#was the weak place and the breaking place for them

[rafeslvbug]

nfl!rafe and reader when their son breaks his leg and tries to act tough like his daddy, but eventually breaks when rafe has a talk to him that it’s okay to be emotional

your son had refused help the entire time after he broke his leg playing football with his friends. he was almost flailing in your arms when you lifted him up, enough to make you put him back down in fear he’d hurt himself more. he limped as far as he could, at the very most letting you hold his bag, trying to hold back his tears and cries of pain whenever his hand grasped your arm.

he had only done two half steps so far, each time nearly falling to the floor.

“sweetie, just let me carry you to the car, okay?” you kneel in front of him, making him stop his weak attempt at walking. he knits his brows, shaking his head firmly and trying to stand straighter, as if to prove he wasn’t injured.

“i’m fine momma,” he mumbled, trying to get past you, but you held his shoulders firm. hair blew into his face when he huffed, grumbling about how it wasn’t so bad.

but you could see the bone out of place.

it didn’t take long from texting rafe for him to be striding up the path to where you and your son were. he’d been waiting in the car, said it’d be best if you went because you were better at dealing with injuries and whatnot.

now his jaw was set, face steady when he walked up the path and his son groaned. “dad i’m fine,” he began, but rafe was hearing none of it when he scooped him into one arm, hauling the bag you had onto his other shoulder.

“nah little man, we’re not playing that game,” he simply grunted, carrying him all the way to the car, arm wrapped around your waist.

the car ride to the hospital was silent, your son trying to suck in his tears, you throwing him concerned looks and rafe glancing at him through the mirror.

the hospital was quiet too, letting them do their x-rays and put the cast on after aligning his bone. they had given your son painkillers, but you could see how it still hurt, how he refused to admit it or take more medicine later on at home.

it gave you enough grief that while cooking dinner that night you turned to rafe, brows pinched and biting your lip. “rafe, baby, i don’t think he’s okay.”

“no? hm i thought he wasn’t,” he sighed, settling his hands on your waist, drawing you closer to him.

“he won’t tell me..”

“you want me to talk to him, don’t ya sweetheart?” he guesses, nodding gravely when you hum.

-

your son’s tucked in under his blanket, acting like nothing hurts, like the bulky cast isn’t the most uncomfortable thing he’s ever had to deal with.

and rafe reads it all too well.

sitting down next to his bed with a heavy sigh, he gives his son that look. the one his son knows all too well to be the “i’m not stupid” look.

“how’s that leg of yours, little man?” he asks, tilting his head down at him.

face set as indifferent as he can manage, your son declares, “nothin’ big, you’d handle it just fine.”

it clicks in rafe’s mind finally why his son’s been acting like this. floods into him like waves of guilt too. he’s not pretending like it doesn’t hurt for no reason. for appearances. he’s doing it to be like him.

“that’s not true, hurt my leg once, cried on the pitch, let your momma help me around the house for two weeks,” he murmurs, moving off the seat to kneel beside the bed instead. your son perks up, snapping his head to his dad’s direction as if he can’t even believe what he’s saying.

“you..cried?” he focuses on, “and you let momma help you?”

“sure i did, your momma’s like a healer..and crying’s good too,” he reminds him softly.

“good..?” he asks tentatively.

“yeah, it feels better when you cry. ‘cuz it hurts, so you gotta cry, ‘s only normal.” he can see his sons eyes reddening, them glossing over when rafe brushes his hair back.

“d’you wanna cry? does it hurt?” he asks him, softer than usual, a tone he’s failed to use around his son and now regrets doing so.

your son nods tearfully, rafe not hesitating to pull him into his arms, patting his back as he finally releases the sobs he was holding back, giving him words of reassurance throughout.

rafe couldn’t help but feel it was his fault. years of putting up a front of being made of stone, the strong man of the house. now rubbing off on his son in the worst way possible.

he knew, however, it wasn’t too late to fix it.

once his son had ceased crying, settling back into bed, rafe tucking him in properly and kissing his head, he walked back to your room. after slipping through the door, he climbed into bed, turning to you who sat, anxiously awaiting news.

“is he okay?” you ask, worried as rafe pulled you to face him, bringing your head down to his chest.

“he will be,” he mutters against your hair. “i’ll keep talkin’ to him. shoulda been doin’ that a while ago”

taglist: @starkeyjoseph @rafesbabygirlx @slut-4-rafey @lanaslushworld @littlelamy @rain-likes-purple @sunny1616 @csturnioloswifey @silkylovey @mak1777

[almostwisegalaxy]

Deep Headcanon: Na Baek-jin as a Boyfrie

Na beak jin x GN!reader

"You taught me that love shouldn't save me. It should just let me be someone new. - Na Baek-jin

..................................................................................

A Tense Romance: The Awakening of Vulnerability

Na Baek-jin doesn't fall in love easily. He sees attachment as an exploitable weakness, a distraction from his objectives. But you are the exception he never anticipated.

You arrived as a quiet counterpoint to his coldness: neither dazzled by his charisma nor frightened by his methods. You answered him without trembling. On that day, you became a mystery greater than all the schemes he orchestrated.

Love, for Baek-jin, is never expressed in simple words. He has never said "I love you." He doesn't know how. But you hear it in:

"You came home late. You should avoid that alley."

"I've changed your access code. It's safer now."

"I looked into that professor who's treating you badly."

He speaks of love as one draws up war plans: coldly, strategically, never saying why he worries.

But you learn to translate.

Heavy Silences, Talkative Glances

Baek-jin is not a man of tender gestures. But when he looks at you, his gaze says what he cannot verbalize. In his eyes, there is an anxious obsession, a love that frightens him.

The rare times he touches you, it's calculated:

He silently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, as if to make sure you're real.

He lets his hand brush yours when no one is looking.

He places a coat over your shoulders, not because you're cold, but because he cannot bear for anything to touch you without his consent.

It is a silent love, yet almost violently intense.

The Forbidden Notebook

One day, you discover a hidden notebook in a locked drawer. It's a journal. Na Baek-jin writes in it what he will never say.

"Today, they smiled at someone else. My stomach tightened. Is this fear?"

"I almost told them I was afraid of losing them. But it would have sounded like a loss of power. So I said: 'Do what you want. It's none of my business.'"

You never speak to him about it. You protect this secret as he protects yours. But sometimes you leave a note between the pages, a silent answer to his inner war.

Love Through Chaos

He draws you into a world of power, manipulation, and contained violence. But he never directly exposes you. He places an invisible barrier between you and what he does. Yet you know. You know his world devours his soul, that he sacrifices his last illusions of goodness.

And sometimes, at night, he breaks. He sits beside you. He says nothing. But his hands tremble. You place your hand on his, and for once, he doesn't pull away.

"I don't know who I would be without what I do. But I know that if you are no longer here, I am nothing."

This is not a declaration. It is a raw plea.

Mending What's Broken

Love with Na Baek-jin isn't about flowers or perfect photos. It's a field of ruins where you choose to plant a flower.

It's the silence in an empty apartment, where he leaves you the key, but never explicit permission. You invite yourself in when he can't take it anymore. You don't ask questions. You let him breathe. You make rice, you open a window.

One day, you fall ill. And unexpectedly, he takes care of you. In an almost mechanical, clumsy, yet clinically precise way. You sense he's never done this before. But he reads, he learns, he makes lists.

"You need to drink every 2 hours. I set alarms. I avoided anti-inflammatories; they interfere with your medication."

You cry. And he doesn't understand why.

The Day He Was Afraid

That day, you disappeared for six hours. Your phone was off. He searched everywhere. He called every contact, every camera, every informant.

When you return, exhausted by a simple dead battery and a traffic jam, he has no words. But he pulls you close, hard, brutally.

"Don't ever do that again. You don't have the right to disappear. You're not just someone in my life. You are my only anchor."

It's the first time he cries. And you say nothing. You just rest your head against his shoulder. And you understand: he let you in. You are in his nervous system now.

Rage and Tenderness: The Living Paradox

Love with Na Baek-jin is brutal and tender. He knows no moderation. When he worries, he shouts. When he's scared, he turns cold. When he loves you, he trembles.

He loves you like one loves on the edge of a void. Like someone who has never known solid ground.

But he learns. With you. Every day. Slowly. In small doses.

He starts sending you messages with a ❤️ that he deletes and re-adds three times before pressing "send." He starts resting his head on your shoulder, in an almost childlike gesture. He learns to fall asleep without fearing abandonment upon waking.

The Seasons' Notebook

One day, you create a tradition: writing him a letter with each change of season. He never replies. But you continue.

One winter day, he hands you a notebook. It contains his replies. All of them.

Spring: "I never thought I could love someone as much as my ambition. You showed me that love doesn't erase strength; it redirects it."

Summer: "I watched you laugh today. I wanted time to stop. For the first time, I wished to live for someone other than myself."

You cry as you read. He pulls you into his arms. And for the first time, he tells you:

"You are the only thing in this world I don't want to control. Just keep."

An Uncertain Future, But Together

Na Baek-jin doesn't believe in tomorrow. He lives by the logic of the present: control, survive, defend.

But sometimes, he watches you sleep, and he dares. He allows himself to dream.

He imagines an apartment where you don't have to hide. A café he would open, far from schemes and fists. A dog. Maybe a child. Normal evenings.

He doesn't believe it yet. But he confesses it to you one evening, whispering against your neck:

"I never thought I'd live to be old. But if I have to... I'd want it to be with you."

And that's what love with Baek-jin is.

It's not clean. It's not easy. But it's true.

It's the kind of love that hurts, that heals, that sometimes destroys, but if it survives, it becomes indestructible.

Because he loves you with all that he is—even what he hates about himself.

And one day, he finally understands that he might deserve to be loved in return.

Not despite all of it.

But because of all of it.

Love as Healing

Na Baek-jin remains a man of contradictions. He controls, he tests, he doubts. But he loves. Intensely. As if you were the last purity he deserves.

He respects you. Not just your body, but your ideas, your freedom, your right to question him. He relearns how to live. He deconstructs what he was taught: that love is weakness, that the world is a power game.

With you, he learns that intimacy is not a danger but a liberation. That saying "I'm tired" doesn't mean "I lose" but "I rest in your arms."

Love, Baek-jin Style

Loving Baek-jin isn't living an ideal romance. It's being loved by someone who knows the taste of blood, but who chooses to lay down his weapons before you.

It's seeing a boy everyone believes invincible wake up with a start at night and whisper: "Are you here?"

It's learning to decipher silence, to read between the lines of a gaze, to understand that a "Be careful" said while looking away means: "Come back alive to me; I wouldn't survive your loss."

It's living a love that doesn't try to be perfect, but chooses to be true.

It's loving a boy who has done terrible things, but who, with you, learns to be gentle without feeling weak.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

°Moments when he says I love you without words

The First Time He Fought for You

It was an alley. You weren't supposed to be there. Not supposed to see what you saw.

They surrounded you — not to truly hurt you, but to test. To hurt him, indirectly.

And when he arrived, he didn't even look at you at first.

He just stood in front of you, back straight, fists clenched.

He didn't yell. He didn't threaten.

He destroyed them. Methodically. Without a word.

And when it was all over, his knuckles bleeding, breathing heavily, he turned to you.

Not to reassure you.

He just whispered:

> "I told you not to linger here."

But his hands were trembling.

And you understood: it wasn't anger. It was fear. A panic-stricken fear of losing you.

The Night He Allowed Himself to Cry

You came to his place unannounced.

You found him sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathroom door, soaked in sweat and cold water.

He'd been fighting. Again. Not to survive this time — just because he didn't know what else to do to exist.

You didn't ask him any questions.

You sat across from him, knees touching knees.

And there, in the cold light, he lowered his head. He murmured:

> "I don't know how else to be. I've tried. But I always fall back."

> "You don't deserve someone like me."

And without you responding, he cried. Not loud sobs. Silent tears, full of humiliation and love intertwined.

You reached out your hand. He took it. It was the first time.

The Night He Whispered "Stay"

You were ready to leave. Another argument. Too much tension. Too many walls.

You had gotten out of bed, silently, in the dark.

And as you gathered your bag, you heard his voice. Deep, cracked. So human.

> "Stay."

One word. Just one.

Not a plea. Not an apology. A confession.

You stopped.

He sat up, still wrapped in the sheets, hair messy, gaze burning. He didn't move, but his whole body seemed to reach out to you.

> "I don't want you to leave... even if I don't have the words to tell you properly."

> "But if you leave... I know I won't recover from that."

You stayed.

Not because he begged you. But because it was true.

The Day He Had a Nightmare and Sought You Like a Child

He had always slept alone. Even with you beside him, there was a tension in his muscles that never truly left.

But one night, he screamed in his sleep.

A hoarse, deep cry. The kind that seems to well up from childhood, from unspoken traumas.

You woke him. He was sweating, eyes wild, hands clutching the sheet.

He looked at you as if he'd forgotten you truly existed.

And then he reached out.

Not like a lover. Like a ten-year-old boy who doesn't want to sleep alone in the dark anymore.

You came close to him. He hugged you so tightly you gasped for breath.

And in the crook of your neck, he whispered, almost inaudibly:

> "I dreamed you were leaving, and I couldn't catch you."

> "Even my legs wouldn't respond."

The Day He Said "I Love You" Without Saying It

He will never say those words in a classic way.

But one evening, as you watched the rain fall against the windows, he entered the room.

He sat beside you, rested his head on your shoulder, and remained there motionless for long minutes.

Then, as if speaking to the rain:

> "Before you, I never wanted to go home."

> "Now, it's the only place I want to go."

You said nothing. You simply placed your hand on his.

And he kept it there.

The Day He Entrusted You With His Future

It was mundane. A subway station. A moment between two obligations.

You were talking about plans. About the future. Simple dreams: a dog, a car, a normal job.

He smiled. Rare. Almost sad.

And then, without looking at you, he said:

> "Do you think a guy like me can have all that?"

> "Not now. But one day. With you."

And that day, for the first time, he allowed himself to hope.

Not in silence.

Out loud. With you.

The Moment He Defended You... From Yourself

You were devaluing yourself. Again.

You laughed, saying you weren't good enough, that you didn't understand why he stayed.

He froze.

Then he stood up, approached slowly, and looked you straight in the eyes.

> "Don't you ever say that again."

> "You are the only clean thing in my life. And I swear, I will destroy anyone who makes you believe you're worthless—including you."

You felt like crying.

Not because he was yelling. But because it was true. Raw. Protective. Na Baek-jin, in all his rage to love.

And That Silence...

The most intense?

It's not a scene. Not a declaration.

It's that moment, where you're sitting next to each other, saying nothing.

He looks at your hands. You look at the scar on his chin.

And in that silence, you feel everything he will never be able to express.

> That he loves you like a survivor loves the morning light.

> That he's afraid, every day, of losing you.

> And that he's ready to become a new man—not for you.

But because, thanks to you, he discovered he was capable of it.

............................* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊

Conclusion:

Na Baek-jin as a boyfriend is not an easy romance. It's a story of healing, of balance between control and surrender, between strategy and sincerity.

But if you hold on, if you understand his language, if you respect his silences, then you become more than a love for him: you become a refuge. And he will be willing to do anything to protect it.

Na Baek-jin never learned to love. But with you, he creates a new code. A love that is at once raw, honest, and indestructible.

..................................................................................

Other weak hero class fanfictions here

Yeah. My man (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr @emswirls

[sparklypinkflightsuit]

Saved at Sea: Part 4

Bob Floyd x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Fluff, Angst, Love Triangle, Violence, Dark!Bob, Pining, Heart Break

- Part 3 Here -

———————————

18+ Only

———————————

Your eyes widened and you gripped Bob’s wrists, hard. “What? No! No you won’t.”

Bob was still smiling, but you quickly realised it wasn’t one of happiness, it was one of disbelief and exasperation.

He shook his head, his eyes on the closed front door as if he was ready to bound out and find Bradley.

“He always was after you.” He scoffed, “Fucker waited until I was dead to make his move.”

“No!” Your hands gripped him harder, lifting his hands to your chest. “I kissed him, Bob. Bradley never tried to make a move, he respected you. I was the one who was weak, I was the one who needed that comfort!”

Bob scowled, pulling from your grip and his own hand tangled in the hair at the base of your skull, his other pinning you in place at your hip, and you yelped.

“Are you weak now? Do you still need that comfort?”

You opened and closed your mouth like a guppy, trying to find the words he wanted to hear, or the words you wanted to say.

“Yes.” You whimpered simply. Bob tugged you close, his lips low against your ear and he growled.

“Then tell me what you want me to do to you, so that I don’t walk out of here and beat him to a pulp.”

You almost whimpered but you caught yourself, your hands grappling at his bare chest for something, anything to steady yourself on. You couldn’t understand how someone who frightened you this much, also made your knees weak.

“I… what do you-“

“Tell me.” He growled again, the hand in your hair twisting to pull your head back.

“I… I want you to touch me.” You gasped.

“Where?” His breath was hot against your neck as his broad tongue flattened against your quickening pulse under your ear.

“Everywhere.” You whimpered.

You were up against the wall within a split second, the air whooshing from your lungs with a thump as Bob’s lips crashed onto yours.

He released you for a split second to shove your jeans down and he lifted your turtleneck off of you.

You kicked off your shoes and slid out of your jeans, kicking them to the side eagerly and panting against the wall in just your lacy underwear.

He hesitated for a moment as he took in the faded bruise around your neck, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin.

Bob’s eyes danced, and his hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed lightly.

You lifted your hands and dug your nails into his fingers.

“Bob…” you warned.

His eyes met yours briefly and he released your throat, taking a step back.

His eyes darkened, taking in your almost naked form. He took a sharp breath in through his nose, he had missed you.

But something far more primal inside of him had been awakened in the months he’d had to fight to survive, part of him broken and forever changed, and he looked at you through his thick lashes, rolling his shoulders.

“Run.”

———————————

You weren’t sure what came over you, whether it was pure fear that clouded your mind, or the excitement that blurred your better judgement, but you darted off towards Bob’s bedroom, ignoring the front door that likely would have been the best option if you were in actual danger.

You weren’t sure you were in danger, though. At least that’s what you wanted to tell yourself.

This was Bob, after all.

But the look in his eyes sent an icy wave of panic through you, like a bucket of ice water to bare skin.

Your feet dug into the plush carpet in the hall, aiding your momentum towards the bedroom, but you could hear Bob’s heavy footsteps behind you, thundering, agile, and your heart leapt into your throat.

What would you do when you got to the bedroom? Where would you go? What would happen if he caught you?

Rounding the hall, you reached his bedroom and slammed the door shut, but… there was no key.

You backed up as panic steeped its way into your muscles, tightening you up until you couldn’t move, back pressed against the wall opposite the door.

The handle turned calmly, and Bob slowly walked in, that same look on his face that had your thighs clenching and your heart racing.

Your brain screamed at you to get the hell out of there, but every other part of you begged you to stay.

“I’ve caught you, little bird.” He tutted in a low growl, and you suddenly realised you had no idea who this man was.

“Let me out.” You ground out behind your teeth.

“If you can get passed me, you can leave.” He straightened in the door way, his full height towering over you.

Your eyes darted to the windows, but you were way up on the 6th floor. The gap between Bob and the door was small, but you thought you could make it.

Taking your chance, you leapt towards the opening.

Bobs strong hands were on your arms before you could even reach the door, and he lifted you with his brute strength, tossing you effortlessly onto the bed where you bounced and scuffled backwards into the headboard.

Bob’s hands wrapped around your ankles and he pulled you flat on your back, pinning your legs apart as he scowled at you.

“I’ve got you now. You can struggle all you like, but I’m going to devour you.”

Searing panic suddenly changed to a throbbing deep inside your core, and Bob’s lips connected with your bare calf.

Your body stilled, unable to struggle against this new sensation, goosebumps erupting in the trail of his lips.

His mouth travelled higher, higher, until he reached your lacy black panties. He licked your inner thigh, tracing your panties lightly.

Your breathing hitched as he released your leg from his vice grip and slid his hand up your thigh and over your clothed core.

Your back arched slightly at the feeling of his palm brushing against your most sensitive spot, and his fingers curled into the top of your panties as his tongue pressed against the fabric and he licked you through the soaked material.

You gasped, arching into him, his fingers still in place at the band.

A deep rumble left him from the depth of his chest and he sucked you into his mouth through the fabric, hungry for you, desperate for more.

He tugged lightly upwards on your underwear teasingly, and reached up to kiss you. It was a searing kiss, it made you breathless and dizzy and your fingers tangled into his long, soft locks.

He pressed his jean-clad hips into you, the rock hard length of his cock grinding against your soaked core, and you mewled.

“Bob, I want you.” You breathed against his lips, helpless, hopeless. He frightened you but somehow you still wanted him blindly.

He tugged at your bottom lip, but then stilled, something was holding him back.

Bob sat up to look at you, lust and longing evident on his beautiful face.

You waited with bated breaths, your eyes locked with his, for him to tear your underwear off of you, for him to kiss you, anything.

You realised you wanted that so badly. You wanted him.

Instead, Bob sat back on his haunches, and let out a sigh, fingers running through through his hair in frustration.

“Go.” He said softly, all sharp edges sanded down again. “I can’t get the image of you kissing Bradley out of my head.”

You sat up, your heart plummeting. “I haven’t chosen Brad, I still love you and-“

“I can’t. Just leave, please.”

“Bob, wh-“

“Just go! Get out!” He yelled suddenly, startling you.

You gave him one last questioning glance, before you got up and stormed out of the bedroom.

You quickly put your clothes back on in the living room and left, slamming the door behind you.

———————————

You weren’t sure how, but you ended up on Bradley’s front porch, the sky dark and tears streaming down your face, but when he opened the door, concern etched across his handsome features, you suddenly realised why you had subconsciously driven here.

You crashed into Bradley’s chest and he wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you inside.

“Hey, what the hell is going on, are you okay?” He asked, his hands smoothing your hair as you sobbed into his shirt.

You weren’t sure how to tell him what had just happened, or how your feelings were a complete and utter mess, so you just held him.

“What happened?” He hushed you, cupping your cheeks to make you look up at him.

You blinked your big wet eyes at him, and Bradley’s own eyes fluttered, softening considerably. “Did he hurt you again?”

You shook your head, “No… I-“ you weren’t sure how to tell Bradley that you were just in bed with Bob. “I told him about our kiss.”

Bradley nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “How did he take it?”

“Badly, but I expected that.” You sniffed, stepping out of Bradley’s reach and wiping your eyes.

“Is that why you’re so upset?”

You looked at him and shook your head. “I don’t wanna talk about it Brad.”

“Then why did you come here, if not to talk?” His voice was steady, and you knew what he was asking.

Your arms fell to your side and and your eyebrows pinched as you let out a defeated sigh. “You know why.”

Bradley was already panting, his chest rising and falling heavily as he watched you for a moment.

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, “Damn it all.” He breathed, and he crossed over to you quickly.

Your breath left your lungs as his lips crashed down on yours, his arm wrapped around your lower back and the other hand tangled in your hair.

You moaned against his lips, how gentle but passionate he was with you, and your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

His kisses were deep and slow, until you parted your lips and your tongue slid across his. A new sense of hunger filled Bradley, and he tugged at your bottom lip with his teeth, before opening up and exploring your mouth with his own tongue.

The arm around your waist shifted to squeeze your bum, pulling you flush into him. He was already hard against you, and you gasped at the sheer size of him through his jeans.

“Brad-“ you pulled away, and he looked down at you, flushed and panting. “I think it’s a good idea if we take it slow.” You breathed, still hanging on to him.

He nodded, a sweet grin growing across his full lips. “We can do that…”

“This isn’t me… choosing.” You said awkwardly.

Bradley nodded, “I know, I still have to work at it, I don’t mind.”

You grinned and reached up to kiss him again, this time slow, savouring, purposeful.

He backed you up slowly, his hands cupping your lower back and jaw, until your legs hit the sofa and he eased you down onto your back, settling carefully above you.

His lips never left yours as his hands pressed into the soft skin of your back, your outer thighs and your jaw. He wanted to feel you, but not scare you away.

Your skin buzzed where his hands skimmed, his thick calloused fingers sending electric shocks to places you desperately wanted him, but were not yet ready to give him.

Your clothed legs wrapped around his waist and you tugged him down so that he was laying on top of you. Now at least he was closer, even if you weren’t going much further than that.

His hardened erection pressed against your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to reach down and feel him, but you did arch your back so you pressed against him and he let out a long groan.

Pulling from your lips panting, he looked down at you longingly. “You did that on purpose.” He growled.

You bit your lip as you ran your hand down his t-shirt and under, where they rested against his chest and felt his heart racing. “Maybe.”

He dipped his head and tugged your bottom lip with his teeth. “What happened to taking it slow?” He smirked, eyebrow cocked.

You snorted, rolling your eyes playfully, and Bradley grinned in adoration, “This is me taking it slow.”

He nodded, “Whatever you say, kid.” And he kissed you again as your hands dragged down his toned body.

Bradley reached over his head and pulled his t-shirt off, giving you an unobstructed view of his golden, toned body.

“You’re beautiful.” You breathed, fingers tracing the valley between his pecks that dipped low towards his belly button.

“No, that’s you actually.” His lips were back on your briefly, and then your turtleneck was being lifted over your head for the second time that day.

His lips moved slowly down your neck, to your collarbone, hands pawing at the soft skin of your stomach, fingers gently outlining the swell of your breasts. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” He murmured against your skin and you stifled a moan as his hips ground into you.

Your hands slipped to his waistband, toying with his belt until it slipped free, and you tore it off him.

Bradley growled against your lips, his resolve completely thrown to the wind, but the shattering noise of something being thrown through the kitchen window startled you both, and you shot up onto your feet.

“What was that?” You asked as you scrambled to put your top back on. Still shirtless and belt-less, Bradley silently ushered for you to wait, and he crept towards the kitchen.

You held your breath, hands over your mouth as you waited.

And then you heard fighting, two men shouting in the kitchen, being thrown against cabinets, the scuffle of glass under foot, and you ran into the kitchen.

“What?” You guffawed. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Bob and Bradley stood scuffling in the kitchen, only it was hardly an actual fight. There was a lot of shoving, a lot of choke holds, and not a lot of punching.

You stormed over to them, relieved you still had your shoes on as the grass crunched underfoot, and you grabbed an ear each, pulling them down to your height.

“Ow! Ow!”

“Aahh! Get off!”

They cried and released one another.

You huffed, “Okay, listen! This is not on, and I understand that I’m the reason you’re fighting and I’m sorry, it’s unfair of me, but you will not be babies about this.”

The two men watched you with wide eyes, listening to your every word as they stood hunched over in your grasp.

“You will not fight over me, I’m not worth it. I wasn’t before, and I’m certainly not now.”

“Of course you’re worth it-“ Bradley managed to say before you twisted his earlobe harder and he winced. “Aahh, ok! Ok!”

You looked over at Bob, still a little wounded from your earlier encounter. He stared at you coldly, and your heart smashed into a thousand pieces. “Fine.” He huffed, and that hurt even more.

You released the men and they straightened, rubbing their ears and looking at one another awkwardly.

“I’m sorry, Bob.” Bradley said softly, extending a hand.

Bob looked between the two of you slowly, and then shook his head. “This doesn’t make us friends. You stole my girl.” He said to Bradley with so much agony it almost broke you.

Bradley opened his mouth to speak, but Bob waved him off. “Sorry about your window, I’ll get someone to fix it this week.” Bob murmured on his way back out the back door.

He stopped briefly to look at you over his shoulder like he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it, once again, and left.

You and Bradley stood silently in the mess of a kitchen, and you felt worse than you had in a long time. You felt guilty, and you felt heart broken.

All along you’d wished for something to choose for you so you didn’t have to make a decision, but you hadn’t realised how much it would hurt to have that decision made for you.

You suddenly realised Bradley’s bare feet were bleeding.

“Brad, you’re hurt!” You gasped, pushing your own agony to the back of your mind for a moment.

He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing, just a little glass.”

“Come, I’ll get you fixed up.”

———————————

- Part 5 Here -

Taglist:

@sarah-bear706318 @swightops @midnightmagpiemama @gardenof-venus @mrsrobert-bob-floyd @lolo-924 @frozenhuntress67 @beebeerockknot @waylandmorgernsternherondal-blog @louvmars @disillusioniary

[quitealotofsodapop]

We discussed in TMKATI how things might change with Wukong being pregnant, and let's just say... Macaque is a huge dick. Like even more so than usual.

Ref.

Yeeeahhh.

Turns out that in order to stabilze its own chaotic energy; the Harbinger decided to perform a split and mitosis into "twin" spirits.

Wukong is initially convinced that he managed to trap the *one* spirit in himself, but Macaque had suspicions about the weird inky residue in the comet's left-over eggshell...

Wukong, few weeks carrying the Egg: "Mihou has been so mean lately! Today he literally said he's "sick of my presence!" And then he left the apartment!" Tang, sympathetic: "Ugh, what a drag." Pigsy: "I'm telling ya, Wu. He keeps this up, you need to put your foot down and make him start worshipping you - or get him to hit the road!" (*Meanwhile*) Macaque: (*throwing up in a garbage can*)

Macaque managed to "hear" the weaker twin before Wukong turned in the egg-shell as evidence to the Jade Emperor - but he's keeping quiet about it.

Macaque is still grappling with a lot of stuff emotionally (not to mention with LBD) and he doesn't want anyone to discover this new "weakness" he has - not even Wukong.

Wukong... doesn't take Macaque's hostile attitude lightly. Lets just say, after the Big Fight, Macaque leaving to distance himself, and learning about the Bone Demon - Wukong tossed his marriage pendant at Mac's feet, breaking it into millions of pieces. Macaque is just numb for a good while, blankly ignoring the Thrall's threats when he comes for repayment.

Thankfully, an eavesdropping little bull prince steals the Skeleton Key from his shadowy uncle's pocket, and drives madly to Megapolis to kidnap the Tang Monk and Uncle Wukong to resurrect his Baba and save the world from evil bone ladies!

Wukong has his breakdown at failing to lift the Staff, officially admitting to Tang, Pigsy, and Sandy who he really is. And what Macaque really means to him.

The divine connection Tang manages to forge can't release the Bull King, but it manages to let Wukong pass through to the Underworld to settle a score. Skeleton Key in hand, he's escorted by a shocked DBK to the Ten Kings to confront them personally with the Bone Demon's plans.

But the Ten Kings now know that Wukong is carrying the Harbinger of Chaos... and they aren't just letting him go without a full inquiry to the Jade Emperor. Wukong begs for them to spare the child in his place, but is trapped in a holding cell for the time being.

Macaque quickly senses that something is wrong after losing the Key. He can't hear Wukong any more. He rushes back to the gang, only to get a chewing out from Pigsy for bailing on his mate in his time of need (and getting tied in a geas to an evil bone demon but thats less important).

The Noodle Gang learn that Wukong is trapped-trapped in the Underworld via the Bull Family - DBK was rewarded a "one astral/phone call" for helping bring LBD's plan to a halt, and choose to call his wife to reunite with her + warn her and the others about Wukong's situation.

Macaque realises that they only way for both of the monkeys to get out of this; is for him to do something more... Wukong-esque. Nezha comes with as his guide (rebirth spirit = can't be touched by death gods).

Clutching his mate's repaired marriage pendant in hand, Macaque stands before the Ten Kings and demands that they allow the owner of the pendant to leave with him unharmed.

The Ten Kings... are kinda impressed with this monkey's nerve. And Wukong (mid-escape with Nezha's help) is star-struck by Macaque's sincerity.

The Ten Kings amass a bunch of celestials to the court for a proper Trial for Wukong and Macaque's freedom + a decision on whether or not to spare the Harbinger from destruction. (This is also how Li Jing discovers whats actually going on with the monkeys, and that his son is still alive, albeit in a weaker form).

Macaque manages to argue that chaos isn't inherently evil/negative, and that really none of them know what will become of the Harbinger. None of them, not even the gods of children, know what a child will grow into.

The court comes to a decision; both monkeys are allowed go, and the Harbinger's spirit left unharmed-

IF!!

The two can prove their devotion to one another and their child. Walk from the deepest pit of the Underworld to the exit without their trust faltering once. One of them blinded to prevent the use of Gold Vision, the other deafened to cover all Six Ears. They can't receive any help from their allies (so Nezha and DBK are benched), or try and just brute force out of there.

Macaque and Wukong agree.

The Bodhisattva of the Dead, Kshitigarbha, acts as the challenge's referee.

As this Orpheus/Eurydice-esque challenge progresses, Wukong and Mac do come close to failing a few times. They cannot hear/see one another, and the Underworld plays tricks on their mind even if they manage to hold hands.

Until they come to the fated Naihe Bridge.

And there's a sheer sea of monkey spirits, cheering them on!

Those who passed from age and sickness, those who perished in the Burning, those who were lost to hunters, even those who passed long before Wukong's stone egg cracked - all cheering for their true King and his mate to finish their journey!

Wukong is overwhelmed and crying with joy through his blindfold, hearing the shouts and praise of his people long past. Macaque in turn tears up, seeing just how many of their people still believe in him as his mate's Equal.

DBK is the last soul they meet before leaving the Underworld for good, giving his xiandi and sworn brother-in-law a gruff but soft smile. And not-so-subtly implying that the pair should consider him and PIF the godparents as repayment for his imprisonment.

Of course, this is where it comes out that there's not just one "Egg".

Wukong: (*flickering his gold vision back on after being blinded in the Underworld. looks at Macaque, sees a familiar mass in his mid-section*) ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Macaque, defeated/fond sigh: "Yep." (ᵕ—ᴗ—) Wukong: "Baby!" Macaque, comes closer: "Yes." Wukong, too stunned to move: "Since when?!" Macaque, nuzzling him: "Same time." Wukong: "Same time!? Then- oh yeah. chaos likes to separate into heavy and light energy... So the being sick of my presence thing?" Macaque: "Yup. Morning sickness. I found the lil guy in the eggshell after you fell asleep the first night." Wukong: "Why didn't you say anything?!" Macaque, shrugs: "Guess I didn't want you to pretend you cared about me just because of the kid." Wukong, little annoyed: "Hypocrite! I've been panicking the last two months that you only stuck around for the Egg! Macaque, light smirk: "Well now we can't get rid of each other so easily." Wukong, happy worried tears: "You idiot." Wukong & Macaque: (*press foreheads together and nuzzle*) The rest of the gang present: (⊙_⊙) Pigsy: "THERE'S TWO OF THEM!?!"

The twins are Mozhi/Inky (named for the black-point fur on his hands and tail) and Xiaotian/MK (the "little heaven" to his greater-than-heaven-Baba). PIF and DBK are made the godparents of Mozhi, and Pigsy and Tang are made MK's.

The pair are complete yin-yang siblings if there ever were a pair. XD

(The Nine Headed Demon still lurks, only now even more intrigued that the Harbinger managed to split itself into two parts...)

[moonchildxoxx]

Tsu’tey x avatar

Jakes younger sister, who was sent to Graces school to learn alongside the other clan children, had been the youngest of the avatar drivers However, after the horrific attack, the girl ran away scared of what the RDA was capable of. since she was still considered a child, the clan took her in. To Jake's horror, he was told that his sister had passed away but he eventually learned that she was alive and living a life within the clan as Tsu'tey's mate ? Please 🙏

An: sorry for missing 3 updates was busy working on this one just wasn’t happy with it

Tsu'tey x Reader (Jake’s Sister)

The Child of Two Worlds

You arrived on Pandora like a ghost, too quiet for your age, too burdened for someone barely thirteen.

The brass back at the RDA had only allowed it because they preyed on the weak. You had lost your parents. Your brothers, both almost 18, had options. Jake was heading into the military, and Tommy had been offered a full ride to university paid by the RDA as long as he worked for them. But you were looking at foster care, and there was no way your brothers were going to let you be placed in the system where it wasn't uncommon for teens to “runaway.” so they offered tommy a deal let them use you as sorts of test dummy to see how a younger body would do as an avatar driver and they’d bring you to pandora ahead and you could stay with him there. And you? You were sent ahead. Alone.

Grace Augustine was never sentimental. You had expected a team. A guide. Maybe someone to hold your hand on this new alien moon. But there was no comfort. No mission briefing.

Just a borrowed body and a voice in your ear saying, “Don’t screw this up.”

Your avatar's body was smaller than most. Younger, even in Na’vi form. Shorter than Neytiri, slimmer than the others your age in training. Your limbs moved like a fawn’s first steps. The tail? A nightmare. You tripped over it for days.

But you tried.

Grace’s goal was simple. “We’ll start with school integration. A soft presence. A child among children.”

In theory, it made sense. In practice, it meant you spent hours mimicking the language of curious Na’vi children while older hunters stared at you with suspicion. A dreamwalker with baby skin, fumbling limbs and soft-spoken apologies.

Neytiri found you first, deep in the jungle, chasing an atokirina like it held the answers to your place in the world.

It floated just out of reach, and you stumbled after it, wide-eyed.

She emerged from the shadows like a spirit.

“What you doing here, dreamwalker?”

You froze, hands halfway to the glowing seed. “II was following it.”

Her golden eyes scanned you, curious but wary.

“This forest is not your toy.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But… Pandora is beautiful.”

Something shifted in her face thensomething fragile and flickering. A thread pulled taut, waiting to break.

And then she laughedjust once.

“You are strange.”

From that day on, Neytiri stayed close. She taught you how to walk with your toes first, how to listen with your whole body. You were a student of the forest, but also a student of her.

And through Neytiri, you met Sylwanin and Tsu'tey .

Bright as flame, Sylwanin was wild and full of laughter. She pulled you into the clan like a whirlwindteaching you to ride pa’li, to climb the Hometree like it was your birthright.

then there was Tsu'tey.

You had admired him from afar-strong, serious, noble.

He was promised to Sylwanin, and you respected that. Still, he'd sometimes join you in hunts or offer dry commentary when you fumbled in training. A small, hesitant friendship formed.

In just under a year, you were fluent in the language, adept with a bow, and well on your way to being accepted by the People.

But peace is

Months passed. You grew taller. More confident. Your accent softened. You began to blendnot vanish, but belong.

The children called you sister.

Neytiri painted your face for the first time in red clay and said, “You are learning.”

You began dreaming in Na’vi.

You began to forget the shape of your real hands.

And thenwithout warning everything burned.

peace is fragile. And fate is cruel.

Sylwanin and a few others, in an act of desperation, attacked an RDA bulldozer.

The humans retaliated mercilessly-guns, fire, screaming. You barely escaped with the younger children, dragging Sylwanin's broken body behind you, sobbing and praying for a miracle that would never come.

You dragged her behind you, sobbing. The children wailed.

By the time you returned to Hometree, your arms were slick with blood.

Mo’at’s cries shattered the air like glass. Neytiri collapsed, her scream muffled in Tsu'tey’s shoulder. Eytukan roared.

And you… you dropped to your knees.

“Kill me,” you begged. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.” A life for a life.

Tsu'tey looked at you then, eyes dark with grief.

“You walk with the sky people. You wear their face.”

But Neytiri stepped in front of you. So did the children.

“She saved us,” said one. “She ran.”

Mo’at’s voice cut through the silence.

“You are child,” she said at last. “You did not carry the gun.but You carry the guilt.”

You stayed.

Not as a guest.

Not yet as family.

But as a soul seeking redemption.

The days after Sylwanin’s death passed in silence and smoke.

You were allowed to stay, but no one truly looked at you.

Except the children. They brought you berries. They sat close to you at the fire, even when the adults scowled.

It was Neytiri who kept you grounded. She didn’t speak much. But she would find you each morning, nod once, and then disappear into the treesexpecting you to follow. And you always did.

The forest was the only place that didn’t hate you.

One day, as you climbed a tall root bridge near the river, you slipped. The branch cracked under your foot, and you would’ve fallenten, maybe fifteen feetif someone hadn’t caught your wrist.

Tsu'tey.

He said nothing as he steadied you.

You tried to meet his eyes, but he was already walking away.

“I don’t belong here,” you muttered under your breath.

He stopped.

“You think you are the only one who has lost?” His voice was cold. “You think you are the only one who bleeds inside?”

You said nothing. Because you didn’t know how to carry his painor your own.

He walked away again. Slower, this time.

But he didn’t leave you behind.

Something changed after that.

He began to speak to you more oftenbrief words, clipped sentences, nothing flowery. But it was more than silence. And that, to you, was enough.

Sometimes, on hunts, he would motion for you to lead. Sometimes, during training, he would press your hand into the correct grip, hold it too long, then release it as if burned.

And when you laughedreally laughedduring a failed attempt to catch a leaping yerik, he didn’t scold you.

He smiled.

Just once.

But it was the first time he had smiled since Sylwanin.

You tried not to hope.

He had loved someone else. Someone irreplaceable.

You had come from the stars. You were a stranger wearing a second skin. A symbol of everything that had burned her down.

Still, some nights, he would sit beside you near the fire. And you would talk of nothingbirds, bugs, bad tracking daysand it would feel like breathing again.

The day you made your bow, Neytiri beamed. Even Tsu'tey-still hollowed by loss-gave a quiet nod.

"You have done well," he said.

"I don't feel like I have," you whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment.

"It keeps me up at night too. But you are not to blame.

Your connection deepened slowly. You laughed again. You healed. And he began to smile, only for you.One evening, as Neytiri painted you before your ceremony to be fully welcomed among the People, Tsu'tey's fingers lingered on your lips. He stared too long.

You stared back. No words passed, but something changed.

"You are Omaticaya now," he said.

You nearly cried.

You didn't return to your human body that night. Not the next, either. With Tsu'tey and Mo'at's help-and Eywa's blessing-you transferred permanently.

The RDA believed your avatar had died. Grace mourned you quietly, bitterly.

Tommy nor Jake was never told the truth.

You and Tsu'tey mated beneath the Tree of Souls. Months later, you bore a son. You named him Akari.

He had his father’s solemn eyes. Your quietness. He barely cried. His tiny fingers curled tightly around your thumb as if he had known you before this life.

You held him against your chest and whispered promises into his hair.

“I’ll never let you burn,” you said.

And for a time, there was peace.

Until a sky-born child stumbled into the forest.

Until Jake Sullyyour brotherfell from the stars.

You saw him from afar on a hunt with Neytiri. He was awkward, confused. A baby in a borrowed body. Your heart seized. You hadn't seen an Avatar in two years.

When the viperwolves descended on him, you and Neytiri saved him swiftly. He stared up at you, awed. "Don't thank," Neytiri snapped. "This is not a gift. It is sad."

And then he turned to you. Recognition hit like lightning.

10

"Y/N? No.. that can't be. You're dead."

"Jake?" you whispered. "They said you were coming. But... how are you here?"

His voice cracked.

"Grace said you-your mask-she saw you die!"

You couldn't speak. Couldn't explain. Neytiri pulled you away, muttering about omens. But as the atokirina floated down toward Jake and he swatted at it,you shouted.

"Kehe! Don't!"

"Atokirina!" Neytiri hissed, grabbing his arm. "it is a sign!"

You and Neytiri locked eyes.

"Lolu aungia," she whispered. This is a sign.

You didn’t speak to Jake again that day.

Later, under the roots of Hometree, you sat with Tsu'tey. Akari slept between you, curled like a leaf.

“He’s not what I expected,” Tsu'tey said quietly. “Your brother. He moves like a baby.”

“He is a baby in this world,” you said. “Like I was.”

Tsu'tey nodded, then looked away.

“I do not like him.”

You sighed, brushing your son’s forehead.

“Jake was a marine,” you told Tsu'tey. “He came here armed. I don’t know why. And I’m afraid of what it means.”

Tsu'tey’s hand moved to your bellyyour second child, not yet born, stirred beneath the surface.

“You are my mate,” he said. “My heart beats for this family. I will protect it.”

“I know.”

“I will protect you.”

And you believed him.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

In time, Jake learned the truth.

Grace returned to the clan and wept when she saw you alive. Tsu'tey welcomed her with respect. Your son curled quietly in your arms as Grace asked question after question.

“His name?” she asked, smiling down at the boy.

You looked at Tsu'tey, who stood nearby, tall and silent, watchful.

“Akari te Rongloa Tsu'tey’itan,” you said proudly. “Our little warrior.”

She hugged you then, overwhelmed.

“You’re… really happy, aren’t you?”

“I’m finally where I belong.”

But still, that shadow lingered.

Jake.

Jake stayed.

That was the problem.

At first, it was simple. He needed training. He needed language. Mo’at, perhaps moved by the atokirina, permitted him to stay. And Neytirireluctantlyagreed to teach him.

But it was you he watched. Not Neytiri. Not Grace.

You.

“You left everything,” he said once, as you washed Akari in the shallow stream behind the village. “Your life. Your body. Your family.”

“I didn’t leave,” you said softly. “I found where I belong.”

“You don’t miss it? Earth?”

You looked at your sonhis pale eyes blinking up at you, his tiny mouth shaped like Tsu'tey’sand said nothing.

Because missing something didn’t mean you wanted it back.

Jake meant well. But his questions never stopped.

“Did they force you to stay?”

“No.”

“Did you really… mate with one of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re happy?”

You clenched your jaw.

“Jake. Stop.”

He paused, staring at the glow-worms that lit the bark around you.

“I just don’t get it.”

You shook your head.

“No. You don’t.

"I'm still scared," you admitted. "Scared you'll take me back. That the RDA will come again. That my children-*

Jake stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, forehead resting against yours like you used to do as kids.

"You don't have to explain."

"But I do," you said. "I abandoned everything. You. Grace. The mission. I should have stayed, should have fought-"

"You were a kid," Jake interrupted. "They sent you here with a fantasy and no plan. You didn't abandon anything. You survived. And somehow... you made this."

He looked at your kid."No one's taking you Not while I breathe "

As the weeks passed, the clan accepted him slowly. Neytiri softened. The warriors trained with him. Tsu'tey watched from a distance, always silent.

You saw the resentment in his shoulders.

The way his grip tightened on his knife when Jake laughed too loudly. Or stood too close to Neytiri.

Once, you caught him staring at your brother as if calculating every weak spot in his armor.

“He’s trying,” you said carefully one night as you sat in the trees, watching the stars flicker above the canopy.

“So was I,” Tsu'tey said. “Before your people burned my life to ash.”

You didn’t respond.

There was nothing to say that would make it better.

One morning, Tsu'tey returned from his solo hunt pale and shaking.

He’d seen a digger. A bulldozer, carving its way toward sacred trees. The same kind of machine that had sparked Sylwanin’s death.

“It was just sitting there,” he said, breathless. “Just… chewing through everything.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat beneath the roots of Hometree, your second child turning restlessly inside you. The air tasted like smoke, though no fire yet touched the leaves.

Tsu'tey found you there.

“You feel it too?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It is coming.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You already knew.

When the humans struck again, destroying the tree of voices, it was Tsu'tey who rallied the warriors first.

His voice rose like wind through bone.

You stood beside him, your bow in hand, your belly heavy with your second child.

Mo’at looked at you.

“You still believe in peace?” she asked.

“I believe in protecting what we love.”

“And your brother?”

You didn’t answer.

Jake returned from Hell’s Gate hours later, face dark, voice hollow.

“They’re coming,” he said. “In full force. If you don’t move, they’ll bring down the Hometree.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

Tsu'tey stepped forward, seething.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t know”

“You lied!” Tsu'tey shouted, stepping toward him. “You walked among us. Ate our food. Slept in our forest. And all the while, you fed them everything they needed to kill us!”

Jake bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

Tsu'tey raised his blade.

You stepped between them.

“Enough.”

Your voice cracked like thunder.

Tsu'tey lowered his blade.

But he didn’t forgive.

Not yet.

When the RDA unleashed their fire on Hometree, you watched it fall.

The sound was unbearablelike a scream torn from the world itself. Trees taller than skyscrapers crashed into the dirt. Flame swallowed bark, and leaves glowed red before vanishing.

You saw Eytukan fall in the chaos.

You saw children pulled from the rubble.

You saw Tsu'tey dive into the smoke. And then… silence.

You ran toward the wreckage, lungs burning.

“Tsu'tey!” you screamed, over and over.

And finally,finally he emerged. Covered in soot. Limping. Blood on his shoulder. But alive.

You collapsed into him, sobbing.

“I thoughtI thought I lost you”

He pulled you close.

“We do not fall,” he said. “We fight.”

The battle was not won that day.

But it began.

[rei-ismyname]

Chuck spying on retcons

The O5 plus Havok and Polaris are home safe from Krakoa, and the mansion is full of X-Men. Chuck decides to peep into everyone's lives, you know, just to check up, as you do. Starting with the two couples, naturally. Alex and Lorna are going back to school so he watches them make out then moves on to Scott and Jean. Ahem yourself old man.

The pink glasses are fire

Scott has work to do while Jean is feeling social. There's a bit of tension there and Jean heads outside to brood while Scott focuses on the after action report. Chuck empathises but it's not his place to intervene. I disagree, to an extent. He's been raising these kids since they were 15 - who else is going to help them navigate adulthood? Further, he is the leader here, as he insists. As an aside I want to hit Banshee in the face with a ukulele but I can't explain why. It's a feeling.

Meanwhile, Iceman is being a fucking jerk. Banshee, Nightcrawler and Colossus are like 'hey wanna hang out?' but he's threatened by their very presence and seemingly determined to make them uncomfortable. Chuck should absolutely be intervening here. Imagine if all the newbies just bounced. 'Yeah, the racist guy downstairs told us to fuck off and this is incredibly dangerous for no money. I'm going back to Russia/Kenya/wherever. You're bald.'

Bobby rejects even the possibility of friendship which really bums Piotr out. The other two are like fuck him, he doesn't own this place, and decide to stay. Thunderbird makes an unheard of attempt at friendship but Bobby slaps him down harshly. Rude and racist and I'm surprised Proudstar doesn't beat the shit out of him.

Dude outright attacks him but Thunderbird points out that Chuck invited them. Also, go fuck yourself.

Meanwhile, ugh, Jean gets creeped on by Logan. She says no three times but he does his Hannibal Lecter thing and it's really quite gross. 'What Wolverine wants, he gets.' Take a shower dude.

Warren happens to be creeping on Storm, who is similarly uninterested. He spots Logan and Jean talking and divebombs the former. Logan says that Jean's a grown woman but neither man treats her like one. That decision's hers except you don't take no for an answer. Jean is just like 'what the fuck is wrong with you?'

Naturally, Logan tries to kill him, though Storm breaks it up. Warren's words are pretty harsh and it would look like an overreaction if he wasn't kinda right. Warren definitely started the fight and was taken aback when it was more lethal than expected. Nobody looks good here except for Storm.

Logan sulks and does his man child puppy dog thing, but Jean isn't afraid and welcomes him to the X-Men. This shit is supposed to be romantic, I think. It's a nice moment of compassion undercut by making Logan and his 'no means yes' bullshit right!

'Afraid of yielding' give me a break

Sigh, we get a time skip of several hours as Jean visits Xavier at dawn. They discuss Logan as a team member before she declares that she's leaving. 'The longer we're together the more afraid I am of yielding.' 3 hours with Logan and Jean is weak at the knees - truly bizarre character shilling here. That's fine, but it's only achieved by making everyone look worse and putting that nonsense in Jean's mouth. It'd be funny in a Mills and Boon way if it wasn't so regressive.

They move on to discuss things other than Logan, with Jean giving more realistic reasons for leaving. She wants to live a life outside paramilitary hijinks and there's enough X-Men to see that through. That's where she and Scott diverge - she leaves and he stays. This is one of those Protagonist centred morality retcons meant to centre Logan in Jean's decision making. He still looks like a creep, so what's the point? I think he looks worse, frankly. There's asocial and there's antisocial. A lot of character work is twisted or negated to make Logan and Xavier look better, including their arcs. It flattens everyone out. That's comics for you, not the first or last time.

[adragonthatwrites]

Some people have pointed out that the Disassembly Drones could have entered the bunker whenever they wanted, as evidenced by N going through the roof on his way out in Episode 1. Now, I have two explanations for why they wouldn't;

1, before N blasted a hole through it: they didn't know it was there.

The room in question is, obviously, huge and with a roof that's incredibly close to the surface. However, the rest of the bunker is presumably much deeper, based purely on the fact all the other ceilings are so much lower than in this room. Additionally, this room looks like it's near the back of the bunker, far from the doors. Therefor, it's very reasonable to assume the Disassemblers wouldn't find this one weak spot, seeing as how it's completely invisible from above-ground and they'd only find it by digging down in random spots, increasingly far from the only known entrance to the bunker, in hopes of hitting something they could break through. They don't seem like strong diggers (spindly ass claws and N struggling to get back to V in Episode 7), so unless the bunker is right there I don't see them getting deep enough to hit it. I imagine they'd probably make some attempts to dig in around the entrance, before abandoning this effort in favor of other strategies. So it's reasonable they never found this weak point.

2, after N makes a hole through it: now, once N makes that hole they obviously know it's there, so even if the workers did fix the hole there shouldn't be a reason for V to need Lizzy to let her inside in episode 3. To that I raise you:

It's a particularly stormy night on Copper 9. N will be out flying; the winds blow so strongly on nights like this he can fly all the way to the top of the storm, shut off his engines, and just sour, letting the wind alone carry him forward. It's a rare moment of delight afforded to him in an otherwise listless life.

It means he won't be back inside until the sun forces him in. The perfect opportunity for V to sneak away, deal with the colony, and get back before he has a chance to realize she's gone and make a nuisance of himself.

Or at least it would have been a perfect opportunity if she could have found that damn hole on time! Unfortunately, while this kind of weather proves a delight for a drone of N's size and strength, V's slighter frame and shorter wings are ill-suited for such fierce wind. That, combined with the sheets of white impeding her already sub-par vision, means she doesn't find the entrance until the sun's only a couple of hours away.

It's fine. She'll use this opportunity to get the lay of the bunker first. No problem.

She squeezes her way through the entrance N made with ease, despite the fact the workers have already started closing it up. Not that it matters; she knows the place now, she can tear her way back in if she needs too.

First V lowers only her torso through, tilting her head from side to side and listening for any hint of movement in the vast space of the warehouse. Nothing; only the creaking of the wind outside. A satisfied purr rumbles through her chassis as she slinks through the opening before dropping down, down, down to the floor below. Her wings flair briefly just before she lands, engines revving softly so that she touches ground with barley a whisper. The warehouse is still and dark all around her, and in the distance she can just make out the telltale ruckus of workers moving in the deeper parts of the bunker.

She grins to herself and darts forward, only the gentle clink, clack, clink of her claws giving way to her approach. As she moves, she takes a deep intake, opening her mouth a little to let the air rush across the olfactory sensors lining the top of her mouth.

The scent that greets her makes her servos lock. There's workers, of course, but overwhelming their sweet, musky tones is something else. Saccharine and intense, like rotting meat doused in oil. Burning, decaying, oozing, foul meat and blood and metal and bone and death.

She lets out a distressed ping without thinking, head whipping to the side as if expecting to find It waiting just behind her. She knows that scent. She knows that scent.

She's fleeing before she can even decide on a direction, claws and feet skittering and tail lashing in terror. She bolts for the nearest wall and scrambles towards the first ventilation shaft she sees. She needs to get out. She needs to get away.

She rips the cover from its hinges and scrambles down the tunnel, her whining trills echoing in the cramped space around her.

She doesn't know how long she runs, only that at some point she reaches a dead end. She slams against the wall, cramming herself tight in a corner and turning towards the hall from whence she came. Her tail is poised over her shoulder and her vents come in desperate, shaking gasps.

Minutes pass by, and she remains still.

The vents are quiet. There are workers talking and walking nearby. Nothing comes for her. Nothing will come for her.

Idiot, she chastises herself even as her chassis shakes. She remembers now. N mentioned it, J's corpse... There's no reason to be afraid. It isn't That. It's just a dead thing, incapable of hurting her. No matter how much it smells like It.

Even so, she knows she will not be going into that room again.

[quillver]

🕯 Writing Quiet Strength

Some characters don’t survive by shouting.

They survive by enduring — quietly, precisely, relentlessly.

They yield. They wait. Lower their gaze so the world forgets they’re watching.

And they win.

Not because they’re passive — but because silence, for them, is control.

Because humility, when chosen, can disarm more than force.

This isn’t weakness.

It’s strategy.

It’s not a shield.

It’s a blade.

1. Strength isn’t declared. It’s decided.

These characters don’t process pain. They respond to it.

Not loudly. Not publicly. Just enough to keep moving.

They don’t need to be understood.

They need to survive — and that’s the louder truth.

They choose containment over collapse. Stillness over spectacle.

And that choice is the story.

Craft Tip: Keep their strength internal, not performative. Let it surface through resisted urges — a scream swallowed, a letter unsent, a door left open.

Write the action they almost took — and what it cost them to resist it.

2. Understatement sharpens the blade.

This isn’t passivity. It’s control.

They bend — but deliberately. They wait — but with intention.

They never outburst. They outlast.

A scream held in the mouth is louder than anything said.

Craft Tip: Use tension between outer quiet and inner resolve. Let them speak gently in scenes where others shout.

Give them lines that feel soft — but land hard. Let the reader feel what they’re choosing not to say.

3. Let the body carry the truth.

They don’t explain their pain. They embody it.

A shaking hand. A shallow breath. A pause too long.

Their strength shows up in how they hold themselves together — when they could fall apart.

Let the body become the place where the truth escapes.

Craft Tip: Layer micro-beats that contradict the scene’s surface tone. A nod that’s too fast. A cup held too tightly.

Let these physical tells hold the emotional pressure. Don’t translate it into words — let it stay unsaid.

4. Stillness can be the climax.

These characters rarely get a cathartic outburst.

They don’t win by breaking the silence — but by outlasting it.

They don’t shift the plot with a grand speech.

They shift it by the choice not to react — until the one moment they do.

And when they finally speak —

Let it cut like the thing they never said.

Craft Tip: Use restraint as structure. Let the reader feel what’s been withheld for the whole scene — then drop one line like a fault line cracking. No exposition. No explanation. Just the weight of release.

This isn’t a passive character. It’s a precise one.

Not everyone needs to rage to survive.

Some characters choose silence —

and use it as a weapon you never see until it’s already landed.

[gildedxthorns]

a lesser woman might have filled the silence. but acelya kara had never feared the quiet. she let it bloom — not between them, but around them. like fog on still water. like the slow unfurling of something ancient, patient, and deliberate. her gaze did not break from florentia’s, though something behind it shifted — imperceptible at first glance, but unmistakable if one knew how to read restraint as fluently as desire. “a rare currency,” she murmured at last, as if the words had been filtered through a finer sieve than usual. time. freedom. the absence of justification. each syllable placed with the weight of silver on silk. “and rarer still when offered without collateral.” her fingers curled slightly, brushing the edge of her plate — not possessively, but like someone reacquainting themselves with the notion of choice. “i have spent much of my life in rooms,” she said, and now her tone was quieter. not softened — acelya did not soften — but clarified. like a blade held to flame. “rooms where everything was negotiation. where kindness was bartered, and silence weaponized.” a slow inhale, though her posture didn’t waver. “so you’ll forgive me if i listen less for what is said… and more for what is left.” a pause. longer this time. a suspension, not of disbelief, but of something harder to name. “what you offer,” she continued, gaze narrowing ever so slightly — not in suspicion, but focus, “is not a bargain. it is a mercy.” her mouth tilted then, neither smile nor smirk. something more dangerous in its honesty. “and mercy, lady viscountess, is often the most frightening thing of all. because it asks for nothing. and in doing so, dares you to believe it.” she reached for the sorbet then — not idly this time, but deliberately. a slow spoonful, tasted without commentary, like an answer given without fanfare. “very well,” acelya said, and this time her voice held something like... concession. not weakness — never that — but a rare and earned yes. ���we will proceed without contract. without cost.” her gaze held firm, steady and unblinking. “but do not mistake my acceptance for ease. i am not a simple woman. and i do not forget the shape of what i’ve survived.” she leaned in again, just slightly. not predatory. not defensive. just present. “if you offer me time, i will take it.” another pause. deliberate. “but do not be surprised if i use it to see you.” and this, finally, was her answer. a mirror turned not outward — but toward the woman who dared place her offer on the table, unwrapped. how rare. how dangerous. how… intriguing.

her  gaze  did  not  waver.  nor  did  it  plead.  florentia  had  practiced  the  art  of  not  needing  aloud.  of  keeping  to  the  quiet  corners  of  discretion.  but  ...  something  in  her  manner  shifted.  not  enough  to  be  marked  by  the  casual  glance  of  someone  unfamiliar  with  her.  but  certainly  enough  to  be  felt  by  acelya.  the  same  way  one  notices  the  soft  give  of  frost  beneath  the  boot.  if  only  they  are  paying  attention.  “there  are  arrangements  that  hold  without  contract.”  her  voice  lowered ,  no  more  quiet  than  before.  moving  with  not  insistence ,  but  intent.  “understandings ,  if  you  will.  not  written ,  but  sustained.”  her  fingers  eased  their  grip,  though  they  did  not  part.  florentia  did  not  look  away.  but  the  space  between  them  grew  less  like  a  measure  and  more  like  a  threshold.  “the  kind  that  do  not  ask  to  be  proven.  only  kept.  —you  have  known  power  in  its  sharpest  forms ,”  she  observed.  “and  likely  generosity  too.  but  tethered  to  cost.”  a  pause.  “i  do  not  offer  either.”

a  flicker.  like  the  ghost  of  something  unspoken.  not  quite  a  smile.  but  the  softening  of  features.  inward  and  brief.  “what  i  offer ,  miss  kara ,  is  time.  and  the  freedom  not  to  explain  oneself ,  every  hour.”  a  silence  echoed  long  after  her  words.  it  did  stretch  so  much  as  it  settled.  made  heavier  not  with  uncertainty,  but  choice.  and  florentia  allowed  it  the  grace  to  stand.  some  truths  asked  not  to  be  carried.  simply  laid  down.  presented.  “if  that  is  of  use  to  you ,  then  it  is  yours.”  not  a  request.  not  a  claim.  an  offering.  left  unadorned.  but  unmistakably  real.  

[brklynbxby]

Azriel didn’t move when the door creaked open. He heard it — felt it, even — the groan against the frame crawling up his spine. The silence that followed was too still, too careful, like the club itself had sucked in a breath and was waiting to see who exhaled first. Then came Ryder’s voice. That lazy, gilded tone, all charm and poison, sliding down the stairwell. Azriel’s jaw locked, his hands tightening around Ella for a split second before she moved away from him. Azriel didn’t say a word. He just shifted his weight, slow and quiet, letting the shadows hold him. He didn’t need to follow her down to know what Ryder looked like standing there, two dogs at his flanks like ornaments of menace. Azriel could feel it. The ritual of power. Ryder didn’t enter a room — he colonised it. His heart didn’t race. It never did. But there was a tightening in his chest. He heard Ryder’s voice again — praise dressed like a gift but barbed like a hook. It’s beautiful. Just like you. He could almost see the look Ryder would’ve worn when he said it. Azriel didn’t like interfering with the bosses. That wasn’t his role. Ryder might’ve spoken like a friend, but to Azriel, he would always be a storm in a tailored suit — dangerous, absolute, and far too used to people breaking for him. Azriel didn’t break. But he did listen.

I’ll have a surprise waiting for you when you come home tonight. Azriel’s hands clenched. He didn’t move. His mind mapped exits, possibilities, contingencies — not because he’d act on them. Not yet. But because he could. And Ryder? He always liked to remind people that their freedom was borrowed. Azriel tilted his head, listening as Ella responded. The mask firmly in place. But he felt it — how much effort it took for her to keep her voice from trembling. How generous of you. The bite tucked beneath sugar. She was stalling, deflecting, delaying the return to whatever cage Ryder had prepared for her. You will. The sound of that command was the only thing Azriel felt — truly felt — in the marrow of his bones. It wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. The power was in the certainty. The leash wasn’t pulled, it was simply shown. Azriel exhaled slow through his nose. That was the thing with Ryder. He didn’t chain people with force. He used promises. Gifts. Praise. Love, if you were weak enough to believe in it. But Azriel knew better. He didn’t go down. Didn’t interfere. But his eyes stayed fixed on the stairwell, and he listened. To every word. Every silence. Every fracture in Ella’s voice.

If soulmates were real, he was hers. Azriel — her constant, her chaos, her anchor. Her best friend, if that word even meant anything in a world like theirs. Maybe not a friend in the conventional sense. Friends didn’t do what they did. Didn’t cross lines and set them on fire just to feel something real. Didn’t sleep tangled in the aftermath of bloodshed and dreams that never lasted. But they did. They’d been close as kids. Closer as teenagers. And now, in their early twenties, she couldn’t picture a version of her life without him in it — bruised knuckles, cigarette breath, fucked-up fantasies and all. Violence, drugs, late-night phone calls and bodies that didn’t get back up — none of it mattered, not really. As long as he was there, it was all noise. Background static. So when he stepped forward, and the wall caught her back with a quiet thud, she didn’t flinch. She welcomed the weight of him, the heat, the pressure that always felt like home. His kiss came rougher this time — deeper, sure — but trusting, always. She met it with equal hunger, her hands sliding down his arms, resting at his shoulders like she’d done it a thousand times before. Because she had. “Say that to his face,” she murmured against his mouth, grinning as her fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring him to her like gravity. God, she’d missed this. Missed him. The voice. The warmth. The quiet reassurance in the way he touched her like she was real and not just something passing through. “Azriel…” she breathed, her lips parting to say more, to confess something that scared her more than any bullet ever had—

Then came the noise. She froze, head snapping toward the stairwell as the unmistakable creak of the club’s front door echoed through the silence. Her blood ran cold before the voice even followed. “Ella?” Ryder’s tone rang casual, but underneath it… something coiled. Dangerous. Inevitable. The door shut behind him with a finality she didn’t like. Fuck. Of course he would show up unannounced. Ryder always did whatever the hell he wanted — boss of the whole damn operation, and Ella was just another piece on the board. Her jaw tightened as she gave Azriel one last glance — the kind that said not now, not when the world was watching — and gently pushed him aside before slipping past and down the stairs of the empty club. She found Ryder standing in the center of the main floor, flanked by two of his men. One on the left, one on the right — always the same. Silent. Watchful. Armed. “Boss,” she said evenly, slipping into the role like a second skin. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see it for myself,” he said, sweeping his gaze across the space, slow and deliberate. “This gem you’ve brought us. You haven’t disappointed.” His eyes flicked back to her. “It’s beautiful. Just like you. It fits.” Praise. Rare, and therefore suspect. “I’ll have a surprise waiting for you when you come home tonight,” he added, voice smooth like oil. “For all your hard work.” Ella froze at his words, knowing exactly what he meant and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ��How generous of you,” she said lightly. “But there’s still a lot to handle here. I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.” His face didn’t change much. Just a flicker. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. But that was enough. “You will.” The words weren’t a request. They were a leash. And Ella? She felt the noose pull just a little tighter.

[moeblob]

OC OTP. Just a prince (Ego, the ginger) and his wonderful energy alien fiance (Serenity) who he doesn't know is an energy alien. Ego also doesn't know that the future marriage is never going to happen and he's been lied to his whole life.

[froggie-at-home]

alabaster can hide food with his magic and carry it around in his cards. it's way better than any fridge, because food is always hot and fresh like it was just cooked. he always has some on him so he doesn't have to worry about getting starved, like he how did before he joined TA.

will was sick and malnourished when he got kicked out of CHB. he was the only medic with good enough training and who could heal at camp since manhattan happened, so he was always overworking himself. his younger siblings weren't great at healing and apollo wasn't responding to them, so he was the only healer that about twenty kids a day would visit. chiron wasn't always here to help either.

so when al found will he was more than happy to share his food. after traveling and staying together at keeseville for months will recovered back to perfect health and was happier than ever, not having to use his powers every minute a day to save another kid who got their head open falling off the lava wall.

bonus: will knows how to cook thanks to lee (who grew up looking after his little cousins and his sick grandma), so alabaster saves up fresh fruit, vegetables and sometimes meat so will can get something ready for them. it's like a coping mechanism to him, something to get his hands busy with when he gets that itch, when his hands get a little too hot.

(al tried to help him cook, but he almost burnt down the kitchen while kneading the dough. even claymore was disappointed.)

[theguywhodoesntlikemusicals]

Paul felt his breath catch in his mouth as Wiley took hold of him, holding him by the jaw. He wasn't special... He was just a guy, he lived a fully normal life. Or as much as he thought he did... But he did know that he had done those things. And he did them all knowing that he was just doing what someone had to. That there was only one way to stop literally the entire world from ending. He wasn't stupid. He was terrified, but he wasn't stupid... He was pretty sure that any person would have done the same, and that what he did didn't make him special. But apparently it did...

"I didn't know..." Paul gasped, straining to desperately shift his body. He couldn't move... He was so, so desperate just to move. To run. To rush through the door that was so close to him and get the hell out. The futility of it was setting in as Wiley spoke. He didn't know that it would affect what he could only assume was other... worlds? Versions of him? He didn't know what he was signing up to. "I didn't know, please! I--" He gasped, hearing the Voice speak into his head. Hearing his fears a confirmation. That his fate wasn't only written in stone but had happened so many times before. That whatever this thing was wanted his life on display and could, had before, and seemed to want to end it. "Please don't..." he gasped, more to the entity that was controlling him than Wiley, as the man moved away. Desperate tears began to spill over his cheeks, terrified about what was coming.

Paul shuddered, feeling his mind twist and bend as if on a dissecting table. He twisted his head as he felt it worm into his synapses, gasping and letting out a scream as it wormed it's way around him, desperate to make it stop. God... He hated that it felt so good. "Stop! Please, sto--" And suddenly his synapses were firing. Telling him that everything was fine-- Not just fine, incredible. Like a terrible, awful joy pressed it's way into his mind and left him screaming in terror behind that wall of pleasure locking him in. He felt his knees turn to weakness to the extent that, if he weren't being held up, he was sure he might have collapsed. He felt himself become locked away behind his own body, his consciousness trapped and yelling. He suddenly became aware of his place and knowing it sent him overhelmed with joy despite a part of his brain screaming against it.

He felt people grabbing him and lifting him up, hands moving him in unison and carrying him above their heads, like they were bearing a coffin. Paul hated being touched when he didn't expect it. He wanted to scream and cry and he fought as much as he could to be able to move and get down. But every effort he could make couldn't break through the shuddering happiness he felt in every cell of his head. But it was either keep struggling as much as he could in his self conscious, or give into the inevitable...

Open RP:

"I swear to God if I hear another jingle or person singing in the street I'm going to lose it..."

[spectral-honey]

Civilian Tim au where hes one of those guys whose job it is to just try to break into places just to see if he can

[butchlifeguard]

something i was thinking about on stand yesterday.. danganronpa shsl lifeguard who tries to save a dying person they find, bonus points if they dont come clean about it at first because they think they actually killed that person with their efforts

[tangyneon]

truth be told... i have got no irl experience, so i did this based on what i think my future (dream) s/o should be like, and how i imagine myself to be in my selfships with my s/o. 😊✨

take this dating personality quiz and rb with your results bc im nosy and always curious !!!!!

(this is mine)

open tags as always <3