#maybe you ARE something. and that is: you are doing your best. and you are being better

[slvttyplum]

✮ part two of: roomie suguru wants to fuck you.

the question hit you like a truck, suguru's hands fidgeting and sweating as he looked at you with pleading eyes, the stirring in his jeans starting again.

please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, please say-

"where do you get off talking like that?" taking a step back into your room, but your eyes not letting you look away from him, slowly sliding down to his shirtless frame, then to his pajama pants that were so low you could almost see it.

dear lord.

"hopefully to you." a slight smirk as he says it, trying to put on his best poker face, covering up that corny-ass line. his eyes slowly follow your curves and the way your clothes hug your body just right.

he had to have you; this was a matter of life and death. his fucking dick was going to fall off from all the swelling, but it was partially his fault because he just couldn't stop staring, and neither could you.

his eyes slowly slide back up to meet yours.

"we're both adults here; let's not think too much about it."

those words made something shift inside of you, a tingle erupting throughout your body but mostly in your panties, almost like a green light.

fuck.

suguru didn't waste a second; once you slipped off your shorts and panties, suguru was snug in between your thighs, his legs snaking around your thighs as he got comfortable.

so many conflicting thoughts were swarming through your mind; this was weird, right? two roommates hooking up? this is bad; you just couldn't think straight, but suguru was way more calm about this.

"wait, no, this is a mistake." your hand pushing his forehead back as he grips your thighs, straightening himself in between you to make himself comfortable.

his dick pushing against his pants and against the mattress, his heart racing and his face already flushed, his mouth salivating.

"you want to know what's a mistake? not doing this sooner." finally sliding his tongue out and over your slit, then immediately to your clit, softly licking back and forth.

the pleasure hit you hard, your heart pounding and your hands trembling. this felt different than the usual pussy eating you received, and suguru read that.

licking over your clit again, then slowly unhooking one of his arms and sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up, trying to feel you out and feel how you reacted.

your breath hitched as you grabbed a handful of his hair, your throat tightening along with your walls that clung around his fingers that were pumping away.

suguru moaned into your dripping core as his lower body pushed into the bed, moving his hips back and forth, trying to get some friction working out; he felt like he was going to explode.

maybe he didn't have to fuck you; maybe this was enough to hold him by, his eyes closing as his nose pushes against your core, wetting it up.

your moans were quiet, but your body did most of the talking for you, your toes curling and your knuckles sore from how hard you were holding him in place.

he was looking right at you, his gaze both captivating and piercing; he was focused on you and only you, his pace getting sloppy but still making sure you felt everything he was doing.

bucking your hips into him, getting his face all wet, letting all your worries on whether or not this was a bad idea let go.

"right there, don't stop."

suguru closing his eyes again right as the waterworks begin, his nose wet along with the rest of his face, his hair slowly coming out of a bun and a few strands sticking to his face.

you couldn't process anything; your eyes had those floaters, and your legs started to cramp.

the air was thick, and the silence spoke volumes.

your breathing was uneven, and your chest rose and fell rapidly; there were no words that could be spoken. he exceeded your expectations, and that turned you on.

suguru licked his fingers and threw a blanket over you, sitting by you and placing a hand on your thigh, the touch comforting for him; he almost wanted to cuddle you in his arms.

"text me if you ever wanna fuck; i'll drop everything." patting your thigh and leaving the room, softly closing the door behind him, his heart beating so fast he thought he was going to faint.

you, on the other hand, were still recovering, trying to get up to wash and change the sheets, smiling to yourself knowing you were going to be texting him soon.

[inkedinshadows]

First of all congratulations for 1000 followers 🎊🎉🎊🎉🎊🎉 it’s honestly amazing and you deserve all the best❤️❤️❤️ also happy new year 🎆🎆🎆 secondly, all the prompts are super good it, I had such a hard time choosing from them cause they that are all amazing, anyway I think 19, 20 and 21 just fit together perfectly for an angsty Azriel fic.

Broken Vows

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

A/N: thank you so much anon, you're the sweetest! <33 And happy new year one month too late oopsie 🤭

Prompts: "I trusted you." + "Don't leave me now. Please. I still need you." + "Baby, please, just look at me."

Warnings: Az is not the best partner here (I promise he didn't cheat)

Word count: 1.3k

It must be a dream. A nightmare.

Whatever was happening, it wasn't real. It couldn't be. You refused to believe it.

Azriel was still talking, but you weren't listening anymore. His words blurred together in your mind, yet his first few sentences remained sharp, playing over and over in your head.

I've found my mate.

You had never been the jealous type, so it hadn't bothered you when he began spending more and more time with Madja’s new apprentice. It had started as small talk after her visits and you usually lingered too. Talya seemed nice enough—quiet and reserved yet friendly.

You hadn't questioned it when Azriel started visiting the apothecary for even the slightest headache. But then those visits became too frequent. He went there even when both of you felt perfectly fine.

You should have realized something was off when Azriel became distant. The signs had been there. You had just been too blind to see them.

But the problem wasn't that he had found his mate, was it?

I want to be with her.

A few simple words, and the whole world collapsed around you.

“Baby, please, just look at me.” His voice finally cut through your thoughts. “I know this is hard to hear, but let me—”

“You promised,” you interrupted him. Your eyes met his from where he sat at the other end of the couch.

“Baby…” he began, but you cut him off again.

“You promised,” you repeated, your voice rising as tears pricked your eyes. “You promised!”

Guilt flashed across Azriel's face, and he at least had the decency to remain silent as you pressed on.

“You said you'd reject your mate for me, Az,” you blurted out. Hot, angry tears rolled down your cheeks, but you barely noticed. “It was in your wedding vows, for gods’ sake!”

Azriel shook his head. “It's not that simple. I don't—”

“Isn't it?” you interrupted again. “Because it seems simple enough to me. You just reject the bond, like I did.”

His expression immediately hardened. “I don't want to reject the bond. If you would only let—”

“Why wouldn't you want to reject it?” you demanded.

“Because she's my mate!”

“And I'm your wife!”

For a moment, you just glared at each other. His shadows swarmed nervously around his wings, but then his shoulders slumped and his expression softened slightly.

“Can you let me explain?” he asked, studying you. “Please.”

With a sigh, you wiped your cheeks before crossing your arms over your chest. You simply looked at him, waiting.

“I don't want to lose you, baby,” he said softly.

“I don't see how that is going—”

Azriel stopped you mid-sentence. “Let me finish? Please?”

You rolled your eyes but gestured for him to continue. Listening to him was the last thing you wanted right now, but maybe he was going to surprise you. Maybe he was going to say it was all just a joke, a prank, and you'd be mad, but it would be fine.

You were grasping at straws, and you knew it.

“I still want to be with you,” Azriel said. He shot you a sharp look when you opened your mouth, and you sank back against the couch to let him continue. “But I also want to explore this bond with her.”

You scoffed. “So what? You think you can have both of us?” You shook your head, something vicious twisting in your gut. “That's not going to work, Azriel.”

You rose from your seat to head upstairs. You needed time to think, to figure out what to do. If you stayed, you would only get angrier. You had already cried and had no desire to do it again. But if you left, maybe you could spare yourself the fury.

Though the pain—the ache in your heart—could not be avoided, no matter what you did.

“Talya said that she understands the situation and she'd be willing to—”

You froze on the spot. Azriel must have realized he'd said the wrong thing because he didn't finish the sentence. His eyes dropped to your clenched fists as you turned back to face him.

Your restraint was gone. You wouldn't hold back now.

“You talked to her before you talked to me?” you seethed.

“Well, I…” Azriel seemed to be grasping for words. “She's my mate,” he repeated, as if that was explanation enough.

“And I'm your wife!” You threw your hands up. “I have been for the last two centuries!”

“I'm sorry, baby, but I—”

“Don't you ‘baby’ me, Azriel!”

He lowered his gaze, but you were too upset to care about the hurt look in his eyes. It was nowhere close to the heartache he was causing you.

“You know why I never worried about you finding your mate?” you asked. He looked up at you, but even if he had planned on saying something, you didn't give him time. “Because you promised you'd choose me. You promised you would reject the bond. And I believed it, believed you. I trusted you.”

You were well aware of what rejecting a mating bond felt like, how difficult it could be to deal with. Even without feelings involved, even knowing that you and your mate wouldn't have been a good match, it had still taken you two weeks to feel whole again. But Azriel had been there, filling the empty spot where your bond had been with his love.

You had never regretted your choice. You never had a reason to.

“And now I find out that not only did you spend time with her knowing she was your mate,” you went on, “but that you also want to be with her?”

Azriel’s voice was firm, edged with frustration. “I told you I want to be with you too, didn’t I?”

“Mother above, Azriel,” you snapped. “You think that makes me feel better? I trusted you, but you didn't even try.”

You had fought before. After two hundred years together, arguments were inevitable. But you usually talked it out and reconciled after a few hours—a day at worst. Maybe that was why Azriel didn't look particularly concerned.

Until you slipped the wedding band off your finger and tossed it onto the couch beside him.

His eyes widened in shock, and his usually restless shadows stilled behind him. You both stared at the ring, the silence stretching as your anger faded, leaving behind only a broken heart.

“You can't have your cake and eat it too, Az,” you finally said, your voice calmer now, resigned.

You turned on your heel again.

“I'm leaving,” you announced, already walking toward the stairs. You could go stay with your parents. They would welcome you without pressing for an explanation.

Azriel snapped out of his stupor and stood, reaching for you.

“Don’t leave me now. Please. I still need you.” His fingers closed around your wrist. “I still love you.”

You yanked your arm free, but didn't turn to face him. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as you bit out, “You should have loved me enough not to pursue your mate. You promised.”

He tried to stop you again, his shadows swirling around your legs as if to keep you from walking away from their master.

“Baby, that's not—”

You turned back one last time. Tears lined your eyes and your voice broke on the words. “I should have been enough, Azriel.”

You didn't wait to hear his response. You didn't try to go upstairs to pack some clothes.

Unable to stomach his presence any longer, you winnowed away.

a/n: technically, this is the end. I wanted to leave it open and hanging, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that I am a sucker for happy endings so I might write a part 2 bc I already have an idea :))

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[captain-hawks]

“i think iwa-chan’s in love with you.”

startled, you whip around to see the pensive look on oikawa’s face as he sits down on your new couch and looks around at the equally new furniture that now fills the rest of the living room.

glancing up from inspecting the array of trinkets on the bookshelf, mattsun nods in agreement.

you look between the two of them, bewildered.

sure, iwaizumi’s one of your best friends. but so are they.

(the years-long crush you’ve had on him is neither here nor there.)

“it’s the ikea effect,” mattsun says with a shrug, reaching out with a finger to spin your miniature globe on its axis.

“the what?”

makki sprawls out on the couch as well, kicking his feet across oikawa’s lap; they’re promptly shoved off. “i asked iwaizumi if he’d come over and help me build ikea furniture once. he told me he’d rather die.”

“to be fair, we almost killed each other building that tv stand,” mattsun adds.

“i tricked him into coming over after i bought an ikea dresser that needed to be built, and he took one look at the box and walked right out,” oikawa scoffs.

you blink at all three of them, heart doing something funny in your chest. “i mean, maybe he just felt obligated because he went with me and helped me pick most of it out—“

“i’m sorry, he fucking WHAT—“

“—HE WENT WITH YOU?”

“IWAIZUMI HAJIME STEPPED FOOT INTO AN IKEA OF HIS OWN FREE WILL?”

at that, the door to your new apartment swings open, and there’s a familiar, affectionate flutter in your chest at the head of dark hair that steps inside.

“i picked up those curtains you were talking about last night…” iwaizumi immediately starts talking, trailing off when he belatedly realizes you’re not alone.

oikawa hops up off of the couch, pointing an accusing finger at the logo on the shopping bag clutched in iwaizumi’s hand as he looks from mattsun to makki and trills in a singsong tone, “remember what happened last time one of us tried to get him to come to bed, bath, and beyond?”

“he said he’d rather die,” mattsun and makki reply blandly in unison.

iwaizumi gives the three of them a weird look and shakes his head as he turns down the hallway to use the bathroom. makki and oikawa start making kissy faces at each other until you smack them both with a throw pillow.

—and you try to hide the slight trembling of your fingers, shuddering in tune with the rapid beating of your traitorous heart, as you reach into the bag to take out the curtains.

(you decide not to announce when you subsequently find a bag of your favorite candy waiting in surprise at the bottom.)

[alpinesmommy]

Agora Hills ( bucky barnes x reader)

WARNINGS: porn with some plot, blood kink, p in v sex, period sex, female reader, slight dom undertones, pregnancy and fertility issues.

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for months now, finally got the motivation to finish it! MINORS DNI 18+ Only. border credit to @saradika-graphics

There’s a deep disappointment that’s festering and aching within you. It starts in your chest and builds alongside the cramps that begin to throb throughout your abdomen. And on top of all that, you got a pimple forming on your forehead… All you crave for is something greasy and crispy, something to distract yourself from the malaise that has fallen over you.

You started your period…

…When all you wanted was a positive pregnancy test. 

The two of you have been trying for a few months now - not religiously or anything - he always insisted to ‘just let it happen, babe.’ So you let your protests rest. Its just that this month you were so sure because of how sensitive your breasts were, the nausea, how your discharge was slightly off. 

Except this morning you woke up to blood everywhere. It felt as if mother nature was taunting you. Mocking you, even. 

The sting from this made-up scenario had you wallowing. Sulking in bed all morning, pouty, moody and pathetic. To top it off you’re wearing a crinkly pad that pisses you off every time you move. Today was not it.

Huffing and burying your face deeper into the pillow, your mind races with anxious thoughts. You’re hurting and you want to cry, but you don’t allow yourself to. Maybe you’re defective. Maybe Bucky is defective.

Wasn’t the Super Soldier Serum supposed to enhance…everything? You selfishly think to yourself, but you immediately felt guilty for trying to blame your darling Bucky. He had been right there with you, holding your hand, hoping. You always try your best to self-regulate and rationalise with yourself. Most of the time.

Just like that, with his impeccable timing, Bucky walks in right on cue. 

He’s got a duffle bag swung over his shoulder and his sunglasses resting on his head make him look like a movie star. He looks great. Which makes you feel significantly worse, you can't imagine how terrible you look in his eyes. He carries a plastic bag full of Chinese take out, you can already smell the food. His eyes settle on you on the bed and immediately looks sympathetic to your misery. Your eyes water at the sight of him, the depression raising in your throat and strangling you into the bed.  “Oh, babe.” He breathes when you don’t respond to him. He sets the bag down and immediately walks over to the bed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on, especially considering the fact he can now smell the sweet tinge of iron in the air. Your blood.

He knows how important conceiving is to you - to him. Bucky knows how badly you want it, he'll do everything he can to make it happen. Rationally, he knows trying for a baby takes a few times. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t, it’s just something you both can and cannot control, ‘It's God’s will.’ His mama always told him.

But it still makes him feel less than, makes him feel failed because it’s hurting you. 

Bucky lets his leather jacket and jeans fall on the floor as he moves to scoop you up into his arms. He crawls into bed, manoeuvres you so you’re tucked on his chest as he props himself up against the headboard. 

His metal hand comes to tangle in your hair, his fingertips massaging gently into your scalp as you lay sniffling. You both pay half-attention to whatever is on the television. Bucky places a kiss against your head as you silently allow this moment of weakness to flood between you. Bucky handles it, he’s not afraid of your emotions anymore as he supports you. There’s nothing to be said, Bucky knows no words can comfort you right now, you only need the physical reminder that he’s here for you as you work your way through the stages of grief. He simply holds you, tells you he loves you, peppering kisses while you calm down. 

You know that it’s going to be okay, your emotions just have to pass. There’s always next month, right? Bucky still loves you and the sky isn’t falling so, you allow the feelings to course through.

Bucky grabs the bag off the nightstand, he’s got his own combo for one and a soup and roll for you. You guys eat in bed, just this once, because it’s a sad day and you’ll wash the sheets later. 

You’re laying on his chest again a while later, now full of delicious Chinese food, enough to satiate the nagging symptoms of your period. Bucky is combing his fingers through your hair as you both watch whatever show he's currently into. You love that Bucky is loving like this, love that he provides a comfortable place for you to curl up and go through the motions of your period. Mood Swings and all.

He’s so nice. He’s big, warm and he smells like his aftershave and cologne. You could practically purr from how his warm hand rubbing your lower back makes your cramps lessen.

The way his natural scent sends endorphins through your brain which makes you feel more calm as you lay on him. It's almost primal, you think, how him just being there makes everything better. 

Without realizing it, you’re wiggling your hips back and forth on him slowly, the motion causing you further relaxation until Bucky is pressing his hand on the small of your back and clearing his throat. 

“Babe…” He says carefully as he peers down at you. You freeze.

Suddenly you're very aware of his semi-hard on digging into your thigh. 

The thing is, Bucky is not shy or squirmish when it comes to blood, especially menstrual blood. He personally believes that period is the only pure blood to be spilled in this world. Plus, doing what he’s done for the past 80 years, he’s been covered in blood more times than he can count and really it just lost its gross factor. But you both never really talked about it either, it was always just this thing where all you wanted was relaxation and rest, you never had energy for much else other than survival during your monthly course.

“Babe?” You echo, your head slowly lifting as you look up at him. His chin is tucked into his chest as he studies you with a careful, intense gaze. It makes your stomach flutter as you swallow slowly. 

“What are you doing?” He asks simply, narrowing his eyes slightly as he tries to read your reaction. 

You shrug. 

“It feels nice.” You offer, though that isn’t enough. 

“Stop trying to be cute.” He grumbles and you can’t help but smile. 

“I wasn’t trying to…” You emphasize before you move to sit up and swing your leg over him so you’re straddling his waist. 

There’s an involuntary throb at your core, a strange mix of pain and pleasure as you look down at your man and he stares back with his mouth in a thin line as his brow furrows. 

Suddenly, this thick tension that blankets the two of you as you sit there. Both of your minds are on the same thing. Both of you are hesitant to say anything though, and it’s as if there’s a telepathic conversation happening as you two come to the same conclusion. 

You swallow, and you feel Bucky’s hands grip your soft thighs. 

“Yeah?” He breaks the silence, his body is completely still as he waits and analyzes every single micro expression you make. 

You take a deep breath as you nod your head, you feel your heart skip a beat,

“Yeah… Yeah.” You purr softly as you bring your hands to rest on his chest and you dip down so you can place a kiss against his mouth. “Please?” 

And that was all he needed, because he isn’t going to make his best girl beg again. Not while she's in such desperate need of him. 

Soon enough, there’s a pillow beneath you, your eyes are glued to the headboard as you squeeze onto another pillow in anticipation. You don’t dare to look back, not right now; you’ve never had period sex before. While you aren’t entirely self-conscious that it'll be debilitating, it's just entirely new to you. Not to mention that it’s with Bucky… Despite how long you two have been together, he still makes you nervous and giddy.

It’s fine, everything is fine. You repeat to yourself internally. Suddenly, you feel the bed dip and…

Fuck.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting really, usually he’ll take his time, warm you up, play with your pussy until you’re flushed, panting, and needy, but suddenly you feel his hands on your thighs. Parting them ever so slightly that it makes you squirm and suddenly, he’s climbing and practically laying on top of you, his body nearly completely covering yours as his mouth finds the side of your neck and he inhales. “Fuck.” He groans. You feel yourself quiver underneath him. Your entire body feels as if it's sparkling, and his touch sends electric shocks throughout your flesh and deep into your nerves and your eyes flutter from his weight against you. You can feel his dick dig into your thigh, before he adjusts his hips and suddenly it’s right against your soaked cunt, positioned so it’s full length is filling your slit, his cockhead bumping against the hood of your clit. You whine, your body tensing from just how sensitive you really are.

Somewhere in your mind, you know it’s because you’re already engorged down there, and everything is more fine-tuned.

Your thighs shiver and Bucky is mouthing at your neck. He moves toward your ear lobe and nuzzles you. He hasn’t even entered yet but this was already so overwhelming. Just from the proximity and the newness of it. Everything felt extremely sensitive and exhilarating just because of how truly exposed you are to him, how you've practically given him full control over you. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard before...” He says under his breath, an accidental confession. Just from his tone, the way his voice drops, and how you can feel him throb against you, you believe him. You decide to store that particular piece of information away for later, after all it would make sense that the Winter Soldier would have some affinity for blood. You’re not judging because your eyes are already ready to roll in the back of your head from just this. 

You move your hips back, sliding yourself against his length and it feels so good that it makes your toes nearly curl and there’s a drop in your stomach. You feel him tense against you as his head falls to your shoulder. “You tell me if I hurt you, okay?” His lips move against your skin, and he’s rutting back over you, dragging his dick over and over your slit and your clit. “Bucky,” You breath, nodding your head. “Hurry, please.” You beg, sucking in a breath through your teeth. “Okay, okay pretty girl.” He mumbles as his head lifts, and he groans at the sight of your blood staining his cock. There’s something primal to it, something that makes him feel more masculine has he prepares to spear you. You suck in a breath as you feel his cockhead at your entrance and you both take the moment to prepare. Your heart is pounding, his thighs are trembling against yours before he sheathes himself inside you in one swift thrust. And… You can’t help the debauched, whiny moan that escapes your mouth as you immediately clamp involuntarily around him. You’ve had him numerous times before, your cunt has swallowed his cock so many times before. You were sure it was made just for him, but this? It’s like he’s harder, thicker, longer. As his length feeds your needy, twitching, hole. 

And he’s not any better right now. 

For him? You’re warmer, tighter, wetter, and your cunt devours every inch he gives until his balls are pressing against your clit, his cockhead pressing against your delicate cervix. Bucky lets out a shaky groan, his mouth coming down to meet your shoulder as he bites down, not hard enough to break skin, but something to ground him so he doesn’t blow his load immediately. “Fuck,” He grunts, breathless and low as he grinds his hips into yours. “Shit. Need to move, can I move?” Bucky begs, peppering kisses against your neck now. You whine and nod your head in response, pushing back against him, you need him so bad right now. You need him to fuck you.

That was all he needed as a sign before he’s lifting his hips and rolling them back into you. Starting up at a consistent pace, in and out, in and out, over and over. You want to cry, you can’t help but smile as you gasp, biting your lower lip as you relish in the feeling of his dick stroking your walls, rubbing against your g-spot and kissing your cervix. His hand comes up to rest by your head as he repositions to get a stronger thrust. The room filled with the sound of Bucky’s low grunts and the wet, slick noises of their union, punctuated by the creaking of the bed frame under the force of his fucking into you. 

You’re both panting like animals, neither of you able to formulate a complete thought besides chasing the urge to cum. 

You need to cum, you feel so full of him you feel like you’re gonna explode. The painful cramps were now replaced with pleasurable tightenings as you take every single thrust he gives you. You arch your back, head thrown back against his shoulder, eyes screwed shut as you focus entirely on how he fills you. It’s all-consuming, you swear you’re gonna burst. The pillow positioned beneath your hips add to the pressure, making that sweet fullness that much more pronounced. His face is immediately buried in your neck. You don’t ever realize you’re chanting his name. “I know baby.” He coos, his pace picking up. He has the insane idea to glance down to see where the two of you are connected and it’s his turn to let out a whine as he watches himself spear your cunt over and over, and the noises you're making that match every one is sending him over the edge. 

He’s used to being soaked in blood, used to the horrific screams that accompany it, but right now? It’s different, he’s making you scream alright, but instead of horror you’re mewling in pleasure as your body receives him and pushes back against him so hard it makes your ass bounce rhythmically as you chase his cock. 

Shit, this awoke something within him. Something deep sated that’s been sleeping for a while, something entirely primal and biological that hums in his brain. Something-Something mammal, something-something, heat.

He growls, lifting his chest off your back as he moves his hands down to grip your plush hips and he begins to earnestly fuck you, slamming you down against him to meet his thrusts, like his own personal fuck doll. 

And you? You just take it. You take it and you scream his name. You whine and your calves come to spread on either side of his thighs as you lift your hips up to arch your back for him. Your hands are buried in the pillows as you push back. “Bucky!” You shout, and before you know it, his metal hand comes down to go beneath you so that his fingers can dance across your clit more fervently, coaxing the orgasm that’s building like a tight rubber band deep within your core. 

“Bucky–” You pant, your hand cups your breast, your eyes are closed as you feel your thighs begin to shake. “Bucky I’m gonna cum.” You whine. 

His hand comes up, it covers your mouth, and suddenly his chest is back on you. “That's it…Shh, babygirl, don't want another noise complaint.” He utters softly in your ear, covering your mouth with his palm. And that does it. Your eyes roll as your mouth falls open and white hot pleasure washes over you. You gush, it’s expected honestly, given what’s going on down there. More blood pools at the base of his dick and coats his pelvis and his skin. His head falls on your shoulder as he groans, his eyes can’t look away. It’s intense, the way you’re so wet, warm and tight around him. He releases his hand from your mouth as he cums. White hot spurts mix in with your blood, and it’s messy but it’s so hot. He’s panting against your skin, peppering kisses as he catches his breath. You’re on another world, lost in the air as you recover. He pulls out slowly, he grimaces a little though you don’t see. Not because he’s disgusted, but because it was messy. 

Whatever urge was deep within your womb was sated then, you immediately feel more relaxed as you melt into the bed. You could lay here forever, you could let him do that to you forever. You felt wild, tamed and satisfied as you practically purred. But, suddenly Bucky is there. “Come on, sweet girl. Come back to me.” He murmurs as he pets your hair. “Let’s go shower.” He urges as he moves to stand up and off the bed, and moves to cradle you as he carries you to the shower. “I love you.” Is all you manage to say now, feeling beat and exhausted. Bucky kisses the top of your head. “I love you too, babe.” He murmurs as he takes you both to the bathroom.

It unlocked something in him. He’s a man obsessed, thinking of how much more sensitive you were, how much more warmer and tighter. The blood, he bites his lip. It isn’t a kink, it’s a you thing, he would argue. He can see it in his mind’s eye, how his dick looks coated in your blood as he plows into you, it makes his mouth water. The sex was amazing. So, naturally, of course he began to count down the days until your next period.

Maybe he’ll fold you up this time, maybe he’ll spoon you from behind, or make you cum in the bath. Whatever you want really, Bucky would make it happen just as long as he gets to stuff his dick in you. So, he waits, he waits and waits and he’s eyeing up the calendar. You’re healthy enough, your cycle was consistent, never a day late. 

Except it’s been three days past and you’re still not bleeding. He’s laying on the bed, one arm propped beneath his head as he mindlessly absorbs whatever it is on the tv. 

“Bucky?” Your shaky voice calls from the bathroom. He’s up in an instant and you’re coming out of the door holding a pregnancy test. “Bucky I’m –” Ah fuck.

[blackdykegirlblogger]

thinking abt vi and abby taking turns with u while you can do nothing but take it ^_^

abby would be situated behind you, one beefy arm wrapped firmly around your midsection as her other hand plays with your nipples, twisting and rolling the sensitive buds around and around. that would be all well and good normally, but vi also happened to be right between the apex of your thighs, spitting on your clit as two of her fingers hit all the rights inside your drooling pussy.

it wasn't like you were planning on fucking both of your extremely hot roommates tonight, but that new strain you copped from that shady freshman plug in your chem class had you acting a complete and utter fool. weed never failed to make you horny, but it was like they could smell your arousal, the subtle rubbing of your thighs as you all watched netflix on the couch maybe not as subtle as you expected.

one thing led to another thing that led to another thing that led to you on the brink of cumming on vi's tongue for the third time in a row, feeling like you were floating outside your body as your eyes crossed. your half-smoked blunt lays forgotten on the side table, with you already being too dazed and confused to even finish it. you could've sworn you weren't usually this much of a lightweight.

"you should feel how loose she is. swear you could slide a whole bottle 'n her." the vibrations from vi's words fluttering against you felt unfortunately divine, and if you were actually lucid, you would've protested the vulgar comment, kicked her or demanded she stop touching you. but instead, your cunt greedily agreed with the notion, pulsing around her digits as another river of creamy arousal oozed out of you. ever the extrovert, chatting came like a second nature to vi, even during times like this.

you barely registered abby's hand leaving your chest as it made its way to your neck, and the tight squeeze forced out a moan you didn't know you were holding. "don't take too long down there, i want my turn eventually". she was torturing you now, pressing down on your windpipe just enough for tears to approach your waterline. you feebly began to squirm, the fear of actually fucking dying and the painful arousal making it impossible to stay put.

right as you felt your vision start to fade to black, abby released her militant grip, leaving you to sputter out a few much-needed gasps of air as your back arched. she reached for the same blunt that got you in such a state to begin with, swiftly lighting it before gripping your jaw and bringing it to your lips.

you tried to shake your head the best you could, tried to make it clear that you just couldn't take anymore. but your wordless plea fell on deaf ears as you found yourself taking a deep inhale. she said....something to you, but her voice sounded so far away and your head felt so empty.

"relax, pretty. ok? let us make you feel good."

[tinythebunni]

How bunnyprincess!reader and Rafe met!!

inspired by @rafesangelita @princessbrunette

Rafe always came to the country club on the weekends and on Wednesdays to play golf with his friends. He wore a polo every time and always had his shoes shined pristine. Rafe usually ended up winning and afterwards he’d go inside to sit by the bar or swim in the pool.

After a long and tedious match, Rafe ended up losing. He wasn’t completely locked in on the match due to the argument with Rose this morning.

Walking inside and huffing a sigh, he took off his shirt and slouched in the lounge chair with Kelce and Topper joining him. Rafe ran his hand through his sweaty buzzed hair and used his shirt to wipe his head. He closed his eyes, zoning out the stupid conversation around him.

his head was fucking pounding and their nonsensical ramblings made him even more and more irritated. pinching the bridge of his nose he sighed as he heard someone walking over to them. probably one of those fucking bartenders, he thought to himself.

Rafe was ready to just up and leave at this point but then he noticed 3 things. He could smell the sweet scent of your perfume. Smelled of cupcakes and the sugar cookies his mom would make. Your voice sounded of honey drizzling. And when he opened his eyes, his lashes flutter at how beautiful you were.

“Hai guys! The usual?” you spoke as you pulled out your notepad. your eyes did a sweep over the three guys in front of you, lingering a bit on him. Rafe was very fucking confused, he’d never seen you before and he definitely would know.

Kelce went to open his mouth but Rafe was faster than him. “What’s your name?” He spoke, sounding a little more angry than he meant to.

“Oh i’m sorry if i interrupted your nap, i just know that these two like to-“ He cut you off once more.

“Forget about it bun, ‘m not worried bout it. last fucking thing on my mind right now.”

you blushed and blinked, wide eyed. You told him your name, pen resting on your lip as you looked at him. He introduced himself to you and stood. he towered over you, which was unusual. being tall yourself, you often felt like a giant compared to most guys on the island.

Rafe smirked at your reaction, a laugh bubbling out his throat. You could sense the God inside him, aching to be let out. Maybe you were a bit dramatic but you’re just a teenage girl!

Stepping closer to you, he put his hand on your hip and turned you so that you were right next to him. He slid his hand to the small of your back, whispering a quick come with me to you before turning around and smiling at the boys.

“Rafe come on! Ya can’t keep stealing the pretty girls.” Topper yelled in exasperation, throwing his hands up.

Rafe chuckled before saying something that made your heart flutter. “You don’t gotta worry bout that no more. I want to keep this one. Make her mine and all that” he replied.

As he lead you away to a table in the corner, he asked you little questions. Mainly about your love life, what you were doing at this bar. “girl like you should never have to work. too pretty for all that shit” He added, watching as you glanced down as if your shoes were the most interesting thing in the world.

his thumb tilted your head up and you looked away nervously. “Hey hey. none of that shit. Look at me.” You did as he said, not wanting to lose his attention. “you should have someone providing for you. So you can do all that girly shit yall like and not worry about it.” He watched as you smiled, eating up your reaction. His tounge darts out to swipe at his bottom lip before he speaks again.

“I could be that for you. All my money just rots in my fucking bank account anyways. You want me to be that for you? Could be your boyfriend. Keep your tummy full, nails done, and make you feel good. Whenever you need it.” His words made you flush, your chest blooming with nerves and anxiety. But in the best way possible.

You nodded, your eyes a bit glossy at the casual dominance. You’d always been one to prefer when people take charge about certain things. And this? it was perfect. “Yea. I’d really like dat Rafe.” You stepped closer, making a move. You placed your hand on his chest and stood on your tip toes to kiss his cheek. “Can you wait for me to finish my shift? It’s over in 30 and I wanna talk to you more” you pouted trying to win him over as you regained your confidence.

“Fuck yea!” he said a little too excited. “I mean, yea yea for sure.” he corrected, nodding his head and he turned on his heel. You watched him walk away, noticing the slight bounce in his step.

[kashverse]

Nanami and yuuji? Or maybe jst Nanami..You can choose the prompt! I jst wanna see more of them

i live to write for papamin and yuuji <3 thanks for requesting

there were many things people didn’t know about nanami. for instance, his impressive ability to make five different kinds of soufflés, his uncanny knack for always finding the best parking spots, and, of course, his surprisingly adept skill with a guitar. whenever he strummed those strings, the rich, mellow notes would fill the room like warm honey, each chord carefully played, each song a testament to years of practice. and, of course, yuuji noticed.

"papa," yuuji announced one day, struggling to drag nanami’s acoustic guitar across the floor, the instrument’s body screeching horribly against the tiles. “i wanna be a moosician like you!” nanami, cringing at the sacrilegious sound of his beloved guitar being manhandled, managed a tight smile. "that’s great, yuuji. but maybe we should start with something… smaller."

and so, enter the ukulele. a tiny, four-stringed instrument that seemed perfectly sized for yuuji’s chubby little hands. yuuji took to it immediately, strumming with all the enthusiasm of a rockstar playing a sold-out concert at madison square garden. "TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAaaaRRRRR!" he belted out in a voice that could only be described as beautifully tone-deaf. "HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU AaaaREEEE!"

you tried to hide your smile behind your hand as yuuji’s fingers fumbled clumsily over the strings, creating a unique version of the song that could only be described as experimental jazz. nanami, sipping his coffee with the resignation of a man who knew he’d never experience silence again, watched as his son poured his entire soul into the performance.

"up above the world so high! like a diamond… in the… pie?" yuuji paused, face scrunching in confusion. "no… in the sky!"

nanami chuckled softly. "almost, yuuji."

but the grand finale was yet to come. as yuuji reached the dramatic end, he went for a flourish, fingers flying wildly over the strings—and the ukulele pick slipped from his fingers, disappearing into the sound hole with a soft thunk.

there was a moment of silence. yuuji blinked down at the instrument, poking a chubby finger inside. 

"papa… it ate my pick."

you snorted, trying to hold back a laugh, while nanami set down his coffee, hiding his grin behind his hand.

"papa, is it hungry? do i need to feed it more picks?"

nanami shook his head. "no, yuuji. we just have to get it out."

"okay!" yuuji turned the ukulele upside down, shaking it violently, tiny brows furrowed in concentration. "give it back, you bad ukey-lely!"

you finally let out a giggle, watching as nanami tried to calm yuuji down, showing him how to gently retrieve the pick instead of waterboarding the poor instrument. and later, when the ukulele was pick-free and yuuji was tucked in for the night, you glanced over at nanami, who was softly strumming his guitar in the dim light of the living room.

"i think he gets his musical talent from you," you murmured. nanami chuckled, plucking a gentle melody. “he certainly gets the enthusiasm.” 

you leaned into his side, a soft smile playing on your lips. "and the dramatics."

he hummed, fingers dancing over the strings. "we’ll work on the lyrics next."

from his room, yuuji’s voice called out, "papa, can i sing twinkle twinkle again tomorrow?"

nanami sighed, setting his guitar down. "of course, yuuji. every night if you want."

"yay!"

and though it meant endless nights of off-key lullabies and missing ukulele picks, nanami couldn’t help but think that, these were the moments he’d remember forever.

plus, he figured he could write a pretty great song about it one day.

[suiana]

(yandere! golden boy x reader)

you don't think you've ever felt special. well, maybe your mom or something told you that when you were younger but you never really believed it.

you're too normal.

not exceptionally good at one thing, nor are you decently good at everything. you're okay at some stuff and you don't have any particular interests that you're really passionate about. and you know bevause you've tried changing. it's never worked, it never will.

because you're just you.

sometimes you wish you had talent, because then at least you'd be good at something. to lack the passion but have talent, that would be a dream for you. could you imagine? being effortlessly good and having people flock to you without trying? or even the opposite would be nice. being passionate about something sounds... like a life worth living. like your life has purpose. meaning. so what if you don't have talent? at least you'd want to be better, to improve yourself, to have the drive to live.

you have neither, what can you do?

all you do is go through the motions. wake up, go to work, come home, repeat. you don't have any hobbies other than watching the occasional television. it's not like your life is exceptionally hard either. you're blessed with good parents who love you and a select few friends that you're thankful for.

yet there's this... aching gap in your chest that's yearning for something more. something you can't give it. why? because you're just not special enough. you never are. you know this already, there's no use trying to change it.

so you scroll on social media constantly, trying to fill the empty gap in your chest.

but if anything, it only makes the gap worse.

it shows how much you're missing out, how others have it better than you. how others have something going on for them that lets them stand out. something that makes them alive.

maybe it's just the way things are, the way your life was always destined to be. to be the background character that admires others, never the one being admired. the supporting character that stays stagnant with no character growth.

you're just too average.

just plain old you.

plain like a cracker.

never the first choice, never a choice at all.

you merely exist on this world, you're never truely alive and living life like others. and it's a rather unfortunate thing to be doing when you could be achieveing so much but you're just... you. you don't even know who you are. you're just someone, really.

or at least that's what you think of yourself. he could never see you like that. not when he thinks that you're the best thing to ever happen to him.

he's the exact opposite of you. charming, handsome, an absolute adonis on earth. he's perfect in every sense of the word. and he chose you to give his heart to.

you have no idea why he even fell for you in the first place. you're average. not pretty, not ugly, just somehwere in between. you're not particularly charming or whatsoever, a little awkward but can hold a conversation. sure you've dated once or twice but they weren't serious and you didn't feel bad about break up either. you didn't feel much to begin with.

but with him... well, you think that maybe you just might have a chance.

those encouraging words and affectionate gazes, do you think that perhaps there's someone out there who could potentially change the way you live? the way you've been aimlessly drifting about?

there's just no way.

but you think you'll take the chance. with him, you'll get to do things you've never done before. if not, you'll just go back to where you were before. stuck in the middle, living out your days in an endless cycle of contributing to the Earth's death. there's nothing bad in accepting his hand, his promise for a better life.

at the very least, you'll have someone who tells you he loves you. someone who tells you that you're special and that you mean something. someone that partially fills the hole.

you just want to be somebody, and he'll gladly help you out. he might be a little bit too obsessive and protective, but you guess it's just part of him. he can't change something that makes him who he is, change isn't easy. you know that well.

and doesn't it feel nice to be wanted?

just trust him, everything will be fine. he'll teach you how to live, what love feels like. he'll protect you, take care of you...

"i love you, darling."

are those lies or the truth? you don't know, but you don't really care. would someone who wants someone as average as you ever lie about something like that anyway?

his affection burns with such a hot intensity that you're pretty sure could never be fake. you can see that, you're not blind. he very obviously adores you. that much you're sure.

so just give in already, would you? it would make things a whole lot easier if you stopped trying to resist and make sense of the world. sometimes... some things are just destined to happen. like how you see yourself as shit and he thinks you're perfect. that destiny also includes being with him. he won't accept anything else anyway.

don't worry, you'll be very happy. he's sure of that.

[tseecka]

I peel oranges neatly. The sections come apart cleanly, perfectly in my hands.

***

One day, Ximena buys Jayce a crate of oranges.

She hands it to him one Sunday morning; he still visits every Sunday, makes time early in the morning before the sun has even risen to find his way to the meagre Talis estate and let himself through the front gate and into her warm kitchen, where spiced chocolate is always steaming and waiting for him. She asks him about his work; she asks him about the Council, and about Hextech, and about the forge, and about Viktor and Heimerdinger and the Academy.

He asks her about her garden, and helps her remove and clean and oil the joints of her digital prostheses.

She tuts over a new burn or scrape on his hands--which have never been cared for properly, the skin red and inflamed around the site, a mild infection setting in. She finds the antiseptic and the gauze, withdrawn from the first aid kid mounted next to the kitchen sink, and does her best to clean it, and he indulges her. She is, after all, his mother. He hasn't needed her in a long time, but this is something he can do for her, let her mother him, and it's nice to sit in his childhood home with her fussing over his hand while the mug of chocolate warms his palm, a pleasant soothe against the sharp sting of disinfectant.

This is their weekly morning ritual; it does not typically involve oranges.

(Remaining fic under the cut, or you can read it on Archive of Our Own!)

"I know for a fact," she tells him mildly, digging out a sharp splinter of metal that got lodged at the base of his thumb two nights ago, "that you and that Viktor of yours don't eat nearly enough."

"Ma..." Jayce sighs, shaking his head. His tone is long-suffering, teasingly weary; but he can't say anything more than that, because she is unfortunately, right. There is an icebox in their lab, just a small one, installed in the corner next to the futon he liberated from his old bedroom. It's not wise to argue with Ximena Talis.

She clicks her tongue at him, and the sliver comes out, captured neatly between the precision points of her prostheses--more effective than tweezers. He winces, flexes his hand, and a drop of blood beads on his skin. He'd honestly figured it would work itself out, but she'd spotted it immediately.

"You're so busy, Jayce, I understand this; but you must eat, if only to give that brain of yours the nourishment it needs, hm? Coffee is not enough."

"Okay--but oranges?"

She tears open a small foil packet, withdrawing an antiseptic wipe from inside--a folded piece of damp towel, soaked with solution. She swipes it over the pinprick wound, wiping away the blood. "Your father always kept a crate in the forge," she says, her voice soft and fond. "He was like you--or you are like him. Always working, always moving, never a moment to stop and care for himself. But he liked oranges. The juice for his thirst, the pulp for his stomach, and the sugar for his energy. Convenient; clean." The towelette is set aside. She plucks a small square bandage out of the first aid kit, fitting the adhesive to the skin around the wound. The pale fabric stands out against his darker skin. "I used to come and sit in the forge with him while he worked and peel oranges for him." She laughs, "Useless man. For how fine his smithing was, he never could manage to peel them without smashing them to pulp."

Jaye laughs with her. He doesn't remember his father very well, but the recollection of a toddler brings to mind an enormous bear of a man, with strong, large hands. Maybe larger than they would have been in reality, memory unable to adjust to the passing of time, still remembering a palm and fingers broad enough to encompass the top of his head. It's easy to imagine hands as massive as that trying, and failing, in the delicate operation of removing a peel without damanging the fruit inside.

"Anyways," Ximena continues, folding both her hands over Jayce's one and smiling at him. Crow's feet wrinkle at the corners of her eyes; deep lines form from her nose to the corners of her mouth, etched by the years. "They were on sale. Take them with you and keep them in your lab. Then I will worry less, hm?"

"All right," Jayce agrees, laying his other hand on top of hers and squeezing gently. She is his mother; far be it from him to reject this expression of her love. At worst, they will turn green and fuzzy and end up in next week's trash. At best--a juicy segment of orange now and again does sound nice, against the dry acrid metallic taste of the lab's stagnant air. The bid for time doesn't go unnoticed, though, and he lingers a little longer with his mother today, seeing the gift as emblematic of her maternal worry, and doing what he can to assuage it.

She seems less sad when he leaves, the crate of oranges cradled in his arms. It is early enough still that he thinks he will reach the lab before Viktor does (unless his partner has stayed working through the night; he does that, sometimes, but if that's the case, Jayce was never going to beat him there). The aroma of citrus oil wafts into his nose the entire way to the Academy.

***

Of course they don't have fresh citrus in the Undercity.

It's not like Viktor doesn't know what they are, when he arrives at the lab later that morning (Jayce is pleased at the hour; it means Viktor likely got some real sleep the night before, and even if it was just because he was too exhausted from too many sleepness nights to fight it back any longer--a win is a win). His eyes land on the crate as he hooks his stool with his cane, pulling it over to him; he pauses, as it caught off guard.

"What...are those?"

"...Oranges?"

VIktor sighs impatiently, waving a hand at Jayce as though he's swatting at an insect nuisance. "Yes, I know what oranges are, Jayce. Why are they here?"

"Oh! My mother--a gift. She thought having some fresh fruit in the lab might encourage us to eat better."

Viktor's face shifts into a thoughtful moue, lips pulling down and eyebrows lifting as he considers, shrugs. He settles into his stool and sets the cane aside, leaning against the worktop. Jayce resists needling, asking if Viktor has had breakfast. He'll go for the oranges on his own time. It's irrational to think Ximena would somehow know, or sense, if her gift of care had been rejected. The two men settle into their work--Viktor pulling over an opened notebook and setting his pencil to the page, presumably picking up where he left off in navigating the complex mathematical proofs that have been occupying his mind, Jayce sliding his goggles down over his eyes as he turns his attention to soldering together a number of small components that, he hopes, will one day be capable of housing and conducting energy from a Hexstone. They work in a comfortable silence.

It's a couple of hours later, that Jayce--intent on his work, goggles magnifying the connections in the metal in front of him and by extension blocking out everything else in his surroundings--hears a pained hiss, followed by Viktor's huff of frustration. His back complains as he straightens--how did he end up slouched so far over--and he turns to look at Viktor. The magnification restricts his range of vision, and so it is that he sees--in extensive detail--Viktor's fingers digging like claws into the pitted skin of an orange. His index is buried in the fruit to the first knuckle; there is juice spattering the back of his hand. Hurriedly, he pushes the goggles up off of his eyes, and its in time to see the irritated embarrassment before Viktor wips it from his expression.

"...Doing okay there, Viktor?"

"No, Jayce," comes the exasperated reply. "I have citric acid in my nail bed, and this--impossible fruit refuses to come apart for me. And now my notes are covered in orange juice!"

Wordlessly, Jayce holds out a hand for the orange. Viktor drops it into his palm with another irritated eye roll, withdrawing his finger with a wet popping sound. His face twists in disgust, and he shoves his stool away from the workbench, grabbing up his cane so he can cross to where they keep the cleaning rags. Jayce listens to the retreating tapping of his cane as he considers the orange in his hands.

There are pale grooves in the skin, the pitted surface not quite scraped clean of zest, where Viktor clearly had tried to peel it; scratching at the tough exterior with blunted, chewed-off nails, obviously to no avail. He rotates it in his hands, unable to keep the bemused expression from his face as he notes the evidence of all of Viktor's attempts, culminating, finally, in a singular frustrated stab through the peel and into the flesh beneath.

"Viktor," he calls out, as he fits his own index finger into the wound and pulls, gently, teasing the pith away from the segments as the peel comes away, "what did the orange do to you?"

He hears the tapping of the cane as Viktor comes back to the workbench. He pauses next to Jayce's shoulder, watching as Jayce strips the flesh of its rind in large chunks, tugging away reluctant bits of the pith that refuse to come away cleanly. "Nothing," comes the reply. Jayce glances up at his face, then away; there's a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks, as Jayce peels the fruit with ease. "I just--didn't know the trick of it."

Which is how Jayce learns that, indeed, there are no oranges in the Undercity. And Viktor, for all that he lives in Piltover and has advantages he never could have enjoyed at home, is still staunchly loyal to the Undercity; he tends not to indulge in luxuries that are denied his compatriots. So he never had them at home; and never bothered to seek them out up here.

It's not the first time Jayce has unexpectedly run up against Viktor's rigid internal moral code, manifesting in unexpected ways in how he lives his life as a transplant from disadvantage to relative privilege. Privately, he adds this to his own list of grievances, which grows every time he learns some new angle as to how badly Piltover keeps the Undercity ground below its genteel boot.

He finishes peeling the orange for Viktor, setting the fruit on the pile of discarded rind, and shows him how to tease apart the segments so that they separate cleanly in his hands. Points out where the seeds can sometimes live, so that Viktor won't crack his teeth biting down on one. Viktor nods to him, offering a crooked little half smile, and turns back to his work, wiping away the splatters of orange juice on his notebook pages before turning over to a fresh one. Jayce waits, and watches for a moment, but Viktor seems uninterested in pursuing the fruit any further. Still--it's a good reminder to himself, as well, so he reaches out to snag his own orange from the box, rolling it along the countertop to loosen the peel before quickly stripping it down.

The taste bursts sweet across his tongue. Of course Piltover won't export oranges to the Undercity. They can't have Zaunites developing a taste for sunlight.

***

Viktor's hands are deft and skilled. Jayce knows this; has seen the evidence of his work, his elegant script in their shared notebooks, the fine detail work on the pieces and components of their creations. He has a light touch, deliberate and confident, and more than once Jayce has gotten distracted watching Viktor work. He compares Viktor's hands to his own, often; he knows his broad palms and thick fingers speak of strength, but Viktor's are no more delicate than his own, for all that they are lighter and more nimble. The both bear collections of small wounds; Viktor's nailbeds are often torn and shredded, red and inflamed at the corners where he nibbles off his hangnails and teases at flaps of loose cuticle.

And maybe that's the reason why--the remembered sting of citrus in an open wound making him shy of it--but despite his very adept hands, Viktor seems absolutely useless at peeling oranges. His nails, chewed bluntly down to the quick, can't pierce the skin; no matter how Jayce tries to help, showing him tricks of rolling the orange across a surface or digging in to the navel where it once hung from the branch, Viktor inevitably tears holes into the delicate flesh, juice squirting out in all directions as he craters into the skin. He tries, once, to bite through it with his teeth; Jayce can't help but laugh at the disgusted expression his face shifts into when the bitter oil lands on his tongue and gums.

He doesn't think Ximena would quite approve of the way in which they devour the crate of oranges between them, especially as it makes the need for trips out of the lab to the cafeteria or to the food carts on the streets outside less and less necessary; their diet dwindles down to primarily oranges, for 8 to 12 hours out of the day, when they remember to eat at all, both of them appreicative of the chance to fulfill their bodies' needs without having to get up from their work stations at all. But they're healthy, and its better than not eating anything at all, Jayce thinks--which has often been the case for Viktor, at least, unwilling to abandon his train of thought for even an hour to satisfy his body's demand for nourishment. And for all that trying to peel them frustrates the hell out of his partner, Viktor seems to have developed a taste for them.

Eventually, Viktor stops even trying. He'll reach for an orange and roll it about mindlessly on the table top for a few minutes as he thinks, or ponders a particularly challenging runic equation. He'll roll one of them back and forth between his palms as he stands at the chalkboard, eyes raking over their scrawled notes and diagrams. And sometimes, he simply grabs an orange out of their dwindling supply, and plops it next to Jayce's elbow without a word. In all cases, the wordless request is there; and every time, Jayce takes up the orange, peels it, and sets it back on Viktor's side of the table. Often--not always, but often enough--he'll get a quick smile from Viktor, a duck of his head in thanks, before he goes back to whatever he was working on or talking about.

Sometimes, he pushes the orange back to Jayce's side, and Jayce realizes that he has not in fact eaten yet that day.

Sometimes, when they get stuck, Viktor pushes his rolling stool a few more feet away. They bandy ideas back and forth, hypotheses and refutations, as they toss an orange to and fro across the lab; a break from the monotony, the bright scent of citrus oil sinking into their palms, waking up their tired minds, until one or the other has a sudden brainwave and they can get back to work.

Sometimes, in the time it takes for Jayce to peel the fruit, Viktor's mind has already moved on to something else; and the orange sits, bare and shining, skin slowly drying out in the staticky, dehumidified air of the lab. Jayce takes a certain kind of glee in pulling off a segment when this happens and waiting for an opportune moment--usually while Viktor is expounding on his latest theory, or ripping into one of Jayce's--to pop the orange into his mouth, interrupting him for a brief moment. Viktor's expression is always a delight--first the irate response to having food shoved in his mouth, but then, usually, a look of resigned bliss as he bites down, filling his mouth with a burst of flavour and brightness, and inevitably holding out his hand for the rest of his orange as he continues.

***

When Jayce visits his mother the next week, she doesn't seem surprised when he tells her, a bit sheepishly, that they've already worked through most of the crate. He tells her about peeling oranges for Viktor; he relays the series of misfortunes that Viktor has encountered, watching a soft smile spread, unconsciously, over her features. It makes him feel warm; he stumbles over the rest of his words, finishing the story lamely, but she doesn't say anything about it. Her hand rests over her heart, over the locket she wears around her neck. He doesn't know what her expression is saying.

She walks with him to work that day, forcing a detour to the produce market, where she insists on buying another crate and placing it in his arms. "You boys need to eat," she says, "and a mother worries. Oranges are better than a diet of coffee."

Its not until he kisses her cheek at the entrance to the Academy grounds and bids her a good day, tells her he loves her, that he realizes how similar his orange-story must sound to her own memories, peeling oranges for his father in the forge.

***

"More oranges, Jayce--!" is Viktor's exclamation when Jayce arrives, grimacing a little as he walks into the lab. The market detour made him later than usual. He thinks if he had gotten here first, Viktor probably wouldn't have even noticed the supply replenish, but it's hard to obscure an entire crate of fruit in ones arms.

"It's my mother," he explains, sheepish. "She is convinced we don't eat enough, and now that she knows we've been going through the oranges at a breakneck pace..." He shrugs, and sets the crate on the countertop. He tips the last few oranges from the week before on top, and tosses the empty rigid-paper crate in the direction of the door.

Viktor squints at him. "You are just enjoying my torment. You enjoy mocking me. 'Ah, poor Viktor, he is so incompetent he cannot even peel a fruit.'" The way his tongue rolls on fruit sounds like music to Jayce's ears; he can't help but laugh a little at it, which just causes Viktor's playful scowl to deepen further. "'I must continue to ply him with citrus, to keep him humble, in the hopes that he forgets that I am incompetent in everything but the peeling of oranges."

Jayce has already pulled out two oranges to approximate a breakfast for them both. He peels one in a long, continuous spiral while Viktor continues on his "tirade", plopping it down in one open palm as the gesticulations--a habit of Viktor's whenever he sets out to mock Jayce, exagerrating his admittedly expansive hand movements--come to a pause. Viktor looks down at the orange, then back up at Jayce, who grins, shrugs, and pops an orange segment into his own mouth. "You done?" he asks. "Because I can take that back, if you don't want it." Viktor's fingers curl around the globe, settling into the slight divots between the segments, cleaned of pith as best as Jayce can manage. "Mmm. That's what I thought." He turns away from Viktor, and pulls over a tray holding a pile of metal discs and a handheld grinder.

"Ridiculous man," he hears Viktor mutter; then again, the consonants shaped this time around a mouthful of orange, "absolutely ridiculous." It sounds affectionate, and pleased, and warm; like the sunshine in the orange is beaming out from Viktor's lips, washing over Jayce like a warm summer morning. Jayce shoves the remaining quarter of his own orange into his mouth, cheek bulging out as he chews, and begins notching gears.

***

It's not as though they only eat oranges. Jayce is well aware of his body's needs, to maintain his physical ability in the forge, to retain his muscle definition and physique; he takes pride in his body, he won't be ashamed of it. And, too, he is hyper aware of the needs ot Viktor's body; as it rebels against him, as it deteriorates, the need to eat a balanced diet and intake all of the essential macronutrients for survival becomes ever more present. Viktor doesn't thank him for the fuss, but Jayce keeps a careful tally of everything Viktor eats, to his knowledge, and tries to force himself out of his hyperfocused headspace when it's necessary to ensure they are both getting what their bodies need.

They still take short walks--shorter, now, than they used to be, and Jayce knows that Viktor knows even if he doesn't comment on it--to some of their favourite places, when the need to consume something that is not either coffee or an orange becomes strong enough to pull them away from the lab. When they have a breakthrough, they celebrate at a restaurant, rewarding themselves with a socially acceptable dinner (instead of digging into the work with even more fervour than before).

But every week, Ximena buys a new crate of oranges, and Jayce brings it in to the lab. The space constantly smells of citrus, now--it's a clean, bright, fresh scent, combating the metals and oils and the ozone-copper tang of magic that suffuses their working space. Jayce feels more awake when he walks in each morning, the sharpness hitting his olfactory senses and sending a signal to his brain that makes him alert and attentive. He thinks it is having an impact on Viktor, too--his mood noticeably lightens, his sharp edges of frustration growing a little fuzzier, a little softer, whenever Jayce hands him a freshly peeled orange to combat an ornery mood. He starts collecting the peels, tipping handfuls of them into the jar of vinegar they keep for cleaning their work surfaces. The orange oil infuses into the sharp, acrid vinegar, balancing out the harsh scents with something bright and warm.

And Jayce's hands--they smell like oranges all the time, the scent of it lingering in the bits of zest caught under his nails, the oils worked into his skin. He is surrounded by it; he closes his eyes and feels sun-warmed, comfortable, memories of walking through orange groves flitting through his mind's eye. It's comforting in a way that feels strange until he makes the connection--his mother, peeling oranges for his father in the forge, then coming to gather him up from his minder with orange oil on her own skin. It awakens something in his subconscious, a feeling of home and safety and family, and he realizes--

It's a scent he's started to associate with Viktor, too.

Which doesn't quite make sense--after all, Viktor doesn't peel the oranges, isn't getting his hands and fingernails sticky with orange juice, doesn't have to pry clumps of rind from under his nails when he goes home every day. It makes Jayce a little sad, to realize that this smell he associates so strongly now with Viktor and with their lab might solely be from his perspective. That maybe Viktor doesn't smell of oranges at all. That they haven't left their mark on him the same way as they leave their mark on Jayce.

How many oranges, he wonders, does a person need to eat per day before the essence starts to bleed through their skin; before their cells are infused, like the vinegar in the jar, before that brightness is lent out to their fingertips and palms? If he breathed Viktor in, would he smell of sun-bright citrus, warm and energizing, waking up Jayce's senses?

If he kissed him, would he taste oranges on his breath?

The grinder slips, scoring a rough scrape along his finger, and he bites back a yelp as he is brought forcibly back down to earth from wherever his thoughts have been wandering. Viktor's head shoots up from where he has been working on screwing together the framework for a calibrator, eyes wide and alarmed. Their gazes meet, and Jayce feels a flush creep over his cheeks.

Where did that thought come from?

***

Ximena tuts over the scrape, spanning along the side of his finger nearly from the mound of his knuckle all the way to the tip. The antiseptic solution stings, entering his skin and contacting his nerves through what must be hundreds of tiny nicks, each grain of the rough sandpaper abrading away a tiny piece of his skin.

There is another crate of oranges sitting on the counter, waiting for him to take it to the lab with him when he leaves.

He wants to ask her a question; but he doesn't know how to put it into words. About peeling oranges. About infusion. About how long something can sit in solution with something else before they become inseparable, orange oil in vinegar. It's a silly urge; he is the scientist, after all, these are things he should know, but its less about the combination of molecules than it is about something...more. Something he has no experience with, but which he knows she does; knows it in the way he thinks back to that conversation about peeling oranges, the expression on her face when she spoke about care, her hand resting over the locket, over her heart, the way his foggy memories of both his parents sharpen whenever he first splits an orange peel with his thumbnail and feels that fine mist spray into the air.

He doesn't ask her anything about that, doesn't say anything at all as she tends to his hand, wraps it up with thing gauze to prevent infection. "You're quiet today, caro," she remarks when she's done. He offers her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Thinking through a hypothesis. I'm fairly certain I know the answer, but...I'm having trouble testing it."

She tidies away the first aid supplies, taking them back to their place. Jayce cradles his hand, still stinging, against his chest. When she returns to the kitchen table, she's carrying a small plate with half a dozen golden-brown muffins. Their tops are dotted with gleaming jewels of candied peel, and large crystals of sugar, and curls of pale yellow zest.

"Maybe you're not asking the right question, then," she suggests. "Or maybe your heads addled from too many oranges, and not enough of anything else. Are you actually managing to eat a balanced diet? Or did I condemn my son to a lifetime of nutritional deficiency?"

Jayce has to laugh, as he takes a muffin at her urging. "Well, at least you know I won't die of scurvy," he jokes back as he tears off a bite. Her comment sends him back, to long hours bent over schoolwork; the frustration of trying to sort through scientific procedure, of having to rein in his instinct and enthusiasm for something testable and repeatable, experimental design.

The muffin is sweet and warm, a little bitter from the copious amount of zest inside. He groans his appreciation, and she answers it with a beatific smile. "These are so damn good, Ma," he tells her. She swats his arm for swearing. "Can I take one with me? For Viktor?"

She looks at him, and he swallows as the weight of her regard falls on him. There's something significant in her even gaze, as it flicks down to the muffins, then back up at him. He knows, before she tells him--

Viktor made them.

***

Jayce does take a muffin for the road--for himself, seeing as Viktor likely has as many as he would want after having baked the batch. He tucks it into a corner of the box of oranges as he walks, his mind racing. It's not--it doesn't need to mean anything. Anyone can slice an orange in half with a knife, cut through the barrier to get at the flesh inside, juice it and squeeze it into a batter. It's just--the peel. Diced, and finely, but not enough to hide the pieces with a rough and ragged edge, distinct from the knife work on the other four sides. The way some of the little chunks, enrobed in sugary syrup, still have tiny shreds of pith clinging to them, encased like a bug in amber. That's not--if you cut an orange apart to get at the pieces you needed, or if you bought those pieces already prepared, those things wouldn't be--

And of course, it's not like Viktor is incompetent. One doesn't need a pristinely peeled orange for use in baking, it's not like it matters, he could massacre a pile of oranges and still get what he needs for the recipe, but--

If I kissed him, would Viktor taste of oranges?

"Maybe you're not asking the right question."

Do I...want to kiss Viktor?

***

Jayce feels himself moving slowly, when he pushes open the door to the lab. There is a reluctance to it; not fear, but hesitance. For a man normally so bold with discovery, it doesn't quite feel like him, but for all their talk of changing the world--this hypothesis feels like it could shake every foundation of everything Jayce has known, up to this point, more than any he has had before.

He sets down the box of oranges; there are none left to replace on top, and he's fairly certain there were some still in the box last night, which means the fruit in the muffins came from their supply. Viktor took them home; he didn't buy the ingredients pre-prepared. He takes out the muffin, and sets it, carefully, at Viktor's work station; in the space where he normally deposits his coffee mug. It's maybe a bit overdramatic; the morning sun slants in through the window and falls directly on it, setting the candied peel to glistening.

He takes a few moments to bustle about the lab, pouring clearning vinegar onto a rag and wiping down the stainless steel surfaces until they are gleaming, until the only thing he can smell is oranges. His pulse is pounding in his ears.

"Maybe you're not asking the right question."

Does Viktor...want to kiss me?

An hour passes; two. Jayce can't sit still; he grabs Viktor's notebook, and flips through the pages, reviewing the work from the last week, jotting down some observations in the margins and copying some thoughts down into his own collection of notes. He grabs a second book, comparing work from two months ago to the work they are refining now; finds an inconsistency, corrects it, copies it into both books so that they are each correct. He balances them in one hand and copies a few figures onto the chalkboard, the chalk screeching against the slate, his lines shaky.

Finally, he hears the door open ehind him, the tapping of Viktor's cane as it hits the ground with every step. He hears the unusual pause as Viktor comes intot he room, enough to see the muffin sitting in its beam of light--or where it used to be; the sun has moved, and the shaft from the window is creeping now along the very edge of the workbench and up the wall, putting the pastry back into shadow. Still, he knows he sees it. He thinks he can hear Viktor's brain calculating from here. The other man says nothing. The tapping of the cane resumes, and when he hears the creak of the stool settling under Viktor's weight, he turns on his heel, plastering a nonchalant, sunny smile onto his face.

"Good morning," he offers, and aims for casual as he closes Viktor's notebook, tossing it gently towards the the end of the workbench so that Viktor can re-shelve it in the stack of books and notes and loose papers accoring to whatever strange filing system he's adopted. "Everything okay? You were a little late getting in."

"I am fine, Jayce," Viktor says. He doesn't sound quite fine; his voice sounds a little strained. Kind of like his own. Viktor clears his throat. "Just had a rough start to the morning. Pain acting up; I opted to move a bit more slowly, and allowed myself some time to soak in epsom salts before I made my way here."

Jayce makes a sympathetic noise, settling into his own chair, tossing his own notebook down onto the work surface. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and he means it. "You've been having a good couple of weeks; sorry that the pain's back."

"Eh. It is what it is. I will deal with it as I always do," is Viktor's reply.

"Is there anything I can do?"

The question is met with silence. Jayce tries to keep his hands busy, as though the question isn't loaded with weight and meaning, as though he hasn't placed an accusatory muffin right in pride of place on Viktor's work station, like he doesn't have a hypothesis buzzing in his head based on nothing more than instinct and disconnected observations. But his eyes flit to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of Viktor--his posture, his body language, his expression. HIs partner is extremely still, for a moment, then a moment omre.

Then he moves. Jayce watches as he reaches out, past the muffin, and snags an orange from the box. "I'm a little hungry," Viktor murmurs quietly. Jayce turns a bit more, swiveling in his seat to face him more directly. Viktor isn't looking at him; his eyes are watching the orange as he rolls it back and forth on the countertop, smooth, measured motions, flicking from it to the muffin and back again. The motion stops, the orange pinned between his fingertips--deft, nimble, strong--and the desktop. There's an orange tinge under his fingernails.

Then, decisively, Viktor flicks his fingers, sending the orange rolling to nudge up against Jayce's elbow. Viktor's eyes lift to his face, and there's a sweet, tentative half-smile there. Jayce isn't sure he's ever seen an expression like it, not on Viktor, at least. He can see the small gap in his teeth, the crooked line of his lower jaw. He's close; closer than Jayce realized. When he speaks, Jayce swears he smells oranges.

"Would you mind peeling an orange for me?"

***

When Emily peels an orange, she tears holes in it. Juice squirts in all directions.

"Kate," she says, "I don't know how you do it!"

Emily is my best friend. I hope she never learns how to peel oranges.

- Oranges, Jean Little

Peeling oranges 🍊🧡

[baronboar]

This time let's circle back to equity later and focus on some basics! What's up with TAILS?

Transcript under the cut:

1. First of all, why do the people in a setting even need tails? Humans don't have tails for a number of reasons, we don't chase prey so we don't need it to help us change direction like a rudder. We also don't climb trees so we don't need one for keeping hold of branches or for balance. But in a world of megafauna, maybe you need a tail to help you turn fast to flee? Or maybe a hunter needs a rudder to swim? But most importantly!! It's fun & helps your people feel unique!

[IMG: A an anthro rat and sea lion, the rat is leaning over in a similar fashion to the sea lion who naturally stands horizontally like a T-rex. This shows how they both can use tails as counter balance.]

Think about why species in a setting might have tails and perhaps you will think of something that adds depth to your world… For warmth, like a blanket! To increase visibility when foraging! For Combat!!!

[IMG Three tails, a big fluffy artic fox tail, a tall lemur tail, and a spiny draconic tail.]

2. Clothing is the main issue I see brought up when discussing tails & Furgonomics. many solutions can be found when looking at furry artwork, so look around! The only solution i'd say is not valid is…The belt under the tail.

[IMG: a tailed person from behind, their jeans are below the tail, you can see their butt cheeks.] [IMG: Two illustrations of human femurs with tails, the spine points them downwards.]

A tail would sit far too low to comfortably wear trousers there, imagine wearing yours below the pelvis at your hips? Even with a belt that is far too risqué! The best solutions all put the waistband above the tail and either have a hole for the tail or in the case of clothing like dresses and skirts allow the tail to sit freely beneath.

[IMG: Three different people with different garments. The first is labelled 'breech cloth', it's a Y shaped cut of fabric attached to the waist by a string. The second is labelled 'sarong', the feline figure from the side has a length of fabric around the belly with a length hanging down over their pubic area like a loin cloth. The third is the most like trousers/pants, the belt keeps shut a flap that goes over the base of the tail that overlaps with the tail hole.]

In my setting of Firnus different cultures have their own designs to fit environmental needs. The Gilter braghe is a sleeveless trouser designed with modesty in mind. compare this to the rav breechcloth, made for wearing under robes. Or avoid the tail hole all together and beat the heat with the pantheran quarter sarong!

3. So where else can tails be a problem…? CHAIRS.

[IMG: Two normal chairs, they have back rests but also gaps between that and the seat.]

most people are going to jump immediately to seats like these:

But i'm going to make my case as to why this would not be comfortable: See this dog skeleton to the right? When a quadrupedal animal sits, they don't rest on their upper legs or put any pressure on their fragile tails, Instead they rest on their hocks & hind feet! Why? Exactly as we discussed with trousers, tails wouldn't go out, they'd go down. As part of the spine, if you wanted to sit back in a chair your spine would be vertical.

[IMG: A dog skeleton from the side.] [IMG: A small concerned mustelid says: "Sitting on your tail would feel like bending your fingers backwards with your full body weight!"]

…So, I believe anthro species wouldn't want to put pressure on their tails by sitting on them… So we cut a hole out from the bottom and back of the chair, right? Yes! and no. Yes because when you're world building you can do whatever works best for you! But no because I'm not satisfied with this answer and I'm driving this PNG!!!! So how do we fix this? Let's see why chairs even exist in the first place!

[IMG: a chair like the ones above with a half circle cut from the back of the seat.]

4. The earliest (known) chairs come from the 2nd dynasty of Egypt during the Thinite period. These chairs were as short at the seat as 10 inches! …But like, Why? as a status symbol! These caught on as nobility wished to copy kings, and then the common people copied nobility. They're also useful to keep your clothes clean and prevent you from resting on cold or wet ground.

[IMG: Two desert foxes, one on a chair is joyfully sitting upon a chair, covered in gold adornments like a pharaoh. He says: 'I'm sitting higher! So I'm better than you!' The other fox looks concerned, wears no gold as she kneels and says: 'Hm.']

But we don't need kings!! If you want something for similar use without those connotations. Here's some options:

[IMG: Two people sitting on a bench and a large plush pillow as well as a rectangular cushion that's rolled up.]

Kneeling! While many cultures use this to show reverence, few still kneel for comfort.

Benches and stools! Before chairs became affordable for the average person simpler furnishings were commonly used. These don't have tricky tail holes to fumble around with and can be as simple as a plank.

cushions! A thick pillow or rolled rug would allow a person to sit cross-legged without their tail pressing down against a hard surface.

Think about who needs chairs, where they'd be used, and the answer will come naturally! Have fun world building!

[senascoop]

ꣀ꣒ WHEN YOU’RE ALL THAT THEY WANT IN THIS LIFE . . 엔하이펜 ☁︎

pairing, enhypen × afab reader . . . genre, scenario(s), comfort core . . . word count, 200-300 each . . . [LIBRARY]

. , LEE HEESEUNG ☁︎ 이희승 !

“It’s okay, I can do this.” You mutter, determination laced in your voice as you struggle to pull your top over your head. The door is shut, the room quiet except for your frustrated sighs. Your fractured hand, wrapped tightly in a cast, throbs slightly, but the real pain isn’t physical. It’s the creeping frustration, the helplessness, the way twenty minutes have passed and you’re still stuck, half-dressed, fingers trembling. It’s just a bra. A simple t-shirt. But why does it feel impossible? Your throat tightens. Useless. The word sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and cruel.

“Baby, I’m coming in.” Heeseung’s voice is gentle, the door creaking open before you can protest. His gaze lands on your bare back, and though he can’t see your face, he knows—you’re frowning, lips pursed, probably on the verge of tears. “It’s just me, hmm?” His voice is soft as he steps forward, hands finding your shoulders. He carefully turns you to face him, and even as warmth creeps up his neck, he forces himself to focus—on you, not the vulnerability of your exposed skin. Heeseung swallows, picking up your bra with careful fingers. But his heart clenches when he finally sees your teary eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asks, voice laced with concern.

You look down, shame curling in your stomach. “I feel so useless… I can’t even dress myself properly. My hand keeps getting in the way.” His brows knit together as he helps you clasp the bra, then effortlessly pulls the t-shirt over your head. His touch is careful, deliberate—like he’s afraid you might break further. When he’s done, Heeseung cups your cheeks, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Stop thinking that,” he murmurs. “This is temporary, hmm? But what’s permanent is my love for you.” His gaze holds yours, steady and full of warmth—reminding you that even when you feel weak, he sees you as nothing less than strong.

. , PARK JONGSEONG ☁︎ 박종성 !

You carefully mixed the ingredients, your hands coated in the strong, pungent scent of kimchi as you worked beside your future mother-in-law. You had always wanted to learn how to make it, especially for Jay. You smiled to yourself, imagining how he’d react to your homemade kimchi one day, even if you still weren’t sure when that "someday" would be. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it.” You muttered to yourself as you worked, following her instructions. From the doorway, you could hear Jay laughing lightly, chatting with his mom about something—probably teasing each other, the way they always did.

It made your heart warm to see them getting along so easily, and you couldn’t help but think about how one day, this might be your family too. Jay caught your eye and smiled, his eyes softening as he watched you. You knew the look—the one that said he could picture a future with you, one where you were part of his world, just as you were becoming part of his family. “I’m so glad you’re learning to make this,” Jay said, his voice low, as he came closer. He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, his warmth a reminder of how much he loved you. “You know,” he continued, his tone teasing, “I think my mom’s kimchi is the best. But your version might be a close second.” You laughed softly. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

. , SIM JAEYUN ☁︎ 심재윤 !

You sighed, staring at the crumpled bills in your wallet. The numbers weren’t adding up—again. How were pads this expensive? Weren’t they a necessity? You let out a frustrated groan, popping another piece of chocolate into your mouth. Maybe that was part of the problem too. You could survive without snacks, but during that time of the month? Impossible. You rested your head on the kitchen counter, already dreading the rest of the month.

“My money is your money. Stop calculating.” Jake’s voice startled you. You turned to see him standing at the bedroom door, arms crossed, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. His hair was messy, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but his smirk was sharp, full of amusement. “Yeah, but—” Before you could finish, he was behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his chest against your back. His chin rested on your shoulder as he swayed you slightly, the warmth of his body making it hard to focus on why this still didn’t feel right.

“But what?” he murmured. “You do know I plan on marrying you, right?” Your breath hitched. “Jake—” “Nope. No arguments.” He spun you around effortlessly, hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your skin, his grin softening into something more sincere. “That means my money is already yours, dummy.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he only tapped your lips. “Nope. Not hearing it.” You huffed. “You’re impossible.” “And you love me for it.” He kissed your forehead before stepping back. “Now, should we go get you more chocolate too?” Damn him and his boyfriend privileges.

. , PARK SUNGHOON ☁︎ 박성훈 !

“Where is he…” you mumble, scanning the crowd anxiously. Sunghoon isn’t good with places like this—too many people, too much noise. You had only left for a few minutes to grab snacks, but now, the once calm area had become packed with people swarming to see a panda. Then you spot him. He’s stiff, standing awkwardly near a signpost, his hands clenched into nervous fists. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his shoulders rising slightly with tension. His gaze flickers around like he’s calculating an escape route, but his eyes widen the moment they land on you. You don’t waste a second, weaving through the bodies until you reach him.

The second your hand finds his, he flinches—but when he realizes it’s you, his grip tightens. Relief washes over his face as you quickly guide him out of the crowd. The moment you’re in the clear, you pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, you got stuck because of me.” Sunghoon shakes his head, still catching his breath. “It’s not your fault. I mean… I was the one who got hungry.” He mutters, trying to act tough, but the pink dusting his cheeks gives him away. Then, in a quieter voice, he mumbles, “But I’m glad it was you who found me. Otherwise, I’d look like a lost kid.” You grin, poking his flushed cheek. “You kinda already did.” “Shut up.” He groans, but the way he squeezes your hand says otherwise.

. , KIM SUNOO ☁︎ 김수누 !

You leaned your head against Sunoo’s shoulder, wincing slightly as the throbbing in your foot made itself known. You never imagined that something so small could cause this much trouble. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but it made it impossible to walk without cringing. Despite your attempts to be independent, Sunoo had insisted on helping, his voice filled with concern. “I told you to be careful.” His tone was teasing but laced with care. You sighed, not wanting to feel helpless. “I was careful! It just… happened.” He chuckled, a soft, comforting sound, as he gently adjusted his hold around you. Even though you were leaning heavily against him, you couldn’t help but notice how strong he was—certainly stronger than you’d expected.

Sunoo was never the bulky type; he wasn’t exactly a gym freak, and you loved him just the way he was. Still, the way he effortlessly lifted you into his arms made you pause. “Are you sure you’re not secretly training for a superhero role?” You teased, letting your voice be light despite the discomfort. “Maybe.” He smirked down at you, carrying you up the stairs with ease. “But my real superpower is making sure you’re always taken care of.” You laughed softly, your heart fluttering at his words. “Well, you’re doing a great job.” He winked, eyes sparkling with affection. “I know.” As he laid you down gently on the bed, his touch lingering on your side, you couldn’t help but feel thankful—not just for his strength, but for the way he always knew how to make you feel safe, even when life threw you off balance.

. , YANG JUNGWON ☁︎ 양정원 !

You lay in bed, limbs heavy, the fever wrapping around you like an unbearable weight. Every inch of your body ached, exhaustion pulling at your consciousness. You didn’t remember when exactly your eyes had closed, only that the loneliness of being sick made the world feel quieter, emptier. When you woke up, it wasn’t silence that greeted you—it was a familiar voice, soft yet laced with worry. “You scared me when you didn’t pick up your phone.” Your vision blurred slightly as you tried to focus.

Jungwon stood beside your bed, a warm cloth in his hand, dabbing your forehead. In his other hand was a bowl of soup, the steam curling in the air. You blinked, groggy, then turned to your phone on the nightstand. Ten missed calls. Your throat felt dry. “How’d you know?” Jungwon sighed, dipping the spoon into the soup before carefully bringing it to your lips. “Because you always pick up. And when you don’t, it means something’s wrong.” The first sip was surprisingly sweet, warming your throat, easing the discomfort in your chest.

You hummed in appreciation, and a small, satisfied smile tugged at Jungwon’s lips. “This is… really good,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “Of course it is. I made it,” he said, feigning smugness before his expression softened. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing over your warm skin. “Good thing, though… your temperature feels normal now.” His touch, gentle and reassuring, made something inside you melt. “Jungwon…” “Shh.” He shook his head. “No need to thank me. Taking care of you is kinda my full-time job.” You let out a tired chuckle. “Oh? Do you get paid for this?” He grinned. “Yeah. Your love is enough.”

. , NISHIMURA RIKI ☁︎ 리키 !

“Don’t stop,” Riki mumbles, voice laced with exhaustion as your fingers glide through his soft hair. His head rests on your chest, his body melting into yours as he finally lets himself be taken care of—for once. You feel the tension leave his shoulders with every stroke, his breathing slowing, steadying. “It feels like my stress is fading away…” he murmurs, his words barely above a whisper. You let out a soft chuckle, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Then just stay like this,” you say, shifting slightly before tossing a leg over his, pulling him impossibly closer. He lets out a content sigh, nuzzling deeper into you, the warmth between you two making the rest of the world disappear. “Hmmpf…” he hums, voice drowsy, before mumbling, “I can’t wait to live with you forever.”

His words come out so naturally, like a thought slipping past his lips before he can even second-guess it. Your heart stutters. “Wouldn’t you get annoyed?” you tease, though there’s a genuine question hidden underneath. “Like those couples who grow tired of each other?” Riki immediately lifts his head, eyes blinking up at you in pure offense before peppering your face with soft, lazy kisses—your cheeks, your nose, your lips. “Never,” he mumbles against your skin, before sighing and resting his head back against your chest, fingers curling into your shirt. You smile as he wraps his arms around you, holding you like you’re his whole world. Because, in truth, you are.

© senascoop | tumblr

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Here"

Ok yall I'm back with chapter 7!! Hopefully this posts bc it wasn't working yesterday. Sorry if it's confusing, I rewrote it like 5 times! I tried not to use {y/n} but i mightve slipped up! Hope ya'll enjoy!! The plot is finally moving!! Lmk if you have any questions. Likes, reblogs, and asks motivate me! I love when yall send me your ideas and comments and asks! Wish me luck, I'm posting this and then taking my math exam! If you don't like it, don't read, stop sending mean asks and submissions!

Breakfast the next morning was horrible.

The awkward silence lingered, thick with unspoken words and eyes that felt like they were scanning every inch of you. You could feel their weight on your back, like a thousand invisible hands pushing you deeper into your seat, forcing you to stay in this uncomfortable moment.

You could already feel the heat rising in your chest, but you bit your lip, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. You weren’t going to lose your cool—not yet.

Damian’s gaze was fixed on you, like he was waiting for some kind of reaction, his lips pressed into a thin line. You knew what he was expecting: compliance. Submission. He expected you to shrink back under his scrutiny. And yet, there was something oddly satisfying about not giving him that satisfaction.

Instead, you focused on the plate in front of you, stabbing your fork into the pancakes with far too much force. You were still hungry, but the food felt like cardboard in your mouth, tasteless and dry, even though Alfred’s cooking was always the best.

Bruce was still watching you, his eyes heavy with a kind of expectant patience, like he was just waiting for you to crack. You could feel the tension in the room like a ticking clock, the seconds stretching longer than you’d ever thought possible.

"Why are you all staring at me?" you finally muttered, breaking the silence, your voice low but biting. You didn't look up from your plate, but you could feel the eyes on you. They all thought they could break you. They thought you were some fragile little thing, someone they could fix with their pity and their "family time." But you weren’t. You’d stopped being that person a long time ago.

Dick was the first to speak, his voice softer than usual, like he was trying to tread lightly around you. “We’re just trying to connect, I know it’s been a long time, and things got… complicated, but we don’t want to lose you again. Not after all this time.”

His words weren’t as comforting as he probably thought they were. In fact, they made your skin crawl. He was trying to be kind, but it felt forced, like he was reading from a script. You didn’t need this. Not from him, not from any of them. You wanted them to stop pretending like they could fix everything with a few hugs, a couple of "we missed you"s.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, but it carried a weight. “I didn’t ask to be here. And I didn’t ask to be part of this family anymore.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened at your words, but he didn’t say anything at first. You could feel the flicker of something in his expression—guilt, maybe. Regret. He was looking at you, like he was trying to see the person you used to be. The person you had been before everything fell apart.

You weren’t that person anymore. And he needed to understand that.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Damian suddenly said, his voice a little too sharp. “You can’t just shut us out like this. You’re still a part of this family. Whether you like it or not.”

Your eyes shot up to meet his. " I can shut you all out, I can do whatever I want” you snapped, the frustration leaking through. “You’ve done it to me for years.”

Dick’s brow furrowed, his lips pulling into a frown. For a second, he looked genuinely taken aback by your words, “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone quieter but still laced with an edge. “We didn’t abandon you. Not on purpose. You think we didn’t care? You just never seemed to need help.”

You could feel the sting of his words, but you pushed it down, locking it away. You weren’t going to break. Not for him. Not for any of them. Of course you never needed help, you were too busy trying to be perfect.

“I was just a kid,” you replied, your voice a little rawer, louder than you intended. “And I was ignored by the people who were supposed to be there for me. So fuck you and fuck your family time too.”

There was a long pause, everyone looked around in shock, not expecting you to be so combatant and then Jason finally spoke up, his tone softer than usual, less teasing. “We’re trying, okay? I'm trying. We’re not perfect, and I’m not asking you to just forget everything. But we want to try. Let us try.”

You shot him a look, your eyes narrowing. “Trying isn’t good enough,” you muttered, your voice tight. “Not when it’s years too late. I don't want scraps of love anymore, not when i've had the real deal.”

Everyone seemed to quiet at the last part of your statement, suspicious of what it meant and from who you received "love" from. What convinced you that you didn't need them anymore?

“Then what do you want?” Tim interjected, his voice suddenly sharper, more direct than before. “What do you want from us? We’re here, and we’re trying to make it right. But you’ve got to meet us halfway.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell them that nothing would ever be good enough, that the damage was already done. But you didn’t. Instead, you just stared at Tim, meeting his eyes with a challenge of your own. You didn’t owe them answers. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost defeated. “I don’t know what I want.”

It was the truth. You didn’t know what you wanted. You didn’t know if there was anything they could do to fix things. But one thing was certain: you didn’t want to stay in this mansion, suffocated by their expectations. You didn’t want to play along with their idea of a happy family.

Before anyone could respond, you stood up abruptly, pushing your chair back with a loud scrape against the floor.

“Don’t worry about me,” you said, turning on your heel. “I’ll figure it out on my own. I always have.”

You heard Duke’s soft voice in the background, calling after you, but you didn’t stop. You just walked out of the dining room, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way toward the staircase.

As you climbed the stairs, you could feel their eyes on your back, the weight of their presence pressing down on you, but you didn’t care anymore. You didn’t care if they watched. You didn’t care if they were disappointed. You just wanted to be alone.

That day, you stayed in bed. You ignored every knock on your door, every phone call, every beg and plead to come down and eat. You just wanted to be alone.

You woke up to the quiet hum of the manor, but it was far from peaceful. The silence was suffocating, a constant reminder that there was no escaping them—not now. You tried to pretend the night before hadn’t happened, that their constant attention wasn’t as overwhelming as it was, that you were going back to New York soon. Unfortunately, fantasies don't become realities, especially when reality is chasing them down.

Every one of them was here, waiting. Watching.

Bruce stood near the staircase, his presence larger than life. His eyes lingered on you as if he expected something. You weren’t sure what. Maybe gratitude, maybe obedience. He said nothing, just watched you with that expression of silent insistence.

“Good morning,” he said in that deep, calm voice of his, but there was something off about it. There was a layer of expectation beneath his words, like he was waiting for something from you.

You ignored him, brushing past him without a second glance. You didn’t want to engage, didn’t want to pretend like everything was okay. But it didn’t matter. They were all around you now, slowly closing in.

Tim was the next to corner you. You could feel his calculating eyes on you the moment you stepped into the kitchen. He had a cup of coffee in hand, but his focus was on you. Just you.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, the question seemingly casual but the undertone too sharp, too analytical. It wasn’t just a question, it was a probe, a way for him to gauge how much control he had over you.

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the fridge to grab something that could distract you, something that could make the reality of this house feel a little less like a cage. But the moment your hand touched the door, he was there, standing far too close, watching you, almost breathing down your neck.

“You know,” Tim said, his voice low, “we can talk today. If you want. We need to keep your abilities in check, make sure you’re safe, protected. ” His tone lingered on that last word, like he was reminding you that you were under his watch now.

You hated how calmly he said it. It made your skin crawl.

Steph was next, adding onto what Tim said with her stupid signature smile, "He's right y'know. It's dangerous out there. For you especially."

You ignored them both. Payback for their years of negligence.

Tim just stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning your face. “Fine, be like that,” he muttered, before walking away, but you knew he wasn’t done. He never was.

And then there was Dick. His usual cheerful demeanor didn’t falter as he breezed into the room, but it was too cheerful, too bright. He was pushing something, forcing something, like he was trying to manufacture happiness out of thin air, trying to remind you of who you were, who you used to be.

“Hey! How about we do something today?” he said, his voice far too eager. “We could go out and grab coffee, breakfast, anything. I know you’re probably not feeling it, but you need to get out of this house for a bit.”

You wanted tear him apart for thinking you could just “forget” everything and fall back into some comfortable, happy routine. But you didn’t. Instead, you just nodded stiffly, walking past him without acknowledging his words.

“Come on,” he tried again, following you, “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Just drop it, Dick,” you said, your voice like ice. “I’m not going anywhere. Ya'll made that pretty clear.”

His face faltered for just a moment before he plastered that damn grin back on. But you saw it, the frustration and determination behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to stop. None of them were.

Jason leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a smirk you couldn’t quite decipher. “Ah, the princess finally comes out her tower,” he teased. “What? Got tired of throwing shit around in there?"

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the heat in your chest rise. Jason always had a way of pissing you off with his words, making everything seem like a joke, but you knew there was something darker underneath. He wanted to get a rise out of you, he craved it. He wanted you to go back to being his annoying little sister with anger issues.

“Shut up, Jason,” you muttered, turning away from him, not caring that you weren’t hiding your anger anymore. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today.”

Jason just laughed, but there was a hint of something softer there, something that felt almost... like concern, buried beneath the sarcasm.

“Stop,” you snapped, but before you could escape, Damian stepped in.

Damian was the most direct, the most unforgiving in his attempts to bond. He stepped into your path without hesitation, his posture rigid and eyes narrowed, as if daring you to push him away.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low, yet intense. “You think you’re some rebellious teenager trying to escape, but you’re not. You don’t get a choice in this.” His words weren’t harsh, they were final, like he had already decided your fate. And you were staying here, whether you liked it or not.

“You’re wrong,” you spat, your voice venomous. "I don’t need you.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, an unsettling calm settling over him. “You’ll need us eventually. Whether you want to or not. And you'll be grateful we never let you go.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you didn’t let him see it. Not yet. His audacity was insane. To think that you'd be thankful for being trapped in Gotham. Never.

As you tried to walk past him, you collided with Cass, who was standing silently behind you, her eyes filled with that knowing, unspoken concern. She's so creepy. She didn’t say a word but you could feel her presence, like a weight pressing down on you.

Cass placed a hand gently on your arm, her touch barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make you freeze.

Why are they acting like this? What changed these two weeks?

"You’re safe here," she said quietly, her words cutting through the tension in a way that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command.

You pulled away sharply, nearly punching her, your fists clenched at your sides. “I'm not happy.” you said, more to yourself than to her.

But she didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t. Her eyes just followed you, and that was worse than any words.

Barbara was close by, but she didn’t need to be loud. She never did. She had this way of talking in soft tones that made everything sound so reasonable. So loving.

“You don’t have to keep shutting us out,” she said gently. “You can talk to us. We just want to make sure you’re okay. All of us. We care about you.”

You felt the weight of her words crash down on you, suffocating you with their sweetness, with their hidden demands. Care. It was just another word for control, for keeping you locked in their world, locked in their gaze. If they cared, they would let you be happy in New York.

“Just stop,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “Just... stop.”

You sat in your room for hours again, ignoring everyone.

Bruce had spent the last few days carefully watching you, keeping his distance just enough to make you think you had some semblance of freedom, but now he was ready to step in, to claim his role as your father.

He had promised himself when you left for France, he would make it right. That he would make up for everything he had missed, for every moment he had abandoned you for the greater good of Gotham. But now, as the silence stretched between you two, he was determined to close that distance.

You had just returned to your room after another breakfast you didn’t want to be part of when you heard the knock.

It was Bruce.

“You’re not busy, are you?” he asked, his voice almost too warm, too hopeful.

You shot him a glance, wondering if he truly thought this would work. After everything that had happened, after all the times he had failed you, he still thought a few “father-daughter” moments could make things better.

"I guess not," you replied flatly, stepping aside to let him in, your mind already racing with how to get through whatever this was going to be.

The moment he entered, Bruce seemed to settle, as though he had a plan in mind, one he was eager to execute.

“Good,” he said, looking around the room, his eyes scanning for something, maybe an opportunity. Then, he turned back to you, hands clasped behind his back. “I thought today, we could spend some time together. Just us. It’s been a while since we’ve done something like this, hasn’t it? School starts soon and you'll get busy, you won't have time for me anymore.”

He was trying to joke around.

School. More like prison. The more he mentioned school, the angrier you got. You'd never done something like this. He did it with all his other kids though, with Tiffany. As you thought of her, all ideas of being nice to Bruce, of trying to bond with your father, flew out the window.

The words felt like a slap, and you couldn’t keep the bite from your tone. “Is that what you think this is? Quality time? You really think we’re just gonna pick up where we left off? Think you can change the past with brunch?”

Bruce’s eyes softened for a moment, his expression cracking, but only slightly. The guilt was there, unmistakable, but it didn’t erase the unspoken expectation behind his words. His voice became more gentle, more insistent.

“I know it’s not easy,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something else—something almost pleading, though he would never admit it. “But I want to make this right. You deserve this. You deserve... me. We can go out, maybe catch a movie, grab lunch, talk, whatever you want. I just want to be with you. Like you always talked about.”

You didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, you just stood there, frozen, as the weight of his words crashed over you. It was nice watching him beg for once. You had always wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted him to be a father, to care for you like he did the others. But that was before you tasted freedom, before you tried love.

Now, the idea of spending time with him felt like a betrayal to everything you had tried to protect: your own independence, your own space, your freedom. You didn’t want to be a part of his perfect little family anymore.

“No.” you muttered, unable to stop the anger from flooding your chest. “You really think that’s going to fix things? You think I just forgot what you did? Because i'm nice sometimes?”

Bruce didn’t flinch at your words, didn’t even show any sign of anger. Instead, he just stepped closer, his presence filling up the room, looming over you like an impenetrable wall. His tone remained patient, almost too controlled, like he was walking on eggshells.

“I know I can’t undo the past,” he said quietly, a trace of regret slipping through. “But I can be here for you now. I won’t make the same mistakes. I promise.”

A cold laugh escaped your lips. “You already have.”

You could feel your pulse quicken, the anger bubbling up inside you, but you pushed it back. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Bruce’s eyes softened even further, the guilt twisting in his expression, and for a moment, you saw something else there—desperation. As if he was begging you to let him in, to give him just one chance to prove he wasn’t the same person who had abandoned you for years.

“We could just sit and talk,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “No expectations. No agenda. Just us. I’m not trying to fix you or make everything perfect. I just want to spend time with my daughter.”

Something in you snapped at the mention of daughter. The word that had haunted you for years. The word that had felt like a lie every time he used it. You clenched your fists, struggling to keep your composure.

“No,” you said, your voice flat, cutting through the tension like a knife. “You don’t get it. I don’t want this anymore. I don't want you anymore.”

Bruce’s face faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. But the hurt was there, tucked in the corners of his eyes. “I'm sorry. I hope you know that.”

You shook your head, not wanting to hear it anymore. The damage was done. He couldn’t erase it. No amount of “father-daughter time” was going to make you forget what it had been like when he wasn’t there for you.

“Stop,” you snapped, taking a step back. “Just stop. You don’t get to do this, Bruce. You don’t get to waltz in here and act like everything is fine. Like everything’s fixed. You’ve ruined it. All of it.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle to understand where it had gone wrong.

“I’m just trying to make up for it,” he said quietly, but the sound of it made your stomach churn. The way his voice cracked slightly at the end of the sentence only made it worse.

And you hated yourself for feeling even a little guilty for saying no.

But no. You wouldn’t let him do this. Not again.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you spat, your tone sharp, venomous. “And I don’t want your ‘time.’ You don’t get to play the father now.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked toward the door. You needed to escape. You needed space. You needed to breathe. You were leaving your own room to get away from him.

Bruce’s voice stopped you, and you felt the pull of his desperate plea in the back of your mind. His words clung to you, too heavy, too much. “I'll go, don't leave. This is your room. I just want you to know I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

You watched your father walk away, and only after he left did you fall to your bed and cry.

The next days before school were a blur. You spent them locked in your room, alternating between crying on the phone with Ariel, avoiding the family when you went down to sneak food to your room, trying to butter up Bruce and convince him to let you go back to boarding school, and online shopping.

Yet somehow Monday morning you were up at 5:30 getting into the shower.

The thought of returning to Gotham Prep made your stomach churn. How could you go back to a place where you had no true friends? A school where you’d been bullied by half your grade. Where Tim pretended you didn’t exist, Damian and Tiffany ridiculed you in front of everyone, and Duke ignored you like you were invisible. Where you ate lunch in the bathroom, alone and cried in the janitor's closet like a loser.

But you weren't the same girl who walked through those halls last year. No, this year was going to be different. You were different.

Last night, as you scrolled through Tik Tok, a new idea formed in your mind. You’d had enough of being invisible. It was time for a change.

You had a plan.

You found the bleach blonde hair dye in your bathroom, hidden away in the back of a drawer. You didn’t need permission, and you certainly didn’t need anyone to hold your hand.

By the time the dye had set and you’d rinsed it out, you felt like a new person. It was the kind of hair that would make people stop and stare.

You woke at 5:30 and hopped in the shower, you wanted to take your time getting ready. You plugged in your pink dyson and curled your new blonde hair, it would fall into a blow out later in the day, complaining about your family to Ariel and Claire. You spent the next two hours getting ready, perfecting your makeup. You’d learned to contour, learned to do your eyeliner just right, and became a bronzer girl over the summer. You grabbed your favorite Chanel palette and messily applied dark eyeshadow in smoky charcoal, blending seamlessly into the crease of your eyes and eyeliner. You smudged on a bold dark burgundy lipshine that drew attention. You weren’t trying to be anyone but yourself, your new self.

Then came the clothes.

You'd already shortened your Gotham Prep skirt by more than a few inches. It was below your knees and now it showed off the thighs you spent all summer tanning. You wanted to make a statement, and if they didn’t like it, that was their problem. The white blouse, originally oversized, was now form-fitting, you wanted it to give that one Bella Hadid picture. You left the top buttons undone, the tie hanging loosely around your neck in a deliberate, I-don’t-care gesture. You could feel the fabric clinging to your skin, reminding you of how much control you were regaining. You looked like the kind of girls you used to call whores last year.

You looked through your drawers for your signature jewelry you collected over the summer and during school. Big gold hoops on your ears, studs in all your other ear piercings, a tiffany heart necklace that rested on your exposed collar bone, and multiple bracelets stacked on each arm, jingling as you moved.

As you stood in front of the mirror, you smiled. You looked good.

Lastly you grabbed your Isabel Marant sneakers, chic and effortless, and slipped them on. They were expensive, but it wasn’t about the price—it was about the look. The vibe. Then, more than few spritzes of perfume. Something sharp, and not too sweet. You wanted to make a lasting impression, to turn heads as you walked.

By the time you were done, you felt invincible. The girl staring back at you was someone who didn’t care what anyone thought. You weren’t going to be bullied anymore. You were going to be the one who dictated the terms.

You walked out of your room, head held high, your heart pounding with anticipation.

Downstairs, the Batfamily was gathered at the breakfast table, doing their usual routine. They all stopped talking the second they saw you.

You’d barely stepped into the room when the heavy silence fell over the table. Bruce looked up, his expression instantly darkening. His lips pressed together in a thin line, his gaze flicking over your appearance.

“Is this what you're wearing?” His voice was tight, a hint of disapproval slipping into the words.

You gave him a look that said everything. “Is something wrong? I thought it was cute.” Your tone was soft, teasing, but with a bite underneath. You weren’t asking for his permission. You were daring him to say something.

Tim, who had been looking at his phone, blinked up at you with wide eyes. He’d been so engrossed in whatever he was reading that he didn’t even seem to know how to respond. His fingers hovered over his screen, unsure whether or not to comment.

“Are you seriously going to school looking like that?” His voice was tight, an edge of surprise and confusion beneath it.

You crossed your arms, leaning back in the doorway. “What? You don’t like it? Your friends might.” You knew how to unsettle him. That much you were sure of. You wanted to push his buttons, make him paranoid.

Dick was the next to react. He put down his coffee, glancing over at Bruce before looking back at you. “I get that you’re, you know, trying something new,” he began carefully, but the unease in his voice was clear. He was trying to be supportive, trying to understand, but it didn’t take much to see how disapproving he felt. “But—”

“But what, Dick?” you interrupted with a sudden change of attitude. “You don’t like it? That’s a shame. It's so crazy I literally never asked.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. He simply shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

Jason snorted, clearly not impressed. “You trying to turn heads or get yourself in trouble? Skirt's too short, change that shit.” His voice was low, but it had a sharpness to it now. His gaze scanned you from head to toe, his mouth curving into an almost imperceptible frown.

You weren’t fazed by his dismissive and angry attitude. If anything, it made you want to lean into it more. “I'm not changing, you want alonger skirt? You go put one on and come talk.” You shrugged nonchalantly, your tone saccharine sweet. "And I don't want trouble, but i don't mind it."

“Yeah, I can tell,” Jason drawled, eyeing the large hoops dangling from your ears. “Nice hoops. Real classy.” His lips twitched, mocking the exaggerated size of them. "I didn’t realize big was your thing now."

You smirked, reaching up to tug at one of the hoops, the gesture playful, but intending to piss him off. “Big boys like big things, Jason,” you replied smoothly, without missing a beat. “And you know what they say, the bigger the hoop, the bigger the....” You were quickly cut off before you could finish talking and ruining everyone's apittite.

Damian, ever the hater, set down his cereal with a dramatic flare, slamming it down and glared at you. “You look like you belong in a cheap nightclub, not Gotham Prep. Should we drop you off on the nearest corner?” His words were sharp, cutting—typical Damian, though you could hear the pure anger in his voice.

You chuckled softly, not phased in the slightest. You'd rather be at a cheap nightclub honestly. “I’m just bringing a little fun to Gotham, Damian. You should try it sometime, maybe then you wouldn't be so hateful all the time." Your tone was uninterested, like his insults weren't even worth your time.

Steph and Cass exchanged a look, both clearly unsure of how to react. Cass, as always, seemed more interested in watching you than engaging, while Steph’s gaze flickered between you and the rest of the family. Barbra was just staring at you in disbelief.

“Is it really that bad?” Steph finally asked, though her voice wasn’t quite as gentle as it could have been. There was a nervous edge to it. “I mean, you’re, uh, pulling it off…” She trailed off, clearly unsure how to proceed.

You ignored her, who cares what she thinks? Her and the rest of them are irrelevant. If you like it then so what. Her comment did make your lips twitch into a smile subconsciously though.

Alfred, who’d been quietly observing the exchange, cleared his throat before standing. “Miss, I must say, it’s a rather bold change. But perhaps not one that will be received well by the staff and teachers.” His words were polite, but you could hear the disapproval in the undertones.

You gave him a bright smile, not at all sorry. “I’ll take my chances, Alfred. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I've played this game before.”

Bruce, who had been seething quietly, finally stood up from the table. His usual calm demeanor was replaced with a tense frustration. “Go change. Now.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Make me.”

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then something else, something more. He clenched his fists for a moment, clearly fighting to maintain control. But you weren’t backing down. Not this time.

“I’m not going to let you walk out of here like that,” Bruce snapped.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You won't let me do anything. I go to school like this or I don't go at all. And since when do you care?” You crossed your arms and stuck your foot out, pouting like a child, staring him down waiting for him to surrender.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, his expression softening ever slightly. “Fine. But you’re pushing it. You're not going like this tomorrow.”

Bruce 0, You 1.

Jason, who had been watching the exchange with interest, chuckled. “You really know how to work him, don’t you?”

You flashed a smile at him, leaning back in your chair as you stood up and grabbed your bag, ready to leave the room. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We're already late. Jason, you driving?” Jason was the most fun, and he wasn't as nosy as Dick or Barbra.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m driving us all today. Come on, let’s go before Dad starts pulling rank.”

With a dramatic sigh, Bruce reluctantly agreed, shooting a last, disapproving look at your outfit before turning toward the door.

The engine of Jason’s car hummed steadily, but the air inside was anything but calm. You had decided to make this ride your moment. If you were uncomfy, you'd make them all feel the same. The others in the car—Damian, Tim, and Duke—were bracing themselves for your usual attitude, though this time you could tell there was a noticeable edge to the tension.

Jason, who was driving, was trying his best to keep his eyes on the road, but you knew he was glaring at you through the rearview mirror. Damian was next to you in the backseat, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, like he was ready to throw down at any second. Tim sat on the other side, buried in his homework, something to do with Gotham Prep’s ever-pressing academic requirements. Nerd.

And Duke? Duke was the least bothered, but you were sure he was mentally rolling his eyes at you the moment you stepped into the car.

You were far too busy with your phone, flipping through TikTok videos and checking your DMs, but every so often, you’d glance at the boys just to see their reactions.

“So…” You leaned forward a little, propping your elbow on the middle console. Your voice was light, casual, but you could feel the energy shift around you. You knew this would get under Jason’s skin. “You think any of the boys at Gotham Prep will notice my glow up? ”

You heard a long, heavy sigh from the driver’s seat before Jason muttered, “She's in that phase huh,"

But you weren’t listening. You were too busy smirking at Tim, who barely looked up from his book. You could feel his eyes narrow, probably out of sheer annoyance. “I mean, it’s inevitable, right?” you continued. “I'm 16 now, I'm better looking. Is there any fresh meat since I left? Anyone interesting, new friends maybe??"

Jason was silent for a moment, but you could see the grip on the steering wheel tightening in his peripheral. He wasn’t going to let you get away with this.

"Listen," Jason said, his voice calm but with that sharp edge he always used when he was trying not to lose his temper. "I don’t want to hear about boys, okay? Not today, not ever."

You blinked dramatically, as if you were the one being attacked. “Oh, come on, Jason, don’t be such a buzzkill. I’m not doing anything. I just wanna know if anyone’s looking.” You reached forward and pressed the button to connect your phone to the car’s Bluetooth, your nails clicking loudly across the screen as you searched for the perfect song to add to the atmosphere.

You knew you were getting to him. Jason was always so serious when it came to boys, always so guarded, especially when it came to you. It was fun getting under his skin. He glanced over his shoulder at you, but you were already half-distracted by your phone.

“Relax, Jase,” you shot back, ignoring his glare. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just curious. It’s just—boys.”

You needed something to stop the ache that came with your new powers.

“Don’t make me pull this car over,” Jason threatened, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror again.

You laughed softly, loving how easily you could provoke him. You leaned back in your seat, stretching out your legs, and noticed Damian watching you like he was deciding whether to strangle you with his own scarf.

“Damian, you’re so serious,” you sigh, you'd been ignoring him lately but you forgot how easy he is to provoke. “You know, you should loosen up. Boys are fun to look at, and to—” You cut yourself off before you could finish the sentence, letting the tension simmer.

Damian’s face twisted in that way he did when he was trying to pretend you didn’t bother him. “I don’t care what you do with boys,” he muttered. “But if you think I’m going to sit in this car while you talk about them like you’re some kind of—”

“Oh, no,” you interrupted with a teasing smile, “Not some kind of what? Some kind of what?” You stretched your legs a little further, drawing more attention to the hem of your skirt as you adjusted yourself in your seat. Making it even shorter now that Bruce wasn't here. You felt the eyes of your brothers boring into you, especially Jason's. “Honestly, Damian, lighten up. If you stopped being such a little grumpy loser all the time, you’d get more attention from girls. You have my looks y'know. ”

Tim, who had been pretending to focus on his homework this whole time, finally looked up from his papers with an exasperated sigh. “Can you not?” he asked, voice strained. “We’ve got school in twenty minutes. We don’t need a whole lecture about boys in the car.”

“Hey, no need to be so dramatic, Tim,” you said, turning your attention to your phone. You found your favorite song, the one that was guaranteed to annoy everyone in the car. “I’m just having fun. It’s not like I’m gonna do anything crazy. I just wanna know who’s gonna be there today."

You were making them all uncomfortable, and you loved it. You could already see Damian’s jaw tightening in the rearview mirror and Jason’s knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Tim was staring at you like you were a whole new level of annoying. Even Duke rolled his eyes.

But that wasn’t enough. You needed them to be seething.

“I’m telling you right now,” Jason warned, his voice dead serious, “no boys today. No messing around. You’re going to class, and you’re staying focused. I'll check your phone if I have to. Got it?”

You put on your best innocent face, looking up from your phone as if you hadn’t just been causing a small riot in the car. “Okay, okay, Jason. No boys. I'm more into men anyway.”

Damian scoffed again, muttering something about how “pathetic” it was. You just grinned and rolled your eyes.

“Hey, you’re just jealous because girls don’t look at you,” you said, winking at him. “Maybe if you weren’t such a pain in the ass, you’d get noticed more.”

Duke, who had been quietly observing the entire conversation, finally spoke up from the backseat, his tone easygoing but with a hint of amusement. “You got any tips for me? Am I chopped liver”

You rolled your eyes at him, still not over his betrayal. “Glad you’re entertained, Duke. I don't think even I could help you.”

As you said that, you grabbed the aux cord and plugged it into your phone without asking.

Jason let out a sharp sigh, but you just grinned. “I’ve got it from here,” you said as you clicked on Drake’s Hotline Bling. The song blasted as you maxed out the volume. Damian looked like he was about to combust.

“You really are a pain in the ass, aren’t you?” Tim muttered under his breath, trying to focus on his schoolwork again.

You grinned. “I like to think of myself as entertaining.”

Duke nodded his head to the beat, tapping on his phone and Jason’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, but you could see the playfulness in his face. He was trying not to smile, despite himself.

“I’m just saying, no boys today, no skipping, no trouble” Jason reiterated, trying to keep a semblance of control. “And if I hear anything about you messing around, we’re going back home, got it?”

You leaned back in your seat and stretched again. “Sure, sure, no boys. But just so you know, if i get into "trouble" it’s not my fault.”

Jason didn’t respond.

When you finally arrived at Gotham Prep you sighed, grabbed your bag, straightened out your skirt one last time, and nearly ran away from them so you didn't have to walk in with Duke, Damian, and Tim. “See you later, losers,” you said with a grin, pulling your sunglasses on as you walked away from the car.

Gotham Prep didn't know what's coming.

Taglist:

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[moddingforreal]

I just had another thought!! (rare occurence)

Humans are around 60% water by composition (I spent a quick 5 minutes trying to find anything that would more accurately estimate by including more than just water but the closest thing I found was this IFL science article) which means we are 40% organic compounds by composition... that's 60 parts of inorganic kindness and 40 parts of organic cruelty. That seems like kindness wins but keep the cruelty multiplier for organic chemistry in mind, meaning we are (60 * 15.2413793103) / 40 times more cruel than we are kind. That works out to the following:

Humans are on average 22.8620689654 times more cruel than they are kind.

Is this why we have so much cruelty in our world? Does it mean for every moment of kindness we must always be forced to cause cruelty of nearly 23 times more value?

Maybe it means that not acting at all, neither in kindness nor cruelty will be the best result. If you fight by doing nothing, neither kindness nor cruelty, your total cruelty is nearly 23 times your kindness and if your kindness is 0, so is your cruelty and if your cruelty is 0 then so is your kindness.

BUT

What if, instead of this depressing idea that doing nothing is best, consciousness and making decisions with free will (for this part of the post you will need to assume free will) win over our raw bodies, using the tools of abstract thought we can be kind and loving and caring beyond what our flesh prisons intended for us! The way to transcend the boundaries set by the cruelty of your organic composition is through kindness, maybe

One more interpretation

As of rn I have only one more interpretation:

Maybe the cruelty and kindness aren't stored in the chemical bonds, but they are tied to the associations of the substance...

Kindness, cruelty, good, evil et cetera are all human concepts, concepts we made up to rationalize the world into easy-to-wield terms for our social brains. Maybe the associations we have in our language are tied closely to these: While milking something is taking something away from the milkee, nursing something (as in giving milk voluntarily) is good, not just because you're giving instead of taking, but because of the intention

Generally, our value beliefs put a lot of emphasis not just on raw function of our actions but on intention, what could be seen as a person giving another person poison to ingest can be reinterpreted as someone receiving heart medication - potentially life threatening for others but given to this person with the intention of resolving cardiac (= to do with the heart) issues

If I water my plant, it is kind, if I drown it, it is cruel

The intention of it matters, maybe the cruelty should thus not be defined meaningfully using only chemical composition and chemical bonds, but with intention. The milk could've been taken by force and the plant watered with care, but the human who is created with elements that permit evil is endowed with the choice of doing evil or abstaining from it, maybe we only succumb to our roots of organic evil if we go the easy root of cruelly taking without kindly giving back.

Completely antitheorizing my previous interpretation, what if kindness can only prevail over evil through action, through restless (not as in 'without sleep', but as in 'without stopping') work of acts of kindness. The key to kindness and foregoing cruelty could be putting in effort to be kind and resist cruelty.

The milk itself is just an object of transformation and the force used to move it is just an instrument of transformation, but the exact parameters may vary and the intention makes key difference here. The knife doesn't make the murderer and the milk bucket not the cruelist.

So what lesson can we learn from milk (according to this interpretation)? Well idk im not like a philosopher or ethicist just some internet user lmao

Though I would say if I had to formulate a lesson that can be learned it's that the objects to act on and the acts to commit are there, the way that the acts happen, or if they happen at all is subject (or rather object) to initiative and intention and the outcomes need not be cruel or kind if not acted on initiative and intention to make them like that.

Make kind milk and water kindly!

or dont, i dont have any power over you lol

Since watering means giving something water but milking means extracting milk from something that must means that water's default is to give but milk's default is to take. So water must be inherently kind while milk is cruel

[00valentina-writes00]

Enemies to lovers sevika.

Sevika absolutely despises reader, and yet reader is still so nice to sevika always smiling at her and offering her nothing but kindness…sevika hates it.(no she doesn’t)

Could be either fluff or smutty just an idea

✞⛧ Tension and Temptation ✞⛧

Warnings: emotional vulnerability, slow burn, developing relationship, implied tension, brief violence, slight injury, angst, reluctant affection (no smut..sorry gang-)

Word count: 5.3K

The air in Zaun always feels heavier, weighed down by the grinding industrial machines and the lingering scent of decay. The narrow streets are filled with the constant hum of activity, the hustle and bustle of a city where survival is a day-to-day struggle. You've barely stepped foot into Silco's territory, but the tension that thickens the air makes you feel as though you've already failed the moment you arrived.

And standing before you, arms crossed, is Sevika.

She's a force of nature, towering and imposing, with the kind of presence that could crush a man just by staring at him. Her broad shoulders and muscular frame practically hum with power, her every movement radiating command. A scar runs down her face, another testament to her brutal world, and her grey eyes, cold as steel, meet yours with a flicker of disdain. Her hair falls in dark waves over her sharp features, partially obscuring the fierce, calculating look she's giving you. The metallic sheen of her copper-colored prosthetic arm glints in the low light, its shimmer-enhanced strength evident even in the way she holds herself.

The first thing you notice is how she's completely unapproachable, the natural aura of violence that wraps around her as tightly as the red poncho draped over her shoulders. You almost feel sorry for the fact that she's been stuck with someone like you. You're just a recruit, fresh off the streets, trying to earn your place. You can already tell she doesn't want you here.

"I don't need a damn assistant," Sevika spits, her voice like gravel scraping against metal. Her tone cuts through the heavy air, sharp and immediate. "So don't get any ideas. Just stay out of my way."

You can't help but smile—soft, almost out of place. It's your natural instinct to meet coldness with kindness, even if it seems pointless. You've always believed that if you show warmth to the right people, maybe you'll get something back in return. But Sevika? She's a brick wall. Her sharp eyes narrow, assessing you as if you were a problem she needed to solve.

"Yeah, whatever," she mutters, dismissing you with a wave of her hand. "Don't make me regret this."

You follow her closely as she turns, stepping with heavy purpose down the grimy streets of Zaun, her boots clicking against the ground in rhythm with the pounding of your heart. Despite the tension crackling between you, you do your best to keep your tone light. "I just want to help. I can handle whatever you need."

Sevika doesn't respond. Instead, her eyes stay fixed ahead, ignoring you completely. The silence between you feels suffocating, but you persist. "I know it might not seem like it, but I'm here to learn. I'm not looking to get in your way, I promise."

Her scowl deepens. "Then keep your mouth shut, and maybe I'll consider it," she growls. Her voice is low, a constant hum of irritation. But it's not just her words that make you pause. It's the way her eyes flash briefly toward you before her gaze returns to the horizon. There's something about the sharpness in those eyes, something that makes the air around you feel charged.

It's like trying to strike a spark in a cold, barren landscape. The more you try to offer, the more Sevika pushes back, her harsh words biting through your calm demeanor.

Still, you can't help but offer a small smile as you keep up with her. You've always believed in the power of kindness. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to crack through her tough exterior.

By the time you've reached your destination—a crumbling building where Silco's orders are handed down—you've managed to learn that Sevika has little patience for anything, let alone for someone who dares to try and offer kindness. You find yourself standing in the shadows as she barks out orders to a group of men, her posture demanding respect. There's an undeniable force behind her words, a presence that commands the room as much as her stature does. Her copper arm gleams under the dull lighting, the intricate mechanics of the prosthetic arm seeming almost alien in the harsh, industrial environment.

You're not sure why you still persist. Maybe it's because something about Sevika's rugged exterior, her unrelenting loyalty, and the way she carries herself pulls at you. Or maybe it's the fact that you can see through her cold exterior—there's more beneath the surface, and you're determined to figure it out.

As the hours drag on, the work piles up. It's hard, grueling, and entirely mundane, but you keep at it, offering help when needed, sticking close to her side. There's something about Sevika's quiet, controlled rage that fascinates you. The way she moves, the way she handles everything—each gesture calculated and efficient—reminds you of a well-oiled machine. But machines don't need kindness. People do.

Sevika finally throws you a glance as you hand her a cup of tea, carefully prepared just the way you think she might like it. She takes it from your hand with a grumble, muttering something under her breath about unnecessary gestures, but you know you've won a small victory.

She doesn't throw the cup at you. She drinks it instead, in silence.

The longer you stand beside her, the more her icy exterior seems to thaw—if only just slightly. You notice the subtle shifts in her posture when you speak, the way her lips curve in the briefest of smiles, though she quickly hides it behind her usual scowl.

"Stop smiling at me like that," she growls, her voice softer than before, yet still biting. "It's fucking irritating."

But you don't stop. In fact, you make it your mission to be even kinder, to offer more help, to make her realize that you're not a threat, that you're not here to steal her spotlight, but to be part of the team.

Later, when the day's work is done, Sevika's frustration with you seems to grow. She's angry, but it's not the same anger she directs at the people she dislikes. This one is different. It's more internal, a tension she can't shake, like you're pushing a button deep inside her. She doesn't understand it, and it only makes her hate you more.

"Why the hell do you keep doing this?" she asks, her voice rough with something unreadable. "You think your smile will make this any easier? You think I care about your little act of kindness?"

You stand your ground, though your heart beats faster. "Maybe I'm just trying to help."

Sevika scoffs, but it's not as cutting as before. She glances at you once more, her gaze unreadable, and for a second, it's almost like she's looking at you, really looking at you, for the first time.

"You're wasting your time," she mutters, her tone almost tired.

But when she turns away, there's a slight shift in her movements, an imperceptible change in the way she carries herself. You're not sure if she's getting used to you, or if she's just too exhausted to push you away anymore. But the more she resists, the more determined you become.

In the quiet aftermath of a long day, Sevika lingers at the edge of your vision. She's still rough around the edges, her anger still a flame that burns bright, but there's a small part of her that's starting to crack.

You can see it. She can't hide it from you forever.

And that's when it hits you—despite her constant grumbling, despite her sharp words and cold silences, you're not just an annoyance to her. You're a challenge. One she can't seem to escape.

As Sevika walks away, her prosthetic arm catching the light in a way that makes her seem even more formidable, you smile softly to yourself.

You won't give up on her.

The weight of Zaun hangs heavy in the air, thick with the scent of oil, decay, and danger. The city is a constant, humming machine of chaos and violence, a place where only the strongest survive. And you? You're still trying to prove yourself, trying to make your place known in Silco's ranks. But standing next to Sevika, as always, feels like a constant struggle.

Her presence is like an impenetrable wall of steel—intimidating, unyielding, and cold. Every time you speak to her, it's like your words just bounce off her, sliding into the abyss where they're quickly forgotten. But you're not deterred. You can't be. Her icy demeanor is nothing new. What is new, however, is the way you can't seem to stop smiling at her. Even when she glares at you like she's about to snap your neck, there's something in you that refuses to back down, refuses to let her coldness defeat you.

And it's that same smile you offer her now as the two of you walk through the dark, abandoned streets, on a mission to secure a deal with another faction. You've learned by now that Sevika doesn't deal well with pleasantries, doesn't like the niceties most people in Silco's empire try to pretend at. She's raw, blunt, a woman who cuts to the heart of the matter without hesitation. But despite her sharp words and colder gaze, you remain the same—cheerful, optimistic, and unnervingly kind.

"Quit looking at me like that," Sevika growls, her voice low and gravelly as her grey eyes flick to you. Her gaze pierces through you, as if she's trying to burn holes into your skin. The low hum of her prosthetic arm moving against the fabric of her sleeve is a constant reminder of her strength, her sharpness, and the danger she can unleash with a single movement.

"Like what?" you ask, genuinely curious, despite knowing the answer. You can feel her irritation like a thick cloud around her, but it doesn't deter you. Not today.

"Like you think I'm some sort of charity case," she snaps, the muscles in her neck tensing as her jaw clenches. "If you think you can win me over with your fake little smiles, you're sorely mistaken."

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can say anything, the sudden sound of footsteps echoes in the alleyway ahead. A low hiss of tension fills the air, and instinctively, you tense up, your eyes scanning the shadows.

Sevika's hand immediately goes to the grip of her weapon, her fingers flexing in anticipation. You've seen her in action before—the way she moves, the way her presence fills a room with both fear and respect. But this? This is different. She's on edge, and that makes you on edge too.

"Stay behind me," Sevika orders, her voice a low command as she steps forward, her posture suddenly coiled with dangerous intent. Her left prosthetic arm gleams under the dim light, the cracked blue and purple veins in her skin pulsing faintly beneath the surface. She looks like a force of nature, ready to strike at any moment.

You don't argue. You've learned by now that arguing with Sevika is a pointless endeavor. Instead, you keep your head down, staying close to her as the two of you advance. But as you round the corner, you don't expect what happens next.

Gunshots echo through the alley, and in an instant, you're caught off guard. A burst of shrapnel flies toward you, the sound of the blast ringing in your ears, and before you even have time to react, a sharp pain explodes in your side. The world tilts on its axis as you stumble, your knees buckling under you as you fall hard against the cold, unforgiving ground.

Your breath hitches, the shock of the attack leaving your limbs weak. Blood starts to pool beneath you, and panic surges in your chest. You're not sure how bad it is, but you know you're hurt. You're not sure if you can stand again.

Sevika doesn't hesitate. She spins around with the speed of a predator, her metallic prosthetic arm coming down with the force of a battering ram. The gunmen are taken down quickly, their bodies slumping lifelessly to the ground, but you're not focused on them. You're focused on the sharp, burning pain in your side, the fear creeping in that you might not be able to move.

She doesn't see it at first. She's too caught up in the immediate danger of taking out the rival faction. But when she turns back to look for you, that's when she sees it.

Your hand is pressed tightly against your side, blood seeping between your fingers as you struggle to stay conscious. The shock is setting in, your head spinning, your vision blurring around the edges.

For a moment, Sevika's eyes narrow, her face unreadable as she assesses the situation. The emotions in her eyes flash too quickly to read—fury, disbelief, and something else you can't place. Her lip curls, the usual scowl deepening, but she doesn't turn away.

You try to force yourself up, to stand, but your body refuses to cooperate. Your legs shake, and you collapse back onto the cold concrete, gasping for breath.

Sevika swears under her breath, her brow furrowing in a rare display of concern. Her prosthetic arm shifts, clicking with the precision of machinery as she strides toward you, her pace quickening, her boots slamming against the ground.

"You're fucking useless," she mutters under her breath, the words as harsh as ever. But when she kneels beside you, there's a hint of something else in her voice—a softness that's quickly masked by her usual cold exterior. "Stay down."

Before you can say anything, she's already tearing off a piece of her red poncho, using it to staunch the bleeding. Her hands are surprisingly gentle as she presses the cloth against your wound, her fingers rough from years of fighting but oddly careful in their touch.

"You better not fucking die on me," she grumbles, though her voice lacks its usual bite. "I don't need another person I have to drag around."

You can feel her frustration radiating off of her, but there's something else beneath it, something that tugs at the very core of you. She's trying to save you. Despite the way she treats you, despite how cold and distant she's always been, there's a flicker of something deeper in her actions—a recognition, maybe, of your sacrifice for her.

You offer her a weak smile, the corners of your lips pulling up despite the pain. "I'm not going anywhere, Sevika," you say, your voice hoarse but steady.

She freezes, her hand pressing down harder on the wound. The faint glow of purple lights up her eyes for a split second as she injects shimmer into her bloodstream. It makes her scarred veins pulsate, the colors glowing brighter, but it's the softening of her gaze that you notice first.

"Don't make me regret this," she mutters, but it doesn't feel like an insult. It feels more like an acknowledgment of something she doesn't want to face. It's a rare moment of vulnerability, one that she quickly hides behind her usual hard shell. She doesn't want to care. She can't afford to.

But she's already made the choice.

When she pulls you into her arms, lifting you effortlessly as if you're nothing more than a weightless bundle, you feel the odd warmth of her body against yours. The clash of her cold demeanor and this rare moment of tenderness sends a shock through you, a realization that perhaps she's not as immune to kindness as she makes herself out to be.

As the two of you make your way back to safety, Sevika's hand never leaves the cloth pressed against your side. She's steady, unyielding, and yet... there's something in the way she holds you now, something that wasn't there before.

You know she won't admit it. She can't. But for the first time, you see a crack in her armor.

And you can't help but smile, despite everything.

She's still the same Sevika, tough as nails, unrelenting, but underneath it all? You're starting to see that she's capable of something more.

You won't stop smiling—not even for her.

It's the middle of the night, and you're wide awake, groaning softly as you try to adjust your position on the bed. The wound on your side, though healing, hasn't quite been fully stitched up yet, and tonight, it seems, it's decided to protest. The dull ache from earlier has turned into something sharper, something more insistent, as you shift again and feel the sting of stitches pulling loose.

You sit up, pressing a hand to the wound, biting your lip as the pain spreads. Damn it, you can't let this go unchecked. The medic has already gone home for the night, and the last thing you want to do is try to deal with it on your own. You've only been out of the infirmary for a few days, but you know that if you don't do something about it, you could risk making things worse.

So, you do the only thing that comes to mind: you go find Sevika.

She's always there when things get rough, even when she doesn't want to be. Whether she likes it or not, you're stuck with her. So, you pull on a loose shirt, the fabric brushing against your skin, and you make your way toward her quarters in the heart of Zaun's underground complex.

The hallways are quiet, and the dim light overhead casts long shadows across the stone walls. You hesitate for a moment, the familiar nervousness creeping up your spine. What if she's not in the mood for this? What if she snaps at you, tells you to figure it out yourself? But you push the thought aside, biting your lip and walking with more determination toward her door.

You knock twice, a hesitant but firm tap. The response comes quickly—a grunt followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the other side. The door creaks open, revealing Sevika in nothing but her sleeveless top, her metallic prosthetic arm gleaming faintly in the dim light. She's standing there, as imposing as ever, eyes narrowing when she sees you.

"What the hell do you want?" Her voice is rough, like gravel grinding underfoot, but there's an edge of concern in her gaze that she doesn't bother to hide.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, the wound on your side still aching painfully. "I—uh, I think my stitches came undone." You gesture weakly to your side, a little embarrassed that you've come to her for something like this. "I need help."

Sevika's brow furrows, and before you can say anything else, she steps aside, ushering you in with a sharp, "Get in here."

You hesitate, but the pain is still there, gnawing at you. You wince as you step inside her quarters, and the familiar scent of leather, metal, and the faint, earthy smell of Zaunite air fills your senses. Sevika's space is sparse, functional—a bed, a few chairs, some scattered tools, and a small table with a few half-drunk bottles of something strong.

She gestures for you to sit on the edge of her bed, the sheets slightly askew, but she doesn't seem to care about the mess. You sit carefully, lifting your shirt to reveal the bandages around your side, only to wince again when the motion tugs on the wound.

Sevika doesn't say anything, just walks to the small table and grabs some fresh gauze, a roll of medical tape, and a few tools. You notice the way her gaze flicks to your side, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Don't just sit there like a damn idiot," she mutters, her voice unusually soft as she crosses the room, "Take that shirt off. You're making it harder for me."

Your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush with warmth, even though you try to hide it. You've never been this close to Sevika before, especially not in this context. Her usual scowl is softened, but there's an undeniable hardness to her presence, making your pulse quicken.

You take a deep breath and pull the shirt off, revealing your bandaged side and the remnants of your wound. You're left in just your bra, feeling a little exposed, but you try to push the nervousness down. Sevika doesn't seem to care at all about your state of undress. Her attention is entirely on you, her sharp eyes scanning the injury as she leans over.

The air feels suddenly thick with an intensity you haven't noticed before. Her movements are methodical, but there's an odd tenderness in the way she handles the gauze and the bandages, even though her touch remains firm and practical. When she leans in closer, you can feel the heat of her body as she works on your side, her breath brushing against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room is filled only with the sounds of Sevika's breath and the faint click of her prosthetic arm as she moves. You focus on trying to steady yourself, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Hold still," she orders in a low voice, and you comply, not trusting your words to come out steady.

She works in silence, her focus entirely on the task at hand. Her fingers are gentle as she adjusts the bandages, her calloused hands brushing against your skin every so often. You can feel her eyes on you, though she doesn't look up. The soft touch of her hands against your skin is a stark contrast to her usual coldness, and you can't help the way your stomach flips at the intimacy of it all.

When she finishes, she steps back slightly, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before she clears her throat. "There. That should hold for now. Don't make me do this again."

You glance up at her, catching the faintest hint of something soft in her grey eyes, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. She's back to her usual self—stoic, guarded, but there's still that unspoken understanding between the two of you.

"Thanks," you say quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the vulnerability of the moment. "I really appreciate it."

Sevika rolls her eyes but doesn't say anything else. Instead, she tosses the supplies onto the table and walks back to the chair in the corner, leaning back with her arms crossed. "You're welcome," she mutters, sounding almost gruff, but there's a softness in her tone that wasn't there before.

You glance at her, a small, teasing smile creeping across your face. "You sure you're not going to throw me out now that you've seen me in my bra?"

Her eyes flick to you, the faintest spark of irritation flickering before she grunts. "Don't get any funny ideas, alright? This doesn't change anything."

You smile at her, watching her try to keep up her tough exterior. It's the first time you've ever been this close to her in this way, and you can't help but feel a sense of warmth that spreads through your chest.

"Sure, Sevika," you say softly, "whatever you say."

Sevika doesn't answer, but as she watches you, her lips twitch into the smallest of smiles, just for a fraction of a second.

You never quite get used to the sight of Sevika after a mission gone wrong. It doesn't matter how many times you've seen her come back battered and bruised, bloodied and bruised, a quiet part of you always hopes the next time won't be as bad. But it's always worse. Each time she walks in with a limp, a scowl, and that dark gleam in her eyes, you know it's only a matter of time before it breaks you.

And tonight, it's the worst it's been in months. Her left arm, her prosthetic, is badly damaged, sparks still crackling from the shattered circuitry as she stumbles through the door. Her breathing is shallow, uneven. The shimmer-enhanced blue and purple veins pulse under her skin, glowing faintly in the dim light of the warehouse. The glint of her copper prosthetic, normally a symbol of her unyielding strength, now looks like a taunting reminder of the fragility that even she can't escape.

You feel your chest tighten as you rush to her side, hands instinctively reaching out to steady her.

"Shit," Sevika mutters, her voice rough from the effort it takes to stand. "I'm fine. I don't need your help." But her words lack the usual bite. They're hollow, like she's trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

You ignore her, not caring about the gruff tone or the coldness that oozes from every word. You've seen it before—the way she hides behind that wall of indifference, masking the cracks with bravado. But tonight, there's something different. Her guard is slipping. Maybe it's the injury, maybe it's something else, but for once, she's not pushing you away.

Her heavy, labored steps are slow as you help her to the nearest chair, your hands steady as you guide her down. She winces as her weight shifts onto the seat, the strain evident in the furrow of her brow and the clenched jaw.

You sit beside her, your eyes tracing the damage to her arm, the shimmer scars that mar her skin. Your stomach knots. She's always been tough, but this time, there's a vulnerability to her that you've never seen before.

"You need to rest," you say gently, your voice softer than you intended. "You've been pushing yourself too hard. It's okay to take a break, Sevika."

She snorts, her usual sharpness returning, but it's forced. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity," you insist, your gaze meeting hers. "It's care. You're not invincible, Sevika. You're allowed to feel things. You don't always have to be the tough one."

Sevika's eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think she's going to snap at you, throw out another biting retort, but she doesn't. Her lips curl downward, and she looks away, focusing on the floor as if the weight of your words is suddenly too heavy for her.

For a long beat, there's silence between you two. The sound of Sevika's ragged breathing fills the space, and you can hear the faint crackling of her prosthetic arm, still sparking erratically.

"Why do you always act like this?" you ask, your voice quiet but steady. "Like you're untouchable. Like you don't need anyone."

Sevika's shoulders stiffen, her jaw tightening, but you don't let her retreat into herself this time. You place a hand gently on her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the cool metal of her prosthetic. Her gaze flicks to your hand, and for a moment, you think she'll pull away, but she doesn't. Instead, her breath hitches, and she stares at you as if seeing you for the first time.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice cracks, a sharp edge to it. "I'm not some fucking damsel in distress. I can handle myself."

You lean closer, your eyes softening as you study her face. The harshness of her features, the furrow in her brow, the tightness around her eyes—all of it is a mask. A mask she's been wearing for years, hiding the truth underneath.

"I don't want anything from you, Sevika," you say, your voice soft but firm. "I just want you to stop pretending you don't need help. Stop pretending you don't need someone who cares about you. You're not weak because you need someone. You're human."

Sevika's eyes flash with something—anger, fear, uncertainty—before she looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of her prosthetic. "I don't need anyone," she mutters, though it sounds more like a plea than a statement.

You shake your head. "You do. And I'm here. You're not in this alone."

Her gaze flickers back to you, her expression conflicted. You see the war in her eyes—the part of her that wants to let go, to accept your care, and the part of her that's terrified of doing so. You know she's been through hell, fought battles that no one should have to face, and survived in a world that doesn't give a damn about her. But you also know there's more to her than the walls she's built.

The silence between you both grows heavier, but instead of pulling away, you stay. You let the quiet linger, giving her space to process the unspoken things hanging in the air.

Sevika exhales sharply, and for the first time tonight, she doesn't try to hide the exhaustion in her voice. "You think I'm just some cold-hearted bitch who doesn't care about anything. But you don't know...you don't know what it's like. To care. To have someone depend on you and then—" She cuts herself off, her eyes flicking to the floor. "It hurts, alright?"

You don't say anything right away. You just listen. Because it's the first time she's admitted that. The first time she's let someone see the cracks in her armor.

"You don't have to carry everything on your own," you say, your voice soft but insistent. "You don't have to be perfect. Not for me. Not for anyone. I'm here. Let me help."

There's a long pause, but eventually, Sevika lifts her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are dark, but there's something different there now. Something softer, less guarded. She blinks, the tension in her shoulders slowly dissipating.

"You really are ridiculous, you know that?" she says with a faint smile, but it's not mocking. There's something genuine about it. "You don't know when to quit."

"No," you reply with a small grin, "I don't."

She sighs, the weight of the moment finally sinking in. "You're right," she mutters, almost to herself. "I'm not good at this. At...letting people in."

"I know," you say, reaching out and placing your hand over hers. "But you don't have to do it all at once. We can take it slow. Just...let me be here for you. When you need it."

Sevika's eyes flicker down to your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin, and for the briefest moment, it feels like the world pauses. The connection between you two is palpable now, not just a shared silence, but something deeper. Something that neither of you can ignore.

Her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile before she leans forward, her face inches from yours. "You're not like anyone I've met before," she murmurs, her voice low and rough. "And that's...frustrating."

"Why?" you whisper, barely able to keep the distance between you two.

"Because you make it hard to be a cold-hearted bitch," Sevika says, her voice laced with a mixture of frustration and something else you can't quite place.

Without another word, you close the distance. Your lips meet hers in a kiss that's soft, tentative at first, but soon deepens as the tension between you two finally gives way. The kiss is slow, exploring, each touch of your lips against hers a silent promise, a moment of vulnerability shared between two people who have spent so long hiding from each other.

When you finally pull away, Sevika rests her forehead against yours, breathing heavily. There's no more need for words between you two. The connection is enough.

For the first time in a long time, Sevika lets herself feel what she's been hiding, and you, quietly, let her.

[theambitiouswoman]

"How do I fix it if my brain has been wired this way due to past traumas?"

Making a conscious shift can feel almost impossible because your nervous system is working against you. I get it. But the key is little consistent actions—you don’t need to force yourself to “think positive,” but you can start disrupting the automatic patterns.

Awareness is your best friend. You can't change what you don't see and that is absolutely not your fault. Notice when your brain goes into self sabotage or negative loops. Instead of fighting it, just observe: “Oh, this is my brain doing its thing.” Label it: “This is a trauma response, not reality.” My personal advice would be to actually journal the situation, so you can actually start mapping desired outcomes or alternative methods. This will bring you more awareness and will actually cause you to pause when you are in a similar situation that invokes similar feelings. Then, when you catch a negative thought, don’t argue with it. Just pause. Try a pattern breaker: shake your hands out, take a deep breath, or say “Not today.”

Even 5 seconds of interruption starts rewiring your brain. Instead of forcing positive affirmations like “I am worthy” (which your brain might reject), try neutral shifts:

“I am open to seeing this differently.”

“Maybe this thought isn’t 100% true.”

“What if things turn out better than I expect?”

Trauma is stored in the body, not just the mind—so physical regulation is key. Breath work, walking, grounding are some things you can immediately do to calm your nervous system and help rewire trauma. If you slip into old patterns, don’t shame yourself—that reinforces the cycle.

You don't have to feel different to act different. This is something a lot of people get wrong. Your brain will make you feel how it is used to feeling. Your brain might not believe the new thoughts yet, but if you act as if—even in small ways—your biology will eventually catch up.

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

michael kaiser wanted to be loved.

he wanted unconditional, ethereal, and never ending love. he wanted to always be supported, that no matter what he did, he will always and still be loved. he wanted the constant feeling of being supported no matter what, that he’s a lovable creature, that he isn’t subhuman like his father had once told him.

soccer brought that to kaiser.

with soccer came satisfaction. he would crush his rivals, his enemies, and each time, he felt a little bit more human, a little bit more loved. it got to the point where that feeling of pleasure and accomplishment became addictive for kaiser, and his sole purpose for playing soccer was to crush his opponents and receiving more and more love.

he became so obsessed with the glory that came from soccer that he began neglecting his own health and harming himself whenever things didn’t go his way when it came to soccer. his fingers wrapped tightly around his throat was once an action of his father, although it now carried on to him. bruises on his body was something that carried on from his childhood to his adult life, even though he had managed to escape his father when he was 15 after having been recruited from the prison.

whenever he lost a soccer match, he would go back to his room and cut off his airflow with his tattooed hand pressing right above the base of his neck as he struggled for oxygen, coughs constantly escaping him. it was only natural; after all, he lost a soccer match. he lost a bit of his humanity and love. he was just becoming subhuman again.

kaiser became so obsessed with soccer that he didn’t even realize that someone who loved him unconditionally was right there, right in front of him this whole time, and yet he was so caught up in his own life that he never even realized.

you and kaiser were childhood best friends. he was your mihya, not michael, no kaiser. he was small, weak, and couldn’t stand up to his father. he didn’t know how to speak to people in a kind manner. he bled when he fell on concrete, and yet he never cried. his face was always covered in grime and dried blood, his body was always littered in bruises, and yet he never cried in front of you. it took months after meeting you for him to finally even smile in front of you.

the first time kaiser ever cried in front of you was when you had gotten him a gift for his birthday.

kaiser never knew how to react to gifts, so he didn’t enjoy receiving them. but it was his eighth birthday, you were obviously going to get your best friend a gift. it was just a simple keychain of a blue rose, a flower you knew he liked. when you handed it to him with a cheerful “happy birthday, mihya!”, tears had sprung to his eyes.

he asked you why you were willing to give him a gift, why you were willing to spend time with him. when you just answered with a worried look and quiet “well, you’re my best friend, of course i would”, kaiser knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

maybe that was why his descent into madness and obsession hit you harder than it did kaiser.

you had indeed stuck with him, even now, at nineteen. twelve years after your initial meeting. you’ve had a crush on him for exactly as long as you had both met, spiraling from a small childhood crush to being deeply and hopeless in love and attached to him. and yet you had no idea whether kaiser liked you or not; he was too obsessed with soccer to show any signs.

whenever kaiser lost a match, you knew that he was going to commit to a session of harming himself for at least an hour so again. somehow, you felt more pain that kaiser did when he did so, always outside of his door, banging for him to stop and begging him to not do this to himself every time while tears escaped your eyes. you loved him; you didn’t want the boy you loved to be so willing and constant with hurting himself.

he ignored you every time, occasionally telling you to go away or mind your own business.

you had enough with it one day. you were sick of it, constantly hearing his choked noises from his bedroom every time he lost a match. finally, one day, when kaiser lost a match, he stormed off to his room again. but before he could slam the door shut, you shoved your entire body weight against the door, trying to stop it from shutting.

“what the fuck are you doing?” kaiser hissed, trying to push the door shut. “mind your own business. i’ll be done soon enough.” but no avail; you continued your weak attempts of pushing the door open. kaiser scoffed from the other side. he usually avoided getting mad at you, although it was hard for him to do so in the first place. but now you were starting to piss him off. can’t he offer himself a therapeutic session in peace?

“no! mihya, stop it and just open the door.” you were beginning to get pushed back from the door, before you used your final backup plan and shoved your arm in between the open space left from the door. you yelped from the pain, and kaiser instantly lost all anger at that moment, pulling open the door immediately when he heard your yelp. you stepped into the room stiffly.

“are you retarded? what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” kaiser exclaimed, wide eyed as you clutched your arm, which was beginning to turn into the color of a rotting plum. you turned to glare at him, angry tears springing to your eyes.

“i’ll do this shit every fucking time for as long as you keep doing this to yourself every damn time you lost a match, you idiot.” you replied. you sighed before looking down somberly. “how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself, mihya? you’re obsessed with fame. you’re obsessed with all of this. you’re enjoying ruining the lives of other people for love. mihya, that’s not worth it. that’s not worth your body. that’s not worth your mentality.”

kaiser felt anger bubbling up inside of him again, and before he realized his, his voice raised to a level that he would usually never dare to use with you, although he would be fine using this tone with anyone else. “you don’t fucking understand! your father never called you a subhuman! he never choked you for no reason! your mother never left you! your father never beat you every day no particular reason! your father didn’t require you to steal every fucking day because his fatass can’t move two meters from the couch and his precious beer! soccer makes me feel loved! soccer makes me feel human! soccer is with me!”

for a moment, you stood there silently. you stared at him as he huffed, his breathing shallow from the loud rant. his eyes were sharp, and in that moment, only one thought ran through your head.

this was still your mihya.

he was yelling at you, you knew that. but he has every right to say all of this, to be mad at the world, at you. he has every right to be upset, to be angry. he has every right to rant about his trauma. he has every right to trauma dump. but at the same time, he’s missing a key component here.

“well, would soccer still be with you if you were nobody?! would all of those fans and self-satisfying thoughts still love you if you were no one?!” you shouted. your eyebrows knit together; did he not realize how fabricating this all was? how shallow this all was?

“no one loved me when i was no one!” kaiser hollered back. “no one loved me when i was just some stupid brat who spent most of his time outside of his house wandering on the streets! no one loved me when my father still used to beat me every day like some fucking punching back! no one loved me when i was still just a subhuman!”

and at that moment, a tear leaked from the corner of your eye. shit, this wasn’t even your problem, and yet angry tears were still flowing. your fists clenched, before finally, you screamed. “i loved you were you were no one!” finally, you finally finally finally got it out. kaiser froze, but you kept on going. “i loved you when you still wore dirty clothes every day! i loved you when you didn’t even know how to say a polite word to anyone! i loved you when you were still small and stupid and you!”

your lips quivered, more tears threatening to fall. you wiped your eyes. “before the ‘love’. before the fame. before soccer. and mihya,” you placed a hand on your swelling arm, that was going from rotting plum purple to the blue of kaiser’s eyes. “i still love you. i love you. but if you just can’t accept it and you’ll continue to wallow in that stupid destructive self-pity of yours where you think that no one loves you, then don’t come crawling back to me!”

you turned around to leave the room, your hand on the door knob, until a warm pair of arms wrapped around your waist. your felt tears begin to soak through your shirt from your shoulder, and your eyes widened. he’s crying?

“goddamn it, i don’t know why im fucking crying. i shouldn’t be. but what the fuck…” kaiser whispered into your shoulder. “i—i-“ he gulped, and your could see his hands interlock together as they squeezed the other like a lifeline. “i love you too.”

finally.

you turned around, separating his hands from the other and intertwining your fingers with his. you smiled softly at him, a small sniffle escaping you. “you said it. im so proud of you, mihya.” you knew how much trouble he had saying those words. how hard it was to say something that you had never heard before. “and i love you.”

silently, you got on your tip-toes, your lips almost touching his, before a few quiet words escaped you. “is this okay?”

kaiser huffed quietly. “way to ruin to moment. you’re this far into the process, and now you’re asking? but fuck yes.” you laughed before you softly planted your lips onto his.

the kiss wasn’t rough in the least, but it spoke of years of pent up emotion and unspoken pain. kaiser untangled his fingers from your and cupped your face so strangely gently, which he silently swore in his heart at that moment that he would never hold someone else like this, like the love of his life.

and when kaiser pulled away from the kiss, just a bit out of breath but just right, that’s when he saw it. deep in your eyes, and also in his.

the look of love.

word count: 1.8k (1878)

a/n: i watched shark tale for the first time the other day, and it had NO RIGHT being that good. the angie and oscar argument changed me forever, and it inspired me to make this. i was originally going to make this for isagi before i realized that isagi is AWARE that his parents love him, and that this prompt also matches with kaiser better.