#personally I don’t ask because I don’t want to bother anyone

[newdreamlove95]

Real talk 👏

I love fanfic. I know so many of us here love it too and that’s why you’re here, reading my post. It’s a space where we can explore existing stories that we LOVE, continue them, change them, connect with our favourite characters, and create new ones to interact with them.

No one is getting paid to tell their stories, and no one is being forced to read. People are telling stories for their own enjoyment and just want to share it with others.

That’s why it’s so frustrating, and honestly heartbreaking, to see people being harassed over their fics in the Hogwarts Legacy fandom. They’re being torn down, called names, and made to feel awful. I’ve seen people in this fandom get harassed to the point where they delete their works entirely. That’s devastating for the people who created them and the people who loved them.

I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of thing myself. I was sent a horrible message recently, and it triggered a full-blown panic attack.

To whoever is sending these messages or making anonymous comments, please know that you’re not actually helping anyone. You might think you’re “calling someone out” and doing the right thing, but you’re not. Your actions can make people more insecure, anxious, and depressed. They can make people second-guess every post, idea, and interaction (or lack thereof).

Regardless of the reason why you like or dislike someone’s work, bullying them is not the way to handle the situation.

I’ve seen fandoms die out because of negativity (I’ve been in and out of fandoms for 20ish years), and this kind of behaviour is exactly how that happens. Fanfic writers (and artists!) stop sharing and feel pushed out of a community they love. People who are curious about drawing/trying to write don’t even start because they’re scared. It’s already terrifying to put yourself out there into the world, even under a username. (And remember, we are actual human beings behind these usernames!)

Hell, I don’t like certain genres of fics because I find them to be personally problematic, but do I send the writers hate over it? No. I just don’t read them. I don’t get filled with rage either. I just move on.

And what really bothers me is that the people posting these comments on AO3 for example, do it anonymously. I get it, you’re afraid of backlash from the fandom, but don’t you see? You’re doing the very thing you yourself are afraid of. That person who posted their story, putting themselves out there, is facing your hurtful backlash. And while you’re hiding from the consequences of your actions by commenting anonymously, you’re forcing someone else to suffer.

If you’re someone who engages in this type of bullying, even just a little, I need you to ask yourself: why? Why does someone else’s fanfic make you this angry? Why do you feel the need to go out of your way to make them feel bad? And what are you trying to achieve with this?

I’m not saying all of this to make you feel bad, I’m just hoping that you can start to see this whole thing from a different light. In fact, I hope the one thing you can take away from this is that it’s never worth it to make someone else feel horrible about themselves when all they were trying to do was have fun (without any intention of harming others). You can try to justify that they are harming others due to ethical implications of their fic’s genre or way/style of telling their stories, and we can get on a whole back and forth about that if you want (I mean come on, we’re continuing stories based on a world made by JK Rowling, which is already ethically questionable for a lot of people and I understand why), but I’m just asking you to just take a step back and think about the comments or messages you have left people and how it made them feel.

If you can apologise to the people you’ve hurt, then amazing. If you can’t, then honestly just leave them alone and please don’t hurt more people.

Life is hard enough as it is—especially at the moment with so much going on.

Let people find the fun escape they want, either by telling their stories or reading them.

Don’t like it? Move on.

Like/love it? Show it! ❤️

[shangqinghuasbiggestfan]

Shang qinghua is someone I love (if you can’t already tell), but he needs to die.

I need a fanfic where Sqh dies in the most horrific brutal way known to man. Even better if it’s in a way that makes people feel bad, like he, idk, got clawed to peices by a verendre-wolf (but an actual thing) because one of the other peaklords wanted to have its fur, but was stupid enough to not do the research before hand, and know that that specific beast has no merchants selling its fur. And that there’s a reason for that.

Because the beast is extremely hard to kill. There’s almost 0 show of the beast ever BEIBG defeated before in the past.

Does Sqh know that? Of course he does. Does he also know that he’s going to get teared into at the next meeting by whatever rich spoiled peak lord told him to get it? You betchya.

Normally, he would have taken Liu qingge, but he was already out with sqq on a hunt. So, being the author, and the only one to know the beasts weakness, decides “fuck it. I can at least try to kill it” (even better if he’s drunk). And he goes. And almost kills it. Just to get his body ripped to shreds.

The news hits the sect hard. The peak lords don’t know what to do. This shidi of theirs, who was always quivering and anxious, who, despite being among them for years, they never knew anything about, was dead. It’s really bad. Liu qingge feels bad, because, like, even if he never liked or understood (tried to understand) the mousy man, he should have atleast been there, right?

Yue qingyuan would feel really bad. He, as sect leader, should have been looking after his shidis and shimeis, but he never bothered with shang Qinghua. He would be lying if he said he had anything of a comrady with thwt man. Shang qinghua was just so nervous, so quiet, that he never really stood out. Yue qingyuan immediately blames himself, and even reprimands himself. -what is that was xiao-jiu-

Sqq is the worst (sy). It takes him a while to even realise. It only occurs to him once, while eating melon seeds and thinking if giving it to sqh, that he remembers- he can’t. Sqh, the only thing that was a way to his previous life, the one person who he could talk too, the only other transmigrator, who understood him and his emotions too a deeper level then anyone else.. was gone. And was never coming back. Sqq, blames Sqh for being stupid enough to get himself killed at first, but soon that turns into “if only I was there” or “it only I helped”- just “if only”’s all about. Because despite it all, sqq did care about that stupid airplane. Of course he did. How could he not?

Mobei jun takes it the worst. After finding out the news, he destroys most of the palace, before locking himself into his room (id imagine this would be before luo binghe falls into the abyss. Let’s say sqq and sqh knew about each other earlier). This human was crafty yet always nervous. He was quiet but smart and constantly proved he had infinite potential and knowledge. And. To be honest. He.. was important to mobei.

Luo binghe knows that his Shishu died. He didn’t particularly know this shishu well, however he did know that sqh was important to his shizun. That has to mean he was a good person. Lbh often asks himself if shizun would be as sad when he died. He knows it’s bad. That he completely just irrelevates this shishu of his.. but he barely knew the man. (Sqq freezes up around lbh all the time. Why does he look and act like sqh so much? Why?)

Sqh, on the other hand, wonders why he’s alive again, but instead of as sqh, he’s in his old straight and red haired body, and yet, still in his book. The system simply says “user 001 had died. Due yk the amount of points he has accumulated and his repeated use of the system, he has been given a second chance without a story line! User has unlocked “the writing of god” storyline! Well done!” And it disappears.

[ynzworld]

And she cried, over nothing

Synopsis- Heeseung came home from work eager to see you, as you came over. But things turn out differently when you start crying.

-

Usually you were loud and a generally happy, cheerful person but today you had been “off”. And when Heeseung asked you what was bothering you, you broke, tears streaming down your face as you sobbed. As soon as you started crying he immediately jumped into action. Arms grabbing you and pulling you on his lap, as he cradled you. “Just let it out baby, I’m right here” he reassured you, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He hated seeing you like this, so vulnerable body shaking and sobs filling the room. You had never cried in front of Heeseung or anyone, you liked to play tough dealing with your problems quietly, so seeing you cry was a shocker, a big one. Even his members were shocked to hear the sobs, while they stood outisde the door. You were just so happy no one would have guessed you were feeling the slightest bit sad.

Your whole body was shaking grabbing onto Heeseung a hoodie, like you were scared he would disappear. He held you tight making sure you knew he got you. Your breath was hitching and you could barley breath do to your sobbing. “Shh baby, follow my breath” he said taking slow deep breath, you tried but the sobs just took over. “It okay, it’s okay to cry” he drew soft circles on your lower back.

A while later your sobbing had slowed down, just slight cry’s coming from your mouth. “There we go, my good girl” his voice was soft, like he was afraid you’d break again. “You’re the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, I hate to see you like this. Bottling up your emotions, I want you to be able to talk to me about what your feeling not just the good but the bad aswell” the tone in his voice showed he really meant what he said.

“I- I just” your head was buried in the crook of his neck so your voice was muffled. “I can’t understand you pretty?” He said rubbing your back “I don’t want you to worry about me when I know you have your own stuff to deal with” he frowned as you said that “baby all I care about is you, I want you to tell me stuff” he still held you tight making sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m sorry” you voiced cracked as you said that. “Oh pretty, there’s nothing to be sorry for” his hand held your waist as the other one caressed your hair.

“Let me get you some water?” He said rubbing your back. “Don’t leave.” You said scared, as if he would never come back. “Angel, I’ll be 30 seconds tops, okay?” He said as he put you down from his lap. As he walked into the kitchen he sees Sunoo. “Is she okay?” He asked concern in his voice. “Yeah just bottled up some stuff and needed to cry, she’s okay now though” he says as he gets a glass from the cupboard. “I just feel so bad, like I’m not there enough for her y’know. I hate having to see her like this.” Sunoo’s heart breaks as he here’s him say that “hey, your not a bad boyfriend, in fact your one of the best ones I’ve ever seen. You always put her needs first, take care of her, deal with her when she’s cranky and give her all your attention. Don’t pull yourself down because of this” Heeseung’s eyes meet Sunoo’s as he says that. “Thanks bro, that means a lot”

As he walked back into the room, he meets your figure laying in his sheets eyes closed. He thought you were asleep but then your puffy red eyes meet his. “Hey angel, you should take a nap.” He smiled at you. “Will you stay with me?” You asked, he chuckles “of course, angel”

-

sorry for being inactive, been a bit busy with school :(

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: The documentary starts taking over Clark’s life. The similarities between Kal and Clark take up Y/N’s

part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4

part 5 (the final part) coming soon

words: 7.3 k

💌 💌 💌 💌

Clark adjusted his tie and exhaled slowly, willing himself to stay calm. The meeting room at Y/N’s record label was ridiculous. He had covered government briefings, sat across from world leaders, been inside courtrooms filled with corruption and power, but somehow, this was the most aggressively expensive space he had ever stepped into.

The walls were lined with plush acoustic panels, the chairs looked custom-made from imported leather, and the sleek, black conference table stretched so far across the room that Clark was sure it cost more than his Metropolis apartment. A skyline view loomed beyond the towering windows, and even the water bottles on the table had gold-embossed labels.

It was excessive.

It was exactly what he had expected.

The executives sitting across from him, however, weren’t as predictable.

They were measuring him, trying to figure him out just as much as he was trying to figure out a way to get through this as quickly as possible.

“So, Mr. Kent,” one of them finally said, folding her hands neatly on the table. She was poised, professional, the type of person who had perfected the art of sounding polite while still managing to look like she could fire you in an instant.

“You don’t typically cover entertainment.”

Clark nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Then why are you here?”

It was a fair question.

One Clark did not want to answer.

He almost said, Because I was blackmailed into it, but that didn’t seem like the kind of thing Perry would appreciate him admitting out loud.

“I was requested,” he settled on, keeping his tone professional.

A few of the execs exchanged knowing glances.

One of them, an older man with silver-rimmed glasses, leaned forward slightly. “By Y/N.”

Clark resisted the urge to shift in his chair. He kept his expression neutral. “Yes.”

Another exec, a younger man who had been quiet up until now, leaned back in his seat, appraising Clark. “Are we sure about this guy?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. “No offense, but Y/N is a global superstar. This documentary is going to be deeply personal. Are we sure we want someone who doesn’t know the industry?”

Clark’s fingers curled slightly against the table. This was his out.

If the label didn’t think he was a good fit, then he wouldn’t have to do this.

And he really, really didn’t want to do this.

Before anyone could press further, his gaze drifted down to his bottle of water. A familiar emblem caught his attention. A small bird, wings spread wide, embossed elegantly into the label.

Clark felt something cold settle in his chest.

His mind flashed back to the silver guitar mounted in Y/N’s apartment.

The same delicate bird decal, etched near the strings.

His pulse kicked up.

It was the same symbol.

But before he could process it, the woman across from him noticed his gaze. “You’re hesitating,” she observed, tilting her head slightly.

One of the other execs smirked. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what that is?”

Clark glanced up, masking his reaction. “It’s… her logo.”

The table went silent for a moment before someone actually laughed.

“Wow,” the younger exec muttered, shaking his head. “You really didn’t do your research, huh?”

Clark fought back a sigh.

“What am I missing?” he asked, his patience thinning.

The older man adjusted his glasses. “That’s ‘The Songbird.’ Y/N’s entire brand. Her fans call her that, the press calls her that—hell, it’s in half her album titles.”

Clark swallowed, forcing himself to nod as if this was brand new information and not something that had just rattled him to his core.

Before anyone else could comment, the door swung open.

“Sorry, sorry—I got held up.”

Y/N swept into the room like she had been here the whole time.

She was completely unbothered by the tension hanging in the air, her presence immediately shifting the energy in the room.

She slid into the chair beside Clark like they were old friends, flashing him a grin.

“Happy to see you, Clark,” she said casually.

Clark blinked.

That… threw him off completely.

“I—uh. You too.”

Y/N didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. Instead, she pulled a thick folder out of her bag and set it down in front of her, flipping it open.

“Alright,” she began, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “I have a lot of thoughts about this documentary.”

Clark tilted his head slightly.

She actually prepared for this?

For some reason, he had expected her to be casual about the whole thing, like she had picked him on a whim. But the folder in front of her was full of notes. Highlighted, color-coded.

She was serious.

Even the execs seemed surprised.

“I want this to feel real,” Y/N continued, flipping a page. “No sugar-coating. No weird, PR-polished version of my life. Just me, my music, and how I got here.”

Clark blinked.

This was already not what he expected.

Then, she said something that made him stop completely.

“And I want all proceeds from the documentary to go to organizations that help survivors of domestic violence.”

The room went still.

Clark paused mid-breath.

That…

That was unexpected.

One of the execs adjusted their suit jacket. “Y/N, that’s incredibly generous, but are you sure—”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Clark looked at her then, really looked at her.

She was still Y/N, still the playful, teasing person who had wreaked havoc on his newsroom, but there was something steadfast in her expression.

She wasn’t just throwing out a random good deed. This mattered to her.

Clark felt something shift.

For weeks, he had been trying to avoid this, trying to convince himself that this was just a nuisance assignment.

But maybe…

Maybe this wasn’t about her at all.

Maybe it was about the people this could actually help.

Y/N must have caught something in his expression because she tilted her head, studying him.

Then, with a small smile, she leaned back in her chair.

“I’m not gonna force you to do this, Clark,” she said. “If you don’t want to be here, you can walk. No hard feelings.”

Clark hesitated.

She meant it.

This was his chance to leave.

But instead, his gaze flickered down to the songbird logo.

The same one on her guitar. The guitar that had once been played by a girl he used to know.

The feeling nagged at him, but he pushed it aside.

Right now, the decision was in front of him.

Helping people.

That’s what this was.

Not about his past.

Not about her.

Just a project that could actually do some good.

Clark exhaled slowly.

“…Alright,” he said, resigned. “I’m in.”

–

Clark Kent was back in the shiny marble elevator.

It was eerily similar to his first visit—the same polished chrome walls, the same soft chime of expensive convenience, the same sensation that he didn’t belong in a place like this.

He adjusted his tie, exhaling slowly as the elevator glided upward, carrying him toward yet another long afternoon in Y/N’s world.

It was bizarre how quickly things had escalated.

A week ago, he had been actively avoiding this assignment. Now, he had production schedules in his inbox, a research folder getting thicker by the day, and an artist who had personally chosen him to dig into her life.

Why him?

The question still sat uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

A soft ding signalled his arrival, and the elevator doors slid open into the same vast, pristine penthouse that had greeted him last time.

Everything was exactly as he remembered it.

Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the skyline, furniture that looked like it was meant to be admired, not actually used.

Cold. Luxurious. Empty.

And then Y/N appeared, barefoot, wearing sweatpants, and grinning like she didn’t live in a billionaire’s museum.

“Welcome back, Kent.” She gestured dramatically like she was unveiling a grand ballroom. “Try not to look so thrilled.”

Clark sighed. “I’m containing my excitement.”

“Good, because I am so ready for some serious brainstorming,” she said, already turning on her heel. “Come on, we’re working in the studio.”

Clark followed her through the polished, impersonal space—past the cold, modern furniture, the carefully curated décor, the spotless kitchen that looked like it had never actually been used. His eyes lingered on the silver guitar still hung in her living room. 

And then, she opened a door.

And suddenly, everything changed.

Clark stepped inside and immediately felt the shift.

This wasn’t like the rest of the penthouse.

This was lived-in.

If the label’s conference room had been a corporate temple to capitalism, this space was the complete opposite. Warm lighting, a deep-red vintage rug, and walls filled with music memorabilia. Handwritten notes were pinned to a cork board, some half-finished lyrics, others just chaotic reminders to herself ("BUY MORE TEA" / "DON’T FORGET TO SLEEP, DUMBASS" / "FIND WHERE I LEFT MY BRAIN").

The air smelled like faint lavender and old paper, and in the corner, there was an oversized couch that had clearly been used as both a seat and an occasional bed.

Clark’s gaze flickered to the grand piano in the corner, its surface covered in loose sheet music and half-empty tea mugs.

This was her space.

Not the penthouse. Not the labels or the awards or the PR-perfect image.

This.

This was where she actually existed.

Y/N dropped onto the couch with zero grace, stretching her arms above her head. “Alright, Clark. Time to build a documentary.”

Clark pulled out his notebook and took the chair across from her. “We need a structure.”

“We need vibes,” she corrected, grinning.

Clark ignored that.

He clicked his pen, scanning his notes. “We should start at the beginning. Childhood, early influences, your first introduction to music.”

Y/N nodded, tapping a pen against her knee. “Yeah, that makes sense. Then signing my first deal, what that was like.”

Clark noted the lack of deeper childhood talk. He didn’t press.

Not yet.

“Where do you want it to end?” he asked.

She considered for a moment, then shrugged. “Where I am now, I guess.”

Clark looked up. “And where is that?”

Y/N paused, blinking once like she hadn’t actually thought about it. Then she laughed. “Wow. That’s… a really good question.”

Clark tilted his head, waiting.

She exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “I mean—I’m still here. Still making music. I took a break, but I’m back. And now I guess I’m letting you write a deep-dive into my soul.”

Clark smirked. “Good life choices.”

“Terrible life choices,” she corrected. “But we’re already here.”

Clark nodded, scribbling something down. “So, early childhood, signing at nineteen, and then present day.” He looked at her. “Are we skipping the in-between years?”

Y/N leaned back against the couch. “No. Just… let’s save the childhood deep dive for later.”

Clark studied her for a second, then nodded. “Okay. Nineteen, then.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Ah, yes. The Signing.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Dramatic.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, flipping through her notes. “I was nineteen, thought I was on top of the world. Had no idea what I was walking into.”

Clark leaned forward slightly. “How did it happen?”

Y/N tapped her fingers against her knee, remembering.

“My first album was doing well, and labels were circling like sharks.” She smirked. “I thought I had all the power.”

Clark nodded. “And did you?”

Y/N let out a small, dry laugh. “Absolutely not.”

Clark wrote something down. “What changed?”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “I realized pretty fast that they weren’t signing me. They were signing an idea of me. And I let them.”

Clark glanced up. “Because you wanted the opportunity?”

She nodded. “I was nineteen, Kent. The dream was right there. So I made the deal.”

Clark tapped his pen. “And?”

Y/N smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And then I had to figure out how to survive it.”

Clark felt something settle in his chest.

She was still talking like it was a funny story, still delivering everything with the same offhanded charm. But there was weight underneath it.

The unspoken. The things she wasn’t saying yet.

But she would.

Eventually.

She ran a hand through her hair, shaking it off. “Anyway. That’s the dramatic backstory. You’ll love it. Full of bad decisions and good music.”

Clark gave her a look. “I’m sure.”

Y/N grinned. “So? Are we officially making progress?”

Clark glanced down at his notes—childhood (later), signing at nineteen, the industry (learning the hard way), and present-day (figuring it out).

A rough map. A starting point.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “We’re getting somewhere.”

Y/N clapped her hands together. “Fantastic. I vote we celebrate with food.”

Clark sighed. “You just want an excuse to take a break.”

“Absolutely,” she said cheerfully. “You’re catching on, Clark.”

Clark shook his head, but there was a small, unwanted warmth in his chest.

This was going to be a long process.

And, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing.

–

The first time Y/N showed up at the Daily Planet, it had been a little funny.

The second time, it had been mildly disruptive.

By the third, fourth, and fifth time?

It was routine.

Clark wasn’t even surprised anymore.

She had taken over his space just as much as he had taken over hers. If they wanted to fit the documentary into their already packed schedules, they had to work in whatever spare moments they had—whether that meant late-night recording sessions or early-morning strategy meetings at the Planet.

It had started as a necessity.

Now?

It was just what they did.

Clark sighed as he walked into the newsroom, coffee in hand, only to find Y/N already sitting on his desk, cross-legged, flipping through his notes like she had editorial authority.

"Morning, Kent," she greeted without looking up.

Clark exhaled slowly. “Why?”

Y/N finally looked up, grinning. “Deadlines, Kent. I thought we established this.”

Clark set his coffee down, rubbing his temples.

It was too early for this.

Across the room, Lois and Jimmy were watching.

Lois, because she found the whole thing hilarious.

Jimmy, because he was still processing the fact that Y/N was just… here. All the time.

Lois raised a brow. “She practically works here now.”

Y/N grinned. “I like to think of myself as an honorary journalist.”

Clark sighed. “You are not a journalist.”

“I interview you constantly.”

“That’s—that’s not the same thing.”

She waved him off. “Details.”

Lois was clearly loving this. She turned to Jimmy. “Did you ever think you’d see the day when Clark had a famous best friend?”

Jimmy shook his head, still slightly starstruck. “No. And I definitely didn’t think it’d be her.”

Y/N leaned over Clark’s desk, grinning. “Aww, you think we’re best friends?”

Clark took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “I’m thinking of filing a restraining order.”

Y/N gasped, dramatic. “Clark, don’t be mean.”

Lois snorted.

Clark sighed deeply.

This was his life now.

–

Clark Kent had never given much thought to how music was made.

He’d always assumed it was simple enough—write a song, record it, release it. But sitting in a high-end recording studio, watching Y/N work, he realized how wrong he’d been.

The room buzzed with controlled chaos—soundboards blinking, cables tangled across the floor, producers tweaking levels, musicians waiting for cues. And in the middle of it all was her.

Y/N, in the booth, headphones on, building something.

She wasn’t just singing. She was stopping, adjusting, running through the same verse over and over with slight variations, searching for perfection. Every take mattered.

Clark, used to fast deadlines and breaking news, sat back in his chair. I didn’t know this much effort went into this.

David, the lead producer, adjusted a dial and sighed. “She’s a perfectionist.”

Clark glanced at him. “Yeah?”

David nodded, watching through the glass. “She hears things the rest of us don’t. We’ll think a take is perfect, and she’ll go, ‘No, I can do it better.’ Drives us insane, but she’s always right.”

Clark looked back at Y/N, who was mouthing lyrics between takes, brow furrowed in concentration.

He believed that.

The track started again, her voice flooding the speakers—clear, powerful, precise. Clark had heard her songs before, but he had never really listened. There was something raw about it, something that made the room still, even though everyone here had probably heard this song dozens of times.

David hit a button. “That one felt good. What do you think?”

Y/N pulled off her headphones, grinning. “Terrible. But I’ll pretend I liked it so we can move on.”

David chuckled. “Classic.”

Clark smirked, jotting something down.

Y/N – terrible critique when it comes to her own work.

Clark had been here too long.

What started as a quick afternoon session had stretched into eight hours.

A sound engineer clapped him on the shoulder as he walked by. “You hanging in there, Kent? How’s your crash course in the music industry?”

Clark exhaled. “Eye-opening.”

The guy laughed. “Yeah, it’s not all fancy award shows, huh?”

Clark shook his head. “Definitely not.”

He’d underestimated all of it—the layers of harmonies, the tiny adjustments no one would notice but that made all the difference. It was art, but it was also relentless work.

And Y/N?

She wasn’t just talented. She was leading all of it.

Clark had assumed—wrongly—that an artist at her level just showed up and sang. That the producers handled the rest.

But every decision, every adjustment, every fight over what made the final cut went through her.

She wasn’t just the face of her music.

She was the architect.

Clark made another note.

Y/N – has full creative control, even when it would be easier to let someone else take over.

–

Clark Kent had spent years keeping his worlds separate.

But now, somehow, Y/N had slipped into his life so seamlessly that he wasn’t sure where the lines had been drawn in the first place.

It had become routine.

Some days, Clark was in her world—recording sessions, photoshoots, interviews, late nights spent in her studio as she played with lyrics and melody, making small adjustments no one else would ever notice. Between the Daily Planet, the documentary, and his actual responsibilities as Superman, there had been very little sleep lately. 

They were always working, always talking, always finding time between their packed schedules to fit in just one more meeting, one more round of edits, one more conversation about where this documentary was going.

And now, after another long day—this time, an industry event that had required Y/N’s presence but none of her interest—they sat in the back of a quiet car, watching the city lights blur past the windows.

Clark had his notebook open on his lap, but he wasn’t writing.

Y/N sat beside him, slouched against the seat, staring out at the city, fingers lightly tapping against her knee in time with some silent rhythm.

For the first time all day, she was quiet.

Clark didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

There was something about the way she sat there—not tense, not restless, just still. Like she was waiting for something.

And then, in a voice so soft he almost missed it, she said—

“I ran away when I was seventeen.”

Clark stilled.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Her gaze was still fixed on the window, but her voice was steady.

“My mom had just died,” she continued, each word measured, like she was placing them down carefully in front of her, piece by piece. “And I left. Took a bus to Metropolis and never looked back.”

Clark’s fingers curled slightly around his pen.

She had never talked about this.

She had dodged the questions before, skimmed past the details, treated her early years like they weren’t important.

But now, finally, she was saying it out loud.

“My mom was a victim of domestic violence,” Y/N said, inhaling slowly. “And for years, I knew—I knew—she was never going to leave.”

Clark’s chest felt tight.

“I used to think, If I can just make it to eighteen, I’ll get out.” She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I had a plan. I was going to finish school, save up, and then leave for good.”

Clark had spent his whole life trying to save people.

But no one had been there to save her.

Her fingers tapped against the seat again, but this time, it felt less like a melody and more like nervous energy.

“But then she died first,” Y/N said, her voice quieter now. “And suddenly, I didn’t have to wait anymore.”

Clark felt something heavy settle in his chest.

He thought about seventeen-year-old Y/N, alone, stepping onto a bus with nothing but a bag of belongings, heading toward a city she had never lived in before.

A kid, leaving behind everything she had ever known because there was nothing left to stay for.

Clark swallowed, forcing his voice to stay even. “Where did you go?”

Y/N shook her head. “We’re not getting into that part tonight, Kent.”

Not yet.

Clark nodded, accepting that.

But the weight of it still pressed against him, still sat in the silence between them.

Y/N exhaled, tilting her head against the window. “Music wasn’t allowed in my house,” she admitted after a moment.

Clark frowned. “At all?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p,’ a flicker of her usual playfulness slipping through, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Too loud. Too self-indulgent.”

Clark didn’t move, didn’t even blink.

She had loved music her entire life. And she had to hide it.

“I used to steal radio time when I could,” she continued. “Learned chords in secret.”

Clark didn’t realize how tight his grip on the pen was until his knuckles started aching.

“The silver guitar,” he said, realization settling in.

She let out a breath, nodding. “I saved for it for years. Had to hide it.”

Clark swallowed. “And when you left—”

“It was the only thing I brought with me,” Y/N finished. “That, and some cash.”

Clark looked at her, and for the first time, he truly saw it.

The silver guitar wasn’t just an instrument.

It was the only thing she had ever owned that was truly hers.

Not just something she had worked for—something she had fought for.

Clark felt something twist inside him.

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

The proceeds from the documentary. The decision to donate every cent to organizations supporting domestic violence survivors.

Clark had assumed it was just a cause she cared about.

But now, sitting here in the dim light of the car, hearing the exhaustion in her voice as she talked about a childhood spent hiding the things she loved, saving for an escape she wasn’t sure she’d ever get—

Now, he understood.

This wasn’t just a cause.

This was her.

Clark exhaled slowly, staring down at the blank page in his notebook.

The questions he had wanted to ask didn’t feel relevant anymore.

He knew why she was telling him this now.

He knew why, after weeks of skimming past it, deflecting, dodging—

She had finally let him in.

Because she trusted him.

Because somehow, in the mess of studio sessions and late-night edits, stolen coffee and newsroom banter, him showing up in her world and her barging into his—

Somewhere along the way, they had become friends.

Real friends.

The kind that tell the truth, even when it’s ugly.

The kind that don’t have to fill the silence.

Clark didn’t say much after that.

Just sat there, letting her words settle.

Letting her breathe.

And for the first time, Y/N didn’t rush to fill the quiet either.

She just let it stay.

—

Y/N wasn’t crazy.

She wasn’t.

But spending this much time with Clark Kent was messing with her head.

At first, she had been sure they were nothing alike—Kal had been sharp edges and reckless grins, a boy who didn’t belong anywhere but carried himself like he belonged everywhere. Clark was careful, steady, the kind of person who made people feel safe just by existing.

And yet, the more time she spent with him, the more she saw it. The way he carried himself, the rare moments where he let go of the professional act and grumbled under his breath, the way he always knew what was happening in a room before anyone else did. It was Kal. Or at least, it felt like him.

But that wasn’t possible.

And it was driving her insane.

There was only one way to prove herself wrong.

She needed to see Clark’s chest.

Kal had a brand on his skin—a jagged scar in the shape of a crest that he had always refused to talk about. It had been there since the day she met him, burned into his skin like a permanent mark of something he couldn’t escape. If Clark had the same scar, then… well.

But if he didn’t—then she could finally let this go.

But how the hell was she supposed to get Clark Kent to take his shirt off?

The perfect opportunity fell into her lap.

A Vogue cover.

–

It had started out fine.

Y/N had landed a Vogue cover shoot, a big deal even by her standards. Since Clark had to ask her a thousand questions for the documentary anyway, it had been decided that he should just tag along, catching moments between outfit changes, hair touch-ups, and the endless chaos of high fashion.

Clark hadn’t been thrilled about it, but in comparison to the other ways Y/N had tormented him lately, it had seemed… manageable.

He had been wrong.

Because thirty minutes into the shoot, disaster struck.

The first sign of trouble was the sharp gasp from Jacques, the artistic director.

"Mon dieu!" Jacques clutched his pearls—well, his Gucci scarf, but the reaction was the same. "Where is Antoine?!"

A frantic assistant rushed over, whispering something.

Jacques gasped again, dramatically pressing a hand to his forehead. “NON!”

Clark, who had been standing quietly in the background, frowned. “What’s going on?”

Y/N, now mid-pose in some ridiculously expensive gown, grinned. “Sounds like our male model is missing.”

Jacques began pacing. "This is a disaster. A catastrophe! We cannot proceed without ze vision!"

Clark, already sensing where this was going, took a slow step back.

Jacques snapped his fingers. “Your bodyguard! He will do.”

Clark froze.

Y/N lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said immediately.

Clark’s stomach dropped. “No.”

“Yes.”

"Non!" Clark tried.

"Oui!" Jacques countered, waving his hands. "He is tall, strong, handsome in a very serious way. This will work!"

Clark turned to Y/N, desperate. “Fix this.”

Y/N beamed. “Oh, no. I think this is perfect.”

Clark gritted his teeth. “I am not modeling.”

Jacques clapped his hands. "Into wardrobe! Immediately!"

And before Clark could react, three assistants descended upon him like vultures.

This was happening.

And Y/N?

Y/N was thrilled.

Clark was getting shoved into a dressing room, and all she had to do was wait for him to take his shirt off.

This was foolproof.

Or at least, it should have been.

Except then, at the last second, a horrible thought entered her mind.

What if Clark was sensitive about the brand on his chest? It seemed painful and Kal never talked about—what if he didn’t want people seeing him like that?

Guilt immediately punched her in the gut.

What the hell was she doing?

This was Clark. She teased him, sure, but she never wanted to actually make him uncomfortable.

If he didn’t want to take his shirt off, he shouldn’t have to.

And so, she did the only responsible thing.

She burst into the dressing room.

"Clark, wait—"

She froze.

Clark, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, froze too.

There was a long, agonizing beat of silence.

Clark’s chest was bare, and it was a good chest, and Y/N had zero shame admitting that to herself.

But that wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was that there was no scar.

No brand. No mark.

Her stomach sank.

Clark blinked. “Why do you look disappointed?”

Y/N snapped out of it, clearing her throat. “No! No, of course not. You look… great! Fantastic. Just. Uh. I remembered something wrong. That’s all.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Right.”

“Anyway!” She backed toward the door, smiling a little too wide. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to! I totally get it, some people are weird about—um, stuff. So if you wanna back out, I’ll tell Jacques.”

Clark exhaled, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Unless, of course, you want to—”

Clark exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Listen, if I—if I do this, my face cannot be in it." He leveled her with a firm look. "I’m serious, Y/N. No full shots. No close-ups. No tragic, longing stares into the camera."

Y/N pressed a hand over her heart, gasping in mock offense. "Clark, would I ever betray your trust like that?"

"Yes," he deadpanned.

She grinned. "Alright, fair. But don’t worry, I’ll personally make sure they only use the anonymous, artsy ones. Shadows, silhouettes—the mystery will drive people wild."

Clark sighed, rubbing his temples. "Thank you."

–

Y/N was a little disappointed.

Just a little.

Because, okay, maybe she had let herself believe it for a second. Maybe she had spent too much time looking at Clark and seeing someone else. But the proof had been right there—his chest, completely unmarked. No scar. No brand. Nothing.

Clark Kent was not Kal.

And yet, even as she told herself that, something still felt off.

But she wasn’t stupid.

If this was a dead end, fine. She could live with that.

But there was no way in hell she was letting a golden opportunity pass her by.

Because Clark Kent—stoic, serious, perfectly put-together Clark Kent—was about to model for Vogue.

And Y/N?

Y/N was going to make this the funniest experience of her life.

"Clark, are you having fun?"

Y/N's voice was sweet, teasing, her eyes bright with amusement as she adjusted the delicate lace sleeve of her gown.

Clark, standing stiff beside her, dead inside, muttered, “No.”

She beamed. “Oh, but you look so good.”

Clark closed his eyes.

The shoot had started only fifteen minutes ago, and he was already in hell.

Jacques circled them, adjusting angles, barking instructions.

"Intensity!" he cried. "Longing!"

Clark bit back a sigh.

He had faced literal supervillains with less dramatic energy.

Y/N placed a hand on Clark’s chest, tilting her head up toward him, her lips just inches away from his jaw. “Like this, Jacques?”

Jacques sighed dreamily. “Perfection!”

Clark, frozen, could only stare straight ahead, praying for death.

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly against the lapel of his suit.

Then, in a low, amused whisper, she said, “Don’t worry, Kent. I’ll make sure your first time is so good.”

Clark choked.

Jacques clapped his hands. “YES! That energy!”

Clark was going to combust.

His ears burned as Y/N grinned up at him, clearly thrilled.

“That’s not what I—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, patting his chest. “Let me take care of you.”

Clark wasn’t going to survive this.

"Closer!" Jacques called. "You are lovers, doomed by fate!"

Clark exhaled sharply. “This is ridiculous.”

Y/N, clearly thriving, hummed. "I think it's fun."

Clark sent her a flat look. "Of course you do."

Jacques suddenly gasped. “I have it!” He turned to the photographer, wildly gesturing. "We need the hands!"

Clark frowned. “The what?”

“THE HANDS, MON AMOUR!” Jacques clutched his chest. “The gentle, reverent touch!”

Y/N, eyes glinting with pure mischief, took both of Clark’s hands and placed them firmly on her waist.

Clark immediately stiffened.

“Oh, don’t be shy, Kent,” she teased, leaning in slightly.

Clark’s jaw locked. “I hate you.”

Y/N smirked. “No, you don’t.”

Jacques sighed dreamily. “Magnifique.”

"Now, the final shot!" Jacques cried. "The one Vogue will remember for centuries!"

Clark mentally prepared for impact.

Y/N, however, was clearly in her element.

Jacques paced for a moment, then suddenly pointed at Clark. "Lie down!"

Clark blinked. “What.”

"LIE DOWN, MON CHÉRI!"

Clark was too exhausted to fight it. He carefully eased onto the ridiculously soft velvet chaise lounge, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Jacques turned to Y/N. "Now, you, on top of him."

Clark's brain blue-screened.

Y/N perked up. “Oh, finally.”

Clark shot up. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N pushed him back down. “Oh, relax. It’s art.”

Clark exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate this.”

Jacques gestured wildly. “More passion! More tragedy! You are soulmates torn apart by destiny!”

Y/N, now draped effortlessly over Clark, sighed dramatically.

“You hear that, Kent? Soulmates.”

Clark groaned.

Y/N rested her chin on his chest, smiling innocently. “You wanna hold me tighter? Really sell it?”

Clark turned his head toward the ceiling. He was in hell.

The flashbulb went off.

It was done.

And Clark Kent was never going to live this down.

–

Clark was used to people coming and going.

It came with the job—stories started, stories ended. He met people, learned their lives, wrote their truths, and then moved on.

That was how it worked.

And yet, as he sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his keyboard, staring at the final draft of the documentary plan, he couldn’t help but feel…

Weird.

Tomorrow morning, his involvement would be mostly over.

After months of following Y/N through her world—recording sessions, tour rehearsals—the bulk of his work was done. The structure was set, the story complete, the interviews wrapped.

By all accounts, he should be relieved.

And he was.

Sort of.

Because his secret was intact.

For all the time they had spent together, for all the questions Y/N had asked, she had never once connected the dots.

She had let it go.

And that should have made Clark feel safe.

But instead, as he sat there, staring at the screen, he felt something he hadn’t expected.

Something that felt an awful lot like…

Regret.

Because against all logic, he had gotten used to having her around.

Her constant presence at the Daily Planet, her shameless ability to steal his desk, the way she dragged him into conversations he had no business being in.

Her stupid little nicknames, the way she teased him, the way she could pull a smile out of him even on his worst days.

She was a good friend.

And he wasn’t used to losing those.

Clark sighed, leaning back in his chair.

This was good. It was.

Everything had worked out.

So why did it feel like something wasn’t finished?

He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

The day had been long—an oil rig fire had kept Superman out past midnight, and Clark still had to be up early.

He should have gone to bed.

But then his phone rang.

And when he saw the name on the screen, something in his stomach dipped.

Y/N.

He answered immediately. “Hey.”

She didn’t waste time.

“Can you come over?”

Clark frowned, sitting up. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” She sounded… different. Not frantic, not upset, just… off.

Clark’s shoulders tensed. “What’s wrong?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“There’s something missing from the plan,” she said finally. “I know what it is.”

Clark exhaled slowly.

And just like that, the weird feeling in his chest got worse.

Because after months of this, after learning everything about her—her childhood, her music, her fears— there was still one thing she had never talked about.

Her stay in Metropolis.

She had glossed over it entirely.

She had told him everything else, but somehow, the part where she had arrived in the city—broke, alone, lost— had disappeared from the story.

And he had let it go, because maybe she had just… forgotten.

But now, sitting there, phone pressed to his ear, he knew.

She hadn’t forgotten.

She had been choosing not to say it.

Until now.

Clark closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll be right there.”

He grabbed his coat and left.

–

Y/N grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, uncorking it with an ease that told him she’d done this a thousand times before. She poured herself a glass, took a slow sip, then turned to face him, tilting her head slightly.

"You drinking?"

Clark shook his head. "Not tonight."

She hummed, swirling the glass in her hand before setting it down on the coffee table. Then, with a small smile, she gestured to his recorder.

"Go on, then. Let’s finish this."

Clark pulled the device from his bag, placed it between them, and pressed record.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward the blinking red light.

Then, softly—

“I never told you about the first person I met in Metropolis.”

Clark stilled.

He kept his expression neutral, but his pulse picked up.

She had never said this before.

She had told him about her childhood. About her mother. About running away. But she had never said what happened after.

Not once.

He leaned forward slightly, pen poised over his notebook. "Go on."

Y/N exhaled, settling back into the couch. “I was seventeen. I stepped off a bus with a few hundred bucks, a guitar, and no clue what the hell I was doing. I didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know where I was gonna stay. And the city—” she huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “Metropolis is a lot, even when you have money. When you don’t? It eats you alive.”

Clark nodded, staying quiet, letting her tell it in her own way.

“I was barely holding it together. I didn’t sleep much. Kept telling myself I’d figure it out. Then, one night…” she trailed off for a second, eyes distant, like she was looking at something just beyond his shoulder.

Then, quieter—

“There was a guy.”

Clark gripped his pen a little tighter.

“His name was Kal. He found me,” she said simply. “Or maybe I found him. I don’t know. But he let me stay with him. No strings attached, no expectations. Just gave me a place to sleep, something to eat, and never asked for anything in return.”

Clark swallowed, his throat dry. “Why are you telling this now?”

Y/N’s gaze met his, steady. “Because people should know that good people exist. That when you think you’re out of options, sometimes the right person finds you. That help is out there, even when you don’t believe it.”

Clark’s jaw tightened.

Because she was saying this for them.

For the kids who had nowhere to go.

For the ones who would watch this documentary and see themselves in her.

For the ones who needed to know that hope was real.

Clark took a careful breath. “And what happened to him?”

Y/N’s fingers traced the rim of her wine glass. “He left.”

The words landed heavier than he expected.

“He was gone before I realized I didn’t want to leave him behind.” She smiled, but it was small, almost sad. “I never got to thank him.”

Silence settled between them.

Clark forced himself to stay still. To keep his face blank.

But inside?

His heartbeat was a war drum.

She had just told him everything.

Then, finally, Y/N turned to him.

Her voice was soft. Certain. “You remind me of him.”

Clark’s chest tightened.

“That’s why I asked for you.”

Clark didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Because if he let anything slip—if he gave her even an inch—she would see it.

So instead, he forced a noncommittal expression, nodding slightly.

Y/N watched him. Closely.

And then—

She caught it.

A flicker. A millisecond of hesitation.

Clark barely even felt it happen, but Y/N did.

And that was all she needed.

She reached forward and turned off the recorder.

Clark’s stomach dropped.

The room suddenly felt too quiet.

Y/N set her wine glass down carefully, then looked him straight in the eye.

“Are you?”

Clark’s throat went dry. “…Am I what?”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Are you him?”

Clark’s heart pounded against his ribs.

His mind raced.

He had gotten so good at lying. So good at burying the darkest parts of himself, making sure no one ever got too close.

But this was Y/N.

She had seen him at his most human.

And now—

She had seen past it.

Clark swallowed, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

Then, carefully, he gave her a small, almost amused smile.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he said lightly.

Y/N tilted her head, studying him.

Clark held her gaze, keeping himself calm, unreadable.

And after a long moment—

She let out a quiet chuckle, reaching for her wine again.

“Guess it is,” she murmured, taking a sip.

And just like that—

The tension broke.

Clark exhaled, leaning back slightly, believing, for just a second, that he had gotten away with it.

But as Y/N swirled the wine in her glass, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Because she knew.

And Clark Kent had no idea.

–

Bonus

–

Clark had barely stepped into his apartment when his phone rang.

Mom.

He sighed deeply. He’d spent all day following some dead-end lead about a corruption case. It had been a few weeks since the documentary proposal wrapped up and the lull of his regular life had gotten a bit tiring without having Y/N glued to him at every moment. 

Bracing himself, he picked up. “Hey, Mom.”

There was a long pause. A terrifying, mom-sensing-bullshit-from-a-mile-away pause.

Then—

"Clark. How do you know Y/N?"

Clark blinked. “Uh—what?”

From the background, Jonathan Kent’s confused voice: "Martha, what are you talking about?"

More rustling. The sound of a magazine being handed over.

And then—

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!"

Clark winced. “Oh, no.”

Jonathan was losing his mind. “CLARK. SON. WHY ARE YOU ON THE COVER OF VOGUE WITH A POP STAR?!”

Clark immediately went into defense mode. “What? That’s not me.”

Silence.

Then, Martha, voice calm but lethal: "Clark Joseph Kent, do not lie to me."

Jonathan, scandalized: “YOUR HANDS ARE ON HER WAIST, BOY.”

Clark rubbed his temples. “Dad, that's not me, you can’t even see the face of the model.”

Martha let out a long, knowing sigh. “Clark. I raised you. I know what my own son looks like.”

Jonathan was still yelling. “YOU THINK A LITTLE SHADOW IS GONNA FOOL ME?!”

“IT’S FOR WORK!”

“YOU WORK AT A NEWSPAPER, CLARK. NOT A RUNWAY SHOW.”

Martha, now flipping through the magazine, humming thoughtfully: “Hmm. These are very… romantic poses.”

Clark groaned. “Mom—”

Jonathan, in horror: “THIS LOOKS LIKE A MARRIAGE ANNOUNCEMENT.”

Clark felt his soul leave his body. “It is NOT—”

Martha, now in full investigative mode: “You know, dear, Y/N seems like a lovely girl. I like some of her songs.”

Jonathan, gripping the pages like they personally offended him: “A LOVELY GIRL WHO IS LOUNGING ALL OVER OUR SON LIKE HE’S HER PERSONAL CHAISE.”

Martha, ignoring him: “Clark, do you… like her?”

Clark nearly dropped the phone. “MOM.”

Jonathan, STILL LOSING HIS MIND: “SHE’S TOUCHING HIS HAIR IN THIS ONE, MARTHA. HIS HAIR.”

Martha, studying the spread: “Oh, I like this one. Very soft, very intimate.”

Clark was having a full breakdown. “WHY ARE YOU ANALYZING THE PHOTOS?!”

Jonathan threw the magazine down like it physically burned him. “BOY. I THOUGHT YOUR BIGGEST SECRET WAS THE SUPERMAN THING.”

Clark was ready to die. “IT IS.”

“WELL, NOT TODAY.”

Martha, still way too amused: “Clark, honey. If you weren’t planning to tell us about Y/N, you could’ve at least warned us before you ended up in a fashion magazine.”

Clark felt faint. “BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING TO TELL.”

Martha: "Mmm."

Jonathan, muttering: “Son, I swear, I have spent my whole life worrying about people finding out you’re Superman, and now I gotta worry about Y/N’s fans hunting you down too—”

Clark was seconds away from launching himself into the sun. “I HAVE TO GO.”

“Clark—”

Click.

[kqutie]

THE PRINCESS' SEVEN MERCENARIES

CHAPTER SEVEN : AN AWAITED TRUTH

relations. : cevans various/reader -- steve rogers/reader ; curtis everett/reader ; ari levinson/reader ; lloyd hansen/reader ; andy barber/reader ; jake jensen/reader ; ransom drysdale/reader

chpt. sum. : You're forced to tell the truth but it comes at a price Ari refuses to pay.

tags. : snow white and the seven dwarves au ; fairy tale au ; fluff ; domestic fluff ; angst if you squint ; a/b/o universe but it's not the central point ; disney princess reader and her seven sexy mercenaries hehe~ ; world building ; the truth comes out ; apologies are made ; steve is a good captain ; lloyd has conflicting feelings ; discussions on you becoming theirs ; ari makes everything better ; reader makes everything better too

length. : 8.4k

navi. | series masterlist

← six. the foolish genius

“I didn’t lie to you that first day; I told you my real name.” You look up from where you usually sit at the dinner table with pleading eyes. Seeing the transparent honesty in your expression and mannerisms, Andy nods when Steve looks to him for confirmation. That was all he needed. Over their time spent together on missions, Andy had become a reliable human lie detector. He knew what signs to look for in people they needed to interrogate or seek knowledge from — he worked with Ransom for quite some time until he was able to impart his knowledge to the Beta, who used it alongside his charm on overt missions. 

“It doesn’t explain who you are,” Lloyd huffs, still openly belligerent towards you that it makes you flinch. If he saw the effect he had, he didn’t draw attention to it; his gaze narrowed as much as his mind. 

“I understand your hostility, but I was only trying to escape and start a new, peaceful life for myself.” You avoid everyone's eyes, ashamed of your origins despite your ambitions of ruling one day and helping your kingdom thrive. Which had all now been tarnished by someone you didn’t dare cross while growing up. 

“... what do you mean by that?” Steve asks quietly, worry involuntarily spiking within him and making his chest ache. Were you in danger? That was the singular thought on everyone’s minds, and they simply couldn’t believe it— rather, they were in complete denial of the fact. Apart from the omissions of your true identity, you were a sweet, loving and kind individual, they can’t picture you wishing harm upon anyone. Nevertheless, because of the work they do, they cannot simply let it slide that they don’t know more about your background anymore, especially with the behaviours and knowledge you’re displaying, all of which aren’t typical of any normal person. 

“I-It’s hard to explain.”

“We have the time,” Andy says gently in an attempt to comfort you. However, there isn’t a significant change in your stiff posture, rather, you remain all the more rigid. Curtis, offering his silent comfort, reaches for your hand, where it rests on your lap beneath the table. In return, you muster a small but still rather stiff smile.

“I’ll make some tea first. It’s all too tense here, and our angel can’t comfortably talk to us if that’s the case.” Ari stands from his seat and easily moves to the kitchen, where he goes about putting the kettle on. 

“O-Oh umm… I made a relaxing tea blend earlier,” you helpfully point towards a small tin at the corner of the kitchen counter.

“What’s in it?” Ari asks curiously, opening the tin and taking a moment to smell the blend. 

“There’s lavender, apple, chamomile and vanilla. It goes well with honey.” You smile as Ari turns to you with approval written on his features, quickly closing the container again. 

“It smells really good.” He turns to the team. “Who else wants tea?” Everyone except Lloyd raises their hand and Ari scowls. “Majority vote, eh?” Ari smirks at their grump of an assassin, “I’ll just make tea for everyone then.” Lloyd huffs, tensing his already folded arms. 

“Why did you even bother to blend such a tea?” Lloyd asks without thinking and is caught off guard by your thoughtful response. 

“Everyone was looking a little tired recently, so I was hoping to invite you all for some tea after dinner. Hopefully, you’d be able to have more restful sleep with it,” you admit softly, looking down and playing with Curtis’s large hand in your lap. The silent giant of a man manages to smile warmly at you and lean forward to press his face into the side of your head. It’s a small, affectionate gesture that makes you look at him with gratitude and squeeze his hand in silent thanks. He’s a man whose actions speak louder than his words, and you hope that by engaging in his silent communication, you’d be able to understand him better. 

“Thank you for your consideration,” Andy expresses from across the table, sitting beside Steve, who looks conflicted but grateful for Andy’s utterance. The captain doesn’t feel as though he can comfortably voice his opinions right now, and not until you’ve revealed your true identity and that they can confirm you bring no danger to them. You’ve been a great presence to have around the cottage the few days you’ve been here, and you’ve made such a positive impact on everyone, but he just can’t risk the safety of his pack. He just hopes that, when the dust is settled, and you turn out not to have bad intentions, you can forgive him for raising his voice. He’s ashamed for doing so towards such a gentle-mannered lady like you. For now, he isn’t Steve, he is the Captain and the leader of his incomplete but complete pack. He needs to keep a level head to make the best decisions for his team. 

“Yeah, thanks a lot, princess!” Jake cheers positively from where he’s sat. “You’re always so considerate and sweet. Not like anything we’ve known.” Lloyd clicks his tongue and looks away, finding offence in such an innocent and truthful statement. He’s going to stand his ground on this, he knew you were too good to be true. There’s just no way someone could be so kind without having hidden intentions, he needs to nip this in the bud before the rest of his idiotic, whipped pack gets negatively impacted. 

“It’s alright.” You smile sweetly, and everyone waits in silence as Ari prepares the cups of tea. It feels slightly odd that you weren’t the one serving everyone for once. No matter how short your stay is, you’ve already become accustomed to the routine of attending to the men here. You weren’t complaining, though; you enjoyed helping them unwind after a long day, and they were all very sweet to you, too. Hopefully, they’ll be willing to let you stay after your explanation. It saddened you that it has to come to this, but it’s only fair that if you want to stay longer, there needs to be trust on both sides, and that means being honest with each other. 

Finally, Ari returned with eight cups of tea, a teapot if anyone wanted to refill their cup and a jar of honey so that anyone could sweeten their drink to their liking. Jake and Curtis were the first to reach for the honey pot. Words of gratitude for Ari’s gesture were muttered around the table, even from Lloyd, despite having no intention of drinking from his cup. 

“Take your time,” Andy assures you once again whilst everyone (except Lloyd) sips at their tea, and you give him a look of gratitude. It took a while, but your nerves finally calmed, and you felt as though you could speak again without stumbling over your words. 

“I am the princess of this proud kingdom...” You deduce that it’s best to just come out and say it as it is. It will make it easier to explain everything else as soon as everyone’s reactions have settled. 

“Th—… that can’t be…” Steve utters, eyes wide with disbelief as he takes you in. Ari collapses into his chair as Andy runs his fingers through his hair. In your lap, you feel Curtis’ large hand squeeze around your own, and when you look up, it’s hard to read his eyes or expression. 

“I’ve been calling you princess all this time—” Jake stumbles over his words, looking lost and confused, “I didn’t even...” he shakes his head and tries to distract himself by stirring more honey into his tea. 

Ransom furrows his brows at you, his eyes searching, “It must be a lie.” But when you shake your head and give him a solemn look, he bites his lip and looks away, muttering incoherently to himself. 

“Isn’t the princess a myth? The King never had a daughter, did he?” Lloyd breaks the tense silence in stubborn denial of your truth, but you know it’s just a hard fact to process; the queen made sure your existence faded.

“That’s just what she wants you to think.” 

“By ‘she’, you mean, the current Queen?” Andy asks and hums when you nod in confirmation. 

“My stepmother, yes.”

Andy tuts in disgust with a shake of his head. “Her ambitions are too high.” He meets eyes with Steve, who takes on a pondering stance, covering his mouth with his fingers and rubbing at his chin. This was a turn of events he was not expecting.

However, with your words and the bits of information he’s piecing together, Steve begins to speculate, “Then was the King actually killed in battle?...” or was it murder?

You sigh, “I don’t know... the war did happen, and my father did participate, but I never found out whether my father’s death was a fated event or one that was manipulated into a reality.”

There was another silence as everyone digested your existence. They want to deny it for how preposterous it sounds, but as they pondered deeper, it all began to make sense. You know things normal people couldn’t so easily divulge, and when asked to explain why, your default explanation is that you’re a well-read person who fostered knowledge from books available to you. However, such knowledge couldn’t possibly be obtained from readily available books found in common libraries — even their tech genius, an expert in all things magic-related, couldn’t match your understanding of magical artefacts and their history. From your warm lunches, they know that you have a high affinity for magic and can use it safely and consistently — a trait found in most high-standing people, especially the nobility. You’re articulate, and your mannerisms are too elegant for a normal individual to have; you move with a grace and presence that is gentle but powerful all at once.

Of course, you’re the princess. It makes too much sense that you are. On the other hand, there are also traits to you that aren’t typical of a royal. Primarily, you know how to do common chores, cook, clean, do laundry and repair clothes. High-standing people, especially the nobility, wouldn’t know how to do any of these things as they had servants for such minimal tasks. 

Despite that, it can’t be denied that you had the traits of a princess. But that begs the question of why you’re all the way out here and not at the royal palace.

“Then what was your life at the palace like?” Lloyd interjects eyes hardened into a disbelieving stare, “How did you survive under someone who clearly despised your existence?—”

“Lloyd!” Ransom hissed at his fellow mercenary’s harsh words and kicked his shin beneath the table, but Lloyd continued, undeterred. 

“Surely the Queen wanted you gone, especially when you finally reached adulthood. How did she even manage to keep your existence a secret for that long?” 

“I had already come of age and was hoping that I’d finally be able to inherit the throne,” you confessed, biting your lip from how naive you had been in retrospect. Your 21st birthday wasn’t even grandly celebrated as it traditionally should have been, but then again, you were never able to make your debut into high society between 11 and 15 years of age. You shouldn’t have set your expectations so high. “But it was foolish of me to think in such a way.” They wait for you to continue with bated breath, not wanting to stress you out even more when it looks like you would collapse from just having to relive what you had to go through. “The staff took care of me after my father died, ensuring that I was well educated and kept up with noble practices despite the Queen standing strongly against my education and development as a royal. She made sure that I wasn’t treated like a princess by giving me chores around the palace, making me sleep in staff quarters and constantly overlooking my presence despite having many eyes on me, reporting back to her regularly. Slowly, she had turned me into a common maid.” Andy shook his head in disbelief and met eyes with Lloyd, whose expression looked unreadable — even the assassin couldn’t begin to comprehend what he was hearing. 

“The Queen guaranteed my existence was wiped from public knowledge by imprisoning the staff and swearing them to secrecy. She went so far as to develop a new knight order who were loyal to only her and had them replace my father’s original order of knights. Thankfully, not everyone on the staff wanted to be ruled by her, and they rebelled silently by supporting me behind the scenes.” A small smile grew on your lips as you recounted fond memories with the staff while the mercenary group looked on with a tightness in their chests. “I will forever be grateful to those kind-hearted, courageous people, who I’ve grown to see as my own family. They truly only wished the best for me, and yet—” you couldn’t bring yourself to continue and face the reality that you had been forced to abandon the one true family you have grown to know since young. 

“You said you had to escape and build a peaceful life for yourself.” Ari begins, seeing that tears fill up your beautiful eyes and approaches the topic gently so as not to upset you further. “What do you mean by that?”

“My 21st birthday passed without celebrations, and I believed I wouldn’t be acknowledged at all in the months that followed. The world had gotten so dark, and my false hopes had resulted in failing my people; I didn’t know what to do. But it all came to a head when the Queen sent me out with Sir Remfrey, a huntsman of the palace who was loyal to me in secret. He had been tasked with killing me somewhere secret.” The group sucked in a breath. Unbelievable. Jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing and sought Ransom’s hand beneath the table for comfort. Thankfully, the Beta complied without complaint; admittedly, Ransom also needed comfort after knowing the terrible fate that had been orchestrated for you. None of them could believe someone could have such bad intentions for someone as kind and sweet as you. But that was a reality their occupation fulfilled, and the actualisation of it was harrowing. 

“Sir Remfrey took me to the outskirts of the city, under the guise that he would escort me for my first excursion outside the palace in belated celebration of my recent coming of age. He was meant to bring my heart back as evidence of his deeds. Thankfully, rather than follow through on her orders, he set me free with a basket full of essentials collated by the staff — my family. I will forever be grateful to Sir Remfrey and the staff for the second chance they have given me... a chance at a new life, a peaceful one.”

Steve meets your eyes when you look up at the end of your explanation, and his heart clenches painfully. He readily ignores it, however. As the captain, he needs to be the responsible one who weighs out all sides before making a final decision, even if that means being black-hearted, leading up to a settlement. Remaining silent and keeping his thoughts locked, Steve turns to Andy and Ransom with a pointed look; they would know if you were telling the truth or not. Andy nods solemnly. Ransom follows with a stiff nod of his own. 

So this was the truth.

“And in your escape from the palace, you happened upon our cottage,” Steve asks, meeting your eyes once more to watch as you nod affirmatively. 

“I really didn’t mean to stay as long as I did but—“ you give a bashful look and stare down at your lap once more, thinking it best not to explain further. 

“No need...” Steve raises his palm and offers a soft look, happy to finally be able to comfortably lower his guard again. At that moment, he realised how wrong it felt to be guarded around you. “We’re partly to blame.”

“It was great coming home to a warm dinner each night,” Jake grins widely, eager to dispel the thick tension of your interrogation. “And you’re so nice and kind, we love you!” he blurts without thinking, making his teammates tense up as they wait for your response. 

Ransom’s glare conveys his thoughts at the Beta clearly: You’re so stupid, Jake! You can’t just say that! What if she gets weirded out and leaves us for good?! But Ransom’s glare is cheekily ignored. 

They don’t expect your sweet smile, but it makes their shoulders relax instantly. “I love you all too.” Lloyd looks at you with a frown, fully expecting to be excluded due to his harshness but is surprised when you take a moment to meet his eyes as well, your loving expression unchanging. And as much as Lloyd would hate to admit that he enjoys the image of you looking sweetly at him, he looks away with a huff, his mind conflicted but his heart warm. 

“Thank you for your honesty.” Steve begins, fixing you with a soft stare as he silently solidifies his resolve on a significant decision. Now, it was a question of how he should go about approaching it. “…Now that you’ve been honest with us, it’s only fair that we be honest with you as well.” The implication of his words has all of the mercenaries snapping their heads towards their captain, Lloyd is the most vocal in his protests but everyone else remains silent, eyes wide and mouths agape; silently pleading for some sort of explanation. 

“Captain,” Andy cautiously starts, looking at Steve with somewhat narrowed eyes, “are you sure about this?”

“Of course, I am,” Steve hums. “Trust goes both ways and I believe in her, don’t you?” From across the table, Steve takes a moment to meet eyes with each of the pack. It was a silent, two-way communication that waited for gradual acceptance of his decision for the team; slowly, they gave their consent in a small nod. Lloyd is the most defiant in his narrowed stare and stiffened stance but he doesn’t outright refuse, he only looks away grumbling. He’s seen that everyone but him has already come to match Steve’s resolve, all he can do now is trust in his pack, even if every cell in his body is stubbornly screaming to go against them. It would be for their own good that Lloyd protest but would it really, when they feel so strongly towards you? 

“Wh…what is it?” you ask in a soft voice that barely rises above a whisper.

“We’re more than we appear.” Steve’s statement comes off a little cryptic and you don’t quite know how to comprehend it. 

“We aren’t don’t work on fraud cases.” Jake provides, referring to your earlier conversation when discussing replicas of magical artefacts. 

“So, what do you do?”

“We’re private hires.” Lloyd snaps firmly, looking at you with daring eyes. He dares you to challenge his words, dares you to look shocked, dares you cower in fear. Lloyd isn’t the type to feel ashamed of his and the pack’s occupation; it’s what’s kept them alive, after all, it’s also the reason why they’ve bonded so closely. No, he will never be ashamed of the truth, and he isn’t about to let the pang of anxiety in his chest consume him entirely. “Mercenaries. We’ve been hired to do many bad things in the past, Princess. And we have a lot of blood on our hands because of it.” Ari doesn’t know why Lloyd is acting so hostile but doesn’t step in, no one does. They all seem to silently agree that giving you the harsh reality of their true background would be for the best — there’s no use sugarcoating things. “Are you sure you still wanna stick around? We’re dangerous, cold-hearted mercs, this cottage is no place for a Princess.”

The expression you hold is unreadable. It’s as if you don’t know what to say, and while you contemplate what you should say, time slows to a painful pace for the tea. Being transparent with you means many things to them and different things to each person. Unanimously (even Lloyd), however, they cherish your presence; it gives them a break from their harsh way of life because you make them feel like they deserve more than what the world has so harshly given them. You’re their reprieve, a safety and peace they have no hope of finding elsewhere. You’re the final missing piece of their incomplete pack — their omega. It would be hard to let you go if that’s what you choose, but this is why Steve chose to be transparent with you and why they agreed. It’s to give you a fair choice and a rightful say. This is how it should be, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t secretly hoping you make one decision over the other. Holding their breaths, their hands clench into fists as they await your answer. Even Curtis has slipped his hand out of your hold so that his touch can’t influence your final decision. 

“But… did you not give me a safe place to live while I was seeking refuge?” you ask, and they don’t quite know if it’s a rhetorical question or not. Regardless, all of them are too stunned to even answer you. What were you getting at? “Did you not treat me kindly during my stay? Did you not share your food with me? Did you not give me a warm place to sleep?” they watch as your beautiful face slowly brightens with a smile. “I’m afraid I can only judge you on what I’ve been able to see thus far. Regardless of the truth in your occupation, that is not your defining factor, and I can see that you don’t let it be the defining factor, either. Of course, I’d love to stay for longer… as long as you’re willing to have me, that is.” You look adorably bashful by the end, and most can’t believe their ears or eyes at the sight. You truly couldn't care less about their background. 

Jake laughs, bright and loud, cutting through the tension, making it evaporate with hardly any effort. “Of course we want you to stay! You can stay as long as you need and want!” the tech genius turns to their captain with shining eyes and a wide grin, “Isn’t that right, Cap?”

Chuckling lowly to himself, Steve nods, eyes glowing with affection as he looks at Jake before trailing his eyes to you. What a relief this all is — things went better than expected; Steve fully believed you would take the chance to pack your things and leave. “That’s right, Jake.” Steve sees you flash him a grateful smile and his chest warms with affection. 

“Great!” Ari laughs, the weight on his shoulders and chest immediately lifting. It looks like you were here to stay. He couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. “This is the best news we’ve had all day!” Ari gets up from his seat and makes his way over to stand behind your chair. With a self-satisfied grin, he leans down to meet your eyes as his voice drops into a low whisper. “Greedy as we are, I’m glad we get to have you all to ourselves for longer, sweet angel—” As Ari turns his head to speak directly into your ear, you turn to give him your full attention and unintentionally meet his lips with your own. 

Gasps echo about the room as everyone freezes in place, unable to comprehend what’s happened. They’re all waiting for someone to react some way and break them all out of their shock. Unable to resist, Ari is the first to respond and leans into the kiss further, his hand coming up to hold your chin in place as his eyes close slowly, urging you to do the same and get lost in the kiss with him. You don’t know what comes over you, but it’s far too easy to reciprocate — it just feels right, somehow. Ari feels it, too, and smirks into the kiss from the amount of glee he feels in that moment. He was right. You’re destined to be theirs. And, them, yours. You complete their pack; you’re their missing piece, their omega! Their luna!   

“Ari! You can’t do that!” Andy shouts, rising from his seat but it’s clear that Ari isn’t eager to let you go anytime soon, rather, he angles his head to deepen the kiss further and hums with deep satisfaction when you wrap your arms around his neck. It seems you haven’t registered the chaos that has broken out around you.

“Unfair!” Ransom huffs, “How come you get to kiss her first?“ 

“This isn’t about who goes first or not, Ransom!” 

“Let her go,” Curtis growls lowly but is ignored and intensifies his glare at Ari’s broad figure. Oh, if a look could kill a man… 

“This is not how things are supposed to go, Ari!” Steve protests through clenched teeth. He had been fully on board with potentially making you a part of their pack, finally completing their circle with a worthy Omega. However, with the discovery of you being the princess, Steve had hoped to discuss this with Ari— a vocal supporter of the decision —a little longer before taking any action. 

“Not to the Princess, Ari! This has to be treason!” Jake’s whining cry reaches your ears and you finally pull away, panting slightly. You were already quite flustered from the sudden intimate act but the image of Ari licking his lips and giving a pleased grumble at your lingering taste on his lips makes your chest want to explode. Now that your lips are no longer attached to Ari’s you can fully comprehend the havoc of the room and gasp silently at the amount of attention fixed on you. 

“I-I think I better get started on dinner,” you smile at everyone shyly before hurrying to the kitchen, but not before Ari catches your hand and brings your knuckles to his lips. 

“Thank you for letting me be the first to kiss you properly, darlin’.” He whispers with such affection against your skin that you can barely speak up in response. The only thing you had the strength to muster was a hurried nod before pulling away to distract yourself with dinner preparations. Glimpsing the clock face on the wall, you sigh in relief — just in time, not too late but not too early. 

Ari was subsequently scolded and glared at by many of his pack mates, but he doesn’t care. It was all worthwhile. Honestly, he didn’t expect to steal your first kiss with them in such a way, but it still went better than he could ever imagine — perhaps the surprise element was a contributing factor. Nevertheless, Ari could, at least, put up with this much, especially when still on a high from the taste of your sweet lips. He’s never tasted a sweeter candy in his life and, as much as he loves his pack mates, he already knows it’ll be hard to share you. 

“You’re a pig, Ari!” Ransom snaps at him, huffing and sulking away to a corner with Jake when Ari does nothing but look smug in return — he’s unfazed with taunting eyes that say, ‘I know you’re just jealous, Ran~’. Away from Ari and the other alphas, the two Betas get lost in their respective books, both pouty and sharing in the feeling of unfairness. They couldn’t even blame you for it because everyone could tell that it was an accident. 

Lloyd is nowhere to be found, but by the shout that comes from their back garden area, followed closely by the familiar sound of an axe hitting a tree, Ari can hazard a guess as to what may be happening. “I will join him,” Curtis announces in his usual low voice, deep and mellow but the irritation behind his words are tangible. It should make Ari feel, somewhat, guilty since Curtis is usually the stoic type but he just couldn’t. No, Ari could never feel guilty when it comes to you.

In the far corner, Steve and Andy were discussing something heatedly. There’s a tug in Ari’s chest that pulls him forward and urges him to join the discussion. “You’ve put us in a difficult position, Ari,” Steve sighs as Ari smoothly slots himself in between the two. 

“Oh yeah?” Steve and Andy narrow their eyes at Ari’s laidback attitude and smug grin. 

“And you’re happy about that, aren’t you?” Andy sighs, eyeing you in his peripheral as you potter about their kitchen.

“I have no regrets. But you can’t blame me, it was an accident. And weren’t you accepting of her becoming our Omega?”

“Yes, but that changed when we found out she’s the princess,” Steve hisses under his breath, his mind racing with potential future scenarios. 

“This can go one of two ways, either she continues running away from the throne—” Andy starts, aided by Steve with helpful remarks along the way. 

“—which she seems reluctant to if given the option to return to rule rightfully,”

Andy nods at Steve who leans against the living room wall with his arms crossed, brows furrowed in thought. “Or she returns to the throne after banishing the Queen.”

“If it’s the former, we can make her our omega but if it’s the latter, she cannot.” 

“Don’t most monarchs rule better when in an established pack?” Ari argues, receiving a pointed look from the two. 

“Yes, but it’s not appropriate when we’re mercenaries, and she’s the Princess and future Queen. She deserves to be surrounded by a decent council of high-standing nobles as bachelors, to be supported by a pack who are familiar with that type of word. We aren’t that, Ari.” The emphasis in Steve’s words cuts through Ari’s chest. Maybe he was being too optimistic, but he couldn’t let the feeling go. It feels too right to have you in their lives, it feels too right to have you in his arms, it feels too right to be kissing you. He just needs to make them see it too.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The evening ended with full stomachs and a warm atmosphere, while the next morning began with grumbling stomachs and a quiet peace. It appears as though everyone has decided to carry on as normal. The group have unanimously agreed that it’s a blessing to have you in their lives like this despite knowing their background and occupation. They weren’t going to spoil the one good thing in their lives for something as little as their own insecurities. It’s a good thing you were willing to go along with them on it too, oblivious to the silent turmoil in your eyes. 

As much as you were happy to extend your stay with the group, you had been tossing and turning the whole night. When left in the quiet alone with your thoughts, your mind couldn’t help but return to the topic of the 'Mirror of Aleth’ replicas. It didn’t sit well with you that they were being created in the first place, and it was a fight with yourself to bring the topic up or not. Yes, you can only speculate on the intentions, but there’s never a good, moral reason for their creation no matter how speculative your conclusions. The issue needs to be addressed with the same amount of importance as the truth of your identity — this underground scheme poses a great risk to your kingdom and its people.

With a deep breath, you interrupt breakfast with a soft call for their attention. Despite how gentle your voice comes, all movement stops, and the attention turns to you without question. It’s a similar respect they demonstrate towards Steve, their captain. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something important to say.” They nod firmly as Steve silently urges you on with an encouraging look, “I understand that it’s not my place, but I have a horrible feeling about the replicas Jake mentioned yesterday. Would you mind telling me more about them? Maybe I can offer some assistance…” your voice remains soft and, somewhat, shy but not hesitant. There’s a firmness in your words as you break the peaceful silence at the breakfast table. The mercenary pack share a look but there aren’t any outright protests to your question, not even from Lloyd. It appears as though he and Curtis had quite the productive talk the evening before, bonding as they threw axes at trees together. Even going so far as to cut more firewood for the fireplace together. 

“We were hired by the King of Okisha to retrieve the stolen magical artefact, the mirror of Aleth.” Andy provides after sipping his morning coffee. 

Your eyes widen in horror. “It was stolen?”

“That’s right.” Lloyd cuts in surprisingly, his focus remaining on the plate of breakfast before him. “And, judging by the high security surrounding their royal vaults, it was done by a skilled individual.”

“Do you have any suspects?” You ask, tone serious and eyes hardened by the gravity of the situation. It was an appearance the mercenaries weren’t used to seeing on you but it was a welcome change. They can discern your education and royal class through that look alone and it was comforting, in a sense. Andy’s sure that you’d be proud to know such a trait has become a permanent mark on you despite the struggles of oppression you’ve faced in your own palace. 

“Our investigation so far points us to the current Queen of your kingdom, your stepmother,” Steve announces but you’re not shocked. Rather, you only appear to grow more worried, the food on your plate remaining mostly untouched. 

“And those replicas… are they related to her too?” 

“We don’t know but they might as well be,” Ari answers this time as Jake hums in additional confirmation. 

“If it’s not too much to ask—” the entire pack give you their full attention, even Jake stops chewing on his food. “Please may you destroy all the replicas you’ve found? If my stepmother is truly a part of this, I don’t think it would bode well for her to get her hands on a successfully made replica.”

“What are your suspicions?” Steve asks, curious as to how deeply you think the Queen’s association will go. 

“If she is involved, it must mean she was the thief. That’s a guarantee, knowing her.” Your eyes wonder as you contemplate deeper, your mind flashing with memories of the Queen’s somewhat unusual behaviour leading up to your attempted assassination and eventual escape. “I remember her beginning to spend hours in a singular room at the palace leading up to my escape with Sir Remfrey. Yes, she likes to be on her own and rule fully independent of the royal council, she doesn’t even have a pack to rely on — she’s very self-sufficient. And while many of the staff knew her to spend hours alone, across various rooms, this particular room was located in the depths of the palace, somewhere isolated and barely touched by the staff. It was ominous but no one dared to question her, she’s the Queen after all.”

“What do you think she wants from the mirror? What truth does she seek?” 

You give a weak shrug of your shoulders, your brows furrowing further, “I don’t know… but she must have realised that she can’t make the true mirror work. Though I’m not sure she’s fully informed on the reasons why. Abraham was always reluctant to impart his knowledge on ancient, magical artefacts because he had always sensed that the Queen was, somewhat, unwell.”

“Unwell?” 

“Abraham didn’t elaborate on it further, but I suspect it concerns her psyche. He was only adamant about withholding as much information from her as possible, that was what was important to him as the royal mage. Thankfully, he’s been able to get away with it using the excuse that, although she has lived past my father, she will forever be the Queen Consort only, meaning that she remains lesser than a Queen and will forever be without full constitutional power. That would also include knowledge of things that would be otherwise confidential. Only I am allowed those privileges as the rightful, living heir.”  

“And these replicas?” Jake asks, searching your eyes for some kind of answer. If they can pinpoint a firm motive, it’ll kick their asses into better gear for tackling the assignment swiftly. They’re already feeling the drive from the precious intel you’ve provided them atop the current conversation. The sooner they complete the mission, the sooner they get to their retirement. 

“Replicas can’t function as well as the original. I don’t think she’d settle for a half-truth or a truth that’s told in a roundabout way. I think that, as long as she can get one, coherent truth out of a replica, she’ll be satisfied.” You conclude and the boys have to hand it to you, your theory makes sense. If she doesn’t know the truth about how the Mirror of Aletha works and that it only answers to true descendants like you had told Jake the day previous, she must be pretty desperate to go searching for that truth elsewhere, squandering the royal funds as she does so. 

“You want us to destroy those replicas then?” Steve deduces, his eyes becoming firm with resolve when you nod your head. 

“Please…”

“Sounds easy enough,” Lloyd comments as Curtis hums in agreement beside him. 

With one firm nod, Curtis’s eyes also become focused on the decision. “We will do it today.” The pack’s designated assassin and guard turn to each other and share a similar look. It appears a commodore has been reached between them. 

“Thank you.” You speak with such sincerity and with the sweetest smile on your face that Lloyd has to look away. He couldn’t bear the sight of you. And he only had himself to blame for that. He had been too impulsive and aggressive — the typical, doltish alpha who acts before he thinks. Many believed that the pheromone suppressant jewellery current laws required the public wear, helped individuals conquer their secondary gender’s instincts but Lloyd was not one of them. He has to accept that truth. His talk with Curtis the previous evening was a much-needed one. That was the most he’d ever heard Curtis talk, but he appreciated it — not that he’d openly admit the fact, but that’s why Curtis was the perfect one to have such a dialogue with. Lloyd didn’t need to say anything because he could tell that Curtis knew what he wanted to say. The stoic giant of a guard was a man of few words himself, so he understood the fundamentals of body language and often expressed more with his own body than with his words. 

‘Thanks,’ was Lloyd’s silent message that night. 

‘Any time,’ was what Lloyd could comprehend from Curtis’ stoic but kind stare. 

“Even if the replicas are incomplete or said to not work, destroy them all.” 

“Roger that!” Jake grins, doing a small salute as Steve huffs a light chuckle to himself. Many others about the table also give a short laugh, grinning wider when they see the curious tilt of your head to one side. You would have laughed too if you knew the teasing jab Jake had made at Steve’s last name. 

“They can do all of that while I stay behind with you, Angel~” Ari smirks and winks at you from across the table as glares swiftly point at him.

“What do you mean, Ari?” Andy asks with furrowed brows. Admittedly, the group’s appointed negotiator was mainly protesting because of what had happened the night before and had become overly cautious (and jealous) about how close Ari was getting to you. “We need you out there to help locate the replicas.”

With a simple shrug, Ari leisurely leans back into his chair and smirks, “Jake knows everything I know, I even made sure to write it all down for him. Besides, don’t you think our princess needs to be protected while you’re all away? Especially after what the Queen had planned to do with her?” That was a reasoning Andy (and everyone else) couldn’t argue with and he could do nothing but sigh in defeat. 

“Gear up; it’s time to leave.” Was Steve’s only instruction as he moved away from the table and prepared for the day ahead, quickly followed by the rest of the team. 

As was routine, the group prepares to leave as soon as breakfast is finished. Despite the civil atmosphere, however, Steve didn’t want to get too hopeful as he finished lacing up his boots by the door. He was the first ready to leave as always and yet, you weren’t by the door for the usual farewell. It was too optimistic a thought to expect things to continue as they were after the frightening confrontation he had put you through the day before. Steve was, at least, grateful that you were willing to pack them lunches again, though he doubts they’ll still be receiving your sweet notes. Looking at the faces of his team, it appears as though they were coming to the same realisation and acceptance as him. Only Ari appeared unfazed as he stood behind. 

The confrontation was a much-needed one but Steve admits he could have handled it much better…

“Right, we’re off,” Steve announces before eying Ari directly, “Keep her safe.” Turning, Steve reaches for the door with his lunch in hand, determined to follow through on your request. It would be the beginning of his apology. Once he’s done that, he would be able to face you sincerely with a proper apology — his behaviour the day before was appalling; even though that was how he felt like he had to act, there was a better way. Determined, Steve already configured a solid plan for how he wanted the team to go about dealing with today’s assignment, and his shoulders straightened from the resolve behind it. 

“Wait! Steve!” Frozen in place, Steve can’t bring himself to turn and meet you. What were you calling him for? He waits stiffly by the door with a racing heart as you hop up beside him. 

“What about our usual goodbye?” you ask with pouty lips. “You can’t leave without it, none of you can.” A sudden wave of timidity comes over you at Steve’s obvious hesitation and lack of response. “A-as long as that’s okay with you, that is… it’s quite the routine now so…" 

Steve’s body takes over as he turns his full body to face you despite his slow-to-comprehend brain. “No no, you’re right. It’s routine now.” he gives you a soft look and leans down, “It feels wrong to leave without our usual goodbye.” Smiling once again, you cup Steve’s jaw and hold him in place as you press a lingering kiss against his cheek. Although it was nice to feel you this close for a little longer than usual, Steve couldn’t help but be suspicious of the oddity in your kiss ‘farewell’. Usually, it was a quick peck and he was swiftly on his way after. But he doesn’t complain. Just as you ease up, he finally leans away but is caught off-guard, yet again, when you suddenly wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close enough to place your lips beside his ear. 

“I forgive you…” You whisper before pulling away to look at the mercenary captain with a gentle smile. Shocked, Steve didn’t know what to do. For once, the captain was stunned into silence, his entire world coming to a stop at the sight of your beautiful smile and sweetness. You didn’t even let him say ‘I’m sorry’. But you must have been able to sense it coming from a mile away. Steve’s awe turns into a smile of gratitude, and kissing your temple before he leaves. The same way you allowed your lips to linger on his cheek, he allowed his to linger on your temple. As he steps through the door, the warmth of his lips remains imprinted on your skin.

“Take care, Steve,”

“You as well, Princess,”

Up next was Andy, whose earlier shock melted into a warm smile when he realised you weren’t going to hold yesterday’s hostile confrontation against them. As a man of habit, he goes over his usual farewell routine with you. He takes your hand and brings it to his lips before leaning down to savour the kiss you deliver to his cheek. At the last second, he turns his head and buries his nose into the intimate space just below your ear and whispers a soft but sincere ‘thank you’ into your hair before he follows Steve outside the cottage with an easy smile on his lips.  

“Have a great day, Andy,” you call as he steps out the door, shooting you a proud grin from over his shoulder. 

“And you, sweetheart,”

“I’m next!” Jake cheers as he surprises you with a hug from behind. Turning in his arms, you smile and prompt him to also lean down so you can kiss his cheek. Happily, Jake obliges but doesn’t untangle his arms from around you just yet. He quite likes the feel of you tucked up against his chest, getting on your tip toes to press a kiss onto his cheek. It makes him smile like a goof but gets pouty when you have to pull away finally. With a whine, he nuzzles the crown of your head and tries to monopolise the short moment with you for as long as possible. He would have stayed there the whole day if he wasn’t inevitably dragged away by Andy, who was prompted by Ransom’s impatient grumbling. 

As soon as Jake is gone, Ransom steps up and pulls you close by the waist, where he kisses your forehead first before kissing both of your cheeks as you giggle in his arms. The twinkling sound of your laughter makes him smile warmly and aims a kiss for your lips but pouts when you turn your head, mistaking it as your turn to finally kiss him on the cheek too. 

“Get home safe, Ran. Take care,” Ransom doesn’t stay pouty for long, however, not when you’re so sweet to him. 

‘I’ll get home safe as long as you’re there to greet me at the door,’ Ransom is tempted to say but leaves with a silent smile and a similar greeting instead. “You take care too, sweets. Make sure to keep Ari in check, will you?” Ransom tuts, directing a pointed glare at the bearded man in question, who simply smirks at him. 

“Will do, Ran!” at least the Machiavellian knows you’ll put in the effort and can leave with a level heartbeat. 

Curtis approaches you next. Like the previous day, he hugs and picks you up around the waist so that you’re looking down at him and have to stabilise yourself with your hands on his shoulders. You search each other’s eyes for a moment before you finally lean down to kiss his cheek, and he takes a moment to affectionately nuzzle your neck. Ever since the day he escorted you into town and had to be calmed by your scent, he’s grown quite an addiction to your fragrance — he will take every opportunity to bring you closer and take in your aroma as intimately as possible. Never has he felt so calm and at peace than when he’s breathing you in. 

“Have a good day Curt, please get home safe,” you whisper, smiling sweetly as he finally lowers you down. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the stoic guard answers with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

The last one to leave was Lloyd, who holds your packed lunch for him in his large, calloused and shaking hands. He’s no longer entitled to a sweet farewell by the door, he knows that. So he avoids your gaze and shakes his head— almost apologetically —as he gently brushes past you. Unlike your usual routine, he hadn’t taken the time to lean down or hurry you for his kiss farewell. It makes you stutter in place, not knowing what to do or make of his dismissive behaviour. Lloyd, however, cannot make it past the door because of Curtis. As the designated guard, Curtis’ stance is firm and wide and Lloyd knows that there’s no way he’s getting past him without Curtis moving aside voluntarily. 

“What are you doing, Curt?” Lloyd asks, his voice sounding more tired than irate, “Step aside, we’re wasting precious daylight here — we’ve got work to do in the city!” Curtis doesn’t flinch at the rise of his pack mate’s volume and simply gestures with his eyes to whatever’s past the assassin’s tense shoulders. Lloyd swiftly turns and frowns. There you are with a small frown and downcast eyes. Never before has Lloyd or any of the group seen you look so downhearted and the aching grip of guilt around Lloyd’s heart only tightens at the sight. He knows what needs to be done, but it’s not deserved. If he leans down and you don’t kiss him, that’ll prove to Curtis that he’s only wasting everyone’s time by insisting on this. 

Lloyd doesn’t let it show how happy it makes him when your expression brightens when he returns to you. He doesn’t let his happiness show when you call his name lovingly as he leans down. He doesn’t allow himself to smile when you don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss against his cheek so hard that you're practically burying your face against his own. For once, he doesn’t sigh or protest or show any sign of disapproval. But this only makes you smile brighter once you pull away and his heart does a stupid flip in his chest over it. 

“I forgive you, Lloyd,” you whisper loud enough for only him to hear, just like you did with Steve earlier. Lloyd doesn’t know what to do, freezing up as he stands before you, dumbfounded. “Be safe, have a nice day,” 

“…yeah…” Lloyd replies simply, an unfamiliar expression drawing itself onto his face as he looks at your much smaller frame. His once cold eyes shine with a warm fondness as his lips stretch into a handsome smile for your eyes only, “We’ll be back soon, princess…”

navi. | series masterlist

eight. the lumbering repairman →

a/n : i'm so sorry this took such a long time, my lovelies but i hope you still enjoyed the read and hopefully the longer chapter can make up for the longer wait time haha! this was supposed to be the Ari-centric chapter but it was getting too long and i want to give Ari a chapter all to himself. nevertheless, a lot has happened in this chapter so feel free to tell me your thoughts. hopefully, the next chapter won't take me too long to write and post for you but we'll have to see how life treats me (⸝⸝⸝╸﹏╺⸝⸝⸝)

taglist : @imyourbratzdoll @lovinglimerence @saturdayrj @baw1066 @whereismymindnow @urmomw4ntsme @oneandonlybbygrl @graciehams

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

holy shit talk about blatant disrespect. Those anons had no right to give you that attitude.

Just wanted to come in here and say to you, Miss Raven that we appreciate all the hard work you put into your writings, and that the rest of us who aren’t like those two know that waiting patiently for you will always result in the best of your work. 😊 My favorite edm artist is known for taking his time with his music, but I know it’ll always result in his highest quality work, so I know it’s important to always give someone their time :)

Also applaud you for standing up to yourself and not giving in to their demands, although you probably don’t need my praise 😅, but good for defending yourself anyways 👏🏻

Thank you for all that you do for us, your work is always the best and worth the wait. Keep your up high, Raven

[Referencing this post!]

Thank you for the kind words and encouragement ^^ I’d like to prioritize quality over quantity of discussion posts on this blog, and it’s nice to know that there’s support for this style of content.

Those two aren’t the worst possible asks I’ve received so it’s no skin off my back 😅 There’s many far less savory asks I don’t bother responding to publicly not because I can’t stand up for myself (I definitely can), but because they really are not worth anyone’s time or energy. It’s unfortunate, but it’s a reality—the longer you stay in a fandom and the bigger that fandom becomes, the more likely it is that you’ll be exposed to negative pockets of it.

You’d be surprised at the vitriol people feel bold enough to spout behind a mask of anonymity. They think engaging in name calling, harassment, and/or wishing harm upon others grants them power when really it just feels… immature and sad? 💦 I don’t know 🤷‍♀️ I don’t get the point of it.

I replied to those two asks not because I was hurt by them (I’m not, don’t worry) but because I’m in the habit of cautioning my general readership to be aware of their own parasocial relationships with internet personalities. Figured that since the opportunity presented itself, I’d take it and remind everyone to never let their parasocialism get that bad. I think fellow artists, writers, etc. might also see my response and feel validated too; there’s no shortage of overly attached fans and followers who clamor to be closer with their favorite content creators and get clingy or feel rejected when it’s… not made reality 💀

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Autism & Asking for Help

Lil Penguin Studios/Autism Happy Place

[kowwpow]

I went on a walk with my dad

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[fingertipsmp3]

Lads should I go to pride

[possibly-pasta]

i wish i could clone myself

[rafey-baby]

clumsy!reader is still bad at yoga and yoga instructor!rafe wants to keep her all to himself...

c/w: rafe being touchy & blatantly flirting w her, him getting jealous, slightly suggestive, reader being oblivious, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.9k

idk if anyone missed him but he's back & better than ever !! (after a small vacation that ended up being almost 3 months :D)

some parts are more or less inspired by this, this, this & this ask

part 1

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

Rafe is in the midst of helping someone fix their posture when he hears the gates of heaven opening in the form of a melodious giggle chiming from the back of the room. He lifts his head in order to detect the source of such a vibrant sound; noticing that his favorite client is currently directing her attention towards some guy next to her.  

The joyful expression she’s sporting makes a scowl paint over his features. Why is this random man making her laugh like that?  

“Yeah, you got it. Just keep workin’ on it though,” he quickly dismisses the person he was helping before stomping over to find her practically lying on the floor with the guy’s hands on her calf, along with his mat pulled far too close to hers for Rafe’s liking.   

“I think you should bend it more here, right? I’m honestly not too sure,” the guy chuckles as he tries to figure out what she’s doing wrong.  

“No cause I have no idea how everyone else makes it seem so easy. It’s so hard to get it right, I feel so stupid half the time,” she complains with a huff, not even noticing Rafe looming within earshot.  

“Seriously, I thought this was a beginner’s class but it feels like some of these poses are meant for like literal pros,” he continues with a shake of his head. 

“I know, right?” another peal of laughter bubbles from her throat as she shifts into a seated position, giving up altogether.  

“Everything alright?” Rafe doesn’t mean for his tone to come out so clipped but there’s something in the way the guy’s touching her so freely that makes his hands curl into fists. 

He keeps reminding himself over and over again that this is a client, which means that he can’t just smash his face in— no matter how severely his fingers are itching for it right about now.  

“Oh, I was just trying to help her with this,” the guy explains in tandem with her head turning to look at Rafe. She seems startled.  

“Well, why don’t you focus on your own form for a change? I mean, s’kinda my job to help her, yeah?” he scoffs, making the guy halt his movements in a state of surprise before he's lifting his hands up in apology.  

“Damn, sorry dude,” he mutters out from under his breath while Rafe merely glares at him with the words stay professional bouncing around his skull.  

A tense silence follows, making her grow quiet while she takes slow sips from her water bottle as a distraction; wondering why he seems so bothered to see her talking to someone else.  

However, when he finally turns his attention towards her, she shrugs it off as him merely having a bad day because it seems like the only logical explanation to her. Because at the end of the day, him being jealous makes as much sense to her as her math homework in high school.

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

Rafe is convinced that the universe is purposefully trying to poke and prod at his limits, giving his carefully curated facade opportunities to crack— allowing for the borderline psychotic aspects of his personality to breathe through the crevices. Because only a week later, Rafe sees her entering the gym with another guy she seems to be awfully friendly with. 

“That’s crazy, I don’t even wanna know what Kie said to that,” she rolls her eyes jokingly while he’s showing her something on his phone.  

”Yeeeah, guess you could say she wasn’t the biggest fan,” he laughs in a carefree manner, raking a hand through his disheveled, sand-colored hair.  

“For some reason I’m not surprised,” she mutters out before she notices Rafe standing in the hallway leading to the yoga class. “Oh, gotta go so I’m not late. See you after?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Think Pope said he’s gonna join me for leg day, so we’ll see if I’m still standing when you get back. But you have fun,” he offers her a wave before walking away towards the locker rooms. 

And at last, her warm eyes meet Rafe’s. “Hi,” her voice is soft, nearly shy; a stark contrast to her demeanor only a few seconds ago.  

“Hey,” he greets her in a casual manner, although his mind is somewhere else entirely. “So, that your boyfriend or?” he tries to approach the subject with nonchalance because it’s not necessarily any of his business.  

He’s not even sure why he’s asking— keeps telling himself that he’s just curious and tries to appear friendly by making small talk. After all, some clients have given him feedback on his apparently intimidating aura, claiming they don’t always have the courage to ask for his help because they get anxious he’ll judge them. Therefore, it's something he’s been trying to work on.  

“What? Oh, JJ? No, he’s just a friend. He goes to the gym here, so I usually just tag along with him. Free ride, right?” she answers with a lighthearted tone.  

“Right. Yeah,” he scratches at the back of his neck, contemplating whether or not to ask the next question since he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries. However, there’s something deep in his stomach that grumbles at the prospect of her being in a relationship, makes him feel nearly insane and ultimately, makes the decision for him. 

“You, uh, you got one?”  

“What?” she asks, features coated in confusion. 

“A boyfriend, I mean,” his gaze is unwavering, eager.  

“Oh, um— no, I don’t. Why?” her puzzled eyes flit over the lines of his countenance, seemingly trying to grasp onto his motives. 

“Just, uh…wondering. I mean, he’d be kind of a dick if he’s not drivin’ you here himself,” he shrugs, a strange sort of relief making his shoulders feather-light when she lets out an airy giggle in response.  

“Yeah, honestly sometimes wish I had one just so he could drive me around and stuff,” she jokes while they begin to pad over to the class. 

“You don’t have your license yet?” he raises his brows in surprise.  

“No, I do. I just don’t really like driving. I don’t know why but it’s so stressful to me. Usually try to avoid it as much as I can,” she elaborates while gathering her hair away from her face and securing the strands into a ponytail.   

“Oh yeah? Well, if you ever need a ride home just let me know, alright?” he says, fighting the urge to tuck a loose tendril that has managed to escape the restraints of her hair tie back behind her ear.  

“Really? That’s so sweet of you! But, um, wouldn’t wanna be a bother,” the hesitation is present in her voice.  

“Nah, couldn’t bother me if you tried,” he promises, wishing they could talk for longer. However, the ocean of people flooding inside the room behind them cuts their conversation short.  

“You’re just saying that,” she dismisses him with a playful scoff. 

“M’being for real. You’re my favorite face around here. Plus, makes my job more fun when you’re always stumblin' on your feet,” he can’t help his mouth from twisting upwards at the way her eyes round out in response to his words. 

“Shut up. I’m gonna go set down my mat now, before there’s only space right in front of you,” she offers him a giddy smile that makes him grin like an idiot. Then, she’s tiptoeing away from him in order to locate a vacant spot. 

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

Rafe has become awfully familiar with these newfound feelings of fondness for the girl who’s by far the most helpless little bambi he’s ever encountered. He thinks she should honestly pick another hobby at this point, because maybe yoga just isn’t meant for her. However, he’d never say any of that out loud because even the thought of not seeing her getting all flustered while she loses her balance whenever he’s near makes him feel physically unwell.  

He’s not entirely sure whether her apparently oblivious brain simply hasn’t caught onto the fact that he so clearly has a thing for her, or if she’s well aware and merely chooses to be a tease about it. Nonetheless, the moment she walked into the class today, he could feel his workout shorts tightening and all she’d offered him was a simple smile.  

And now she’s right in front of him, all tangled limbs and pretty eyes blinking up at him— practically begging for his guidance and for him to put his hands all over her (something she doesn’t seem to mind all that much).  

“You put this cute little set on just for me, huh?” he rasps out while his thumb smooths over the bubblegum pink fabric; feeling it out as he pinches the stretchy fabric between his fingertips, making her breath get caught in her throat in the process.  

“Oh, um— just wanted to…try out some new stuff I ordered. You think it’s cute?” she stares at him with something bashful glimmering in her eyes. 

“Mhm. Fits you nice,” he mumbles out as his gaze lingers on the way the tight material wraps around her figure, not leaving much to the (his) imagination. He bets it’d be so easy to just rip right through these cute yoga pants and pull her closer with a firm grip on her hips before burying his face between her plush thighs.

“Thanks,” she peeps out, flustered.  

He tries to shake off the improper, filthy thoughts with a clear of his throat when he gets caught staring at her for a little too long.  

“So, you actually wanna bend your leg on the other side of your body on the mat and support your foot with your left arm not the right one. Easy to get them confused,” he chuckles as she shifts her position according to his instructions as best as she can. 

“Like this?” she seeks reassurance with a soft tone.  

“Yeah, just like that, Bambi. Good job,” his mouth quirks up some while her mind begins to cloud over in response to his low cadence. She’s not entirely sure what exactly it is about him that makes her feel so fuzzy on the inside, but she thinks it’s nice, thinks she wants to always have him this close to her— wants him even closer.

She doesn’t remember the last time she’s had such an intense crush on someone— slowly turning into a crazy person by each second of not knowing whether he’s merely flirting with her for his own amusement or because he’s actually into her. However, she thinks she’s embarrassed herself in front of him far too many times for the latter to be true in any reality.  

“Then need you to move your right hand here,” he adjusts her form with a grip on her wrist while he maneuvers her to his liking; tingles erupting all over the skin he skims over with his fingertips.  

Her head is spinning.  

“See? Knew you could do it. Feels nice, hm?” he rumbles out, letting his hands rest on her shoulders for support, despite the position not really requiring it.  

She hums her response because she doesn’t trust for any coherent words to stumble out of her mouth at the moment, all the while Rafe is desperately trying to not pay attention to the nearly painful situation in his pants.

[wriokitty]

“What’s got you so grumpy?”

Sukuna dodges your finger. It fails to meet its destination of his cheek as he tilts his head to the side, earning a frown from you before you huff and try again.

He looks up from his phone with an irritated glance when your fingertip digs into his face.

“What are you talking about?” He grunts.

He knows exactly what you’re talking about. Normal Sukuna is irritable enough—grumpy Sukuna is about as bad tempered as a hornet who’s had its nest kicked. (Which is to say: he’s pretty fucking unfriendly at the moment.)

“You’re sulking,” you point out—and that statement earns a sharp glare from him as you seat yourself on his lap. (Still, he makes room easily for you, leaning back on the couch and putting his phone down to the side so his hands can rest on your hips. Grumpy Sukuna is never grumpy enough to push your body away—if anything, it’s the one way to get him less agitated).

“I’m not fucking sulking,” he says. It’s almost petulant, but you have enough grace to spare his dignity and not point it out. “I don’t sulk.”

“Are you sure?” You raise a disbelieving brow—he clicks his teeth at the way you choose to question him, but it softens considerably when your lips peck his jaw delicately. “You look pretty sulky to me.”

“Get your eyes checked.”

“Can’t. Then I might see you for all your ugliness. We wouldn’t want to throw years down the drain once I come to my senses do we?”

It’s his turn to raise a brow, sarcastically snorting as you give him a cheeky wink. “If you wanna try ‘n be a smart ass, at least be realistic about it. Saw you checking me out just this morning through the mirror.”

“Maybe you need your eyes checked,” you huff, “I was not checking you out.”

“Pretty sure you were,” he smirks, lips pulling into a haughty grin. Getting under your skin with his smugness is about the only way to cheer him up, it seems, because he looks rather pleased when he adds, “it’s okay. Don’t blame ya for bein’ possessed by my impressive physique.”

“Too bad your personality isn’t as dazzling,” you quip back easily.

It’s meant to be lighthearted, of course—but it seems to be the wrong thing to say. Quite wrong, in fact, because as soon as the words escape you, he tenses before locking his jaw.

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in Sukuna’s face—doubt. It’s a little odd, in all realness. Sukuna is not a doubtful person. He’s confident, and he’s confident enough that it’s almost to a fault. He’s cocky and smug and sometimes a little too self-assured for it to be considered good for his health.

It’s a bit unsettling to see his face almost fall at something you say, especially when you just say it for the sake of light banter.

“Yeah?” He chuckles dryly. It sounds dangerously self-deprecating—enough that it makes you frown. “Good thing I have my abs to keep you glued to my side then, huh?”

“Well, it’s not just your abs,” you hum, one hand smoothing over his shirt to feel the ridges of his muscles through the shirt. “Your boobs are pretty great, too.”

To prove your point, you give his left pectoral a gentle squeeze. He scowls before shoving your hand away as blush creeps along the back of his neck.

“You fucking freak,” he mutters.

Something is bothering him. You know you can’t directly ask it out of him, otherwise he’ll deny it left and right, but something is bothering him. Sukuna is not good with words or emotions. In fact, he’s pretty awful at anything that has to do with anyone’s feelings. (He’s better about yours more than other’s, but he’s pretty far from good.)

You don’t mind. There’s something oddly charming about witnessing the way he navigates softening up for you—it’s like watching a baby take their first steps. Wobbly. Slow. Unsure. Pretty badly executed, but endearingly rewarding all at the same.

Except, this time, it’s not your emotions he’s navigating. For some reason, yours are easy than his own. Navigating yours means he doesn’t have to try. He knows you better than he knows himself. Knows when your feelings are hurt by the twitch of your brows alone. Knows you’re sad by the dimness in your eyes. Knows you’re pretending joy when your laugh is quieter than usual. Knows you’re faking it when your smile is a much more tight lipped and a less bright version.

But his own feelings are complicated. A lot more than he cares to try and understand them for. In true Sukuna fashion, he always aims to ignore his problems until they seemingly disappear.

But you’re too difficult to let that slide. He brushes things under the rug, and you pull the rug from under his feet and make him fall face first into his problems.

“Hey,” you nudge him, cupping his face with your hand gently, “what’s gotten into you? It’s weird when you’re not pissing me off a couple of times every hour.”

“And that’s supposed to be a good thing?” He challenges, like your words seem to tick him off more, “what are you sittin’ here for if I’m always pissing you off?”

Oh, you think. So that’s what it is.

You smile, humming before you gently tilt his face up. Something vulnerable is attached to that frown of his. Like he’s waiting for your answer because he needs something to hold onto. Some metaphorical lifeline where your feelings are attached to his own, just to keep you chained together. Where you’re always somewhere that he also is. Where he doesn’t have to care about his emotions because what you feel is what he feels, too, and as long as you’re okay, so is he.

But you care. You seem to care a pretty great deal because you lean in and brush your nose against his as you kiss his lips softly.

“Who cares if you piss me off?” You snort, “I piss you off better. I’m pretty good at it.”

“You are,” he agrees instantly.

You give him a fleeting huff against his mouth as you mumble, “you don’t have to agree so fast.”

It pulls a small laugh from him, making his arms snake around your waist and tug your body closer. Chest to chest, heartbeat thumping in two, synchronized rhythms.

“What happens when I’m all old and expiring and my abs are gone?” He raises a brow. You hum, stroking a thumb along his cheek as you smile and admire him.

“We’ll still be pissing each other off, I bet.”

“That’s supposed to be good?” He repeats, this time much more unsure. Anyone else could hardly catch the air of hesitance in his words, but you catch it instantly.

“Why not?” You shrug, “it always worked for us, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “that’s until it doesn’t.” He spits the words out, not meeting your eyes. It’s like they taste acrid is mouth and he can’t bring himself swallow them down.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you lean in and just press a line of kisses from his chin to the corner of his lips, purposely dodging his mouth and littering small, delicate pecks along his cheek. And then his forehead. And then the bridge of his nose.

Never his lips, though. And he gets increasingly frustrated by it.

“What are you waiting for?” He grumbles, eyeing you with a look that screams: quit fucking around.

You fight back an amused smile. “Does it piss you off?”

“Course it does. Kiss me properly or back off my face—”

“Cause you love me right?” You ask cheekily. He pauses, thinking on it for a moment before slumping wearily.

“And if I do?”

“You piss me off too. Because I love you too,” you whisper, forehead against his as your hands cradle his cheeks. Because you do.

When he texts late, and makes your blood boil, it’s only because you love him. When he’s brutally honest and doesn’t say what you want to hear, you’re only mad because you care what he thinks so much. When he’s stubborn and refuses to meet you halfway, you’re only angry because there’s no one else you’d rather cross the bridge with than him.

He pisses you off. You care enough to be pissed because it’s him. And when you piss him off too, he cares enough to deal with it because it’s you.

It’s a funny, twisted little way to love and be loved, but it works. For some odd reason, it does. It’s a seamless, smooth, crackless road.

You don’t ever fix something that’s not broken.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he sighs, resigning himself to your weird, roundabout explanation. You laugh, pinching his cheek as you grin brightly.

“That’s because you’re a bit dim.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes, “okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually. I love you.”

He pauses. Swallows for a moment before his arms tighten their grip on your hips just a smidge before burying his face into your neck and mumbling, “me too. Love you so much, it pisses me off.”

“I like to get under your skin like that,” you stroke his hair, beaming as you add, “guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

His lips stretch into a small grin before a low, rumbling chuckle breathes itself against your skin. “Guess so.”

————————

a/n: insecure modern! au sukuna who doesn’t admit it and refuses to acknowledge that he’s aware he’s difficult to love and can’t understand why you love him but he also doesn’t want to question it for fear of scaring you away is very near and dear to me and i’ll be talking about it from my grave still. you’ll just hear my ghostly voice spooking you through the night talking about how he’s a softie deep down under all the layers. like an ogre okay? ogres have LAYERS.

[nezuscribe]

life as a hit man was dirty but simple, and gojo preferred keeping it that way. he didn’t know his clients names, they didn’t know his. he’d send over proof of his work, they’d wire in the money. dirty, yet simple.

so when he gets a message to kill the daughter of some oil tycoon, he doesn’t think much about it. sure he thinks it’s cheap to go for the kid, but what does he know. this is the most he’s ever been offered for a one shot job, so he’s not an idiot to turn this offer down.

and unfortunately, that meant his next confirmed target was you.

he gets your information, where you go to school, what apartment building you live in, where you like to eat. usually he prefers a straight shot to the head, but sometimes sneaking in something to your food lets him off easier.

gojo gets to know your routine. what you do at what time. what shows you watch, what your favorite sweater is. he watches from the high rises that faces yours, crouching down so none of your bodyguards could see the reflection of the magnifier of his rifle.

and gojo is used to taking out a wide range of people. men, women, grandpas, aunts. it’s just business to him. but there’s something about you that makes him hesitate to pull the trigger.

maybe it’s the fact that the weeks he’s spent trailing after you he’s noticed you’re pretty much a loner. you keep to yourself, never bothering anyone. you don’t seem to have my friends in your classes, or even out of them. gojo never questions to morals of his clients or who they ask him to kill, but judging you so far you seem to have done…nothing wrong.

you treat the old lady who works in the convenience story with such kindness that gojo wonders if you were born into this level of wealth, because most people of your status treat those beneath them like ants. you always hold the door open for your body guards despite them insisting they do it for you. you always buy some food for the stray cats in the alley you pass, and you never yell when you’re on the phone with your dad, even though gojo tracks those calls and feels the need to yell for you.

it all comes to a moment when you’re at your favorite coffee shop (he knows this because you come here so often), and you’ve managed to weasel away from your bodyguards. he knows they must be freaking out by now, but you just want some alone time.

he’s right there, right behind you, the little pouch of his condition of drugs that instantly kill in his pocket ready, and you turn around with your coffee cup and bump into him.

your eyes seen, letting out a shocked gasp as the iced drink stains his shirt and pants, the cup not empty on the floor.

“oh my god, oh my god,” you stutter out, scrambling to find some napkins, “i’m so so sorry! i didn’t even see you there - gosh,” you shove some napkins into his hands, trying to dapple the coffee away but it does nothing to help, “i can’t believe…!” you trail off, the two of you moving out of line so you don’t hold the others up and your shaking your head in dismay, mad at your clumsiness.

“it’s alright,” he assures you, waving it off as his eyes take in your appearance. “don’t even worry about it, accidents happen.” it’s the first time he’s seen you this close, and he feels that pouch growing heavier in his pocket.

because you’re pretty. really pretty. and he likes the plush of your cheeks, the scrunch of your brows, the way you’re nearly gnawing your lip raw. you seem even prettier in person, and there’s a lump forming in his chest, something he’s never felt before.

“no, no,” you murmur, trying to find the tide pen in your bag, only to realize you left it at home, “and it’s stained too, fuck. i am so sorry about this, you probably have somewhere to be and…” your words trail off as you scramble for your wallet, pulling out some cash as you push it into his hands.

it’s more than he needs to replace the shirt and pants, probably enough to buy him a couple pairs from ralph lauren, but you still seem to think it’s not enough as you look for more.

“it’s no worries at all, i keep an extra of shirts in my car for emergencies like this,” gojo lies smoothly and you look up from your purse, eyes wide in shame. fuck he really likes your eyes too.

“no, please take it, it’ll be on my mind all day if you don’t,” you insist, but he’s shaking his head defiantly, a reassuring smile on his face as he hands the money back to you.

“and it’ll be on my conscience all day if i take it,” he promises you, and after you realize he’s not going to retract his hands you take the cash, shoving it back into your wallet as heat settles all over your body.

of course with your luck you spill coffee all over the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

you still look worried, finding another napkin as you take out a pen from your purse, messily writing something down.

“this is my contact information if you ever need me to replace your clothes,” you hand it over to the man with an apologetic smile, “please don’t hesitate to call me, i know stains and that’s gonna be really hard to get out,” you go to say something else but your eyes dart to the large windows behaubd him, catching sight of your body guards who seem to have seen you, and your face falls.

“i’m really sorry, again, but i have to go,” you mutter as you speed off, waving goodbyes to the stranger as you duck your head down and leave the coffee shop, not wanting to cause another scene as three buff men race in to find you.

gojo stands there almost in a haze, looking at his stained white shirt to the napkin with your number and name on it.

almost as if he didn’t already know it, almost as if you weren’t the girl he’s supposed to kill.

and in that moment he realizes how screwed he is, because he’d rather down that packet right there than shoot you down, and he’s never felt this dread before.

[unluckiestmember]

Arcane x Ransom! Reader

Summary: How would the Arcane characters react if the reader was held for ransom?

Characters: Jinx/Powder, Violet "Vi", Caitlyn Kiramman, Viktor, Jayce Talis, Sevika, Silco and Licker (mention).

Warning: Slight cursing and suggestive themes/implied sexual themes.

A/N: I literally got the idea for this request from Helluva Boss, particular episode 6 of season 2. I hope you all enjoy this though, I know I did!

Powder/Jinx

“You have who?! Where are they?!… You want me to pay you for them? Oh I’ll pay you alright!”

Jinx doesn’t take the idea of you getting hurt lightly. She already is super overprotective of her little trinket, so when she heard that you were being held for a price, she wasted no time grabbing Pow-Pow, Zapper and a bunch of chompers to aid her in her “heroic rescue” for her princess/prince. As soon as she is where you are held, you don’t have to see her to know she’s there for you. Don’t expect any talking, just laughter and hollers followed by gunfire, screams for mercy and explosions.

Before you know it, the Loose Cannon is standing in front of you, pulling you into the tightest hug ever and dressing your face with kisses. She will ask you countless questions while freaking out, beating herself up over you being in such a position. But when she feels you touch her and assure her you’re okay, she’s on cloud nine. As soon as she laces the area with bombs to blow it to kingdom come, she’s back at her hideout, being super affectionate and touchy the entire night. Don’t expect anyone to be touching you for months unless they want their head blown off.

Violet “Vi”

“… What?… You… You just pissed off the wrong woman.”

First word that you were kidnapped, Vi wasted no time hunting your captors down and beating them to a bloody pulp. The woman is like a bull seeing red knowing you were somewhere cold and scared away from home and her arms. So until you were back to her, anyone was able to get a personal greeting from the pink haired fighter. Vi is pretty merciful, but in situations like this, she isn’t afraid to push the envelope by giving life threatening injuries to the bastards that hurt you.

When she found you, she didn’t bother asking any questions or giving any money to your kidnappers, unless they counted a mouthful of fists and kicks as payment enough. When she’s done with her punishment, she’ll immediately scoop you into her arms and take the both of you back home, where she checks you for injuries and asks if you are okay. Please comfort her. She may act all tough and cool, but the situation scared her due to thinking she lost you just like everyone else. As soon as she knows you are alright, she’ll promise no one will ever do that to you again.

Caitlyn Kiramman

“You kidnapped Y/N? Why would- Who do you think you are? You better let them go right now!”

Caitlyn was used to people being kidnapped on the job, having to save them or negotiate with criminals for their safety. But she would have never imagined such a thing happening to you of all people. When she was told you were being held for ransom, she understandably panicked before taking deep breaths and thinking of how to get you back to her. The enforcer can easily scrounge up the money for you to be freed, because you were more important than any coin that reaches her pockets.

So when she arranges a meeting with your kidnappers and finds you so scared, she finds it hard to stop herself from grabbing you and making a run for it. If the kidnappers pull a fast one on her though, all bets are off and bullets are flying. When she has you back, she will watch you like a hawk and be on the defensive for a while. But if you assure her enough that you are okay, she will lighten up. On the bright side, after the incident she’s more romantic and spends more time with you in and out of work.

Viktor

“Look, I’m sure we can talk about this. I’ll get you the money, just. Please don’t hurt them…”

Viktor beat himself up when he heard you were taken away from him for monetary purposes. He just doesn’t understand how he would let this happen- How he would let someone easily take you under his nose and put you in harm’s way?! He could’ve waddled in his sorrows, but he couldn’t. He had to save you and he had to act fast! It would hurt him, but he would ask for assistance from Jayce and the council if he can. And if they can’t help him? Well. Maybe it was time to break out those so-called dangerous machines Heimerdinger warned him against using.

When he finds you, he’s wasting no time trying to negotiate a way around matters so you could be freed. And if those negotiations don’t go according to plan, then he’ll use his machinery and his brain to outsmart the criminals into freeing you. When you are back together, he’ll just. Hold you. Like you are a precious gemstone. He’ll promise you this will never happen again. No one will ever lay their hands on you again…

Jayce Talis

“Is this supposed to scare me? If anything, you should be the one scared- Do you know who I am?!”

Jayce does not take threats lightly, especially when it comes to his family, friends and his loved ones. As soon as he was told you were held for Ransom, he let his anger and determination to get you back fuel him to do anything to send a message and bring you back to safety. You will immediately know your boyfriend got the message because in a matter of hours, enforcers are barging into the area you were held like they were entering a war, shooting, punching and slamming anyone who got in their way from their goal; You.

And Jayce is in the middle of it all, swinging his hammer without remorse before running to your rescue as your knight in shining armor. As soon as you grab his hand, he’s walking you back to his place casually through the enforcers destroying everything in their sights and leaving a message for the assholes that took you; Never. Ever. Touch the councilman’s lover. Don’t expect to go anywhere without guards following you if Jayce isn’t, whether you want to or not. Jayce just can’t take the chance for you to be taken again. Is it extreme? Yes. But it was worth it.

Sevika

“Ransom? Seriously? Please, that’s nothing. And I’m about to show you why.”

When it comes to ransom, Sevika wasn’t new to having her friends or past lovers be kidnapped for money. So when she heard you were being held hostage, she casually grabbed her poncho, fixed her arm for a brawl and headed outside to round her co-workers up. When she found you and the ones that took you, she wasted no time kicking in the doors and sicking her co-workers on everyone before she made her way towards you after knocking some skulls in. She’ll ask if you are okay and especially check you for any injuries before grabbing you and joking how you found yourself in this predicament.

The fight rages on as soon as she places you outside for safety. Saving you wasn’t enough. No, she needed everyone to know that when someone messes with you, they have to deal with her and the rest of Zaun. When everything is over and done, Sevika will take you both back home and treat any injuries you want before kissing your cheek and simply talking as if you weren’t kidnapped to begin with. If you think she doesn’t care, then hoo boy. The way she’ll treat you that night in bed will make you think otherwise.

Silco

“Hmm… If I were you, I’d beg for mercy when I get there…”

Silco is never one to be threatened because he’s always the one making the threats. Hearing about you being held for Ransom made him immediately go on the move to round up Sevika to follow him in bringing you back to him. If he gets there and doesn’t find you anywhere, he will deliver a silent signal to bring the house down. But if you are present, then he won’t need violence to be delivered by his Right Hand. He’ll just need to put the fear of gods into your kidnapper.

He’ll paint them a picture of how he’ll find their families and let them listen to the melody of their bones breaking. How he’ll have Licker carve paintings into their bodies and let them choke on their own blood as they beg for mercy. What do they think of that? They wouldn’t like that at all. As a matter of fact, they would hate it so much that they would release you and fade from existence right there. As soon as you are back to Silco, he’s going to take you back home as if this was only a minor inconvenience. But as soon as you two are behind closed doors, he can’t help from keeping his hands to himself and make promises against your skin.

If you have any requests for Arcane, X-Men '97 or Blue Eye Samurai, send them my way!

Likes and retweets are always appreciated! I love you all, stay safe, stay hydrated and have a good day!

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: angst, toxic traits, somewhat bullying, breakup

♡ FEM reader

You’re his first girlfriend. He’d never bothered with anything serious before—it seemed too messy to trifle with. He doesn’t know why he suddenly decided. Suppose he’d been feeling a little bored, and something within him saw you as a fool-proof opportunity.

It wasn’t because you were anything special. Actually, it was more the opposite. You didn’t seem like too big of a risk. You were just a normal, honest, nice person—a bit of a loser, too, if he was being honest. He could do a lot better and pick someone of the same caliber as him, someone with a cooler style and presence, but then he’d only get caught up in the competition.

You were more to his appetite—a dorky, blushy lil’ nerd who giggled nervously at everything he said. In other words, no competition at all. You’d never dare break his heart because you frankly couldn’t afford it. And he found solace in that imbalance—knowing he held all the cards and that you could only be grateful he’d chosen you.

At least, that had been what he’d thought. But then, here you are, holding his hands from across the table in a cute little sundae café, telling him how this just can’t work anymore.

He’s confused for a whole minute before it sinks in.

You’re breaking up with him.

He’s confused afterward, too.

You’re breaking up with him?

That can’t be right. You must be joking. He almost laughs, almost cackles, but ends up staying completely silent. Something about that pitiful look in your eye makes his throat tight, and he almost thinks he’s going to cry instead. 

You’re breaking up with him. You, with him. His foot starts to tap. Have you hit your head or something? You’re dressed in a hoodie, for crying out loud, with not an ounce of make-up on—effortless, as if his perception of you wasn’t any of your concern while you’re fucking breaking up with him.

No way. There’s just no way. You must be confused about something, is all. There’s absolutely no way you’re doing this.

“What are you talking about?” It comes angry. Louder than he’d intended, enough to make you jolt in your seat. A couple of heads even turn your way. You wait for them to turn back before answering.

“I just think we’re a bit too different. And… I don’t know…” You were trying to find ways of telling him you weren’t in love with him but ended up deciding it was unnecessary—it wasn’t exactly something he needed to hear even though you had a lot you could say.

You’re rude and arrogant and treat me like some rescue pet you’ve nurtured back to health. You act like you’re embarrassed to be with me even though you’re the one without any friends. You’re selfish and spoiled and—

“If you don’t know, then there’s nothing to talk about. Quit being silly.” He has a furrow between his brows as he picks up the pink menu between the two of you, scanning the different types of milkshakes you could share and forget all about it. After all, you weren’t breaking up with him—that would just be absurd. “Let’s get strawberry.”

“No—”

“Guess we could get mango if you want that instead—”

“I’m not sharing drinks with you—”

“What? You tryna lose weight or something? Not like anyone but me is gonna see you when all you wear are those baggy hoodies all the time. Speaking of which, you should wear mine instead, they’d suit you better—”

“Listen.” You stop his rambling. “I’m not sharing drinks, and I’m not wearing your clothes. I’m not being silly, either. I’m being serious. It’s over—”

“No, it’s not.” His fist bangs against the table—the look in his eye on edge and twitchy. “I asked you why, and you had no good reason—so it’s not, not until you convince me.”

You had wanted to avoid it, but it seems he wouldn’t allow you the grace to spare him. That being said, you hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest…

“You’re a narcissist. You don’t treat me like a girlfriend. I’m more like a charity case or some type of experiment to you. Half the time, it feels as though you’re just playing a game with everyone in your life like pawns for you to shuffle around the board as you see fit.” You’re the one with the furrowed brows now, unable to bite your tongue as you’d kept it in all this time. “I think you should seek help and get your controlling tendencies straightened out before having any type of relationship. Or don’t. In any case, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you.”

There’s a silence. The chatter of the café seems distant. You feel half inclined to apologize as you look at him and stare down the glassy tabletop as if trying to find his reflection for comfort—but then he beats you to the punch.

“You’re right…” he starts softly, mustering the words, and you’re almost proud to see him take it so well, but then there’s a viscousness to his next words. “You’re not the right girl for me.”

When he looks up again, his face is warped—callous and seemingly disgusted by the sight of you. Something about it even seems to lash out at you, seeking revenge.

“I can’t believe I thought I saw something in you,” he sighs. “Turns out you’re exactly what everyone warned me you would be—just a plane-boring old Jane. What a joke—wasting so much time on something so worthless. Forget breaking up with me, I should have broken up with you a long time ago.”

He gets up in a rush and bears over the table, both palms laid flat upon the surface.

“Charity case?” he seethes, then conjures a fake laugh and an even faker grin. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Enjoy sitting here alone like the loser you are.”

And even though you’re the one watching him walk away while ordering a chocolate sundae for yourself, you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy… 

That had been the most emotion you’d ever witnessed come from him.

Obviously, he doesn’t take it very well, stumbling through the café before bursting out the door, but even he’s surprised by how disheveled it had made him. He’s hyperventilating when the fresh air hits him, almost sprinting to his car so that he can lock himself inside it.

But the car only makes it worse as he’s far from alone in there. You’re everywhere. On the hood, waiting for him with a smile. In the rearview mirror, waving at him. In the seat next to him with a pout, asking if you can stay over. In the backseat, naked with a coy twinkle in your eye.

He knows! He has some of your underwear at home—he’ll threaten to pass them around campus unless you beg him to take you back. No, what’s he thinking!? You’ll never come back to him that way. Fuck, what can he do, what’s he supposed to do!? He just called you worthless—what that fuck was he thinking?!

The tears startle him as they drip down and splash upon his whitening knuckles, where he grips the wheel for dear life even as the car stays completely still—safe and sound in the same plot.

There’s a light pink lip balm on the dash. Yours. You must have left it there—maybe on purpose? No… you don’t play games like that. You’d been honest in the café. The fact terrifies him—his heart seems to want to reject it at all costs, the way it tears in his chest.

He picks the slim pink stick up and rolls it around in his hand, which can’t seem to stop shaking. You’d sat on his lap in this very seat, laughing at something dumb he’d said while applying the very same balm on his lip—kissing his forehead while saying something sweet. He knows it wasn’t, but he imagines you’d whispered that you loved him.

When he smears the balm around his lips this time, he imagines kissing you and your soft lips and that everpresent smile he never bothered telling you was pretty.

He’s such an idiot. The birds in the parking lot take flight at the jostling of his car, but no one hears the roar.

And as he sits there in the following silence, wallowing in his own self-pity and regret, he can’t help but feel like the lead of some angsty teen romance.

And like the lead in an angsty teen romance, he swears… whatever it takes… he will win you back.

You will be his again.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Naoya, some young type of Sukuna, or Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist