be with someone who is good for you, not someone who hurt you and crushed your self-esteem.

Pile III

Well, I'm not sure if you're aware, but right now, you’re manifesting a very important soul connection, the kind where you might feel what the other person is feeling, have strange experiences like shared dreams, and connect with this person on incredibly deep levels without knowing why.

I believe you’re a very spiritual person, someone who knows their worth. You seem to be more introverted, perhaps spending a lot of time at home, but recently, you might have considered going out more.

You might meet this person when you’re out, perhaps in a place you don’t usually go to, with people you aren’t particularly close with. You’ll meet this person unexpectedly, and it will feel like a clash of souls between you two.

You’re trying to leave behind what has hurt or bothered you, trying to move forward every day, but you’re also quick to judge the people who come into your life. Sometimes, even if someone just says hi, you might immediately think they’re not your type or that you have nothing in common, not giving them a chance to get to know you.

You could meet this person while traveling, perhaps to a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Suddenly, you meet them, and it takes you by surprise.

I see you feeling unsure whether this person is truly attracted to you, whether they feel the same connection you do. You might have a lot of doubts about this.

It’s possible that you two will be in a long-distance situation, even if you’re in the same city. Maybe you didn’t exchange numbers; you saw each other a few times in different places and then went your separate ways. I see you seeking answers through the Divine or through things that are beyond what we can see, because you’ll sense that this connection is something different.

You and this person are very different—not just physically, but in personality and maturity. You are more mature than they are. This person still feels like a teenager in some ways, even though they’re an adult. Their actions and behaviors are still very youthful, and not in a positive sense. However, I don’t see this as an obstacle to you being together.

This person will miss you a lot, and you’ll miss them too, especially due to the distance between you. You won’t quite understand why you’re apart, but it will feel like there’s something bigger at play.

This person still has a lot of growing up to do, which might be why you’re not together yet—they need to go through certain experiences to mature because the universe is taking care of this connection. Whatever it is, the universe will do everything possible to bring you and this person together.

Besides this person, you might also receive romantic interest from others, such as someone in your workplace who finds you charming. They may try to win you over with gifts, attempting to capture your heart in various ways.

[bucktommypositivityproject]

This week's episode impacted a lot of viewers. For many, it was triggering, bringing up memories of abuse. Alternatively, some people who have never had to deal with abuse and therefore don't understand it, have minimized other's feelings. This post is not to get into discourse, but to spread awareness. I'm adding the hotline for domestic violence in the US, please feel free to add information and resources for your country! Under the cut will be information on understanding and recognizing signs of abuse. I will also add sources for where I got the information.

It's important to remember that abuse comes in many forms, not just physical. Recognize the signs. Take care of yourselves ❤️

US National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233 or text BEGIN to 88788

Below are types of abuse, and some signs to look out for. Please note, information had been copied directly from websites (listed below) I've reduced each section to 7-9 bullet points, these are not all the signs. Please visit the websites for more information.

Physical Abuse

Pull your hair or punch, slap, kick, bite, choke, or smother you.

Use weapons against you, including firearms, knives, bats, or mace.

Prevent you from contacting emergency services, including medical attention or law enforcement.

Harm your children or pets.

Drive recklessly or dangerously with you in the car or abandon you in unfamiliar places.

Trapping you in your home or preventing you from leaving.

Throw objects at you.

Emotional Abuse

Calling you names, insulting you, or constantly criticizing you.

Isolating you from family, friends, or other people in your life because it makes someone easier to control.

Monitoring your activities with or without your knowledge.

Gaslighting you by pretending not to understand or refusing to listen to you; questioning your recollection of facts, events, or sources; trivializing your needs or feelings; or denying previous statements or promises.

Threatening you, your children, your family, or your pets.

Damaging your belongings, including throwing objects, punching walls, kicking doors, etc.

Blaming you for their abusive behaviors.

When you have an unresolved argument, your abuser will offer you a gift and expect all to be forgiven and forgotten. They will often be insulted if it is not accepted.

Sexual Abuse

Insult you in sexual ways or call you explicit names.

Force or manipulate you into having sex or performing sexual acts, especially when you’re sick, tired, or physically injured from their abuse.

Strangle you or restrain you during sex without your consent.

Hold you down during sex without your consent.

Hurt you with weapons or objects during sex.

Involve other people in your sexual activities against your will.

Force you to watch or make pornography.

Stalking

Showing up at your home or workplace unannounced or uninvited.

Sending you unwanted texts, messages, letters, emails, or voicemails.

Calling you and hanging up repeatedly or making unwanted phone calls to you, your employer, a professor, or a loved one.

Using social media or technology to track your activities.

Manipulating other people to investigate your life, including using someone else’s social media account to look at your profile or befriending your friends in order to get information about you.

Waiting around at places you spend time.

Damaging your home, car, or other property.

All information above came from this website and this one. Please visit the sites for a full list of types of abuse, and all the signs. More types of abuse include: financial, digital, sexual coercion, reproductive coercion, & spiritual abuse.

Abuse can happen between partners/relatives/siblings/coworkers/friends. Here are signs you may be in an abusive friendship (again, not the full list. Visit the website below for all the signs):

They give you the silent treatment.

Lie about you.

Gaslight you.

Repeatedly dismiss your concerns.

Have double standards for behavior.

Insult you.

Threaten you (physically, or to get you in trouble, or threaten to end friendship).

Never take responsibility.

Isolate you.

Physically hurt you.

more info here

Recognize the signs of child abuse

Bullying at work

sibling violence

Remember, you don't have to check all the boxes to be in an abusive situation. One bullet point is too many.

[walble]

Your soulmate's energy

This is meant to be a fun, general reading, so it may not resonate with everyone. Take what resonates for you and leave the rest behind! Please take a moment to breathe, focus on your intuition, and choose the photo that calls to you. Each holds a unique message for you!

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 1

The energy surrounding this soulmate suggests someone who is ambitious and determined to succeed. They are recognized for their achievements, possibly in their career or personal endeavors, and have a strong presence that others admire. However, their journey has been shaped by unexpected twists of fate, meaning they’ve likely faced major life changes that have influenced their path. These shifts could have pushed them toward personal growth, making them more resilient and adaptable. They seem to embrace the idea that life is full of ups and downs, taking opportunities as they come.

Despite their drive, there is a hesitation or fear of fully embracing new beginnings. They may struggle with taking risks or stepping into the unknown, preferring stability over uncertainty. This could stem from past experiences where recklessness led to setbacks, making them more cautious in their decisions. They value consistency and responsibility, approaching their goals methodically rather than rushing in without preparation. This suggests they might be someone who takes their time in relationships, ensuring a solid foundation before fully committing.

However, they are not without their internal struggles. There seems to be a competitive or combative energy surrounding them, either from within themselves or their environment. They may often find themselves in conflicts, whether with others or their own ambitions, feeling the pressure to prove themselves. This could indicate a strong-willed nature, where they refuse to back down from challenges. While this determination can be a strength, it might also create unnecessary tension if they’re not careful in choosing their battles wisely.

Overall, this soulmate carries a mix of confidence, ambition, caution, and inner conflict. They have the potential for great success, but their journey is not without obstacles. Their path may require them to balance their drive with patience and to recognize when to take calculated risks. When it comes to relationships, they may need to work on trusting the process and allowing things to unfold naturally rather than trying to control every outcome.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 2

This soulmate's energy reflects someone who is highly intelligent, independent, and values clear communication. They have strong boundaries and are not easily swayed by emotions, preferring logic and reason in their decision-making. While they may appear reserved or even detached at times, this comes from a place of wisdom and experience rather than coldness. They seek a partner who can match their intellect and engage in meaningful conversations, as they have little patience for superficial connections.

They are also incredibly hardworking and dedicated to their craft, always striving for improvement. Their focus and discipline suggest someone who takes their responsibilities seriously, whether in their career or personal life. Structure and stability are important to them, and they have a natural ability to lead and take charge of situations. This may make them seem authoritative or even strict, but their intention is to create order and ensure success. They are not the type to be easily shaken by chaos, preferring to maintain control over their circumstances.

Despite their composed and structured nature, they are no stranger to conflict and challenges. They may often find themselves in competitive environments, either professionally or personally, where they have to stand their ground. Life has thrown unexpected changes their way, forcing them to adapt and grow. These shifts have shaped them into someone who understands that control is sometimes an illusion and that flexibility is necessary for progress. Learning when to let go and trust the process is an ongoing lesson for them.

At their core, they are someone who sees the world from a unique perspective, often pausing to reflect before making major decisions. They may go through periods of deep introspection, questioning their path and purpose. This ability to step back and reassess situations makes them wise beyond their years, but it also means they sometimes struggle with taking action when needed. A balance between control and surrender is key for them, as it will help them navigate both love and life more harmoniously.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 3

This soulmate's energy suggests someone who has faced many struggles and is learning to let go of the need to constantly fight. They may have spent a long time feeling defensive or overwhelmed, but they are beginning to release that tension and move forward with a clearer sense of purpose. Determined and strong-willed, they have an undeniable drive to push through obstacles and take control of their life. When they set their sights on something, they pursue it with intense focus, refusing to be held back by past difficulties.

However, their journey has not been easy. Sudden and dramatic changes have shaped them, forcing them to rebuild themselves multiple times. These upheavals may have been painful, but they have also led to personal transformation, making them more resilient and open to growth. Their emotions run deep, and they approach love with a romantic and idealistic heart. Despite the challenges they've endured, they still believe in emotional connections and seek a relationship that is both meaningful and inspiring.

At times, they may withdraw to recharge, needing moments of rest and solitude to process their experiences. While they are driven, they also recognize the importance of stepping back and finding inner peace. There is a sense of exhaustion in their energy, as if they have been through many battles but refuse to give up. Even when they feel worn down, their perseverance keeps them moving forward, always ready to face whatever comes next.

This is someone who has been through intense highs and lows, yet they remain steadfast in their pursuit of love and stability. Their heart is open, but they may struggle with fully trusting the process due to past wounds. Overcoming fear and embracing the lessons life has given them will be crucial in finding the deep and lasting connection they seek.

If you're looking for a personalized reading tailored specifically to your energy, feel free to message me to book a session or visit my Ko-fi page to schedule one here: KO-FI

[bairdthereader]

Nick gets a lot of (well-deserved) credit for being an amazing boyfriend to Charlie, and we know by now that he's a great friend, too. But what's almost more interesting to me is the underlying core personality trait that enables him to be both of those things--his emotional intuition and intelligence.

You see this in the comics mostly through Nick's facial expressions (no one can look worried like Nick Nelson can), but the show takes it a bit further. He's incredibly in tune with Charlie almost from the get-go. Nick watches him for small emotional cues and recognizes what they could mean, most notably before the confrontation with Ben after rugby practice. He reads between the lines of Charlie's deflections and falsely cheerful texts and pushes (with trademark Nick Nelson sensitivity) for the truth. He notices when Charlie is beset with intrusive thoughts, even if he doesn't know (at least early on) what they're about, and proceeds to interrupt those thoughts. He can read Charlie so well not only because he pays attention, real attention, but because he already has the emotional intuition required to interpret Charlie's inner complexities.

There are many moments throughout the show where we see Nick display this keen insight with everyone in his life, not just Charlie. When Elle, who he barely knows at this point, is upset about being set up with Tao, he immediately seeks to alleviate her distress by offering a true explanation of why she and Tao were invited in the first place--to be part of a triple date. He wants Elle to know that it was important to him (and Charlie, Tara, and Darcy) that she and Tao be there not just to try to set them up, but because they wanted to include them in an important step for both couples (Nick and Charlie just beginning to share their relationship, and Tara and Darcy trying to find acceptance after coming out as a couple). Nick knows that Elle values truth and honesty, and he gives her that so she can feel comfortable with her friends again.

Nick is also incredibly understanding of Tao, who, it has to be said, barely even understands himself for much of the show. There are a lot of scenes where Nick is trying to connect with Tao but maybe oversteps just a tad because he sees more of Tao than Tao is ready to have seen. The moment outside Charlie's house when Tao tells Nick about Elle's art college ambitions, Nick cuts through to the heart of the matter--Tao's concern about missing Elle if she's far away. Nick is the first person in the friend group to connect the dots about what Elle's college acceptance might mean for Tao, and immediately tries to help Tao process those feelings. He's met with anger, but only because he managed to hit a lightning bolt of a nerve in Tao's emotional storm.

And of course there's Imogen, who Nick has known for a long time but begins to understand and appreciate on a deeper level as their relationship moves from superficial connection to true friendship. He sees how sensitive she is, how lonely in some ways, and is always looking out for her, keeping a concerned eye on her. He gives her the space she requests, but also comfort when she lets her walls down enough to ask for it. His innate understanding of what people need--especially when what they need is just someone to be there--is impeccable.

It almost goes without saying, but Nick's emotional wavelength with his mom is similarly strong and nuanced. When Nick comes out to Sarah, he makes sure she understands how important it is to him that she knows--not only that she knows that he's bi, or that Charlie is his boyfriend, but that she knows him. That their relationship is so important to him that he can overcome his fears to share this most vital part of himself. Nick's value of Sarah extends to caring for her when she's dealing with the stress of having his dad and David around. Of course, Nick is still a teenager and there are a lot of scenes that show Sarah's deft handling of Nick's emotions, but it's a two-way street. Nick takes care of her in his own way too.

Nick starts his relationship with Tara and Darcy leaning on them for advice and guidance, but by the end of the show they're leaning on him. Nick sees their struggles, especially Tara's, possibly more clearly than anyone else does because he recognizes some similarities between their situation and his with Charlie. When they're in trouble, he knows Tara needs care and honest advice, even if it's not the most comforting advice. He knows that what they both need is strength and security and tries, in his careful way, to give them those things.

Nick Nelson, always looking out for everyone he loves, keeping them safe as much as he can, hugging them when he can't.

[zepskies]

UNRAVEL ME - Part 5

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: A slightly shorter chapter, but an important one. 😉

Song Inspo: “Please Me” by Bruno Mars ft. Cardi B

Word Count: 5.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, PTSD/trauma, smut (v. fingering, oral – m. receiving), romantic fluff, the big ultimatum…

💜 Series Masterlist

❤️ YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 5: Amor Prohibido

(Forbidden Love)

You pull up to your grandmother’s house and open up the trunk of your old Camry to start grabbing the groceries. Ben doesn’t let you, however. He loads up both arms, shooting you a wink.

Is this his way of hitting you with some old-fashioned chivalry? Does he think it’ll get him closer to slipping you a little something after he takes you out tonight?

You raise a brow, but you unlock the door for him and follow your pack mule to the kitchen. You put away the groceries while Ben stalks off to grab a shower. You’ll do the same, you suppose. You don’t want to look grungy while he’s looking all coiffed and smelling all good and…

Fuck, you rake a hand into your hair. Okay, it’s just one night hanging out. A couple drinks, maybe a little dancing, and we’ll come home at a reasonable hour so this man can get his rest, because even if I have to drive him to the airport and shove his ass on that plane myself, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

Because the longer he stays, the more you find yourself conflicted. He’s cut as hell, sure. He’s got a jaw that could break some glass, as well as your spine. Big hands that could probably handle you every which way—but no. Fuck no.

The man was insufferable. Dangerous. He’d literally taken someone out in front of you, even if it was to save you (and himself from being caught).

Still, you pick out a dress to wear. You take an “everything shower,” exfoliating, shaving, cleansing, moisturizing, and even brushing your teeth. You style your hair and pick out your best bra for the little red dress, plus something lacy to match underneath.

You’re still doing your makeup with a painstaking hand when your grandma slips inside your room. She finds you in the bathroom, surrounded by bottles and products, combs and makeup brushes, eyeshadow and lipstick. She raises a brow.   

“Hmm, and what’re you doing in here?” she asks, with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “You’re going out? I’m making dinner, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna show Ben around town after dinner,” you reply, though you pause. “Or, I mean. I guess he wants to take me out. Whatever.”

Sofia spies your little smile. You can’t quite hide it while you smooth out your eyeliner. She gives you a softer look through the mirror. You hesitate again when you notice her.

“What?” you ask. 

“Ay, mija. If you love him, you should just tell him,” she says.

Your head quirks in confusion and a recoiling expression of fuck no. You open your mouth to set her straight, but then you remember a key tidbit: she’s supposed to think he’s your boyfriend.

And that look on her face says even more. Her smile evokes the wrinkles and laugh lines in her cheeks, a certain impish gleam. Your eyes narrow slightly as you begin to realize…

“You really think I wouldn’t recognize ese Soldier Boy when you brought him into my house?” she says in amusement. Her arm gestures wide, and in the direction of the guest room where Ben is also presumably getting ready for tonight.

The rest, she says in Spanish. “I’ve grown up watching his movies since I was a little girl. He was more clean-shaven back then, but the beard isn’t so bad, no?”

You splutter laughing, covering your face with both hands to hide your embarrassment. You really should’ve known better than to try pulling a fast one on your grandma, of all people. Despite pushing her late seventies, the old woman’s memory is still sharp as hell.

“And your boyfriend let the cat out of the bag himself this morning when he couldn’t remember your last name. After four months? Pfff,” Sofia says, waving a dismissive hand. Her face then shifts, becoming more stern. “What I don’t know is why you lied to me, eh?”

You lower your eyes contritely. “Sorry, Mamá.”

“Mhmm,” she says wryly. “Why don’t you tell me why he’s here, and I’ll fix your hair.”

You frown. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

She just shakes her head and guides you to sit on the closed toilet lid.

“Eh-eh. Sit down, I’ll fix,” she insists.

“I mean, I spent a lot of time…” you start to say, but at one sharply raised brow from your grandma, you pipe down. “Okay, well, I guess I just gotta start from the beginning.”

So you do. You tell her the whole story, from the moment you ran into Ben in that alley, him forcing himself into your car and into your apartment, how he threatened you, though he never actually hurt you. You glide over some of the more intense parts of your buddy comedy road trip, namely all the murder and dumping Webweaver’s body into a lake—type shit, but at least you and Ben (and your car) made it here in once piece.

“And now you’re going out with him tonight?” your grandma asks, with a knowing smile.

“Out of everything I just told you, that’s what you focus on?” you snip. She tugs at your hair, earning a yelp out of you. She shushes you for good measure while she continues styling you.

“It’s not like that between me and Ben,” you say, after a beat of hesitation. “He’s just…arrogant. He’s annoying. He’s old-fashioned, and he’s such a…a man.” When Sofia steps back, fluffing your hair one last time. You reach for your perfume and spray all the key spots: both sides of the neck, elbow creases, wrists, and a quick one down your cleavage. 

Sofia’s lips once again twitch at a smile.

“He’s also, uh, kind of funny. In his own way,” you admit, thinking of the time you two watched The Princess Bride together. His frustrated commentary at Buttercup had been fucking hilarious. “And you know, he likes it when I cook for him. Doesn’t think it’s too ethnic or too weird. He told me I shouldn’t give up on my art.”

You pause when catch your own reflection in the mirror, realizing that your face is warm just thinking about it. About him. 

“And what do you think that means?” Sofia asks. She meets your gaze in the mirror. 

You turn away though, blinking those dumb, naive thoughts away. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “Even if he stayed, he’s not the kinda guy who settles for the little brown girl. His life is bigger than mine. More dangerous too.”

“Dangerous,” Sofia echoes, her eyes narrowing. “The way you’ve gotten in trouble with the law because of him?”

“Yeah, exactly,” you sigh. You take her hand with both of yours. “Mamá, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bringing all this to you.”

“Ay, mija,” she says. My daughter. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. In those two words, you know what she means.

Nosotros somos familia.

We’re family.

We protect each other. 

“The way I see it,” she says, “he’s our only hope of stopping Homelander. Or else, this country will end up just like Cuba. With a tyrant, a madman, destroying everything we’ve built for ourselves.”

You hold in a sigh as your heart sinks, measure by measure.

You don’t have it in you to tell her that Ben’s not that guy. He’s already checked the fuck out on being a real hero. He probably never was to begin with.

After dinner with your grandmother, Ben insists on driving when the two of you go out, even though you’re not really in the mood to have a good time anymore. Let alone with him.

You smile politely when he says, with actual sincerity, You look beautiful.

Though you do have to fight a blush at the way he looks at you, his green eyes roaming up and down your body from the shade of read on your lips, down to the tall, strappy heels on your feet, like he’s trying to commit each of your curves to memory without even touching you.

You can’t allow yourself to enjoy the way he hums along to the radio, or the way he fights Miami traffic like an old man, yelling obscenities through the closed window. You can’t see the point of allowing yourself relax or smile, or even let him touch you. Because eventually, he’ll have to leave. 

When he pulls up to the nightclub you told him about, you try not to let yourself react to his hand guiding you inside by the small of your back, or the way that hand moves around your waist to keep you close in the throng of warm bodies and pulsating music. 

He wears one of the black button-down shirts you bought him, along with some dark brown slacks. You gave him one of your grandfather's old flat caps to help hide his face from potential street and building cameras. He didn't seem too concerned about the exposure when you two left the house, but you know that he's on edge.

This scene probably isn’t what he’s used to. Even if it was, it's been literal decades since he's been in a club, so you know you have to do some leading too. You can feel him tense up every time someone else brushes against him. He’s frowning, thick brows knitted together as he looks around.

“What the fuck is this music?” he asks in your ear, so you can actually hear him.

You realize then that this might be a little much for him. If you can feel the bass of the rap music in your chest, you can only imagine what this is like for him.

You think of that night, when you had to wake Ben from what was likely a horrible nightmare. You chew your lip in concern, noting the way his eyes flicker across the room. You need to pull yourself out of your funk for now.

“Let’s get a couple drinks, then we can go dance!” you suggest, giving him an encouraging smile. Ben relaxes, just slightly. He allows you to guide him with your arm wrapping around his.

You two sit at the bar for a little while, thought admittedly it’s too loud to hear one another. And even after two glasses of scotch, he’s still reluctant to get up and dance with you.

The truth is, this whole place is grating on Ben. It’s too fucking loud, and he’s already regretting the way he let you talk him into coming here. He should’ve followed his instincts and taken you to a movie or something.

“Well, what do you want to do, sit here all night?” you ask. He doesn’t appreciate the testiness already creeping into your tone. The pulsing lights and deep thump, thump, thump of the bass is setting him on edge, catching in the edges of his vision.

The gleam of camera flashes, Crimson Countess’s fake fucking smile, a mask falling over his face, the gleam of sharp silver and whirring sounds, smoke rising from his own flesh.

“If that’s what the fuck I feel like doing, then that’s what the fuck I’ll do,” he snarks, without even really looking at you. He keeps his gaze firmly ahead on the rows of taps on the bar, as if that can stop him from gripping his glass tighter. He sets it down on the counter, so he doesn’t shatter it.

“Are you serious? That’s your idea of a good time?” you ask incredulously. You slide out of your seat and stare at him with your hands on your hips. “Why did you want to come out with me then if you’re not even going to hang out with me? Maybe I’ll just go dance with someone else.”

“Go right ahead and fuck off then, sweetheart,” he snapped. He tossed back a big mouthful of his third scotch.

You begin to bristle in anger, about to tell him where he could fuck off to while you were busy actually trying to have fun…until you catch that look in his eyes, glazed over and unresponsive.

Your brows furrow. “Ben?”

He slightly flinches at the clink and shatter of a glass when a man nearby stumbles on something sticky on the floor. Ben blinks hard, his jaw working.

Something’s wrong. You know it in your blood.

So you act. You call his name more insistently, earning his attention. You circle your arm around his and lead him off the stool. “Let’s go.”

“…Where?” he says, belatedly.

“Just follow me,” you say with a wink, adopting a more flirtatious smile. You don’t know how much of him is actually in this moment with you, but maybe that’ll get his attention. You shift your hold on his arm and take his hand instead.

You lead him away from the tight crowd on the dance floor and around the bar, and into a dark hall near the bathrooms. It’s still loud though, that baseline dropping as the DJ’s sirens go off in the club. 

Ben stumbles, his left hand shooting out to smack heavily against the wall. He dents the plaster. You quickly move in front of him and rest your hands against his chest.

“Ben, you with me?” you say in a measured tone. “Hey, you okay? You hearing me?”

His brows furrow in answer, but you can tell he’s not all there. His breathing is growing ragged. You feel his chest getting warm, and then hot. 

Oh, fuck, your blood runs cold. Is this the strange new explosive power that nearly crumbled Vought Tower? Is this club about to get wiped off the map, like that building in Midtown? Are you about to get blown sky high along with it?

No. Fuck that. 

You grab his face in your hands. “Ben, you focus on me, okay? Before you blow your cover. Before you hurt someone.”

He blinks at that, and even begins to push you away.

“Fuck off,” he grunts.

Run, is what he thinks. Instinct tells him to push you a way, literally. Before you get yourself fucking killed. Before he…

Again, you’re not having it.

You raise yourself up on your toes and give him a forceful kiss. 

He breathes sharply through his nose. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his lips. Piece by piece, he’s able to ground himself and realize where he is, the feeling of your hands cradling his face, your breasts pressing against his chest. 

Then he grabs a hold of your waist with an iron grip, dragging you to him and holding you flush against his body. He slowly begins to respond, sucking your lower lip into his mouth. The warmth in his chest cools to embers, but the heat between you two shifts. He sinks his fingers into your hair and squeezes the flesh of your hip, then your ass.

He presses you against him, and you moan at the firm planes of his body against yours. His semi-hard cock already strains against his slacks, trapped between you and pressing against your stomach.   

You two end up stumbling into the women’s bathroom, where he clears the room of a few 20-something girls retouching their makeup. 

“Get the fuck out,” he growls.

Gasping in fear, the girls pack up their little purses and scatter.

You laugh breathlessly, earning the edge of Ben’s smirk, before he hefts you up onto the bathroom counter by your hips. A yelp escapes you, but you recover quick, gripping his shirt and pulling him down to you for a rough kiss. His tongue invades your mouth and plunders where he sees fit, all while those big hands smooth down the gentle slope of your back, along the curve of your waist, and finally squeezing your ass cheeks again. A low hum resonates in his throat at the feel of you, soft and pliant under his hands.  

You giggle in response. “An ass-man, huh?” you whisper against his lips.

Ben chuckles. He blazes open mouthed kisses along your jaw, takes your earlobe between his teeth. When he speaks, his voice is full of aroused grit in your ear. “Call me a connoisseur. You’ve got the most delectable fucking ass I’ve seen since before I went under.”

Before you can even shudder in reaction, he grabs your thighs and pulls you right to the edge of the counter. You pay him the favor of wrapping your legs around his hips and grinding your core against the growing bulge in his slacks. He groans.

“Fucking soaked already, sweetheart? I’ll bet you are,” he grunts. “Let’s fucking see.”

He bunches the skirt of your dress up to the tops of your thighs and drags your panties down. The lace burns across your skin when the fabric tears. You gasp, provoking his grin. He pulls them off your thighs and tucks them into his back pocket. He considered ripping them right off you, but he wants to save them for later.

While one hand winds into your hair and grabs the back of your neck, the other slips between your legs and brushes long fingers through the slippery folds of your pussy. You whimper at the first brushing contact, grabbing his shoulders tight. Your nails bite into flesh through the fabric when he finds your weeping channel, a smirk already spreading across his face.

“Oh, yeah. Fucking soaked,” he murmurs. Two deft finger pads carry some of that wetness up to stroke your clit, and you utter his name with abandon. Your thighs clench, and he tightens his hold on your hair while he works you over with his fingers. First just circling your clit, then shifting to his thumb, increasing the pressure. His ring and forefinger slip deeply into your pussy and curl inside your walls; the sensation raises you half off the counter as you whimper in his ear.

“Ben,” you say, broken and needy. Your hips buck against his hand desperately. 

“That’s it, baby. I gotcha,” he says. His voice is both rough and smooth in your ear. And when you finally come, your inner walls fluttering tight around his fingers, he swallows your cries with a ravaging kiss. He strokes you through your shuddering orgasm. His thumb continues to firmly circle your clit, until you whine into his mouth and squeeze his hand again.

“Oh fuck…” Your thighs tremble hard as a second wave of sensation emanates deeply from your core. Your fingers are scraping through his hair, then holding onto his strong arms tight as you heave for breath.

He finally withdraws his hand and strokes your back as you come down. His smirk presses against your temple.

“That’s a two for one, sweetheart. You’re fucking welcome,” he says.

You roll your eyes at his self-satisfied tone, but a blush still warms your face. He certainly knows what the hell he’s doing.

You thank him with a thorough kiss; it’s slow, but no less heady when you sensuously lick into his mouth. For a moment, he loses himself in you with a groan of pleasure. He squeezes your waist on reflex.  

Your hand slips over the buttons and wrinkled fabric of his shirt, a nice olive green that you picked out for him. You brush past his belt and stroke his thick, hard arousal through his slacks. Already it’s bigger than you thought. Jesus.

You pull away though, making Ben raise a brow at you.

An amused smile twitches at your lips. “I’m gonna return the favor, don’t you worry. But I’m not getting on my knees in this dirty fucking bathroom.”

You manage to slide off the counter on your legs now somewhat turned to jelly. Ben grabs your waist again when you nearly lose your balance. You smile in thanks, slipping your hand into his.

“Come on,” you whisper.

You lead him out of the bathroom, and out of the club entirely.

If there’s one thing Ben won’t miss about Miami, it’s the cocksucking motherfucking traffic.

It’s backed up for a mile cross the bridge leaving Miami Beach, and even heading to the island is a narrow two-lane bridge packed with cars.

It’s almost midnight, for Christ’s sake!

Once again, your music is playing in the car speakers, though this time at least it’s at a moderate volume.

You notice him tapping the wheel with two fingers. The same fingers that made you come twice in under ten minutes. You shifted in your seat, your thighs subtly rubbing together. Ben is too annoyed staring out at the traffic not moving in front of him to notice you eying him. You’d had an idea of where to go next in order to give you two some privacy, but you figure now is as good a time as any to make good on a promise.

You unclip your seatbelt and finally earn Ben’s attention with furrowed brows. He watches you bite your lip, the briefest hesitance before your smile peeks through. You turn up the radio, a little Bruno Mars giving some perfect mood music.

Then you’re leaning over to unbuckle his seatbelt as well. It’s in the way of his actual belt, which you work open with slow movements.

Ben’s smirk overtakes his face.

“What’cha doing, sweetheart?” he asks, despite knowing full well.

He spreads his muscles thighs a bit wider to make room for you while you unzip his slacks and slip your hand past the band of his boxer briefs. His eyes darken when you get a full hand of him and pull him free.

“Just thought this ride needed a little more entertainment,” you tease, swirling your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock. Already it was swollen and weeping for you. You lower down and licked up the salty beads, smiling when he swears. He shifts against the seat.

“Just don’t crash my fucking car,” you say, just before you take his cock into your mouth. It takes some work to get him all the way down. It’s not just the length, but the girth that you can barely wrap your whole hand around. You suck just the tip first, literally just getting a taste for him. You salivate around him, not just because the guttural sounds he’s making turn you on, but because it lets you slip your way down his cock easier.

Eventually he hits the back of your throat, making tears spring to your eyes. But you take your time and breathe through it, starting again at a faster pace. The tempo of the song works perfectly.

His grunts and heavier breathing, along with his hand falling into your hair and clenching tight let you know how well you’re doing. You begin to quicken your pace, sucking him hard and sloppy.

“Fuck—” he groans. His hips buck into your mouth on reflex and make you choke. You slip halfway off of him as you cough.

“Aw, shit,” he grunts. He forces his fingers to relax in your hair. “You’re good. You got it.”

You squeeze his thigh in retaliation, but you can’t help but choke out a laugh.

“Maybe try not to kill me with your cock, okay?” you reply.

He smirks. “There are worse ways to fucking go.”

“You would say that shit,” you roll your eyes. But you’re serious about what you’re doing, and you take him more firmly into your hands. You work him back up with slow, sensuous strokes before you grace him with your talented mouth again. By the time Ben’s able to drive away from Miami Beach, he’s narrowly avoided causing two fender benders and sending a bicyclist over the fucking bridge.

But you finally sit back in your seat, catching your breath and wiping the remnants of his spend from the corner of your lips. He eyes you, now more relaxed and amused while catching his breath. You wear a self-satisfied smile of your own.

“Ooh, park here! Hurry before someone takes it!” you point out a parking spot in excitement. Ben has circled the packed, narrow parking lot three times, but you’re here. You’ve led him to Bayside, the downtown area in the mainland.

There you take his hand and lead him to the outdoor music venue. A Latin band is playing tonight, and a trio of trumpets joins the melody of an enthusiastic pianist and the rhythmic beat of conga drums. 

It’s much more relaxed and not so overwhelmingly loud as the nightclub, even though there’s just as many people. Bayside is also just a big string of kiosks and outdoor vendors.

Ben buys you ice cream, raising a brow, but not commenting at your three giant scoops. You don’t play when it comes to ice cream, you tell him. 

Though he’s amused when you give yourself brain freeze, as well an ice cream mustache. He kisses it off the corner of your mouth with a quick swirl of his tongue. You blink up at him, laughing a little like you can’t believe he just did that.

Ben smirks and pulls you in by your waist, there in the middle of tourists and locals alike, shopping and eating and talking and laughing. Ben bows his head to claim your lips with his own. He tastes rum raisin and coconut on your tongue, and you taste rich Rocky Road on his. 

After a while, you break away slightly to rest your forehead against his. His heart gallops under your palm.

“What’re we doing?” you whisper.

“Making tonight count,” he says, slowly smirking. “As many times as we fucking can.”

The band on stage shifts into the next song—a more sensuous bachata.

Biting your lip, you toss your empty ice cream cup in the trash and return to Ben, grabbing his hand.

“Dance with me then,” you ask him. You implore him with your eyes.

He takes a breath, but he nods and allows you to guide him closer to the band. You stop on the edge of the bigger cluster of people dancing, keeping on the outskirts.

“Remember what Mamá taught you this morning?” you say, guiding his hand to your waist and the other in your hand. “There, just like that.”

You start slow, even slower than the music itself. It takes a bit of time for Ben to relax, but when he does, it’s because he’s finally remembering the steps he learned. He leads more often than you do, even if he does get distracted by that freeing look in your eyes, and the sway of your hips.

When the music slows, so does Ben. He holds you closer and moves in a simple two-step. Your gaze meets his for a moment. That silence between you is charged with things that won’t be said.

It’s near two in the morning when Ben pulls the car into the driveway of Sofia’s house. As much as you would like to continue this strange new world between you two, you feel like you’re adrift at sea, lost in the swell of his tide, and everything you didn’t want to feel rising to the surface.

“So, this has been fun, but…” You take a breath. “Ben, are you really leaving, or not? Be honest with me, what are we doing here? Are we just fucking around or…”

After after tonight, is that really all this is? What does he want from you? 

Ben hesitates, but he tucks a few stray curls behind your ear, even though most of them don’t obey him.

“Come with me,” he says eventually. “We can make it a vacation for two.”

You’re surprised by his offer. Your insides flutter, but the hard reality checks back in. 

“Ben—”

“Just think about it,” he says, looking away. His gaze casts to the throng of people, dancing, eating, laughing, living. The difference between him and them, is that Ben knows he’s on borrowed time. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

For a moment, you actually do consider it. You shake your head though.

“Ben, I can’t. My family’s here. My life is here,” you say.

His eyes begin to dim. Then, he frowns.

“What life?” he says. “You’ve got no fucking job, and you’re moving back in with your grandmother. You’ve got even less going for you here than I do.”

You gape at him. Your disbelief turns to anger, but you leave the car without a word—just a huff of exasperation.

Ben shuts off the car and follows after you just as steamed up, even as he watches the sway of your hips in that dress when you walk. You stop abruptly on the walkup to the door, and you spin around on those impressive heels.

“You know what? You’re right. I am a hot fucking mess,” you snap. The beginnings of tears well up in your eyes, halting him where he stands. “But you know what? The difference is I have a family to hold me down until I figure it out.”

You gesture at him widely with both hands. 

“But you…you don’t even know the meaning of the word. Family. Lover. Friend. You don’t have a fucking clue!”

Ben’s face tightens into a glare, but his reaction only spurs you on.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you spit. “You don’t have anything or anyone. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t have spent 40 years on ice, and maybe you wouldn’t have needed me to hide your ass like a fucking refugee.” 

He grabs your hand when you try to walk away from him, and he forces you to turn around. You find yourself staring up into his darkened eyes.

“I’ve warned you about that fucking mouth of yours,” he growls.

You scoff in his face. “I think we both know what you think of my mouth.” 

With that, you rip your hand out of his grip. He actually allows you to do it, which surprises both of you. 

You turn on your heel and walk into the house, leaving him to brood for a while. God knows he’s good at that.

You enter the house as quietly as you can. You realize just how loud you were being outside, but hopefully you didn’t wake up your grandma.

You find her passed out and snoring on the living room couch while the TV blares. Your smile of amusement lightens you from the stress in your crunched brows. You go to her and fix the throw blanket she’s half-covered herself with, making sure it covers her feet, up to her shoulders. She’s a plump lady who gives the best hugs, but she’s short. The blanket covers her just right when you settle it the right way.

You grab the remote and turn the TV down by half the volume. She must have taken her hearing aids out.

Hearing Ben’s clomping steps behind you though, you still turn to shush him over your shoulder. Ben rolls his eyes, but otherwise ignores you. The two of you part ways into your respective bedrooms. 

It’s not the way you thought this night would end, but maybe it’s for the best. You slip out of your heels and take off your hoop earrings while the entire night goes through your head again. The club, his near meltdown at the club, and the way you successfully distracted him…

So fucking annoying, you think, when you picture his stubborn, arrogant face.

But then, you remember his hands on your body, and his rich, sinful voice in your ear.

You think you paid him back pretty well though. It gets you hot again just thinking about the sounds he made, his hand clenching in your hair. He’d had to grip the headrest of your seat to make sure he wouldn’t hurt you, digging his strong fingers into the plush foam. You couldn’t help but relive how satisfied it made you to get those reactions out of him, but also, just how he’d unraveled you with a practiced hand. 

You don’t regret anything you said, but…maybe it’s okay to let yourself want him.

Just for tonight. 

You leave your room, closing it behind you. You pad across the hall on bare feet and knock lightly on his door. You know his hearing is sharp enough to have heard it.

A few short moments later, he opens the door and regards you with nonchalance. There’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes, though. 

“Can I come in?” you ask.

His bows furrow. “What, here to chap my ass some more?”

To your surprise, however, he actually lets you in. You smile slightly at his wording, but you go to him. You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you, but you don’t try to hide what you feel, or what you want when you look up at him. 

“Look, I don’t wanna fight anymore,” you say. Hesitantly, you reach out a hand and touch his chest, still warm through his shirt. Again, you’re reminded of what happened in the club, and all the scars he tries to hide.

“So what is it that you want?” Ben asks, but, his tone has a shade less sharpness in it.

“I want to make tonight count,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. Your hands slide up his arms and squeeze tight on his biceps. “I want you to touch me, and make me come until I can't remember my fucking name.” 

You whisper the words against his chest, pressing a kiss there. 

“Let me feel you too, and I’ll help you let go for a while,” you promise. 

Ben’s hands slip around your waist. His eyes darken with a desire that never truly left. He bows his head to begin, but you hold a finger to his lips. 

“But then, I need you to make a decision,” you say. “If you stay, you stay, and we can figure out how to get your life back. Both of our lives back.” You pause, just to heave a shaky sigh. “But if that’s not what you want, then you have to go. You leave in the morning, and you don’t come back, because I can’t take this shit anymore—”

Ben kisses you hard, cutting off your words. He drags you tighter into his embrace and turns you around, guiding you onto his bed. Your head falls against the pillows with a huff.

His body comes in to cage you, but you welcome his weight as he wraps his arms around you. You kiss him back more fervently, and there’s an underlying desperation here. You just don’t know if it’s yours, or his. 

You help him yank his shirt off, ripping buttons as you go. You finally get to feel his warm, bare skin and kiss wherever your hands explore. His fingers tangle into your hair, in a way he seems to like doing. He yanks your face up to his for a ravaging kiss, all teeth and tongue and sloppy wet. 

“Ben, wait,” you pant for breath. You hold his face in your hands. “Just…please, don’t break me.”

Ben pauses, blinking down at you with kiss-swollen lips. 

He has a moment of gentleness, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His lips curve into a grin. 

“Don’t you fucking worry, Chiquita. I’m about to take good care of you.”

AN: 😘 The best is yet to come (lol)...

Next Time:

In the morning, you wake to a firm chest beneath your cheek. The fuzz of his chest hair makes your nose wrinkle.

You move over a little, so you can bury your face into his neck instead. You stretch yourself out long, before sinking boneless against him. He chuckles deeply, sinking his fingers in your wild hair that tickles his cheek and his neck.

“Well, good morning,” he says, his voice rasping with sleep and heady in its meaning. 

You hum in contentment. You begin to press small, lazy kisses under his jaw, down his neck. He cups your cheek with his large hand and guides you back, so he can see your face and greet you properly. 

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[vakarianshepard]

One of the many things that makes Garrus so interesting to me is how the society he was raised in shaped him. Turian society is so focused on law and order and justice; he grew up watching his dad putting away criminals on the news. He joined C-Sec because he wanted to help people. He wanted to make the world a safer place, like his dad did. He wanted to uphold the societal tenets he’d been raised with his entire life, and when he got to C-Sec he found out that it wasn’t that simple.

Garrus is driven by a desire to do good; if he can help someone, if he can stop someone from hurting people, why shouldn’t he? This is almost verbatim what he TELLS Shepard in one of his earliest conversations onboard the Normandy! 

I think it’s also important to recognize that he’s been in the turian military, then C-Sec since he was FIFTEEN. Turians have a pretty much the same age/maturity span as humans; Garrus is 25ish when he meets Shepard. He’s spent nearly half his life in an insular military society. It’s apparent where and how he got a militaristic “shoot first” attitude. However, he DOES have a very strong sense of right and wrong. What he “lacks” (and only in Mass Effect 1) is the depth of outside experience someone like Shepard, or even Wrex, has to give context to these decisions. He’s hot-headed and idealistic; Harkin tells Shepard that Garrus “still thinks he can change the world.” Executor Pallin tells Shepard he’s a very good officer, but he needs to be more patient. Garrus himself tells Shepard that’s why he wanted to leave C-Sec in the first place; to get a glimpse of how the galaxy works outside of the rigid structure of the turian military/C-Sec (a turian created and majority turian organization). He wants to learn and improve himself/his skills.

And he does! Depending on Shepard’s interactions with him, he realizes that his pride was getting in the way with Dr. Saleon and resolves to do better! After Omega, he recognizes that his vigilante work as Archangel did very little to improve conditions on Omega, and comments on that himself! Throughout ME2, Garrus wrestles with the realization that the “right” path may not be the easiest one, and that the idea of justice is itself subjective. After sparing Sidonis, he says, “It’s so much easier to see the world in black and white. I don’t know what to do with gray.” If Shepard tells him to trust his instincts, he admits that his instincts are what led to the situation with Sidonis. 

Garrus’ worldview grows and changes a lot throughout the trilogy. He easily befriends Tali and Wrex and apologizes to both of them. With a mostly paragon Shepard’s support (and even if Shepard is a renegade or ignores him completely!) he becomes a trusted leader in the turian government! He goes to his father, and uses the proper channels to get support and prepare for the Reapers. Obviously, he’s taken the lessons learned with Shepard, on Omega, etc, and uses that knowledge to benefit his people! He helps cure the genophage, he helps reclaim Rannoch, he admits that he was wrong! Often people bring up Garrus either: 1. Saying he would’ve considered the salarian deal and/or 2. Supporting Shepard if she chooses to sabotage the genophage as proof of his “wild racism.” These are both surface level and bad faith readings that are far less openly “racist” than views other characters, even Shepard herself, can support. 

In the case of the deal with the Dalatrass, he ONLY says that he would’ve considered it; hardly a ringing endorsement, especially when taking into consideration the massive scope and destruction of the Reaper war. Secondly, in the case of where Shepard chose to lie and sabotage the genophage cure, what’s done is already done. Garrus was not responsible for or privy to that decision, and I personally don’t see how choosing not to condemn a friend at one of her lowest points (after Thessia btw)  for something neither of you can change, is a show of support for real life racism. In fact, I would argue that it’s instead a show of compassion and loyalty to someone who’s been there for him at his darkest moments. 

Mass Effect is a series BUILT on grey morality. As Garrus himself says (paraphrased), when the fate of all life in the galaxy is at stake, you can’t always remain quiet and polite. It’s a game with rich and realistic worldbuilding that informs the context of the conflicts Shepard is involved in.  It is a game set in a very tumultuous time period for its universe. Refusing to acknowledge that is extremely shallow. You don’t have to like Garrus, you don’t have to like Shepard, you don’t even have to like Mass Effect. You also don’t have to play a game with a story/characters/themes that you don’t like. There’s definitely no reason to assign moral weight to VIDEO GAME DECISIONS and act like it’s a moral failing if someone makes a different decision than you. 

Tl;dr mass effect is a nuanced and interesting setting and garrus is a nuanced and interesting character kthx bye

[thethronezone]

Hii

How do you think the primarchs would show affection to their kid??/what are their love languages for them??

Mortarion - Not much of a talker and not one for hugs, Mortarion shows his affection by spending time with his child. Sometimes they do stuff together, other times they are just in the same area while doing their own separate things. No matter what, his child knows he's there and in a world where Mortarion's time is a precious resource, it means a lot.

Fulgrim - It's a mix between words of affirmation and gifts. Fulgrim loves to heap praise upon his child, highlighting all their wonderful qualities but he especially loves to gift them new material possessions. Instruments, fine clothes, rare books, whatever he thinks will suit them.

Angron - As much trouble as he has showing affection, Angron proves his love with acts of service, namely protective acts. He can't hold them without fear of accidentally hurting them but he can place himself between them and any perceivable threats, shielding them from enemies that wish them harm.

Magnus - It's a mixture of quality time and words of affirmation. Majority of the time, when Magnus spends time with his child he's teaching them something. Some ancient knowledge, a life lesson, anything and everything. For a mind that values knowledge over all else, this is something incredibly significant. When the lesson is over, he praises them for their sharp mind and diligence.

Perturabo - The way Perturabo expresses affection is very special. He would not waste his precious time with someone he dislikes/does not matter to him so in his own way, when he berates and admonishes his child, that's him caring. He wants them to be better, do better, so he invests actual effort into their growth as a person. Sadly, this almost always comes across as him scolding them.

Alpharius - The twin Primarchs have slightly different ways of showing affection. Alpharius prefers to be slightly more playful, playing around with his kid and joking around. He's also more likely to praise them than Omegon is. However, Omegon shows his affection by spending quiet quality time together, having more introspective talks and things like that. He's also more likely to provide physical affection in the form on one-armed hugs and shoulder pats.

Lorgar - Lorgar absolutely smothers his child in various forms of affection, ranging from physical touch, words of affirmation to acts of service and quality time. He needs them to know that he loves them. Part of this stems from the fact that Kor Phaeron never provided him enough affection when he was a child and that part of him subconsciously recognizes this and wants to do better.

Horus - Physical affection and quality time are Horus' love language. A comforting hand on their shoulder, a pat on the head, teaching them how to wield a gun are some examples of how he expresses his affection for his child. He aims to be a comforting presence that they feel they can rely on and he genuinely likes spending time with them.

Konrad - When they were an infant, Konrad would stand guard over their crib. When they got a little older, he would keep watch outside their room. And even as they grew up, he would always keep an eye out for them. This is how he expresses his affection his love, by being a silent protector.

Sanguinius - The way Sanguinius shows his affection is through kind words and touches but with his kid there's an added sense of urgency. I feel like I mention this a lot but because Sanguinius knows he will die, he's so scared that he's not spending the time he has left with is kid well enough. So he stresses how important they are to him, that he loves them more than anything.

Corvus - Neither him nor his kid are very talkative and both of them prefer to show their feelings through actions. Specifically, Corvus likes to spend time with his kid in the shadows, observe other people from little perches that only the two of them know of. This is his equivalent of going fishing with his kid.

Ferrus - Getting Ferrus to express affection is like squeezing liquid out of a rock. He's just terrible at it. Telling them "I love you" or hugging them feels awkward and stiff so he doesn't do it. Instead, Ferrus tries to show them that he cares by inviting them to watch him work. He takes his work seriously and normally, no other people are allowed to interrupt him or be in the way. His kid is an exception though because he wants to show them that they are more important to him than work.

Rogal - According to Rogal, the best way to show affection is by sharing what one considers to be important. In his case, he teaches his kid how to build stuff. When it's just the two of them, it's not work but more like a hobby that he's created and shares with them. Rogal also tells them outright when he's proud of them, because positive reinforcement is important for growing children.

Vulkan - This man show affection in many different ways and has no trouble doing so, especially not towards his child. Hugs are incredibly common, as every time he returns to them he greets them with an embrace, no matter how long it's been since he last saw them. He praises them, teaches them how to work the forge and loves to just spend time with them. Vulkan's child will never doubt his love for them.

Lion - Oddly enough, physical touch. Lion will never say "I love you" and things like hugs are out of the question but a pat on the shoulder? A steady hand on their upper back? He does that a lot, even though he himself does not realize he does it. Lion just can't help it, he instinctively wants to be close to his kid and provide a sense of safety and comfort.

Leman - Lots of physical touch and quality time. Leman loves playing with his kid, be it play-fighting or hunting. This both shows that he likes spending time with them and that he trusts them. Loves ruffling his kid's hair and playfully nudging them. Just in general, the way Leman shows affection is very playful and lighthearted.

Jaghatai - Quality time all the way. Jaghatai shows his kid that he cares for them, loves them, by spending time with them in ways that truly matters to him. He takes them out on jetbike rides, teaches them how to ride and care for horses, tells stories of past adventures and battles. By sharing these important parts of himself, he proves that he cares.

Roboute - Generally, Roboute expresses his affection with words and actions. He tells his kid that he cares for them, that he is proud of being their father and he makes an effort in trying to be there for moments that count (like graduation, birthdays etc). Because he's a very busy man, he knows that he has to make a serious effort to make sure his kid feels seen and loved.