#when this is the only life i remember anymore?

[rabidvulcan]

It’s very true what you say about “knowing canon from fic”. Especially when you’re in fandoms that are older or have A LOT of material to work with, some of which may not even necessarily accessible anymore. To use Star Trek as an example again, much of the outside material for TOS is long since out of print. They’re not impossible to find, but I can definitely understand an authors choice in deciding to not go digging through crusty PDFs at the back of the Internet.

This is a little off topic, but I also find it funny that you mention the T’hy’la bond as an example because on the few precious rare occasions I get to to talk about Star Trek in real life, I have to mentally double-check that what I’m saying is actually canon and not fanon that’s become so intrinsic to fanfic that I’ve forgotten they’re not canon. I’ll go “yeah so then Kirk and Spock have this T’hy’la bond” and then remember oh wait no that’s only in my fanfics.

tfw "popular" fanon becomes so embedded in a fandom & discussions within fandom spaces that people just start treating it as the default and all interactions with others are coloured by this interpretation. have you considered that I actually don't subscribe to this take, which is nowhere in the source material? wait nvm, clearly not.

[rillils]

but you know what really gets to me? how deeply and instinctively steve associates bucky with solace. with love. with mutual devotion.

he sees bucky again for the first time since 1945, standing on the business end of a gun, and through the pain and shock of this earth-shattering revelation, what does he say? what is the only thought he keeps coming back to? "even when i had nothing, i had bucky." which is such a powerful and, and intimate line, it knocks the breath out of you.

he has a moment to himself to gather his thoughts, and where does his mind travel to? to the lowest point of his life. the day he had to bury the only parent he had ever known, and found himself entirely alone in the world. yet the focus of that memory isn't so much on steve's grief, as you would expect; it's rather on bucky's comforting presence, his support, his unconditional affection. it's bucky offering to be steve's home, both literally and figuratively, and reminding steve that this, this thing between them, it's forever, no matter what.

there's just, this unspoken but very palpable tenderness between them, that steve keeps calling back to throughout the movie.

even when bucky's actively shooting at him, stabbing him, punching him with all the superhuman strength in his arm, steve doesn't see a heartless killing machine that must be stopped. even beaten to a pulp and on his way to bleeding to death, when steve looks up at bucky, he only ever sees the boy who loved him. the boy he has loved his whole life.

and now, now bucky's the one who has nothing. bucky's been stripped of everything: his name, his humanity, his sense of self, his freedom, his past. his entire life. for the past 70 years, he has been nothing but a weapon passed from hand to hand, used and brutalized without remorse.

and steve walks into that helicarrier determined to show him that what bucky told him that day, all those years ago? it goes both ways. that even now that bucky's got nothing, he still has steve, even if bucky doesn't remember that yet.

steve takes his helmet off, and lets go of his shield, and lays himself bare to bucky's rage - makes himself vulnerable in every way he possibly can - to show bucky that no matter what, there is one person in this world who loves him, and always will. that he's not alone, not anymore. steve will never let that happen again, even if it costs him his own life.

like god, if that isn't tenderness, i don't know what is.

[lazy-ahh]

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

[dior-luxury]

HIYYA :)! i’ve been very into the childhood!best friends to lovers, so could i ask for that with: the itoshi brothers, karasu, and yukimiya. thanks so much :))

Childhood Friend To Lover

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] sae . rin . karasu . yukimiya

- [𝐩:𝐬] emotional isolation . parental neglect . fame pressure . angst . unspoken love . kissing . family conflict . emotional withdrawal . self-doubt . loneliness . injury . trauma

Note: This scenario with them is so cute 😭I can imagine them falling in love with someone from their childhood (Especially Rin & Sae). And them falling in love with you even more during Blue Lock when they're away from you is just- ugh 😔.

Sae Itoshi

You and Sae had been inseparable since you were kids. Your houses were right next door in the quiet suburbs of Kanagawa, and your days were filled with scraped knees, shared snacks, and endless soccer matches in the park with Rin trailing behind like a determined shadow. Sae was calm and sarcastic, even back then — a little aloof, a little too smart, but he always waited for you. Always passed the ball to you first.

He was your best friend. Not in the silly, fleeting way kids say it, but the kind of best friend who snuck out to watch meteor showers with you at 3 a.m., who came to your room when his parents fought, who said nothing but always made you feel better. He always noticed when you were off — always read your silences. You never had to say much. Sae just got you.

You were the only one who saw him cry when he got selected for Spain. He looked at you like the world was ending. “I want to go,” he’d whispered, “but I don’t want to leave you.”

So he left — and didn’t look back.

For five years, you didn't speak. He didn’t answer your texts, didn’t come home during the holidays. Rin got colder. You moved on, or at least tried. But Sae was a phantom presence in everything — in the sound of the wind at night, in the rhythm of a soccer ball bouncing on concrete. You never stopped wondering what you did wrong.

And then one summer evening, he returned.

You heard his voice before you saw him — deeper, a little wearier. “You still suck at headers,” he said from behind you on the field. And there he was, tall, handsome, different — but with the same sharp eyes and infuriating smirk. Your chest ached. You hated him. You missed him.

The first few weeks were awkward. You didn’t know how to act around him, and he acted like no time had passed. He still remembered your favorite ramen order, still teased you in that infuriating, gentle way. But sometimes his gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he touched your wrist and didn’t let go. You caught him watching you like he was searching for the version of you he left behind — or maybe falling for the one you’d become.

One night, during a storm, you found him outside your window, soaked to the bone.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “Not in Spain. Not here. Not anywhere.”

You let him in.

Sae kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment — desperate, slow, reverent. All those years of silence and missed moments melted into one long, trembling kiss in the dark of your bedroom.

“You waited for me?” he asked, forehead against yours.

“I never stopped.”

Rin Itoshi

You and Rin Itoshi were neighbors in a sleepy coastal town, where soccer balls thudded against concrete and cicadas buzzed like background music. You met him before the world broke him, before Sae left and shadows curled beneath Rin’s eyes.

As kids, you’d race your bikes to the beach, dig your toes into the sand, and talk about your future. Rin always wanted to be better than his brother. Always. But he was softer then—shy, thoughtful, and surprisingly funny when he let his guard down. You were his person—the one who’d read manga with him, patch up scraped knees, or drag him out for ice cream when his parents argued about Sae’s rising fame.

When Sae left for Spain without a word, Rin shattered.

He withdrew, colder, sharper. Soccer became war, and every smile became a rare relic. But not with you.

You were the only one he didn’t push away.

He’d show up outside your window at night, bruised knuckles, sweat still clinging to his collar. He wouldn’t talk. He’d just sit, knees pulled up, letting the silence wrap around him like armor—until you offered a blanket or held his hand under the stars.

In high school, you noticed how his eyes lingered on you longer. How he’d get strangely protective, narrowing his eyes at anyone who flirted with you. How he looked at you like you were the last safe place he had.

But Rin didn’t believe in love. Not really. Not when he thought everything he cared about left him. Soccer was the only thing that made sense. Until you.

When Blue Lock called, he told you through gritted teeth. “I have to go.”

You didn’t cry. You just handed him a small photo—your favorite picture of the two of you from the beach, back when he smiled more easily.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded, jaw tight, and turned away.

But he wrote. Every week. Long, messy letters with doodles in the margins and awkward attempts to describe his days. “I got MVP. Still doesn’t feel like much.” “Missed your dumb seaweed riceballs today.” “Saw the ocean and thought of you.”

When he returned, taller, sharper, eyes colder—you were still there.

And when he saw you on that same beach, holding the photo he left behind, Rin cracked. Dropped his bag. Pulled you into a hug so tight it hurt.

“You waited,” he whispered.

“I told you I would.”

And under that fading orange sky, he kissed you—gently, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hands trembled. But you held him like always.

Now, years later, every time he scores a goal and lifts his eyes to the stands, he looks for you. The one who never left. His first friend. His last love.

Karasu Tabito

Karasu Tabito wasn’t exactly a “good kid” when you met him. You were both nine—him with a black eye, a split lip, and a crooked grin that said, “yeah, I got into a fight again.”

He got into trouble before he got into soccer—always the one with smart remarks, messy hair, bruised knuckles, and a grin that didn’t quite match the pain in his eyes. You were the quiet kid, the one who read too much and liked watching clouds. Total opposites. Yet somehow, you ended up being his anchor.

Maybe it started because you were the only one who didn’t treat him like a delinquent. Or maybe it was the day you shoved a bandage into his hand after yet another brawl, mumbling, “Stop bleeding all over the classroom, idiot.”

From then on, you were his person.

Every rooftop lunch. Every call after a terrible day. Every silent moment where he could just be without pretending to be cool or invincible.

Karasu was chaos—but around you, he calmed.

He got into soccer on a dare. Typical. But he was good, terrifyingly so. His reflexes were sharp, instincts sharper. He played like he lived—unpredictable and fast. He got serious about it in middle school, and you were the first person he told.

“I wanna go pro. Is that stupid?”

“No,” you’d said. “It’s the first thing I’ve ever seen you care about.”

By high school, Karasu was popular, loud, magnetic—but no one knew him like you did. They didn’t know how he called you every night when his parents fought. How he’d show up at your house drunk off energy drinks, just needing someone to talk him off the ledge. How he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking—like you were the only thing that kept him tethered.

And yeah, maybe you started to feel it too. That flutter. That ache when he leaned too close. The way your name sounded different in his mouth than anyone else’s.

But Karasu was scared. Love wasn’t something he trusted. So he flirted with others, acted like it was nothing—but never crossed that line with you.

Until one night—your last summer before Blue Lock, when he climbed up to your window at 1 AM, eyes wide, adrenaline crackling in the air.

“I got in,” he whispered. “Blue Lock chose me.”

You hugged him, heart racing. “I’m proud of you.”

And then—you pulled back, eyes locked, and suddenly, it wasn’t pride buzzing in the air—it was years of tension, laughter, comfort. And he kissed you. Not soft or sweet—desperate, like he’d wanted to for years but never dared.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered against your lips. “But if I figure it out—I want it to be with you.”

He left the next morning with a crooked smile and a promise.

Now, whenever he scores a goal, he still mouths your name. Still sends you blurry pictures and dumb jokes. Still calls you when he can’t sleep.

Because even when the world calls him unpredictable—you were always his constant.

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya Kenyu was beautiful. Not just in the model-boy, camera-ready way—but in how he moved, how he spoke, how he existed. You knew him before the world tried to sculpt him. Before the illness. Before the fame.

You were his next-door neighbor in Kyoto. From childhood, you saw the boy who pressed flowers in books, cried at sad manga endings, and whispered prayers at the shrine on his way to school. He was fragile, even then. Asthma. Weak lungs. A shadow that always loomed—but he never let it stop him.

He loved soccer even when it hurt. Even when it meant collapsing on the field.

You were always there—at the edge of the pitch, with your backpack full of inhalers and water bottles and unwavering belief.

As you both grew, so did your bond. He was gentler than the other boys. Sensitive, graceful. But behind that softness was steel. Yukimiya wanted it. Badly. To prove he wasn’t weak. To become more than his illness. More than the pretty boy.

“I don’t want people to look at me and only see fragile,” he told you once under a cherry tree in spring. “I want to be limitless.”

And you believed him. Every step of the way.

Then came the diagnosis. His vision—going. Not yet blind, but the edges were starting to blur. He told you in a whisper, like a secret shame.

You cried. He didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m still me. I’m still going to play. Even if it kills me.”

When Blue Lock summoned him, he hesitated. Not out of fear—but because he didn’t want to leave you behind.

So you kissed him.

Right there, by the train station. Years of buried feelings blooming like wisteria.

“I’ve loved you since we were thirteen,” you said. “Go. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

And he went. With tears in his eyes, clutching your confession like armor.

In Blue Lock, he fought with elegance and fury. Not just for a goal—but to deserve you. To be strong enough for love.

Now, he still calls you when he has flare-ups. Sends you photos of sunsets he can barely see. Draws you in his notebook, even as his lines grow softer, blurrier.

When he makes the national team, he finds you in the crowd. He can’t see your face clearly anymore—but he feels you.

And in his arms, after the match, he says, “Even if the whole world fades… I’d know your heartbeat anywhere.”

[humaling]

Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

[kaliforniahigh]

we'll try again, when we're not so different - n.s.

Exhusband!Noah and Exwife!Reader.

Warnings: angst, the end of a marriage, hurtful words, heartbreak, Noah's new "girlfriend", self-deprecating thoughts from both Noah and Reader, curse words, miscommunication, happy ending. Sorry if I forgot something.

I definitely don't want to end their story here. I feel like there's so much potential from this universe, so, feel free to send me asks to talk about their little life. Can be either pre or post divorce :)

WC: 9.6k

You still remember everything as if it happened yesterday.

You remember marrying him. You remember your improptu honeymoon that wasn't really anything fancy, but still held meaning to the two of you. You remember finding you you were pregnant, and even though you felt very scared of becoming a parent, you also felt very excited for the future.

But what you remember the most of all these things, is when everything started to fall apart. If you tried, you feel like you could recite word for word of what was said that day.

You were both in the kitchen. The kitchen island between you and Noah physically showing the rift that has grown between the two of you in the past years, as each one of you stood on one side.

The folder set on the counter was like a giant elephant in the room. It felt like it was staring, and mocking you. You felt like it was looking you in the face and saying "see? You failed. You failed at keeping this marriage together. And I'm the proof of it".

Neither you nor Noah have said anything since you handed him the papers and he looked through them. The silence felt like it was swallowing you two alive. You wanted him to say something, even if it was to get angry at you.

He sighed out loud, and ran a hand through his hair. And in that moment, you couldn't help but think about how your going to miss doing it yourself.

Because divorcing him didn't only mean letting go of your marriage. It meant letting go of him. It meant he was no longer gonna be yours.

You would go to bed alone. You would only cook meals for two people instead of three. And you would have no one to tell about your day. No one to let know when you arrived somewhere, or when you were headed back home.

But then you remember you've been feeling this way for a long time already. What different would it make? He was never home anyway, you felt like you were in a one person marriage.

"Y/N", he said your name, startling you out of your thoughts. "What the fuck is this?", he asked, pointing to the folder in front of you.

He didn't sound angry, he didn't raise his voice. You think he actually sounded betrayed.

"I think you know what it is", you whispered, but the silence was so loud, he could hear you clearly.

"Where is this coming from?", he questions you, and for a second you think he must not be serious right now.

Did he not remember all of the fights you've had? Did he not remember the countless nights you've called him, crying and frustrated because you couldn't put your son to sleep? Did he not remember when you got a call from his school, saying that Ezra fell from the monkey bars and needed to be taken to the hospital? And you couldn't even call him, because he was on stage somewhere halfway across the world.

"I think this is a long time coming, Noah", you point out and you can tell he's getting frustrated with your short answers.

"Long time coming? For how long have you been thinking of divorcing me? How come we never sat down and talked about it?", he was getting agitated now. Pacing back and forth.

The truth is, you knew that if you had sat down and talked to him, he would make you the same promises he's made you before, and then you wouldn't go through with it.

And you needed this. You needed to stop pretending like this is working anymore. And now you need to make him see it too.

"I don't think you want to know for how long I've been thinking about it", you answered, truthfully.

"No, I need to know. I need to know when you started to give up on us"

You whip your head to look at him when he said this.

"Give up on us?", you ask, incredulity seeping into your tone. "How dare you say Im giving up on us when I've been trying to make this work for four years? How dare you say I'm giving up on us when all you've ever given me is nothing but empty promises?", you question him, patience vanishing.

You didn't want this to become a fight. But you guess it was always going to be this way.

"Nothing? You're standing here saying that I give you nothing? I've given you everything for the past five years of my life"

"How can you tell me you've given me everything when I've been telling you tour after tour how fucking lonely I feel everytime you're away?", you question him. Has he forgotten everything?

"And I've told you that I can't change that right now!", he exclaims, frustrated. "Don't you think I'd rather stay here with the two of you instead of going away for months? You think I don't beat myself up for missing so much of Ezra's life because I was away somewhere in fucking Europe?"

"You can't change that and I can't keep living like this", you shrugged, understading where he's coming from, but tired of hearing the same thing you've heard so many times before.

"And you think this is gonna fix it?", he grabbed the folder and slightly slammed it on the counter. "You're running away from the problem instead of trying to fix it"

"I can't run from something that can't be fixed. I can't wait four more years for you to be here for us. I just can't"

"What about Ezra? Are you even thinking about him? How is he gonna take this? How is this gonna change his life?"

This was the breaking point for you, Noah talking about your son as if you're completely disregarding his well-being in this situation. The only person you had in mind was your son.

So, you said something that, to this day, you regret telling him. Because as much as you wished he was home more, that he called more, you couldn't deny that he was an amazing father. He cared for Ezra with his whole life, and you could actually see so much of Noah in him that it surprised you at times.

But, what was said can't be taken back.

"I don't know, Noah. Is it even gonna make much of a difference? You're never here anyway, so I don't even think he'd notice the change"

As soon as you said this, you could see the fight leave his body. His shoulders slumped and his eyes became downcast as the realization of what you just said hit him in the face.

He looked away from you, and you wanted to take it back immediately, but how could you?

"I'll get some of the guys to get my shit tomorrow", he said, turning his back to you and walking to the living room, grabbing the key to his car.

"Noah...", you called out, following after him, even though you have no idea what you could even say to him.

"I think you've said enough", he told you, and you haven't seen his face as cold as it was in that moment in all of the years you've been together. Actually, what brought you the most comfort was the warmth of his eyes.

Leaving the house, he half slammed the door behind him, leaving you standing there with your thoughts.

Sitting on the couch, you absolutely crumbled. Not being able to hold your tears anymore. You laid down in a fetal position, sobs racking through your body and reverberating in the emptiness of the house.

Your family was over. You were on your own now. And for a split second, you questioned if you did the right thing.

All of your friends were looking at you as if you had grown two heads. And you were desperately trying to pretend that you weren't affected by what was said just a few seconds ago.

After separating from Noah, you still kept the same friends. It just happened that your friends were also his friends. Or, they were friends, or significant others of his friends. Hearing about him and what he was up to was unavoidable. But you had to give it to them, they actually did try to keep his name out of most conversations.

It wasn't like you never spoke to him ever again. You did, because you had a kid together, after all. But the conversations were about Ezra 90% of the time. Never straying to personal matters and other topics.

You congratulated him on new music, or a new album when it came out. You told him when something happened at school with Ezra, or when something happened at the studio and you'd be late picking up Ezra from his place.

After being on your own, you went back to pursuing your dreams of being a tattoo artist, which is something you've started doing before getting pregnant. With the baby and the responsabilities you had, you started working less and less, until you stopped altogether.

You were happy to say your studio was thriving for about four years now. It took a while for you to get your footing back. Both emotionally and financially. And obviously, to fit everything into Ezra's schedule.

Today, you were grabbing lunch with a few friends, amongst them, were Matt, Davis and their girlfriends. The band had a final show of their tour here in California, and they were all excited about it.

Apparently, a few people from the industry were invited, and the venue was going to be larger than normal, probably their largest crowd yet.

You felt happy for them. The band deserved it and so did Noah. Especially after how hard they all worked for this.

It was when they were listing all of the people invited, that Matt let slip a very important information.

"Yeah, we're inviting the boys from Erra, and we're thinking of the possibility of Jesse playing guitar on stage", Lilly, Matt's girlfriend said.

"Crimson Halo is also going. I'll love to see how the internet is going to freak out about that", Matt pointed out, laughing at the idea.

"Why would the internet freak out?", you questioned.

Everyone started to look at each other funny. As if they shared a secret, an information you weren't in on. You started to feel uncomfortable.

"Guys?", you questioned again. "Is someone gonna tell me what is going on?"

"I don't know if you're going to like it", Lilly said, looking at Matt. You were now more confused than ever.

"Noah is dating Emery. The lead singer of the band", Davis ripped off the bandaid, and a heavy silence settled over the table.

You, on the other hand, was trying to act unaffected, but it was becoming more difficult as everyone was staring at you, trying to gauge your reaction.

"Oh, okay", you said, honestly not knowing the right way to respond to this.

You knew Noah must have been with other women after your split. You never heard about it, but five years have gone by, he must have been dating around in that time.

But this was the first time it was confirmed to you that he was in a new relationship, and you didn't know what to feel. It must be serious though, since she's attending his concerts.

Not to mention the fact that your son is going to be there. What is Noah going to say? Is he gonna tell him he has a new girlfriend? How is your son going to react? You hated this, since you knew you weren't supposed to know about it. But now that you did, you guess you'll have to talk to him about the situation.

"For how long have they been together?", you ask.

"For a couple of months", Davis answered, and you appreciated his honesty.

"I just wonder when he was planning on telling me this", you said, reaching for a fry and popping it into your mouth, needing something to do while you stewed in this information.

"I don't know. We also found out recently", Matt told you, and you could tell he felt bad about how the situation was unfolding.

"I was probably gonna find out from some fan account on Twitter, right?", you joked, but it didn't land. The show is in a couple of days from now, and if Noah thought this information wasn't important enough to share with you, it means you were going to find out from some blurry picture of them kissing or whatever.

The thought made your heart beat faster with anxiety.

After this, it goes without saying that the vibe wasn't the same. And in less than an hour, everyone was saying their goodbyes, and hugging each other.

Lilly enveloped you in her arms, but before parting completely, she held you at arm's length and leaned a little closer.

"If you're worried about Ezra, just know that Noah would never do anything to jeopardize the relationship with his son", she told you, and you saw sincerity in her eyes.

You knew this. You knew that Noah was a responsible father. But still, the fact that you were in the dark about all of this left a bitter taste in your mouth.

"Thank, Lilly. I appreciate it", you smiled, and everyone went their own way.

Back home, you sat on the couch while Ezra did his homework on the kitchen table. You pondered if you should do anything about this new piece of information. By now, Noah must know that you knew about it, since Matt and Davis most likely told him already.

You should just be quiet, and let this be. It was his relationship. It was his decision to tell you or not.

But, despite knowing this. You still send him a text.

You: If you are serious about her, let me know, so we can think of a way to tell Ezra.

Yeah, you were never good at keeping to yourself when it comes to him.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with a reply.

Noah: Can I come over later?

You sighed. If Noah wants to show up at your house, then the talk he wants to have must be important. You texted him back an "ok". Good thing Ezra is spending the night at his grandma's tonight. Your mom has been dying for a sleepover, and since it was a Friday, spending the weekend there would be the perfect opportunity.

You and Noah had joint custody, but a flexible schedule due to his job. Even though Ezra spent the most amount of time with you, you never limited for how long he was with Noah whenever he was not on tour.

After dropping off Ezra at your mom's house, you grabbed take out on the way back home. One rule that you kept even after the divorce, is that Fridays were the days for take out, and not cooking.

Grabbing your meal and thanking the server, you put the car in drive. But before you could start making your way back home, your phone vibrated on the center console. You saw it was a text message from Noah.

Noah: I'm on my way.

You didn't bother to answer, since you were about 5 minutes from your house. You would most likely arrive just in time to meet him there.

As you predicted, as soon as you set the food container on the kitchen counter, you heard a knock on your door. Opening it, you were met with Noah on the other side of the door. He was dressed as he usually was. Dark pants and a Bad Omens hoodie. You kept some of those in your closet as well. You got rid of the ones that belonged to him, and that for some reason, he had left behind when he moved out. The other ones were too comfy to throw in the donation pile.

"Come in", you told him, stepping aside to let him in the house.

There were few times when he actually came into your house, oftentimes, he stayed in the car while Ezra took his backpack and ran along the driveway to meet his dad. Whenever you were running late, he came in, but never went further into the house than the living room and kitchen.

You heard him closing the door behind him, as you made your way back to the kitchen, opening a drawer and grabbing a fork.

"Still doing no cooking Friday, I see", he pointed out, sitting in one of the stools in the kitchen island.

"Yep. You know how it is", you answered, as you sat down yourself. You pointed to the food in front of you, silently asking if he wanted some, but he just shook his head no.

Right now, you weren't too sure if you wanted to have this conversation with him eating. But, oh well.

"Matt told me what happened today at lunch", he started.

"To say it was a little uncomfortable would be an understatement", you pointed out. You really didn't mean to be petty about this, but as soon as he touched on the subject, it just came out of you. You decided to dial it down a little bit. You didn't want this to become a fight.

"I'm sorry. I was going to tell you. I was just waiting for the right time"

"You couldn't find the right time in the couple of months you've been together?", you challenged him. He was talking as if he started dating this girl last week.

"I was never going to introduce her to Ezra without talking to you", Noah said. And it was true. He knew how protective you were of Ezra, and he was never going to take a miscalculated step that could affect his son's life.

"I believe you. It would just be nice to know"

He nodded, showing you he understood where you were coming from.

"But now that I know, we need to talk about how things are going to be from now on"

"I still don't pretend to introduce her as my girlfriend to him, Y/N"

You ignored the way he said "my girlfriend" tugged at your heart in a way you were not ready to admit.

"Ok, but what about when you decide to do it?", you question him.

"We've been separated for a while now. It would be natural for us to start dating other people. He's 9, he'll understand", he said and you sighed. Your son was a very emotionally mature kid, you gotta give him that.

"Just be careful when you do it, ok? I don't want him hurting", you pointed the fork at him when you said it. "And please, only do it if you know for sure that this girl is going to stick around"

You knew that Noah was completely aware of everything you were saying to him. But he let you say it anyway, because he knew it took a weight off your chest to do it.

"You don't have to worry about it", he reassured you, and you nodded in response. "This is not the only thing I came here to talk about"

You stopped chewing the second he said this. You had a feeling that whatever it was, wouldn't make you happy.

"Ezra is coming to the concert next friday, right?", he asked and you hummed in agreement. Every time the band performed here, Ezra would attend the concert. "I need you there with him this time", he said and you almost choked on your food.

"What?", you ask, indignation in your voice. Ever since separating, you never attented one of his concerts again. It was actually something you told him you did not want to do. Whenever Ezra would go, Alana would pick him up and stay with him the whole time, so you didn't have to worry.

"Alana is actually very sick this time, and she can't go. Ezra is really excited and I didn't want him to miss it", Noah explained.

"And you don't have anyone else?"

"Not really", he shrugged his shoulders. "Everyone else is going to be busy, and I can't be with him all the time"

You knew how chaotic it could get while getting ready for a concert. The boys would all be running around, making sure everything goes to plan. And truth be told, you didn't expect any of them to stop what they were doing to take care of a nine year old.

"I already told you I didn't want to go anymore", you said, head low. You suddenly didn't want to look at him anymore. You also lost your appetite, so your hand just stirred the food around with your fork aimlessly.

The thing is, going to these concerts were one of your favorite things to do when you and Noah were still together. You loved to watch him go up on the stage. You loved to watch him sing his heart out, and command the crowd in the way only he knew how to do.

In the last stages of your relationship though, it was such a bittersweet feeling. Because you knew that no matter what you did, nothing could ever compare to the thrill he felt up there. In a way, you resented the stage, but you started to understand why he went away for months and months to perform.

"Listen, you don't have to watch if you don't want to. But he needs you there this time", Noah said. You knew he was right, and you hated the idea of telling your son he wouldn't get to go.

"Ok, I'll be there", you decided. Not too excited about the idea, but there's nothing you could do about it right now. "Can you tell your girlfriend I'm going? Just so it isn't awkward or anything", you add.

"I will. You don't have to worry about that", Noah reassures you, and you nod in appreciation.

You take another bite of your food, as a silence falls over the two of you. It was always like this. Awkaward silences, trying to find something to talk about. It felt like you didn't have anything in common anymore. It felt like you couldn't relate to each other anymore. And you weren't sure of what hurt more, even after five years.

After a few more seconds, he stood up.

"I should get going", he said, grabbing his car keys set on the counter in front of him. You abandon your food in order to open the door for him.

"I'll se you on Friday, I guess", you tell him, as he steps onto your front porch.

"I'll see you. I'll get Matt to text you the details, along with your backstage pass", Noah informs you, you say thanks and then he's back on his car, peeling off the driveway.

Noah waits until he rounds the corner to stop his car. He feels like he needs to catch his breath. Every time he's inside your house, it takes all of the energy out of him. And this time, it's no different.

He replays the interation word by word in his head. When Matt had texted him, saying that he let it slip that Noah has a new girlfriend, he knew he needed to talk to you about it sooner rather than later.

He was just avoiding it, and for many reasons. Emery was a nice girl, but Noah would be lying if he said he saw a future for them. A future further than what they had right now. He didn't even know if he could call her his girlfriend. He never really asked her oficially, but after a couple of weeks of them being together, going out together, going to each other's places, he thinks he doesn't really need to say much. Besides, other people around him just started to refer to them as boyfriend and girlfriend, and he didn't have the heart to correct them.

He knows he should say something. He should say he's not emotionally available right now. He should say he's not looking for something long lasting. But, the truth is, he doesn't want to look like a fool. Because, the moment he says that, he knows he'll need to talk about you. Because you're the reason he hasn't been available for the past five years, and, honestly, how can he say that?

How can he say he hasn't moved on from a relationship that's ended five years ago? How can he say that you're still the only that can get his heart beating faster every time you look at him? How can he say that after everything you've said to him that night, he can still feel like you're the only one for him?

He knows he needs to talk about it. Maybe with a professional, like the boys have hinted at many times. He just feels like if he gets rid of these feelings, if he finally moves on, he'll be losing that last piece of you. That last piece of how you were together, despite the bad times and the fights. And he's not ready for that.

Pulling the car in drive again, he sighs out loud before starting to drive. He's headed to Emery's place. Earlier in the day, she had invited him for dinner, and he had said yes. Right now, he doesn't really feel like it, but he also doesn't feel like cancelling last minute. So he just drives.

When he arrives, Noah turns off his car and hops off, making his way to her front door and ringing the doorbell. When she opens the door, she's wearing this cute apron, and she greets him with a smile on her face and a peck on the lips, ushering him in.

The first thing Noah notices is the smell permeating the house, and his stomach grumbles almost instantly.

"What are you making?", he asks, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down, as he watches Emery carry on what she was doing before he arrived.

"I'm just putting together a lasagna. You like that, right?", she asks, and he could've sworn he froze right there. Before she could catch him though, he schooled his features and told her that yes, he does like lasagna.

The dish just happened to be your specialty, though. Making lasagna used to be your favorite thing to do in the kitchen, and the preparation could take days, since you insisted to make the lasagna sheets from scratch, instead of those you buy at the store and just boil.

Needless to say, it was Noah's favorite dish of yours. Nothing could ever compare to it, and every time there was a get together, the boys always requested you made it, and you always said yes, with the biggest smile on your face.

For a second, Noah wondered if this would ever stop. Would there be a day when he wouldn't compare everything to how things were before? Would you ever stop permeating his every interation? Would there be a day when he wouldn't remember you when something like this happens? If yes, then how long more would he have to wait?

They sit down on the couch and talk, as a movie is playing in the background, and they're waiting for the dish to cool down a bit, since it was just pulled out of the oven.

"How are the preparations for the concert on Friday?", Emery asks. Noah takes a gulp of the beer she offered him.

"It's going well. There's only so much we can prepare for, you know?", he answers. One of the things they bonded over when they met was music, and since Emery also had her own band, she could understand a few things Noah went through with his.

"Yeah, I know", she agrees. "Some stuff are still gonna go wrong, anyways"

Noah thought this was a good time as any to tell her you were attending the concert. He didn't talk about you often when he's with her, and whenever he did, he could notice the girl grow a but uneasy at the topic of conversation.

Part of him wanted to tell her to not worry about it, that you've been split up for five years, and there was no way you would get back together. But the other part of him couldn't lie. If the opportunity ever presented itself, if you could ever talk about things and make the wrongs rights. If in some magic land you decided to try again, he would take that opportunity and never look back.

"By the way, I wanted to tell you something. Just so you're ready for it", he started, and she nodded for him to keep going. "Y/N is going to be there to accompany Ezra. Lana is the one who's usually with him, but since she's sick this time, his mom has to go"

As per usual, at the mention of your name, her smile falters a little and he can see her trying to conceal it.

"Oh, ok", she answers shortly, and he can see her struggling with her words.

"She wanted me to tell you, so things aren't awkward", Noah explained it further, not really knowing why. You're the mother of his kid, he doesn't really have to explain himself when it comes to this.

"You talk to her a lot?", she asks, changing the subject completely. Noah has caught her asking these questions lately, and he's been usually good at answering - or dodging - them. This time though, after everything that's happened today, he doesn't really have the emotional intelligence to answer her without letting some annoyance slip into his voice.

"Of course I do. We have a kid together", he tells her, not leaving much room for debate.

"I know that. I was just wondering if that would ever be a problem in the future, for us", he says, and Noah has to do some mental gymnastics to understand what the hell she is on about. When he doesn't say anything, she keeps going.

"Are you going to introduce me as your girlfriend?"

"She already knows about us"

Noah wanted to tell her that no, he's not introducing her as his girlfriend, because that's not what she is, but decided that's an argument he didn't want to have tonight.

"What about other people?", she asks again, and Noah gets frustrated with her questions.

"If you want to ask me something, just do it. You don't have to dance around the subject", he is upfront with her.

"When are you going to tell your son we're dating?", Emery asks, and for a second, Noah regrets asking for honesty. He rubs his forehead and sighs. Now he remembers more than ever why he's been avoiding relationships all this time.

"For him, you're my friend. And that's it", Noah answers with full honesty. That's one subject he is set on making it clear with Emery. He doesn't play about his son, and he needs her to know that. He's not ready for this, and if she can't understand that, then too bad for her.

"I feel like that's all I am to you as well", she says and he wants to bolt out of this house and end this conversation.

"Listen, Emery. This is what I can give you right now, ok? I told you from the beginning that I have a kid, and that things were going to be very different. You said that was ok, and now you want me to tell my son that we're together? It really doesn't work like that", Noah is losing his patience, and she could tell.

"If this is going nowhere, I just want you to be honest with me about it, because I won't play second to a woman who has been out of your life for five years", Emery says, getting up to set the table.

Suddenly, Noah feels suffocated in this house. He is dreading having to sit at the table with her and eat, pretending that this is ok. It is not ok, and he wantes to scream in her face to never talk about you like that ever again. That she couldn't understand, not in a million years, what you meant to him. She couldn't understand how you made him the happiest man alive. How you gave him the best thing that has ever happened to him. His son.

Instead, he gets up, mutters an "I can't do this", and leaves through the front door.

You're doing your makeup in the bathroom when Ezra comes in, calling out for you.

"Mom, look at my clothes", he stands there, and you turn around to take a look at him. A smile immediately taking over your face.

"You look great, buddy", you compliment him, eyes going up and down his small - but ever growing - frame. "Is that a new shirt?", you ask him, since you don't remember him having this Bad Omens shirt in his closet the last time you checked. You always had to keep an eye on him, especially after he started putting together his own outfits. You never knew what combination could come out of that closet.

"Yes, it is! Uncle Davis gave me one, and he said it's not even released yet, and I'm the only one who has it", his smile is even bigger now, his energy almost overflowing. Something Noah was adamant on doing, ever since having a kid, was create a Bad Omens merch line for kids. It was a total succes and has been for a few years now. Ezra even modeled a few times.

"Well, that sure is nice", you tell him, turning around and going back to your makeup. "I think you're missing something, though", you observe, and you see the lightbulb going off in his head, as he bolts out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom.

A few seconds later, he's back, tugging his fake tattoo sleeves up his arms.

"Thanks for reminding me, mom", he tells you, and you let out a genuine laugh at the way he's so relieved you remembered.

You loved those damn fake tattoo sleeves he always wears so much. It started off with him wanting to look just like Noah. But then, as you went back to working in the studio, he realized both of his parents were tattoo enthusiasts, and the habit had a whole new meaning for him.

You knew Noah would lose it when he sees him wearing them, despite seeing it a hundred times before, it never really gets old.

"I'm just finishing here. Why don't you wait for me on the couch?", you instruct and watch him leave once again.

You take a look at the clock and see that you still have a few minutes until you have to leave the house. You opted for an all-black outfit, with the intent to blend in as much as you could. You actually thought about the possibility of wearing one of your old merch shirts, but ultimately decided against it.

Last night, when you were overthinking and debating on whether to cancel this last minute or not, you found yourself on Instagram. One thing led to another and suddenly, you were deep in Emery's profile.

You couldn't help but notice how gorgeous she was, and how much she fit in with Noah's lifestyle. Probably in a way you never could.

They probably bonded over so many things. Music, tours, albums, production. All of the things Noah came home trying to explain to you after a stressful day in the studio, but noticed you couldn't really grasp the idea of everything they did in there.

Their conversations probably flowed way easier too. She probably helped him during studio sessions, and he probably did the same. Hell, you wouldn't even be surprised of they collabed together.

Before you could go into a way deeper spiral of comparison, you looked in the mirror and decided it was enough effort for today. You were probably wearing the most amount of makeup you've worn in weeks, and that in itself was enough for you. Who were you trying to impress anyway?

Grabbing your purse from the couch, you put on your sneakers, turn off all the lights, and go around the house cheking one more time if everything is locked as it is supposed to be.

Calling out to Ezra, you grab you car keys, but before you could even do anything, the kid has already opened the front door, and is eagerly waiting for you to unlok the car. Once you did, he hopped in the back and strapped himself in.

Being Noah's son, Ezra didn't even need a booster seat around this age anymore, and you were 100% sure he would grow to be as tall, if not even taller, than his dad.

"Let's go, buddy", you tell him, getting in yourself and turning on the car.

"Mom, I'm so happy you're coming tonight. You're going to love it!", you looked in the rearview mirror and saw his smile, and for that moment, you weren't even conflicted about going anymore.

You had texted Noah about thirty minutes ago, telling him that you and Ezra were on your way. He was waiting in the bus area, since that's where he told you to park.

Meanwhile, Noah thought about how Emery was inside. They haven't really spoken after their argument a few days ago. But tonight, she did tell him she wanted to talk after the concert is over. Noah has decided he was going to "break up" with her, even though they weren't together officially in the first place.

Now, he needed to focus on you and Ezra. And if things went well tonight, maybe you'd let him take you guys to dinner after the concert. He was holding his hopes high.

After a couple of minutes, he sees your car parking not too far from where he's standing. The headlights turn off and you step out along with Ezra, who immediately runs to his father.

"Dad! Look at my new merch", he says, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, showing it off. Noah couldn't help but chuckle at the way he never lets go of the fake tattoo sleeves. They're even a little ripped in places, he's even offered to buy him a new one, but he refuses every time.

"You look awesome, buddy", Noah envelops his son in a hug, lifting him off his feet a little. "You ready to rock tonight?", he asks and his kid answers with a very enthusiastic yes.

"I'm sorry it took me a while, there was a little bit of traffic", you tell him, and he can't help but observe how you look tonight. He never fails to get startruck by your beauty.

"It's ok. We should be heading in", he leads you both inside the venue, through the halls and finally, you step inside the green room.

"You guys can stay in here. There's water and catering outside if you need anything", he tells you.

"I know how it works, don't worry about us. Soon, this little one here will want to walk around and explore the place, right?", you ruffle Ezra's head and he agrees with you. The kid can never stay in one place for too long.

"There's security outside if you need anything. I'll have to get ready since the concert is starting soon", you nod in acknowledgement, reassuring Noah that, once again, everything is going to be ok.

He leaves to get ready and in about fifteen minutes, you and Ezra are walking around the halls backstage. You see and talk to people you haven't seen in years, but they look well acquainted with your son, and you feel happy to see him fitting in Noah's life so seamlessly.

Soon enough, you're standing beside Ezra on side stage, the concert about to start shortly.

"I'm gonna grab us some water bottles, ok?", you tell him, signaling for a security guard to keep an eye on him, and he answers you with a smile that tells you that he's used to keeping an eye on the kid when he's watching the concert.

Back in the green room, you go through some notifications on your phone before grabbing the water bottles, knowing you won't have time to do it while the concert is happening.

You're standing there when you hear the door open behind you, and you're ready to tell Ezra he could've stayed where he was, before the words die on your lips when you're met with Emery.

Your mind had kind of scraped her from your thoughts since arriving. You hadn't seen her yet and you actually thought she might not be attending.

"Oh, hi", she greets, and you can clock the fake tone of her voice the minute she speaks. "I think I have the wrong room", she says, but makes no move to get out.

"Can I help you with something?", you ask her, and you can tell that she knows who you are. Suddenly, it doesn't really look like she got in here by mistake.

"I was just looking for some water"

"There are some in here, you can grab one if you want", you tell her, pointing to the mini fridge.

She makes her way over, opening it and grabbing a water bottle. Popping the cap, she takes a few gulps while you watch her.

"I think Noah has mentioned you before", she wonders out loud. "What's your name again?", she asks.

You know what she's doing, and you're 100% sure Noah has mentioned you before and that she knows your name.

"I'm Y/N", you tell her, not bothering to shake hands or anything.

"Oh, you're the ex-wife!", she exclaims, as if she's making a huge point by saying this.

"That's me", you don't bother to hide your annoyance with her. You knew she came in here with the intent to have this conversation, and to probably rile you up and make you feel some kind of jealousy of her relationship.

"So, you're the reason why Noah can't commit to anyone anymore, huh?", she points out and you have to do a double take to make sure you heard her right.

"Excuse me?", you question.

"Yeah, you heard me. Five years later and he still can't get you out of his head"

"Listen, my son is waiting for me, and the concert is about to start. Besides, I really don't want to be having this conversation", you tell her, turning on your back. You really needed to tell Noah his taste in girls has declined drastically over the years.

"You're the reason why he hasn't asked me to be his girlfriend", she half yells after you.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're not gonna raise your voice at me", you throw back at her.

"Oh, you wanna act so high and mighty as if you haven't ruined Noah's life"

"You know nothing about me, and you know nothing about our relationship. So, I suggest you get you act right before I call security on you", you warn her, and you see her opening her mouth to retort when a voice speaks from the door.

"What the fuck is happening in here?", Noah's standing there, looking between the two of you, before his eyes settle on Emery.

"She was screaming at me, and threatening to call security on me. Can you believer her, Noah?", Emery says, voice calm this time. You sigh out loud at her fakeness.

"She won't have to, I am doing it myself", Noah tells her, and her face falls at his words. In seconds, there is a burly security guard scorting Emery out of the premises, as she's still throwing false accusations at you.

Once she's gone, and you and Noah are alone in the green room, a heavy silence settles over the two of you.

"That's your girlfriend?", you ask him, a hint of teasing in your voice. He only shakes his head.

"I can't explaing everything right now, because if I do, I'll be late to go on stage. But I'd really to talk to you when the concert is over. Is that ok?", he asks.

"Yeah, of course. We'll need to talk about this regardless", you agree with him.

Not too long after, you're back beside Ezra and the concert has started. To say you're focused would be a lie. You're not really absorbing anything that is happening before you. You can feel Ezra's presence beside you, absolutely rocking his little heart out. But you can't help but replay the conversation from earlier.

When Matt let it slip that Noah was dating someone else, you thought that Noah and this girl were official. And now you meet her, and she's blaming you because Noah doesn't want to commit? Why didn't he make it clear to you that they were not actually dating? You actually feel a little like a fool. For texting him about it, for questioning if he pretended to introduce her to Ezra, while they weren't even together.

You zone out for a little longer, until the music goes quiet and Noah is talking to the crowd.

"This is somewhat of a new version of a song you guys already know", he says, grabbing an acoustic guitar one of the techs hand out to him. Making his way back to the mic stand, his eyes meet yours for a second, before he's focused back on the crowd.

"You all will be the first crowd to hear the acoustic version of Just Pretend", he announces, and for a second, the noise from the crowd is so defeaning, you can't even hear the first couple of strums on the guitar.

After a few seconds, the whole crowd is holding up their flashlights, and Noah starts singing.

I'm not afraid

Of the war you've come to wage against my sins

I'm not okay

But I can try my best to just pretend

You've heard this song before. Of course you have. Especially after all of the discourse on social media saying he wrote it about your relationship. In one interview though, he did say it was just to show how easy you can make a radio hit. You decided to run with that excuse as well. It was easiar to cope with the words he wrote, and is now singing in front of you.

I can wait for you at the bottom

I can stay away if you want me to

I can wait for years if I gotta

Heaven knows I ain't getting over you

You couldn't help but connect the words to what Emery told you earlier. You always thought Noah would have an easier time moving on than you. He was always on the road, he had things to distract his mind. He had girls waiting for him at every tour stop. Now, as you look at him, with his eyes closed and so focused on every word from the song, you wonder if he really hasn't gotten over you.

We'll try again

When we're not so different

We will make amends

till then I'll just pretend

You're standing still, not able to take your eyes away from him, when his head slightly turns to the side, and he looks at you. The eyes you used to love so much, now looking at you with so much sincerity and longing, you were sure you could dissolve right then and there. You were always able to communicate with him through looks, with his eyes being so expressive, there were many times when he didn't even have to tell you what he was thinking for you to figure it out.

Now, you realize that ability never really went away. Because you saw begging in his eyes. You saw the tool that being away from you has taken on him.

Weigh down on me, stay till morning

Way down, would you say I'm worthy?

Weigh down on me, stay till morning

Way down, would you say I'm worthy?

He finishes the song, and before you know it, you're wiping tears from your eyes. It feels like the night has taken a turn, and you're not sure if you want to face what comes next, but, for the first time in a while, you feel like things could be ok again.

You're waiting for Noah in the green room you were in before. You were sat on the couch, fingers unable to stay still, as you pick on your nails, your cuticles, anything to distract your mind and quiet your anxiety for a few seconds.

Ezra is off helping Matt pack up his things, and you just know it's going to take a while, from what you can remember, especially with how meticulous Matt is with his equipment.

The door opens, momentarily letting in the noise from outside, and you turn your head to look at Noah. His hair is wet, and a few strands are clinging to his forehead.

You remember well how it was when he finished concerts, especially when you guys were younger, and couldn't keep your hands off of each other. You always thought he looked his best a little out of breath, voice a little hoarse from singing. Apparently, that hasn't changed.

"I'm sorry for what happened earlier", he started, leaning on the table set on the corner of the room, leaving a little space between you.

"You don't have to apologize for her actions. I just want to know why you didn't tell me you weren't really dating her", you question him, and he lowers his head. You could tell he was bracing himself and trying to be vulnerable to the best of his abilities.

"We started hanging out, and I guess everyone just assumed we were together. I never really asked her to be my girlfriend", he started. You didn't say anything, deciding to wait for him to gather his thoughts. "I haven't dated anyone since the divorce".

The admission shocks you a little bit. You were 100% sure there have been other people since you.

"Why not?", you ask, voice a little hesitant and quiet.

"Isn't it obvious? I mean, she told you why"

"I wanna hear you say it"

"You wanna hear me say that I haven't been able to get over you in the five years we've been divorced? You wanna hear me say that I blame myself for that goddamn divorce every fucking day of my life? Because that's how I feel"

"I don't blame you for the divorce", you tell him, and you really don't. Over the years, you were able to realize if it hadn't happened then, it would've happened later on anyway.

"I blame myself because I should've tried harder. I should've tried harder to make you stay. I should've told you everything that was going on. But no, I just signed the papers like a damn fool"

"What do you mean tell me everything that was going on?", you question him, that part of his speech cathing your attention.

"We were under so much pressure from the label. I asked them to make the tours shorter, so I could spend more time with you and Ezra, that was only just a baby back then. They basically told me that if I wasn't willing to put in the work, we could find another label to release our album", he told you.

This was new information for you, you never knew that Noah talked to the label, and that they denied his requests.

"How could I do that? If I was a solo artist, I would've let them drop me in the blink of an eye so I could be with you two. But I had the guys to think about. So many other people were waiting on the success of the album. And once it was out, everything just got worse. They were scheduling tours after tours, and we couldn't say no, because we had a contract signed"

You didn't know what to say. You had your forehead pressed to your palms. All this new information making your head spin.

"Why didn't you tell me?", you raise your head and look him in the eye. "This is the kind of shit that you tell your wife", you were growing frustrated over the fact that he didn't communicate with you back then.

"I was afraid I would push you away. I was afraid you'd realize this isn't the kind of life you wanted and you'd leave me eventually. Look where that fucking got me, huh?", he motions around him, hands falling on his sides in frustration and resignation.

"I thought you weren't trying. I felt so alone because I thought you weren't putting in the effort because you thought the road was so much more interesting than staying at home, taking care of a baby and cleaning up spit and changing diapers", you get up from the couch, your own frustration showing. "You should've fucking talked to me", you say, once again, as you get closer to him.

"Everything I've ever wanted was to stay at home, taking care of my baby, cleaning spit and changing diapers", he tells you and your eyes start to water from the intensity of the moment.

You don't know what to do with yourself right now. You were angry at him for not saying anything earlier. You were angry at yourself because you just assumed the worst from him.

"I don't know what to do", you confess to him.

"I don't know either", he confesses back to you.

In the second you lock eyes, all of the emotions spill over. You take a step closer and crash into his arms. He envelops his arms around you in an instant, holding you firm and sure as you cry in his chest.

You don't know why you're crying so much. You think it's because you finally get to feel him again after so long without his touch. Maybe because right now, in his arms, things feel like they felt almost ten years ago, and he was your safe haven. He was the one who could make all of the sadness and pain go away. He was the one who could shut your mind off and make you focus only on him.

"Shh, I'm here, ok?", he reassures you, running his fringers through your hair.

"I'm so sorry", you're sobbing as you part from him and look him in the eyes. "I'm so sorry. I feel like I ruined everything".

"You haven't ruined anything", he told you, grasping your face in his hands, and you lean on his touch. "I would never make you stay in a relationship when you didn't feel happy. Your feelings were valid and you made the decision you thought was right", he caressed your cheeks with his thumb, wiping away a few tears that still slipped from your eyes.

"You deserve so much more than what I gave you. You deserve someone who can see you as the amazing person that you are. You deserve....", he shuts off your rambling by pressing his lips on yours. You're stunned, and you don't move for a second. After realizing what is happening, and you register his warm lips on yours, just like they felt so long ago, you completely relax. He doesn't move, doesn't deepen the kiss. You just stay there for a second, feeling each other. And it feels so perfect, that you want to cry all over again.

"I had to stop you there. You weren't making much sense, to be honest", he tells you, parting from your lips, but keeping close.

"I'm sorry", you say, once again. And he nods, telling you that he knows.

You stay wrapped in his arms for a while longer, resting your head on his chest, and Noah revels in the feeling of you against him. He feels like he can finally breath easier for the first time in years.

"The boys and I are leaving Sumerian", he tells you, and you part from him to look him in the face.

"Really?", you ask and he nods. "Why?"

"Our contract is up and we're not re-signing", he explains, like it's the most logical thing ever.

"What label are you signing with?"

"Our own", he says, and you have a puzzled look on your face.

"Your own?"

"The boys and I are opening an independent label"

Your mouth hangs open in shock, and you feel happy for all of them. This is something they've wanted for such a long time now.

"This is so great, Noah", you tell him and he smiles at you.

"Now, we won't have that pressure anymore. Everythig becomes a little easier and we're able to control our schedule much better", he explains, and you know where he's getting at. A flutter of happiness takes over you. You were going to be ok.

"I was thinking that we could go have dinner after everything's packed up. You, Ezra and I", you tell him, deciding to start with baby steps first.

"It's like you read my mind", Noah grasps your face once again, placing his lips on yours for the second time tonight, and this time, you circle your arms around his neck.

You want to stay here forever, and now, you felt like you could.

Tag list: @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @bloody-spades @mysterygirl-srl @lacy1986 @dream-machine-love @theanarchymuse95 @missduffsblog @xmads-omensx @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @w0manof-flesh44 @chey-h @pipidoll @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @kissestomyomens @hedonist-k1l @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @daemontargaryenwife @h0riz0nsiren @astronoids @flowery-mess @renegadebirch

If you haven't been tagged, it's because your blog doesn't mention your age, or it is empty!

[fefispider]

— ִ ࣪𖤐 you and felix broke up and the members send you texts.

part 2/2

- part one is here :)

જ⁀➴ contains: narration, lil bit of angst, fluff, gn reader ! it's really short but I hope you enjoy it!

୨୧ Han

୨୧ I.N

★ your POV

Minho got in touch with the other boys and some of them ended up coming to your apartment to spend the day with you. Chan and Changbin's offer to be a shoulder for you to cry on, along with Minho's insistence into talking better with you about your relationship and Han's suggestion to have some beer all came in handy when you opened that door and let them all in as the clock hit mid-day. Your Saturday wouldn't be so sorrowful anymore, or so you thought.

Of course you were all a mess as the night settled in, everyone lamenting past relationships and you, specially, sharing your recent experience about breaking up with someone you considered to be the love of your life. Minho made you drink water while Chan hugged you, your sad sobs now the only sound that could be heard since no one really knew what to say - and Han was practically dead on the rug, sleeping like a baby.

You didn't really know who opened the door for Hyunjin, but there he was, brows furrowed and eyes fixed on your figure; he hated it so much because he knew Felix was suffering too, and Felix was his favorite person. If Felix was suffering, and the person he loved was too, it meant the universe weren't being too kind.

"I got a day off." Hyunjin announced after you were calmer and listening, Han still asleep.

"What do you mean?" Chan questioned, not really following as it came out of the blue.

"For Felix. And ended up taking that day for the rest of us too."

"Oh." You muttered, remembering his texts. "That arrangement."

"So this is for you." Minho immediately understood, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

"Didn't really want it." You hugged your legs, feeling vulnerable while everyone looked at you and pitied you.

"Hyunjin must've promised something." Changbin narrowed.

"He said he will teach me pottery." You looked at him with narrowed eyes as well.

"Tsk. I'll believe it when I see it." Minho snickered.

"Yah! I didn't teach them yet because I didn't get enough time. Clay takes patience!" He defended himself. "Anyway, meet him on Tuesday, you can use my dorm. Since I know Felix won't agree to meet up with you, I'll set him up."

"Woah." Chan laughed a bit.

"Of course he would meet up!" Changbin was confused.

"No, he's too scared of rejection." Chan added.

"Exactly." Hyunjin agreed. Minho was still comforting you as he held your hand.

"I don't know about this..." You murmured.

"You have to try. Don't you still love him?" Minho tried.

"I do but-"

"You already have your answer."

You were so damn nervous you took longer than usual to get ready, messing with your eyeliner thrice because you couldn't keep a steady hand.

Finally, there you were, pacing around Hyunjin's living room after he literally vanished into his painting studio and left you alone, waiting for your ex. You knew there was so much to say, so many unspoken feelings and miscomprehension between you and the freckled man. But your heart still swelled for him, still repeated his name when the night came in and you held your head against the pillow, unable to close your eyes.

The soft click of the door made you freeze for a second, looking behind you and locking eyes with the guy in your thoughts, his brown eyes wide and startled.

"Y/n?"

"Felix."

Silence. He stared at you for a few instants before turning on his heels and holding the doorknob to leave.

"Don't! I'm here to talk..." You hurried.

"It's okay, I didn't know you'd be here." He opened the door, the familiar aussie accent you didn't realize you already missed was there.

"We set you up! I'm here to talk to you."

"What?" He looked at you again, his bleached hair falling a bit over his eyes.

"Can you... Can we just have a conversation this time?"

"So you wanna explain now?" He tried to sound mad, but there was just that broken tone that showed off how hurt he was.

"I do." You firmly said.

It was enough to make him close the door, squeeze his eyes for a moment and slowly move to sit down on the couch. He didn't say anything, but he looked at you to show he was listening. He wouldn't speak before listening.

You couldn't sit, your mind in a restless state.

"So... I don't know how to begin." You sighed. "I want to say sorry for not really explaining things properly, it's just that you never have enough time and I was afraid to mess with your schedule-"

"I know." His deep voice cut you off. "I'm sorry too. It's my fault."

"it's not." You retorted. "Let me speak..."

"Sorry."

"It's just that... I think there are so many reasons! Gosh, it's much to just say it all at once and get the words out. But I think my insecurities got in the way? Mixed with yours? Like, I'm always so afraid of disturbing you somehow, you're always so busy! My regular job is tiring and all but it doesn't compare to having to keep appearances all the time, we weren't even public to begin with..." You tried to conceal everything, make it all make sense, and you had a feeling Felix was not only hearing you but also understanding when you started. "And you've been different too. Not just loving me and texting me when you're away, not just being you. Felix, I get it you can't always be physically with me. I get it you have to travel all the fucking time and that we will be apart longer than normal couples do... It doesn't mean you have to give me gifts every single time you come back. These expensive things you give me, they don't make up for away time."

He widened his eyes a bit, finally realizing something he never considered.

"Is that why you don't use most of them?" He whispered. "You don't like them cause they're expensive?"

"What? No! It's not that I don't like them. I don't need them. I need you. Only you." You sighed again, he wasn't getting the point. "I date you because you're you, Lix. Fuck gifts and objects, I can't even find use for all of them to be honest."

"Oh... I think I understand now."

"You do?"

"I guess?" He gives you a forced smile.

"I just don't think they're necessary if there's no special occasion. I pretty much prefer to receive good morning and good night texts from you other than getting these boxes delivered to my place with gifts all the time." You finally sat down too, next to him but not touching. "I want our relationship to feel natural again. Just normal, you know?"

"I'm sorry..." He looked away, ashamed.

"Stop saying that."

"But I am. It's the first time I got serious with someone, you know that... So I thought you'd like to get these gifts regularly because it would mean I always remember you." He looked down, you hated yourself for not being so open before.

"It's my fault too."

"it's not. I could've asked and-"

"No! If I just said I didn't like to get all that stuff it could've avoided a break up."

"Or we would've fought because I wouldn't be able to have a proper conversation with you due to my short free time." He lifted an eyebrow. He was right.

"Yeah, that could happen too..." You nodded. "Thing is, I appreciate your texts so much more. I feel you remember me when you send me random voice memos or texts whenever you have time, even if briefly. I know how hectic your days are, specially lately on tour."

He looked at you with pitiful eyes, he was in a mix of sadness and unbelief.

"You're telling me we broke up over this?" He was so mad at himself. "If I made time for you earlier..."

"Felix! Please, don't blame yourself for everything. We needed this."

"We did?" He sighed.

You looked at him with a little smile, your heart so heavy with emotions you realized you had for him in the last days.

"It made me notice just how much you're special to me. Not just because you're my boyfriend. I was worried sick about you, knowing you weren't well and that I was the cause. Knowing I could've used the few days of rest you had after returning to cuddle with you and be with you... But no. I was so convinced I wanted to break up I only noticed it was the worse I could do after I had done it. So it made me realize I was wrong, you see?"

"I see. It was necessary for us to sit down and finally talk too, right?" He showed a soft smile, enough to melt you. "I was feeling like shit, I swear. Like someone physically grabbed my heart and tore it apart. I thought you would never come back to me because you sounded so convicted when you asked for the break up."

He was so sensitive, so honest. You instinctively reached for his face, hand gently cupping his cheek and your thumb running over his freckles.

"I'm sorry for breaking up. I want to keep being yours."

"Mine?" He whispered so breathlessly. "You never said that before."

"Fuck." You giggled a bit, looking away for a second. "Guess I didn't realize how much you're actually who I want to be with forever."

"Oh my God, why are you being so-" He didn't know how to finish, so he just closed the gap between you and pampered your whole face with kisses, cupping your cheeks all the while. "You're mine? You're mine again?"

"Completely yours! But are you mine too?" You narrowed playfully.

"I didn't stop being yours for a second."

And it was enough for you to kiss him bravely, savoring the taste of his mint tongue like you didn't have it for months, slow and tender while you caressed his cheekbones and guided his head to turn however you liked. It felt like the first kiss you gave a few years back, a kiss with affection, care and rediscovered feelings.

How silly of you to have broken up with the one you could never stop loving.

[ooooo-mcyt]

Somewhat of a continuation to my post on manipulative characters in the life series:

I think we need to remember that "manipulation" is not a single monolithic act and that there are a hundred different ways for someone to be "manipulative" that are not all created equally and do not all map onto each other. Like, someone can be good at mostly benignly influencing how they're perceived, or they can be good at selling things and scamming, or they can be good at turning people against each other, or they can be good at lying to/using and then betraying teammates, and those are all 'manipulative' in some way, but a player being good at or willing to do one of those things doesn't mean that applies to the others?

Scott is good at making people like him and keeping his emotions under wrap to a degree that he can control how he's perceived by others, which is 'manipulative' in a way, he's good at manipulating broad and impersonal (or antagonistic) social settings to benefit him, but you'll rarely see him do the kind of manipulation that involves scamming people, and he would literally never hurt or betray his team, nor is he in the habit of trying to personally control his teammates in a manipulative way.

Gem is good at turning people against each other, making people like her and then pointing one person one direction and one person the other in a way that benefits her team, but she also isn't a scammer, or, importantly, a traitor, and has proven she'll stay with her team even when given the option to choose a bigger team over them. As willing as Gem is to twist narratives, usually she doesn't lie to her teammates or even consider leaving them.

Scar is our big scammer, his big talent comes in with making deals, his ability to utilize a combination of genuine persuasion and his littleguy persona to make people buy literally anything he sells. He's also fairly good at 'misinterpreting' instructions in a way that happen to benefit him and only him. That being said, he's not really a traitor (other than briefly in third life). While Scar can be isolationist and impersonal, he tends to hold onto the teams he does have and won't backstab them.

Martyn is our big traitor, he's earned a reputation at this point for his willingness to flip on a dime if a teammate isn't useful anymore, he very much is the type to stay with someone only so long as it's good for him. He's maybe the first one I'd say is probably willing and able to do all kinds of manipulation as well to be honest, though I think disloyalty within teams is the biggest one for him.

Etho's also good at pretty much every form of manipulation, which does go understated. He'll use the "I'm so pathetic and scared of you :(" shtick to control how people perceive him, he doesn't often 'betray' teams outright but he does always seem to have his foot in at least two (if not more) teams so he has options, and he's scarily good at using the "I'm so pathetic" thing specifically to lure people into traps (the time etho went "waiittt joel i'm scarreedd, joel lets teamm, i need youu :((((" in secret life to manipulate joel into being an easier kill for the boogeyman army was wild).

Ren is good at twisting narratives, and specifically tends to do in the context of making sure he's always viewed as the good guy (even when this means actually literally lying. i know i always use this example. but the time ren suggested unprompted to grian that they attack the g's. and then formed an army against grian the next episode because he "made" ren kill impulse. was wild). But that's, like, the extent of his manipulation. Ren will manipulate narratives and even lie outright to avoid facing his own capacity for harm but other than that he's pretty loyal and honest.

Like I'm just saying that the word "manipulation" covers a super wide range of behaviors, some mostly benign and some very much not, and I feel like sometimes we start assuming someone who is capable of 'manipulating' in one way is automatically willing and able to be manipulative in every conceivable way even when they very obviously don't do that, or, on the opposite side of things, assume that just because someone is honest in some ways means they can't be manipulative in others. Just because Scott can make people like him doesn't mean he's using and trying to control and hurt his teammates, and on the other hand, just because Ren is very loyal and usually honest doesn't mean he's incapable of lying or twisting narratives when he really feels the need to. Idk.

[tsukii0002]

Mephistopheles ran after the young prince. They had been playmates since ever, it was up to him to accompany his young lord in any game he wanted. And as such, that day they were running through the forest in search of treasure.

Diavolo had told him the story of a monster guarding a treasure in that forest. So, against Mephisto's advice, they had escaped from his guards to go to said forest.

After hours of wandering without finding anything, an unfamiliar sound made the two young boys alert. Nothing was in sight, but that didn't stop a huge beast they had never seen before from blocking the path back.

They stood alert but the creature was faster, the young prince tried to stand up to it but, again, the creature was stronger. It was a blink of an eye, a sigh, Mephisto's body acted before his mind, and to protect his master he received the bite of the beast for him.

Mephistopheles felt a twinge in his leg that quickly turned into a sharp, excruciating pain. The boy could barely stand up and could hardly stay conscious. Diavolo at his side was screaming his name. He had failed to protect his master... and then everything went black.

When he awoke, he was still in pain, but it was bearable. He could hear adult voices outside the bedroom, so it took him a while to realize that the prince was sitting next to him, with tear-filled eyes and a face that showed he hadn't slept for days. In his hands he was holding an object Mephisto could not identify.

“The doctors have said that your leg will not work well for a while” he looked full of guilt, Mephisto watched him silently, “So I brought you this” the unidentified object was a cane, finely carved, with a black ivory grip. “It is for me?” the prince nodded and held it out to him. Mephisto looked at the object in fascination “Thank you very much my lord”. His friend, his master, could not stand it anymore and started to cry “I am so sorry Mephisto, I am sorry…” He did not understand why he was apologizing, he had fulfilled his duty, the reason why he was born, he wanted to tell him, that he would sacrifice his life for him as many times as necessary. “You are my best friend Mephisto, I couldn't stand not having you by my side… so please don't do it again”

Mephisto finished putting on his boots while looking at the cane in a corner of his bedroom. That had happened so long ago that he sometimes wondered if it had been nothing more than a dream. It no longer meant anything, and the words of Lord Diavolo had been diluted in time, that cane had only been an atonement for the guilt, but he could not stop carrying it, it was as normal as wearing shoes, it was part of his image, it was part of him.

He finished putting on his coat, picked up his cane, a recently made one, and headed for the RAD. There, Diavolo greeted him, as usual, before heading to the Student council room. He clenched his fist around the object, he didn't know why he cared, but it was clear that Lord Diavolo didn't remember it. And that meant no more, nothing more than a “badge” of his noble origin, an accessory that so many other nobles wore.

.

.

Could Mephisto's cane really be just a fashion choice? of course, surely. That the possibility of it being something else has so many potential angst that I have given it a thousand thoughts to find a reason for the damn cane? effectively 😂

Thank you for reading 🩷

.

.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for sakoku_decree behind the cut; “project sidekick”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“She’s his niece,” Superboy says while still trying not to grimace at the word “replace”, considering . . . literally everything about the past three months, yeah. “Uh–they’re both nieces. Miss Martian is Martian Manhunter’s and Artemis is–uh. Yeah.” 

“So we’re just letting in just anybody’s frickin’ nieces now?!” Kid Flash demands, waving his arms in the air and actually looking more upset about this than he did when Superboy walked into the room after fucking up pretty much his entire life in one night. “That’s all you gotta do to score a sidekick gig these days, you just gotta be a nepo baby?!” 

“That’s how you got one, isn’t–?” Superboy starts to ask skeptically, the question more reflex than anything else, but then Kid Flash stiffens and Robin and Aqualad both flick their eyes towards him at the exact same time and–right. That’s . . . not something he’s supposed to know anymore. 

Wasn’t ever something he was supposed to know, technically. 

“. . . dude,” Kid Flash says after a long moment, his face briefly flickering through multiple complicated-looking expressions like a super-speed slide show before settling on “insulted”. “A) no it is not, I did actual work for this, there was science and shit involved and I literally almost died, and b) what the hell, do you know who we actually are?” 

“Uh . . . mostly, yeah. Yours is the only one who didn’t tell us your name,” Superboy says, glancing at Robin. “But the other two, yeah. I mean–they didn’t know any better.” 

“Frick!” Kid Flash groans, covering his face with his hands and then groaning even louder into them. “That’s so–annoying! That’s super annoying! You swapped out Speedy for somebody’s niece and she knows my name!” 

“I mean–they asked him to join, he just didn’t want to. Artemis wasn’t even around ‘til later,” Superboy says, trying not to grimace again. Artemis is probably going to be annoyed that he didn’t try to figure out a way to maybe not give Kid Flash an immediate bad impression of her, considering he really should’ve remembered why–well, their Kid Flash got an immediate bad impression of her. “But–yeah, we all do.” 

“Frick!” Kid Flash says, throwing his hands up again and then glowering up at the ceiling. “Sure! Why not! This might as well happen!” 

“I mean not gonna lie, sorta proud of clone-me, he’s clearly got his priorities straight,” Robin muses, tapping his cheekbone thoughtfully–tapping it just against the edge of the mask, Superboy can’t help noticing. Like he might be checking it’s still there, again. “You guys, though, maybe you two need some better clones? Loose lips sink ships and all, bros.” 

“My name is a matter of public record, given I became Aqualad in direct service of my king,” Aqualad replies, looking a little wry. “I certainly do not make any secret of it. Nor would a sunken ship be a particular concern for my people, except perhaps as inconvenient litter.” 

“I really feel like you should all be a lot angrier about this,” Superboy says, which is probably a stupid thing to say, but he’s at least gotten pretty familiar with how anger feels. It’s a much safer thing to feel than most of the other things he’s felt, so–yeah, obviously he is. But so far only Kid Flash has even gotten upset, and even he mostly just looks irritated, not actually . . . 

Well. Angry. 

“In general, or at you?” Aqualad asks, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. 

Superboy really does not understand how that’s even a question, even after three months of knowing–“Kaldur”. 

[confusedmothboy]

Pleak,,,, I beg of thee,,,,, soft Jackie and Eddie art,,,, or,,,, if you’re feeling generous,,,, headcanons on Jackie and Eddie’s relationship in an au where Jackie lives,,,, I think they’d be a powerful duo in and out of the wilderness despite their awful parents,,,

theyre such a boyloser girlfailure duo theyre mlm wlw rivals theyre haters theyre so stupid i love them quite a lot

headcanons and writing under the cut

jackie hits eddie a lot. like a lot a lot. usually she just slaps him on the arm or over the back of the head, but the sweet fragile vibe that she has with the rest of the team evaporates whenever eddie acts up (breathes)

eddie hates jeff with a passion because one time jeff tried to mansplain something he learned about world war one (except he stole the information from a movie on world war two and eddie is highly abnormal about history). jackie hates all the girls eddie's dated not because he has bad taste but because even before she knew he was gay, she could tell that he was only dating them for gifts (cigarettes, cassettes, collectibles). jackie is so neutral on travis she had to ask "who" after spending two months out in the wilderness with everybody.

jackie's much closer to their parents than eddie is. ever since he was outed to them in 1993, they refuse to kick him out but also refuse to treat him normally. jackie doesn't know much about what goes on at home because shes usually out at practice, parties, studying, or up in her room with jeff.

eddie kept all the old cassettes that jackie wanted to throw out even though jackie swears up and down that she doesnt listen to "old" artists like madonna anymore (she still sings along when she hears him playing her music)

if jackie were to live (no crash au), eddie's life probably wouldnt go all that different, minus the fact that eddie would be living on the west coast (no fear of planes). one of my friends has an oc that he pairs up with jackie so im sorry jackieshauna truthers but she ends up with him instead. eddie's the uncle with the job you dont understand until youre around 13 or 14 whos always doing something to spoil his nieces/nephews. look at my oc hes lowkey just a chill guy /ref

--- doomcoming (the fun part) drabble ---

“She can’t even fit into her dress.” Jackie muttered under her breath. Eddie looked across the clearing to see Shauna swaying to the acapella music awkwardly. He snorted.

“And whose fault is that?” He mumbled the snide comment, leaning in closer to Jackie so no one could hear them. “Sure as hell isn’t yours that she's trashy. Or that she chose that God-awful dress.” He sipped his berry wine, the taste growing on him.

“Ugh. Don't make me think about it.” Jackie sighed.

“You want me to request a song from the DJs?” Eddie pointed with his pinky over to Crystal, Akilah, Gen, and Melissa, who were all harmonizing Hotel California -by Crystal's instruction- as the others danced. 

“What song?” Jackie asked tiredly. 

“Trust me, its one of your favorites.” Eddie lied. Jackie smiled, allowing it.

Eddie walked over to the choir group, past Javi, who was trying to convince Travis that he should be allowed to drink the berry wine. Travis relented right as Eddie whispered the song name in Crystal’s ear. She nodded and brought the song to an end - there wasn't much in the way of instrumentals and the portion with lyrics had already been sung. Crystal conferred with the rest of the group as Eddie took his place next to Jackie. They started humming the opening to the song, and it took a second for Jackie to realize what Eddie had chosen. She looked up at him. 

“No- no, I’m not doing it.” She couldn't hide the amused grin on her face. 

“See that girl, watch that scene,” 

“You don't have a choice, sorry Jacks, rules are rules.” Eddie shrugged, smiling wide.

“-digging the dancing queen…”

“C’mon, I’ll embarrass myself too.” Eddie pulled her by the hand onto the ‘dance floor’. They had a routine for that song that Eddie knew she still remembered. Jackie stumbled over the first few steps, but eventually started to dance side by side with Eddie, laughing. It was corny, it was dorky, it was evenings after the dust from their arguments would settle, and he and Jackie would watch movies and have dance-offs together. Eddie almost tripped over a branch, and glanced up at Travis, who was smiling at them. 

“Anybody could be that guy…” 

Jackie twirled Eddie around, a move that was clearly intended for a time when Eddie was significantly shorter than her. A few others started joining in. Tai and Van were giggling like crazy as they danced with each other. Mari pulled Akilah from the singer's group for a moment to join her. 

Eddie remembered exactly when they had last danced to that song. He had been about twelve, Jackie fifteen, and it came on the speakers at some family friend’s wedding. He and Jackie had stolen the show, and by that he meant they had danced horribly and everyone had laughed at their performance. That was good. That was the point.

Out of breath, the song winding down, Eddie stumbled out of the dance clearing to sit next to Travis on his log ‘bench’. As the girls started to hum the beginning to Heat Of The Moment, Travis placed a quick peck on Eddie’s cheek. Eddie turned to glance at him, both of their faces red. They weren't exactly trying to hide what was going on anymore, especially not after the celebration that Tai and Van’s kiss had earned. But Eddie still felt giddy at the fact that they didn't have to hide anything. He saw Javi at the other side of the clearing, a cup full of berry wine, looking back and forth at his brother and Eddie, confused, before shrugging and taking a swig. 

“You gonna keep him from a lifetime of alcoholism?” Eddie nudged Travis, who laughed. 

“Ah- who the hell cares anymore?” Travis tilted his head as he watched the rest of the group dance and sing their hearts out. “End of the world, and all.”

--- thank you for reading!!! ---

[leo-artista]

Hey. So. About that frankenstan comic I was making. I may have turned it into a oneshot that I wrote at like 2am. It's not very well written, and it's also pretty short, but I thought it was decent enough that I could post it instead of the comic (that I will not finish because burnout is kicking my ass rn)

So enjoy some of my rare mediocre writing I guess, because I will not be doing this again anytime soon (also constructive criticism is welcome and very appreciated)

Stanley Pines had died.

He couldn't remember exactly how. Every time he tried to piece together the events that transpired, his memories would get further and further repressed into his subconscious until all he was left with were vague feelings and snippets that he couldn't be sure were memories or a dream he had once. Which, frankly, is expected. Why would his brain want to keep that in his head when it would most likely only give him night terrors? Yeah, no thanks. He already has enough of those as is.

Still, part of Stan wished he knew what had happened. He had tried asking Ford, once, about a week after he "woke up". That was a mistake. Ford didn't say anything. He just looked at him with an expression that Stan spent the next few days regretting having put in his brother's face. Afterwards, they hugged for a long time, until Ford quietly spoke against his heart: "You were murdered."

He didn't try asking again.

Sometimes, it kept him awake at night, making him recount every instance in his life where he almost died. Running from the police, freezing inside his car, getting chased by Rico, starving in the streets, chewing his way out of a trunk- there were so many ways he could have kicked the bucket. So many instances where he had thought his luck had finally ran out, and this time he wouldn't make it. In the end, he had been right about one thing- there was no way his life would end peacefully. Dreams of getting rich and growing old were something Stan had given up on long before his time was up. There was no point in seeking that out anymore, no hope of actually living a life. Only surviving.

Until Ford decided to say fuck you to God and bring him back to life, that is.

When his brother told him what had happened, Stan didn't know what to think. Not because of the whole yeah so I'm Victor Frankenstein now I guess deal- honestly, that was the least surprising part of the whole story. If there was anyone on earth who could manage to figure out a way to reverse death- something no human has succeeded at in centuries of existence- it would be Ford. His brother was just cool like that.

He was more surprised at the fact Ford had done it for Stan, of all people. The man who ruined his life. The guy who couldn't leave his childhood dream behind and grow up. The con-man and criminal who never managed to make up for his countless mistakes. The worthless one.

"Why did you do it?" Stan asked one evening. "Bring me back, I mean."

Ford looked at him with a dumbfounded expression. "What?"

Stan shrugged, "Just... seems like way too much effort just to bring someone back, y'know? I'm not sure if I'm worth all of that."

Ford's expression quickly turned sour. "What do you mean by that?"

Stan sighed. "I'm just saying, it would be one thing if I was at the hospital and you came over to help or something. But I was dead, Ford. You can't just come back from that."

Ford's eyebrows scrunched up and his mouth trembled, as if he couldn't decide whether to be angry or upset. "If that was true, you wouldn't be here right now." Instinctively, Ford's hand snatched Stan's wrist, his thumb pressing right above his pulse point. Stan could feel how much that small action calmed him.

He swallowed. "Yeah. Because for some damn reason you thought turning me into fucking Frankenstein was a better idea than just mourning me and moving on with your life."

The hand holding his wrist squeezed harder.

"You act as if it would have been easy." Ford hissed. "Like your death was something trivial, unimportant." He looked into Stan's bleak eyes. "Do you honestly think I would have spent all this time working to get you back if that were the case? What, did you think that- that I wouldn't care?" he said, offended.

"I didn't say that." Stan replied. "I just- fuck, Ford. I thought you hated me for all those years."

Ford looked like he had been slapped.

"But bringing someone back from the dead? Spending months fixing their body- replacing limbs, stiching new skin, getting new organs from God knows where? That ain't something you do for just anyone. And sure as hell not for someone you hate." He released a breath he didn't notice he was holding. "And... I don't know what to do with that."

A long moment passed where neither of them spoke. Then, Ford lunged at his brother, griping him with all the strength he had.

"You" Ford croaked, "are an idiot. Of course I would do the impossible and more to get you back. You're not allowed to leave me. I don't care how mad I was with you back then, none of that mattered. You always mattered." He leaned his head against Stan's shoulder to hide the tears pricking his eyes. "I just wish it hadn't taken you dying for me to show that."

Stan swallowed the lump forming in his throat, putting his arms around Ford and squeezing. One of his hands -the few parts that had been preserved from his original body- went to Ford's head, caressing his scalp in the same way he always did back when they were kids. He felt Ford sigh and sag against his shoulder, breath gently ghosting his collarbone.

"Thank you." Stan murmured lowly against his head.

Thank you for giving me this. For forgiving me. For still caring about me, even if I don't deserve it.

Ford didn't reply, but he squeezed back.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Unsent.

Tom Riddle x Reader

In which before Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort, he wrote you a letter. One last truth before burying who he once was. He never sent it. Years later, in the wreckage of a place you once called home, you find it.

Word count: 537

Writing is so fun yall

The old drawer sticks.You have to wrench it open, hands coated in dust and ash. The abandoned study is silent, only the whispers of ghosts remain here. No one's stepped foot in this room for decades, not since the world turned to war, and he stopped being Tom.

You didn’t come looking for anything.

And yet… something finds you.

Tucked beneath a stack of aged parchment and cracked inkwells is a letter, folded with surprising care. The wax seal is long broken, the handwriting—his handwriting—impossibly familiar. Your breath stutters as you see your name inked in black across the front.

It’s dated a week before everything fell apart.

Before he disappeared into darkness.

Before Tom Riddle died and Voldemort was born.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it.

. . .

My dearest,

I’m writing this knowing you’ll never read it.

Because if you did, it would mean I failed—either in keeping my distance, or in letting you go the way I should have from the start.

I imagine, in another life, I would’ve read this to you instead. Out loud, in the quiet of the common room, where your fingers would pull at the frayed threads of my sleeve and your laughter would curl around my heart like a spell I never wanted to break.

But this isn’t that life.

And I’m not the boy you loved anymore.

I think I could have been. With you. Maybe. If I’d let myself.

You saw something in me no one else did. Something I buried. Something I didn’t think I deserved. And I hated you for it, sometimes. For hoping for me.

But mostly, I loved you for it.I never said it. Never let the words pass my lips, because I was terrified they’d make me weak. That you would.

But I did. I do.

I love you.

I love you in ways that scare me. That tear at the part of me that wants power more than peace. I love you enough to lie to myself about it, to convince myself that letting you go is protection, not punishment.

I’m going somewhere you can’t follow. I have to.

The world is broken, and I can’t fix it the way you want me to. Not with softness. Not with love. Only with fear. Only with control. I know you wouldn’t agree.

That’s why I can’t take you with me.

But if there’s ever a version of me left somewhere—tucked between the pages of a forgotten book, in the echo of your name when I think of it in silence, I hope you know he never stopped loving you.

Even as he let you go.

Even as he became something else entirely. As he became me.

Forgive me, if you can.

And if not, remember me, if you must.

But don’t love me. Not anymore.

Not when I couldn’t choose you.

—Tom

. . .

You read it once.

Then again.

The ink has long since dried, but your tears are fresh—dripping softly onto a name that no one dares speak anymore.

You press the letter to your chest.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself mourn him—not the monster he became.

But the boy who almost loved you right.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

It's funny to me how you put these tags just as the newest episode revealed that Nathalie has been working for a secret organization this entire time and is taking commands from her dad who surprise surprise wants the ladybug and cat miraculouses

(Post in question for context)

[Image transcript: a series of tags reading "She is not a safe person and I HATE that she knows Marinette's identity Wtf is this show doing? Nathalie knowing Ladybug's identity should be a terrible thing that makes Marinette quit"]

Oh, so that's why Nathalie refused to turn herself in and convinced Ladybug to lie in the London special!

Nathalie: It's time to tell the truth. Bug Noire: If you do that, you'll go to jail. Nathalie: Isn't the truth worth it? Bug Noire: If you tell the truth, Adrien will have no one left. He'll have lost his mom, his dad, you. Nathalie: He will have you. Bug Noire: It's not' the same. He needs a mother. Nathalie: I'm not his mother. Bug Noire: You're the closest thing to a mother he's got. (Bunnyx runs over to the window as it continues playing)That's why Gabriel Agreste sacrificed himself, it's what finally made him a good father to Adrien and that's what Adrien should remember. Nathalie: Don't you want to tell Adrien that his father was Monarch? Bug Noire: The only thing I can fix is the way Adrien will remember his father. Nathalie: But that would be lying to him.

Oh, wait, no, my bad, that's the exact opposite of what happened in this dialogue! Why would you write the scene like this if Nathalie is still evil? And if Nathalie isn't evil anymore, then why is she keeping the evil organization a secret from Ladybug? This seems like something Ladybug should know about and this dialogue does not set Nathalie up as wanting to maintain secrets. Nothing in the special does!

[Image description: Fear from Pixar's Inside Out yelling "Boo! Pick a plotline!"]

I haven't seen El Toro De Piedra, so maybe there's something I'm missing, but doesn't this secret organization reveal basically destroy the popular argument that Nathalie is obeying Marinette's wishes re the lies because Nathalie no longer trusts herself to make good calls after all her years supporting Gabriel? If that was really the case, then Nathalie would have told Marinette about the secret organization and let Marinette decide what to do, but it sounds like that's not what happened. Nathalie feels totally comfortable making all the calls and controlling the information re the evil organization! She's only leaving Marinette to make the calls when it comes to Adrien's relationship with his father, a thing Marinette knows almost nothing about but that Nathalie actively watched deteriorate over the entire course of Adrien's life.

You can't have this both ways. Either Nathalie is a broken woman who is basically Marinette's puppet or Nathalie is a functional adult who is fully responsible for her own choices. Pick a lane.

I'm posting this now instead of waiting for the script because this is going to bother me until I get an answer. I legitimately want to know if the episode does anything to address any of these issues. Based on this ask, this is just adding fuel to my, "Nathalie should have been the liar" stance. Why is Marinette even involved in the lies if Nathalie is the one with all the actual secrets and information? It doesn't sound like the lies are doing anything interesting for Marinette's character or her relationship with Adrien. Can Adrien please get someone in his life who actually respects him? Can the writers please get rid of the asinine "Marinette must be wrong" rule when it makes no sense for the actual plot?

Gods, if Nathalie was actually written as still evil then this could have been amazing! The plot beats are all there, the writers just failed on every level. I'm still annoyed that her undoing Adrien's senticommands was presented as her being a good mom and not as her just using Adrien to fuck with Gabriel. Let my evil queen be an evil queen, gods damn it!

[maidragoste]

1.5

warning: mentions of sex

Part 1

Please don't hesitate to like, leave comments and reblog. These three things always make me happy and motivate me to keep writing 💖💖

My inbox is open so I'm always willing to read your headcanons, opinions and answer your questions!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

Adera is running out of excuses to explain why she's been kissing and fucking Larys lately.

The first time Larys and Adera fuck, Alicent is there. Adera was angry and perhaps a little drunk, her ego still bruised from Harwin's infidelity, and she felt appreciated again after hearing Alicent and Larys speak highly of her while they rant at Harwin and Rhaenyra.

The second time it happens, they're alone. Again, Adera was angry and had been drinking because she couldn't believe Viserys would dare to hold a celebration for the birth of Rhaenyra and Harwin's bastard. Adera couldn't stand it and left before the celebration, and Larys didn't take long to come looking for her. Alicent, being the queen, couldn't make such an easy excuse, so she couldn't accompany them. It's a secret between the two of them, but neither of them misses her; they're too busy to think about other people.

The third time, they're also alone. Adera is no longer drunk or angry, they are simply in Larys' chambers talking about the new book of flowers he got when he shows her one of the illustrations she gets distracted by his hands, remembering how good his fingers felt inside her the last time, and ends up kissing him against his desk wanting to feel him again.

They fuck twice more before Alicent joins them again. But it's Larys who brings Adera to orgasm using only his fingers. She doesn't want Alicent to notice that her moans get louder when he touches her, so she distracts her by eating her cunt while Larys continues to make her tremble.

The seventh time, it's just them. Larys and Adera are having their weekly tea meeting when he tells her that she feels tense and offers to give her a massage. Of course, it ends up being more than a massage. But Adera likes it, she likes how he kisses her lips and her body, how he touches her without any kind of fear or nervousness—like Alicent or too soft like Harwin—, how he uses his mouth to leave marks on her body, how he doesn't worry that she also leaves her own marks on his skin—unlike Alicent—, how he seems to know perfectly well when she needs control and to be on top of him and when she needs him to take the reins and make her forget about the rest of the world.

The eighth time, they're also alone. Adera goes to his chambers with the terrible excuse that she can't sleep and needs to burn off energy, but it's too late for her to go out and train with her sword. Larys simply laughs before cupping her face and kissing her as he guides her to the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, making her feel warm but at the same time scared by how something that was supposed to be a one-time thing has become a regular occurrence, something she wants.

"If we're going to keep doing this, you can't be with anyone else," she said, breaking off the kiss.

Larys laughed again but it was a different laugh than before, there was no happiness there, it was more of a dry laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that, no one is going to compete with you for a clubfoot,” he said while giving kisses along Adera’s neck.

“You’re more than a clubfoot,” she said, grabbing him by the back of his neck and making him look at her. “You’re very handsome,” she smiled, caressing his face with her other hand. Larys would be lying if he said he didn’t feel anything at her sweetness. “Smart,” she meant it, not just to boost his ego because now they’re both fucking. “You’re a very good listener and also…”

Larys kissed her because he couldn't stand her talking sweetly about him anymore, her shining eyes on him. All his life, he'd endured mockery, and looks of pity or disgust. He'd grown accustomed to being an outcast among people, so he didn't know what to do with all the warmth Adera gave him.

This time it wasn't a long kiss; Adera struggled to separate her lips from his. She wanted to keep kissing him, to lose herself in his kisses, and for the night to end with their bodies intertwined, but first, she needed to clear the air between them. But before she could speak, he surprised her.

“You don’t have to worry about someone else stealing my attention, my lady,” he said, as if he knew exactly what was bothering her. “I have eyes only for you,” he declared.

Adera’s heart raced, not only at Larys’s words but at the way he looked at her. In his blue eyes, she could see lust and desire, but there was also something more. She wouldn’t say it was love; it was too soon to say that, but what she saw in his eyes made her feel secure. Larys wasn’t lying.

Taglist for "the sea-dragon, the clubfoot and the green queen"

@chaotic-fangirl-blog @joliettes @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @peakybutterfly @crystal-faith @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1 @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @diorchaiamet @camy85 @nzygftoji @daemion-targaryen @paolexsstuff @thefandomimagines @little-duck @niki-is-a-thing @chaoticcoffequeen @gemnetjournal @fullyproblematicstudent @thestartitaness @narwhal-swimmingintheocean  @sammskellington @rockerchick05 @impartinghades @bxdbxtxh15  @rebelliuna  @fluffly @lilithskywalker @zealousturtletaco @asiandongbongsoo @mysticdaisy21 @angeliod @snh96 @thegirlnextdoorssister @targaryenmoony @libdarkheart @canpillowscry @pet1t3 @fuckinglittlekitten  @partypoison00 @watercolorskyy @heavenly1927 @immyowndefender @fullyproblematicstudent @lovelylunas-world @cassandra1995-blog1

[unreliableskeletons]

Inkmare and errink? 👉👈

ABSOLUTELY!

inkmare:

Ink has definitely tried to paint with nightmare’s goop. NM was sitting next to ink— it was one of their quieter days, both doing their own thing. He was reading a book he’d taken from his own library, one he’s read several times. Before he went to flip another page, that’s when he felt eyes on him. He continued on until they pestered him, he turned to ink and motioned his hand, ‘go on’. “Can I dip my paint brush on you?” and that was it.

(This headcanon depends on how u interpret Nightmare’s form. Sometimes I like to see it as putting your hand up to a glass window and seeing rain trickle down it, but u can’t feel the rain. But for this to work it’s like,,, he’s just goo.)

Ink helps NM on his harder days, usually with words more than affection. When he sees NM is having a hard time controlling his emotions, he reminds him it’s alright.

After a long discussion, NM keeps extra paint vials on him for Ink. Sometimes, being forgetful, Ink doesn’t remember to properly fill his own— or by the time he gets to NM’s abode, he doesn’t have anymore. It took a lot of trust on the artist’s end.

NM has a huge garden at his castle with still so much space for new plant life. Ink planted (and then made, because it was taking too long) shrubs and flowers as a spot dedicated to NM. Every plant that reminded him of his lover, he put in a little square lot. It was hard to make sure he didn’t see it, but with some bribes to the “bad guys”, he managed.

errink:

ink is error’s source of fanart. okay HEAR ME OUT, for any show/drama he likes, ink makes him custom posters and paintings.

Speaking of, error was really bad at receiving gifts— for like a WHILE. Ink isn’t like a pushy-gift-giver, but he does like to give his fair amount of gifts. Error’s emotional irregularity would leave him confused, partly excited, and then he’d get angry. He didn’t understand why he was receiving anything. It depended on the day really, sometimes it was, “of course I’d be getting a gift” or, “why are you giving me this I don’t want to owe you” etc. So ink finally had a conversation with error. It was a long one about the subject and both tried their best to compromise.

Their relationship was unlabeled for a very long time, both lack(ed) stability to keep up with something romantic. After a very long time of just doing stuff with each other that’s considered romantic, did they brought up the conversation. Or well, Ink did, rather randomly at that. After even more talks and them both trying to get themselves together— is when they made it official.

Ink was very careful with his lover’s haphephobia, (as we see you can be very gentle with in Error’s comics), he got the other used to holding hands. At some point, (after lots of work), they intertwined hands all the time, almost like they couldn’t stop holding hands. Though there was quite a few times along the where Ink wasn’t thinking and grabbed the destroyer’s arm, leg, face, etc. Ink is not only forgetful, but sub consciously takes everything quickly. Having the patience for this was a little difficult, but he managed to make it work for the sake of Error.