#it was the most delicate bread in the world...

[magnetictapedatastorage]

had the most delicious roll from the local bakery... it was just being called "french roll" so idk its exact type but it was very very soft, like much softer than even the freshest bread usually is. the crust was delicate and paper thin... the inside was also light and delicate, and collapsed very easily when pressed on (was making a sandwich lol) the only distinguishing feature was a small hard point on top of the roll, giving it an onionlike appearance.

[dazevi]

vi x reader angst where reader and vi had something before lockup (maybe reader was desperately looking for her/a body for years and never got with anyone else because they loved vi). first time they see vi again, they’re kissing cait. vi has to make a choice (mayhaps someone tells vi how much, how long and how deep reader still loves vi)

SORRY THIS ASK IS LONG BUT NO ONE WRITES VI X CAIT X READER ANSGT AND IM FEENING FOR ITTTT CA

i've loved you for so long | vi x fem!reader, angst, squint of fluff, wc: 10k | masterlist

content warnings: not much! angst!!!, brief caitvi, childhood friend!vi, firelight kinda!reader, tiny mention of blood, bit of an open ending, uhhhhh ….

note: sorry this took so long but i hope u like it! (struggled a bit with the ending so i left it kind of open and hopeful :P

Growing up in the Lanes was never easy. The air was always thick wit smog and desperation. But somehow, in the middle of all the grime, there were moments of light—moments that felt almost normal… sweet, even.

For Vi, those moments often came when she was with you.

You were the kind of person who seemed to radiate something soft, something pure, even in a place as unforgiving as here. You were always helping someone—patching up a scraped knee, sharing what little food you had, or offering a warm smile that could ease even the sharpest edges of the Lanes’ harsh reality. Vi, on the other hand, was tough as nails, like she always was. But when it came to you, that toughness often cracked, revealing a gentler side that few people ever got to see.

You met when you were both kids, barely old enough to understand the full weight of the world you were born into. Vi had just finished scrapping with a group of older kids who had tried to steal a loaf of bread from Powder. Her knuckles were bloody, and her lip was split, but she wore her bruises with pride as she swaggered down the street.

Then she saw you—someone small and delicate crouched beside a stray cat with a limp, gently wrapping its leg with a strip of cloth you’d torn from your own sleeve. Vi had stopped in her tracks, her usual bravado faltering as she watched you work with such careful concentration. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone show that kind of… tenderness.

“Hey,” she had said curiously, “what’re you doing?”

You looked up at her, your eyes wide and a little startled, but then you smiled. “Helping,” you said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

From that moment on, Vi couldn’t seem to stay away from you.

She’d show up wherever you were, always with some excuse—she was just passing through, or she needed your help with something, or she was making sure no one was giving you trouble. In truth, she just liked being around you. You didn’t flinch when she got into fights, didn’t scold her for her temper or her stubbornness. Instead, you had this way of looking at her, like you could see past all of that to the person she really was. And Vi, who had always felt like she had to be tough to survive and protect her family, found herself wanting to be softer when she was with you.

The two of you became inseparable, spending your days exploring the winding alleys and hidden corners of the Lanes. Vi would teach you how to throw a punch, insisting that you needed to know how to defend yourself. You’d laugh as she guided your fists, her hands warm and steady against yours, though she always ended up pulling her punches when it came to sparring.

“Can’t risk messing up that pretty face of yours,” she’d tease, though her voice would always carry a hint of something serious, like the idea of you getting hurt was unbearable to her.

“You’re an idiot,” you’d say back.

And she’d laugh, nudging you playfully against your shoulder, her all ears red as she looked at you, “But I’m your idiot.”

You, in turn, taught Vi the value of kindness, though you didn’t do it with words. You did it with your actions—with the way you’d stop to help a stranger, even when you didn’t have much to give, or the way you’d bandage up Vi’s cuts and bruises after a fight, your touch so gentle it made her chest ache. She’d sit there, watching you work, and wonder how someone like you could exist in a place like this.

And it also helped that Powder adored you too.

She’d often tag along on your adventures with her wide-eyed curiosity. You had a way of making her feel seen, of treating her like she was just as capable and important as the rest of you, and that meant the world to her. Vi loved watching the two of you together, the way you’d laugh and tease each other, the way you’d patiently explain things to Powder when she didn’t understand. It made Vi’s dreams of a better life feel almost tangible, like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more than survival.

And then there were the jobs… or whatever she could get from Ekko.

They were never easy—running contraband, sneaking into places she had no business being. Vi loved the adrenaline of it, the thrill of a plan coming together, but there was always a part of her that thought about you while she was out there. She’d see something—a trinket, a piece of candy, a flower growing stubbornly in the cracks of the pavement—and she’d think of you.

She started bringing things back for you, little gifts she’d pretend didn’t mean anything. The first time, it was a shiny button she found while breaking into a some storage room. It was small and completely useless, but it was the kind of thing she thought you’d like. She tossed it to you when she came back, trying to act casual.

“Found this,” she said, her voice gruff. “Figured you could use it for… I don’t know, something.”

You’d looked at her, a little confused at first, but when you smiled and said, “Thanks, Vi,” she felt something warm settle in her chest.

After that, it became a habit.

She’d bring you scraps of fabric, little bits of wire and string, or a half-broken gadget Powder thought she could fix up for you. Once, she brought you a single daisy she’d found growing in a crack on the edge of the Lanes. She’d nearly crushed it during the job, and when she handed it to you, she was so embarrassed she couldn’t meet your eyes.

“It’s just a flower,” she mumbled, scratching the back of her neck. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

But you always did. Vi would pretend it didn’t matter, but her ears would turn red all over again, and she’d fumble with excuses about why she’d brought you something in the first place.

She didn’t know how to say what she was feeling, didn’t even fully understand it herself. All she knew was that you made the Lanes feel a little less bleak, a little less hopeless.

And as the years passed, the your relationship with Vi only grew stronger. There were always moments when the certain feelings between you became almost impossible to ignore—like the time you patched her up after a particularly nasty fight, your fingers lingering on her cheek as you wiped away the blood, telling her firmly to always be careful, as your eyes search hers. Or the time she caught you staring at her with that soft look in your eyes and she felt her cheeks flush, her confidence faltering as she looked away, muttering something about how you shouldn’t look at her like that. You’d raise an eyebrow in response, then just laugh softly.

But neither of you ever said anything outright. Instead, you found comfort in the smaller things—stolen glances, the way your hands would brush against each other as you walked side by side, the way Vi’s walls would melt away when it was just the two of you.

You were more than just a friend. You were her safe place, her reminder that there was still good in the world, even in the darkest corners of the Lanes. And for you, she was your protector, your anchor, the person who made you feel like maybe you weren’t as fragile as the world wanted you to believe.

But the Lanes always had a way of taking everything good and twisting it into something painful.

The night everything went to shit was the last time life in the Lanes felt even remotely bearable. It had been tense from the start. Vander was gone, taken by Silco, and Vi’s face was set in that grim determination she always wore when she was trying to be strong for everyone else. You knew she was scared, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

You were in the back room of the Last Drop, pacing. Vi had told you to stay put, her voice sharper than usual, her gaze practically boring a hole through you.

“Don’t follow us,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Look after Powder, okay? I can’t worry about you and her while we’re out there.”

You wanted to argue, to tell her you could help, that you weren’t as fragile as she thought you were. But the look in her eyes stopped you. So, you nodded, biting back the words you wanted to say, and watched her leave with Mylo and Claggor.

Powder sat on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, clutching one of her gadgets like it was a lifeline. She kept glancing at the door like she was expecting Vi to come back at any moment, triumphant and unscathed.

But you both knew better.

The hours dragged on, the silence between you and Powder filled only with the occasional sound of glass breaking in the distance or the low hum of Zaun’s underbelly. You tried to keep your hands busy, cleaning up the room, organizing scraps of whatever was lying around. Anything to stop your mind from racing. Powder didn’t really say much; she just watched you with wide, anxious eyes, her fingers fidgeting with the gears of her monkey bomb.

Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in. You figured you were working too much. You remembered Vi’s words in your head, telling you that she’s always careful, that she’ll always come back to you. And you tried to stay awake, tried to keep an eye on Powder like Vi had asked, but your body betrayed you.

Powder had been quiet the whole night, but as you drifted off, she glanced at you. She hated being left behind, hated the way Vi always told her to stay because she wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t capable enough. She wanted to prove herself, to show that she could help, that she could save them. And with you asleep, curled up in Vi’s bed, she saw her chance. Quietly, Powder slipped off the couch, grabbing her monkey bomb and a bag of supplies. She hesitated for a moment, looking back at you. She didn’t want to leave you, but she couldn’t sit there and do nothing.

Not when Vi needed her.

She crept out of the room, careful not to make a sound, and disappeared into the shadows.

The first thing you noticed as you stirred was the faint, low rumble of something distant but violent—a sound that felt like it rattled through the very walls of the Last Drop. You blinked, eyes fluttering slowly as you pushed yourself up. The second explosion was sharper, louder, and your heart leaped in your chest. It was a sound that didn’t belong to the Lanes.

Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of the room. Everything felt too still now, too quiet, except for the faint aftershock of what you had just heard. You rubbed at your face, trying to shake off the grogginess, and then you noticed it—bright, electric blue sparks flickering in the distance, visible through the small, grimy window. Your stomach dropped as a sense of dread washed over you. Your breaths came quicker now, shallow and uneven, as you sat up fully, scanning the room.

“Powder?” you called out softly, hoarse from sleep.

You looked around, the familiar clutter of the space offering no sign of her.

“Powder?” you called again, louder this time, but the silence that followed made your chest tighten.

You stumbled to your feet, nearly tripping over a discarded piece of scrap on the floor. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign that she was still there—a glimpse of her small frame huddled in the corner, the sound of her fidgeting with one of her gadgets.

But there was nothing.

The couch where she’d been sitting earlier was empty, the blanket you’d draped over her crumpled and abandoned. The faint smell of oil and metal lingered in the air, but it was missing the warmth of her presence.

“No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath, your mind racing as you pieced together what must have happened.

You remembered the way she had been clutching that monkey bomb earlier, the way her eyes had flickered with something desperate and restless.

She left.

Your knees nearly buckled as you made your way to the window, pressing your palms against the cold glass. The sparks of blue still flickered in the distance, bright against the dark, polluted haze of the Lanes. The explosions hadn’t stopped, and now there were faint trails of smoke rising into the air.

“Powder,” you whispered, her name heavy on your tongue.

She had gone after Vi, you were sure of it. The thought hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. She was out there—your sweet, fragile Powder—in the middle of whatever chaos was unfolding.

And Vi… Vi had told you both to stay behind.

Now, you were running as fast as you could.

And when you got there, everything was on fire.

Buildings were crumbling under the weight of the flames, black smoke billowing into the sky and choking the air around you. The heat was suffocating, stinging your eyes and making it hard to breathe. You stood there, frozen, your wide eyes scanning the devastation. The ground was stained with dark, wet streaks that gleamed in the firelight—blood. It was everywhere, smeared across the cobblestones, trailing through the debris, pooling in some places as if marking the spots where someone had fallen.

But there were no bodies.

No sign of Vi. No Mylo. No Claggor. No Powder. Just… nothing.

Your chest heaved as you tried to take it all in, your mind struggling to make sense of the chaos. The silence was deafening, broken only by the relentless crackle of flames and the occasional groan of a collapsing structure. You called out for them. You spent hours waiting, searching and trying.

But, there were no voices, no footsteps, no cries for help.

Just emptiness.

Nothing.

The days blurred into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. Time moved forward, but you stayed stuck in the same moment—the night everything fell apart. The fire, the blood on the streets, the faces of everyone you loved burned into your memory like scars you couldn’t erase. It didn’t matter how much time passed. You never stopped seeing them. Never stopped feeling the weight of their absence.

Life in the Undercity didn’t wait for grief. It didn’t give you the chance to sit still and process the ache in your chest or the emptiness that had swallowed your world whole. The streets you grew up on were darker now, quieter, yet somehow more dangerous. Shimmer twisted its way into every crack and corner, poisoning the air you breathed.

You still had Ekko. He stuck close, as much as he could, and you were grateful for him in ways you couldn’t put into words. But even with him around, the loneliness lingered anyway.

Nights were the worst. The silence of your small, dimly lit room pressed down on you, and your mind replayed every memory of Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor. Sometimes, you could almost hear their laughter echoing in the distance.

Almost.

You never stopped looking for her.

At first, it was constant. Every waking moment you scoured the streets, searching for any trace of her. You asked anyone who would listen if they’d seen her, but no one had. Not a single person could tell you where she had gone or what had happened to her. Some said she was dead. Others said she’d been taken topside, to Piltover’s dungeons. You didn’t know which was worse.

You looked for Powder, too. Sometimes, you felt like you’d seen traces of her somewhere, certain colors she liked, drawings on the wall… It was like she was there, but she wasn’t… like she didn’t want to be found.

And years passed, but the hope never left you. Not fully. Even when the streets seemed colder, even when Ekko begged you to stop putting yourself in danger, you kept searching. You’d walk the streets at night, hood pulled tight over your head, hoping to catch a glimpse of her pink hair or hear her sharp voice in the crowd. Every time you saw a tall figure in the shadows, your heart would leap, only to sink seconds later when it wasn’t her.

You wondered, sometimes, if she was looking for you too. If she was out there somewhere, wondering what had happened to you. If she missed you the way you missed her. Those thoughts were the only thing that kept you going on the hardest days.

The Undercity changed around you. The shimmer trade grew stronger, its effects spreading like a disease. People you’d known your whole life turned hollow, their eyes glassy, their voices slurred. Survival became harder with each passing day. But even as the world around you crumbled, you held onto the memory of Vi.

Her voice. Her laugh. The way she used to look at you when she thought you weren’t paying attention, as if you were something more than just a friend. The way she used to bring you small, silly things from her jobs—half the time things she swore she’d found by accident, even though you knew better.

You missed her so much it hurt.

Then, one night, Ekko came to visit you.

He had news about Powder.

He’d seen her, he said. And it didn’t make sense at first.

He sat across from you in the dim, flickering light of the small hideout you’d both retreated to. His voice was almost hesitant, but heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. Regret? Anger? Grief? Maybe all three, twisted together in a way that made him seem older than he was, like the years had weighed heavier on him than they should have.

You were hunched over, elbows resting on your knees, your face buried in your hands. It had been another fruitless day, searching for a ghost you weren’t sure even existed anymore. Your body ached, your head throbbed, and the emptiness in your chest felt like it might swallow you whole.

And then Ekko said it—he said her name.

“Powder… she’s not the same anymore.”

At first, you thought he meant something else. Maybe she’d grown up like the rest of you, toughened by the streets and the weight of survival. Maybe he’d seen her, and she was angry, distant, bitter about the past. You could’ve handled that. You could’ve understood that.

But that wasn’t what he meant.

“She goes by Jinx now.”

You lifted your head slowly, confusion knitting your brow. “What are you talking about?”

Your voice was sharp, tinged with a nervous laugh that didn’t quite land.

“Powder wouldn’t call herself that. That’s not… that’s not her.”

Ekko’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, “It is her. She’s with Silco now.”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “She wouldn’t—she’d never—”

“She’s different, (Y/n).” His voice cracked, just barely, but enough to make you flinch. “She’s not the kid we knew. Silco got in her head, twisted her up. She’s… dangerous now.”

You sat back, your body rigid, your mind spinning. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Powder was sweet, shy, maybe a little clumsy, but always full of love and hope. Powder adored you. Powder idolized Vi. She’d never turn into someone like… like that.

“Where did you hear this?” you demanded, your voice low but trembling. “Who told you?”

“I saw her,” Ekko said flatly. “It’s her, (Y/n). She’s been running with Silco’s people for years. She’s the one behind half the chaos in the Lanes right now. You’ve heard about the explosions, the heists—the people disappearing. That’s Jinx.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening.

“That’s Powder.”

You stared at him, the words refusing to sink in. It felt like someone had ripped the ground out from under you, leaving you floundering in freefall.

“You’re wrong,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Powder wouldn’t… she wouldn’t do that.”

“I wish I was wrong,” Ekko muttered, his voice thick with bitterness. “But I’m not. She’s gone. The Powder we knew—she’s gone.”

“No,” you snapped, anger rising to the surface as your chest tightened with panic. “She’s not gone. She’s just… confused, or scared, or… something. She wouldn’t just…”

Ekko’s face softened, but his eyes were filled with sadness. “I thought the same thing when I first saw her. I wanted to believe she could still come back, that maybe I could fix it. But she’s too far gone. Silco’s got his hooks right into her. She’s not the kid we grew up with anymore. She’s…”

He paused, the words catching in his throat.

“She’s dangerous.”

You shook your head again, your hands trembling as you pressed them against your thighs. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Powder was your friend, your family. She was bright and sweet and full of so much love. She wasn’t… she wasn’t a monster.

The thoughts clung to you every night. Powder—Jinx—had become someone unrecognizable, and you couldn’t stop the questions from flooding your mind. What would Vi think if she knew? Would she be disappointed in you for not doing more, for not stopping Powder before it was too late? Would she think you’d failed her?

Vi. Her name echoed in your mind. You missed her in a way that was so all-encompassing it became a part of you. You missed the way she used to tease you, the way she’d smirk like she had the world figured out, even when she didn’t. You missed patching her up after a fight. You missed how she’d smile at you, telling you that things to brighten your day. You missed everything.

It was only recently that you realized why the ache felt so sharp, so endless. You loved her. You’d loved her for years, even if you hadn’t admitted it to yourself until now. It was why you couldn’t let her go, why no one else had ever been able to fill the void she left behind.

People had tried. There were a few who flirted with you, a few who asked you to dinner or drinks. But you’d always brushed them off, always found an excuse. None of them were her. None of them had her fire, her strength, the way she made you feel seen and safe all at once.

The years hadn’t been kind to you, but you’d done your best to survive, to keep going even when it felt like the world was crumbling around you. You’d thrown yourself into helping Ekko and the Firelights, finding purpose in their mission even when you felt lost.

You patched them up when they were injured, your hands steady as you cleaned wounds and wrapped bandages. You shared what little food you had, sometimes going without so they wouldn’t have to. You became someone they could rely on, even if you didn’t always feel strong yourself.

But that strength went away a couple months later—the day you saw her again. It was something you didn’t prepare yourself for. You hadn’t expected it at all.

The sunlight filtering through the cracks of the hideout’s makeshift roof caught on the edges of your hair as you worked, pulling ripe fruits and vegetables from the small garden that the Firelights had nurtured in secret. The air was damp but fresh, filled with the earthy scent of soil and the faint hum of life. You liked working in the garden—it gave you a moment of peace, a small break from the weight of everything outside.

When you were done, your hands were covered in dirt, and a bead of sweat traced its way down your temple. You wiped your brow with the back of your arm, sighing softly. A few of the others nodded at you in thanks as they carried the baskets of food away. You stayed behind, crouched by the water pump, scrubbing the grime from your hands and under your nails.

The cool water washed over your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself pause, closing your eyes as the sound of the stream drowned out your thoughts. But it didn’t last long. The quiet never did.

Once you were cleaned up, you shook off the weariness and decided to find Ekko. You’d been meaning to talk to him about something—or maybe you just wanted to hear a familiar voice. The hideout could feel suffocating at times, even though it was a sanctuary for many. Ekko had a way of cutting through it, reminding you that there was still something worth fighting for.

But as you made your way through the winding halls of the hideout, you stopped short, your breath catching in your throat.

In one of the side rooms, barely lit by the faint glow of sunlight filtering through the cracks, you saw them.

A girl with blue hair stood close to another figure, her delicate fingers brushing against the cheek of the person in front of her. You couldn’t make out their faces at first, your mind taking an extra second to register what you were seeing. But then the pink hair caught the light, vibrant even in the dim room, and your chest tightened.

Vi.

Your Vi.

And she wasn’t alone.

The blue-haired girl leaned in, her lips brushing against Vi’s in a kiss so soft, so tender, that it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Vi didn’t pull away, her hand resting gently on the girl’s waist, her shoulders relaxing in a way you hadn’t seen in years.

You froze, rooted to the spot, your feet unwilling to carry you forward—or away. Your mind raced, a thousand thoughts clamoring for attention, but none of them loud enough to break through the sudden ache in your chest.

She was here. She was alive. But she wasn’t yours.

You didn’t know whether to cry out, to step into the room and demand an explanation, or to turn and run before they could see you. You wanted to be happy that she was safe, but all you could feel was the slow, creeping weight of heartbreak as it settled over you.

Because in that moment, it was clear—Vi wasn’t yours to miss. Not anymore.

“You have some explaining to do.” The words feel foreign on your tongue, but they spill out before you can stop them.

You stand at the threshold of Ekko’s lab, chest heaving, heart racing in disbelief. The image of Vi with another woman—kissing her, holding her—flashes in your mind and it’s all too much.

Ekko stands abruptly, looking as startled as you feel. His eyes widen, and his hand instinctively scratches at the back of his neck, a nervous tick you’ve known him to do since you were kids.

“I—I was gonna tell you today,” he stammers, voice cracking slightly as he fumbles for his words. “We just got her last night… when we ambushed Jinx…”

Your breath catches, a knot of frustration and hurt tightening in your chest. “You ambushed Jinx? And now you’re bringing Vi back in like this? Without telling me?”

The words come out harsher than you intend, but it doesn’t matter right now. Your mind is spiraling.

Ekko holds up his hands, trying to calm you, his gaze softening. “I was going to tell you! I just… After everything with Jinx… I didn’t know if she was someone I could trust yet.”

His words hit you like a slap, and for the first time since you walked in here, a part of you slows down. After everything that happened, Vi could very well be someone you couldn’t trust. Someone who might have changed in ways you couldn’t understand. It stings to admit, but the doubt starts to creep in. You know Ekko—his loyalty runs deep, but he’s also careful. He always has been. You take a step back, your fists uncurling as you exhale sharply.

You swallow your frustration and let the silence settle between you, the weight of his words pressing down on you. Can we trust her?

The question hangs in the air, unspoken but felt, before you finally speak it.

“So… can we?” Your voice is quieter now, more hesitant. You want to hear reassurance, but you’re not sure if it’ll come.

Ekko doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales, a long, drawn-out sigh that betrays a weariness you hadn’t noticed before. When he finally looks up at you, his gaze holds something you hadn’t expected—a tenderness, a vulnerability. His lips curl into a small, almost wistful smile, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s seeing something you can’t.

“I think so,” he says softly, his voice quiet but steady. “I think we can.”

You sigh, blinking a few tears away.

“Who’s that… that girl she’s with?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

You keep your eyes on the floor, unwilling to meet Ekko’s gaze, because the truth feels like it might crush you. The girl you’ve loved for as long as you can remember, is with someone else now. And it’s hard to wrap your mind around it, let alone confront it head-on.

Ekko’s silence stretches out for a moment, the room growing thick with the tension that neither of you knows how to ease. But then, slowly, his eyes soften, and you can hear the careful way he breathes in, like he’s about to tell you something heavy. His voice is gentle when he speaks, like he’s trying to cushion the blow without sugarcoating it.

“Her name’s Caitlyn,” Ekko says, and there’s a noticeable pause before he continues, as though he’s gathering his thoughts, picking out the right words. “She’s… She’s an enforcer, but…she’s different. I don’t think she’s on Silco’s side.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of Caitlyn’s name, and you can feel a bitter knot in your throat.You finally glance up at Ekko, your eyes searching his face, desperate for any trace of what this means.

“Are they…?”

Ekko looks at you for a long, quiet moment, like he’s weighing your reaction against his own thoughts. He doesn’t look at you with pity, though; there’s no judgment in his gaze. Just understanding.

“I don’t know,” he admits casually. “But I think Vi’s been through a lot. And Caitlyn… I don’t know what they have, but I can’t pretend I understand it. I’m still trying to figure out where Vi stands with all of this… All I know is Vi wants her sister back.”

You can’t look at Ekko anymore. The pain of it is too much, a heavy weight that presses down on you like the sky is collapsing. You back away, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, your hands trembling slightly.

“I thought… I thought she’d come back for me, for us,” you say softly, almost to yourself. The bitterness in your voice is unmistakable.

Ekko doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but you can feel his sympathy.

Finally, he speaks again, quieter, softer. “I don’t think she’s forgotten you. I think she’s just trying to figure out everything for herself… Besides, she was… actually wondering if you were still around.”

“She was?” Your voice is quieter than you intended, almost shaky as you try to grasp what he just said.

Ekko nods, though his face is filled with something close to guilt, like he knows how this news might break you. “Yeah. She asked about you when she came in… said she didn’t know what happened to you after… everything.”

You let out a shaky sigh, your chest tightening at his words.

“Where has she been… all this time?” The question slips out quietly before you can stop it.

Ekko hesitates, his eyes softening as he looks at you. There’s a long pause before he finally answers, each word like a slow puncture to your heart. “Stillwater.”

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. You freeze, unable to process at first, the words echoing in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull. It’s a place that steals everything from you, even the will to remember who you were before. Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Vi… Vi was there?

The thought twists something deep inside you, like a sharp ache that spreads through your chest and down into your stomach. It felt impossible to imagine Vi—your Vi—there. The strong, fearless girl you grew up with, the one who fought for every scrap of life she could hold onto. The thought of her, trapped in that hellhole, stripped of the fire that had always burned in her… it’s unbearable.

“You should… probably be talking to her about all of this.”

You freeze at Ekko’s words, your heart pounding in your chest. The thought of speaking to her again, of standing face to face with her after all these years, makes your blood run cold. Your chest tightens, and suddenly, breathing feels like a chore.

“I…” You try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat.

What could you say to her? After all this time? The distance between you both feels impossibly wide now, like a canyon you’ll never be able to cross. The thought of seeing her, of facing the reality of what’s changed, of all the years that slipped through your fingers—it paralyzes you. You want to see her. You want to run to her and hold her, tell her everything you’ve kept locked away for so long, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not ready for that.

Your hands are shaking now, and you clutch at the edge of the table for support, your palms slick with sweat.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” you say.

Your voice cracks under the weight of your own fear. The thought of facing Vi, of seeing her and realizing how much has changed, of feeling the space that’s grown between you both—it feels impossible.

Ekko watches you, his expression softening with understanding, but there’s something else in his eyes, something unreadable.

“I get it,” he says quietly, taking a step closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to rush into anything. I know you’ve been carrying this around for a long time.”

But the truth is, you don’t just carry the weight of all that time apart—you carry the weight of your own fear. Fear that she’ll see you as a stranger. Fear that you won’t know how to talk to her anymore. Fear that everything that once felt so easy between you and Vi will have changed beyond recognition. The thought of her not loving you anymore, or of you not being able to love her the same way, makes your stomach churn.

You bite your lip, unable to finish the thought, as your mind races in a thousand different directions.

“Does she know I’m here?”

Ekko’s gaze shifts, and for a moment, there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes. He looks like he’s struggling with something, something he doesn’t want to say, but he knows he has to. He shifts on his feet, a sigh escaping him as he scratches the back of his neck again, the tension in his posture telling you more than his words ever could.

“I… I told her you’re around,” Ekko finally says, “Not here exactly, though. I wanted to warn you before…”

Before everything changes.

But a knock at the door stills the air in the room. It’s sharp, sudden, and it cuts through the heavy silence that’s settled between you. You don’t move at first and Ekko hesitates for a moment, then turns, just as the door creaks open.

And then, there she is.

You freeze, unable to breathe, unable to move as your eyes lock onto hers. It’s like the whole world stops for a moment—your heart, your thoughts, everything. She’s standing there, in the doorway, her eyes wide as they sweep over you. It’s as if she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t quite believe you’re here. That you’re real.

Her gaze flickers across you—your eyes, your face, the way you’ve changed over the years. You can see the shock in her features, the way her breath catches for a split second before she can speak.

“(Y/n),” she whispers, her voice raw, as if the sound of your name in her mouth is a shock to her as much as it is to you.

There’s a long pause. Neither of you move, neither of you speak, as if neither of you knows how to start, what to say. Vi stands there, her eyes fixed on you, and you can see the wheels turning behind her expression. She doesn’t look the same as the girl you once knew, but her eyes—those blue eyes—are still the same, full of emotions you can’t quite place.

Vi’s eyes trail down your form, and you can see her struggling to hide the way her gaze softens as she takes in how you’ve grown, how you’ve changed. You’re different now—more than just the girl she once knew in the Lanes—but somehow, at the same time, you’re still the same person. The one who was always kind, always caring. The one who had a heart too big for the world they were in.

You watch as her eyes linger on you, not saying a word, just staring. A small breath escapes her lips, like she’s struggling to hold back some emotion, some surge of feelings that are too heavy for her to put into words. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, like the words are stuck inside her.

“I, um… I have work to do, Ekko.” Your voice cracks, and you can feel the tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

You tear your gaze away from Vi, your heart pounding in your chest as if it’s trying to break free. The weight of everything, of all the lost time, of everything you thought you had buried, feels like it’s crashing down on you in waves.

You can’t look at her anymore. Not like this. Not when everything in you is screaming to hold her, to ask her why she left, to beg her to stay. But you can’t. Not yet. Not when the hurt is still so raw.

You turn quickly, brushing past Vi with a sharp movement, your steps frantic, but trying to remain composed. Your heart races in your chest as you feel the heat of her eyes on your back, but you don’t look back. You can’t. The moment you do, you’re afraid you’ll break, and you can’t afford to break now.

The door slams shut behind you, and you can hear the soft echo of your hurried footsteps fading as you walk away. You don’t look up, don’t let yourself feel the weight of the emptiness in the room, even though you know it’s all there.

But you’re not ready. Not yet.

Ekko watches the door for a moment, his gaze thoughtful and a little sad. He doesn’t say anything, knowing that nothing he could say will ease the tension in the room.

Vi stands there, still frozen, her mind processing everything all at once. The way you walked out, the way you didn’t look back, how quickly you shut yourself off. She swallows hard, as if trying to force her emotions to settle. But they don’t. They’re all tangled up in her chest. She wants to go after you. She wants to explain.

“(Y/n)…” Vi whispers the name, barely above a breath, as if saying it out loud will somehow make it real, bring back the girl she thought she had lost forever. “She’s… grown.”

“We all have.”

His eyes flicker to Vi, his expression unreadable. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words, but nothing feels quite right. He knows how this is going to land—knows it’s going to hurt, even though he wishes it didn’t have to be this way.

“I think she saw you and Caitlyn,” he says quietly. “Together, I mean.”

Vi’s body stiffens at the mention of Caitlyn’s name, her eyes snapping to Ekko in disbelief. The shock is instant, followed by a sharp pang of guilt that twists in her chest. Her mind races, trying to make sense of the situation—of the way you had looked at her, of how you had walked out without saying anything more, as if something between the two of you had shattered. And now this. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words get stuck, tangled in her throat.

Ekko slumps back in his chair, his fingers tapping restlessly against the worn surface of his desk. He doesn’t know what to say to either of them. His gaze remains fixed on Vi, her posture still stiff, eyes distant.

“She thinks you’re together…” Ekko looks at Vi with curiosity. “Are you?”

Vi’s heart stutters in her chest, and she looks away quickly, swallowing hard.

“No,” she answers, almost too quickly. “No, we’re not together.”

Her voice wavers slightly, the truth of her feelings suddenly coming to the surface, uninvited but undeniable. Caitlyn is kind and gentle, but it’s never been like that with her. She only met her this week. Vi doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not love—not like what she’s felt, and still feels, for you.

The kiss was… a moment of comfort, of trying to hold onto something familiar in a world that’s changed beyond recognition. It meant nothing. Or at least, it shouldn’t have meant anything. But now, knowing that you’d seen it, knowing that it might hurt you—it stings. And it stings more than she’s willing to admit.

Ekko watches her for a moment and sighs. He knows Vi well enough to see that flicker of something in her eyes, that far-off look, the hesitation that’s always there when she’s thinking about you.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he mutters, “But you do need to talk to her.”

Vi nods slowly, her gaze moving toward the door again.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, almost as if to herself. “I know. I just… I don’t know what to say. It’s been so long, Ekko.”

Ekko exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. “She looked for you, you know. She hasn’t stopped. And she’s been alone for a long time too, Vi. She deserves to hear it.”

Vi doesn’t respond. The words hit her harder than she’s willing to admit. She knows Ekko’s right, but the fear of rejection still clings to her like a shadow. She’s afraid of what will happen if she faces you, afraid of seeing that disappointment in your eyes, hearing the anger in your voice. Afraid that even if she tries, it won’t be enough.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settling in her chest.

“I’ll go find her.”

The climb to the top of the tree feels longer than it should, but Vi knows she’s stalling. Her hands grip the wooden edges tighter than they need to as she hauls herself up, each rung feeling like a step closer to a moment she’s not sure she’s ready for. Ekko’s words still echo in her head—She’s probably already up there, and needs the space, but… she deserves to hear from you.

And now, standing at the edge of the makeshift platform high above the Firelights’ hideout, Vi spots you. You’re sitting near the edge, your legs dangling over, one hand resting loosely on the ground for balance. The jukebox below hums softly, sending the faint notes of a melancholy tune drifting up through the cool night air. The lights of the community twinkle far beneath you, and the laughter and chatter of the people below seem like they belong to another world entirely.

Vi freezes for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. You haven’t noticed her yet, and she’s glad for it because it gives her time to take you in.

It’s been years since she’s seen you like this—quiet, lost in your own world. There’s something familiar in the way you tilt your head as you gaze out at the lights below, something achingly reminiscent of the person she remembers from all those years ago. She can’t help but wonder if you’re still the same in other ways, too. If you still laugh at dumb jokes, or hum to yourself when you’re deep in thought. If you still carry that kindness in your heart, despite everything the world’s thrown at you.

But there’s also something different, something that makes her chest ache. You look older. Wiser, maybe. More beautiful than she remembers, though she feels like that’s impossible, because she’s always thought you were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

God, you’re beautiful. The thought hits her so suddenly that it makes her chest ache. It’s not just the way you look, though that alone would be enough to leave her speechless. It’s everything about you—the way you seem so untouchable and yet so heartbreakingly human all at once. She feels like a fool for standing here and staring, but for the life of her, she can’t seem to look away.

And then there’s the way the moonlight catches on your face, illuminating the faint shimmer of unshed tears in your eyes. Vi doesn’t even need to see your expression to know what you’re feeling.

For a long moment, she just stands there, unsure of what to do or say. She wants to run to you, to pull you into her arms and tell you she’s sorry, that she’s here, that she’s not going anywhere this time. But she knows it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.

Finally, she takes a hesitant step forward, her boots making a soft thud against the wooden planks. You stiffen slightly, your head turning just enough to catch her in your peripheral vision. You don’t say anything, but the way your shoulders tense tells her you’ve already guessed it’s her.

Vi hesitates again, her heart pounding in her chest as she moves to sit beside you. She doesn’t get too close, leaving enough space between you that you won’t feel trapped, but close enough that she can see the way your fingers grip the edge of the platform like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

For a few seconds, the silence between you is unbearable. Vi glances at you from the corner of her eye, her mouth opening as if to speak, but the words don’t come. She’s never been good at this—talking about feelings, finding the right thing to say.

But as she watches you, she knows she has to try.

“Nice spot you’ve got here,” she says, her voice softer than she intended. “It’s quiet… Beats the chaos down there.”

It’s not much, and she knows it. She winces at how lame she sounds, but she’s not sure she trusts herself to say anything more. She’s afraid if she does, it’ll all come tumbling out—the guilt, the regret, the years of wondering what could’ve been if she hadn’t been taken, if she’d fought harder, if she’d found a way back sooner.

You don’t respond right away, and she can’t tell if it’s because you’re ignoring her or because you just don’t know what to say either. She glances at you again, her eyes lingering on the curve of your jaw, the way your lashes cast faint shadows against your cheeks.

You’re so close, but it feels like there’s an entire world between you.

When you finally do speak, your voice is so soft, almost drowned out by the music drifting up from below. “It’s always been my place to think. To get away… I have Ekko to thank for it.”

Your words are simple, but they carry so much weight, and Vi feels the knot in her chest tighten. She wonders what you’ve been thinking about up here all this time. If you’ve been thinking about her. If you’ve been wondering where she’s been, what she’s been doing, why she never came back.

“I can see why,” Vi says, trying to keep her tone light even though her heart is pounding. “It’s got a hell of a view.”

She means the lights, of course, the way they twinkle below like stars scattered across the ground. But as she says it, she realizes she’s not looking at the lights at all. She’s looking at you.

You finally turn to look at her, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks her. There’s so much there—pain, anger, sadness—but there’s something else, too. Something softer. Something she doesn’t think she deserves but hopes for anyway.

“I didn’t think you’d come up here,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vi looks at you, her throat tight, and she wishes she had the courage to tell you the truth. That she’s here because she couldn’t stay away. That she misses you.

Instead, she just nods, her voice a little rough when she finally speaks. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.”

You look away again, your gaze returning to the lights below, and Vi knows she should say more, but she’s afraid. Afraid of making things worse. Afraid of losing whatever small chance she might have left to fix things.

She looks at you softly, “How have you been?”

You don’t answer right away.

The silence lingers. Vi shifts slightly, her body aching to close the distance, to somehow make things right, but she doesn’t move.

Then, it’s you who breaks the quiet after a short while, your voice soft and tentative, almost as if speaking too loudly might shatter the everything around you.

“It’s hard to think about you in prison,” you say, the words stumbling out of you before you can stop them.

Vi stiffens at the mention of it. Her chest tightens, as though she’s been struck, but she doesn’t look at you, doesn’t dare.

“I know it must’ve been hard,” you continue, your gaze still locked on the flickering lights below. “Being in there… for so long. I can’t even imagine how it felt. It must’ve been… suffocating.”

Vi can hear the way you say it, that compassion in your voice that makes her want to crumble. You’ve always been so gentle, even when the world around you was anything but.

The memories are sharp, jagged shards of regret that pierce her chest whenever she lets herself think about it. The days in that cold, lonely cell feel like a lifetime ago, but the scars—physical and emotional—are still fresh. The world had felt like a cruel, unyielding force back then. Every day in prison, every blow to her body, every quiet, restless night, had worn away the person she used to be. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be carefree or loved.

“I was so… lost,” Vi mutters quietly, her voice rough from the weight of years. “I spent so long… thinking about all of you, of Powder… of the mistakes I made. If i had just… If I hadn’t stepped away for one moment, maybe I would’ve still been here… Here with Powder…. Here with you.”

You glance at her then, just a flicker of movement, your eyes soft with something like pity—but more than that, something else that Vi doesn’t have the courage to name. She knows you see her now, not the image of the girl who left, but the one who came back. The one who is trying—trying, at least—not to destroy everything around her with the weight of her mistakes.

Vi’s voice breaks the silence again, this time with something raw in it, something almost painful. She shifts slightly, her hand twitching by her side, wanting to reach out but holding herself back.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was in there,” she says quietly, her eyes searching your face for any sign of recognition. “The thought of you… It helped get through most of my nights. I tried to dream of you... tried to imagine what you were doing, where you were… how you’ve grown... how much prettier you probably got. I kept telling myself, ‘Maybe when I get out, maybe when I find a way out, I’ll find you again… and take you out on a real date.’”

She stops, her gaze falling to the ground between you both as if ashamed to even say it aloud, as if admitting the depth of her thoughts all these years will somehow make them real. But it’s there, the longing she’s buried in the back of her mind, too painful to confront but too strong to ignore.

Vi continues, quieter now, almost a whisper. “I wondered if you thought of me, if you looked for me. If you still cared… if I even mattered to you anymore.”

You stay silent as she speaks, your chest tight with something you can’t explain. The words sting in a way you’re not prepared for, like a wound reopened, and yet there’s something strangely soothing about them, too. The fact that Vi—after everything, after all this time—had thought of you… It almost doesn’t seem real.

But you say nothing, your gaze fixed ahead, unable to meet her eyes. You wonder if it’s better this way. If silence is all you have left to offer her now. Maybe it’s easier to listen than to speak, to keep everything bottled up inside where it won’t spill over and make a mess of things.

Vi takes a deep breath, her eyes shifting between the two of you, silently asking for something, anything that might make her feel less alone in this moment. But you don’t give her the answer she’s hoping for.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. The wind brushes past you, making the leaves rustle in the trees around the hideout. Below is quiet, almost peaceful, and the sound of distant voices and music fades into the background.

Vi watches you carefully, her eyes searching for something in yours, but she doesn’t push. She knows better than that. She knows that the years have changed you, just as much as they’ve changed her. She knows she can’t expect you to just forget everything, to instantly trust her again. But she hopes, more than anything, that there’s still something left between you both, something that could grow again.

“I saw you with her,” you say. “Ekko said her name is Caitlyn.”

Vi’s eyes widen at the mention of Caitlyn, her heart stopping for just a moment. The words seem to hang in the air between you both, heavy and charged. She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out at first, as if the truth of its too much to swallow.

You feel her hesitation, the way she tenses, and it hits you in a way you weren’t prepared for. It feels like a sharp, cold pang in your chest. There’s a rawness in your voice that you didn’t even realize was there.

The way you say it feels like it cuts through the silence between you both. Vi looks at you then, eyes wide, searching, but she doesn’t speak. She knows she owes you an answer, but what answer could she give you? How could she explain everything that’s happened in the time between your separation and now?

After what feels like an eternity, Vi swallows hard, her throat tight. She looks away, her hands fidgeting at her sides.

“It’s not what you think,” she says softly, almost too quietly. “I… I didn’t want it. She was just… trying to comfort me.”

Vi’s mind drifts back to Caitlyn, and she can’t help but sigh. She thinks Caitlyn’s a good person—for someone from topside. There’s a softness to her, a kindness that reminds Vi of the people she used to know back when things were simpler, when she wasn’t caught between the rubble of the Lanes and the ghosts of her past. But despite Caitlyn’s goodness, Vi knows one thing, something deep in her heart that she can’t escape: no one could ever be you.

No one could replace you. The girl she grew up with, the girl she used to dream about, the girl who haunted her thoughts long after she had fallen asleep. Vi’s chest tightens at the thought. The kiss with Caitlyn, the one you saw—it’s nothing more than a hollow moment, something that never should’ve happened. She wanted it to be you.

Vi shudders slightly. The kiss, the way Caitlyn’s lips felt against hers, it was nothing like the memories of you. Nothing like the way your hand used to fit in hers, how your laugh could fill a room with warmth, how you made her feel like she was worth something. Caitlyn could never make her feel the same way you made me feel, could never replace the way you made her feel alive, like everything in her life had a purpose.

“I couldn’t…” Vi murmurs to herself quietly. “I couldn’t feel that for anyone except you.”

Her hand slowly reaches out, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brush against yours. Her touch is gentle, careful, despite the roughness of her calloused palms, worn from years of fighting, of surviving. She holds your hand like she’s afraid you’ll slip away, like if she lets go, you’ll disappear, and she’ll be left with nothing but the echoes of a time she can never get back.

Your eyes instinctively shift to your hands, the same hands you once held as children. You remember how easy it was, how natural it felt when you were younger, sitting side by side in the dirt or on the roof of the Last Drop, fingers intertwined like nothing could ever pull you apart. Back then, it felt like the world was small, and nothing could hurt you as long as you were together.

But now—now, everything has changed.

Her fingers curl around yours, and the warmth of her touch sends a wave of memories flooding back—soft laughter, secret glances, the way her eyes would linger on you when she thought you weren’t looking. You blink, trying to keep the rush of emotions in check, but it’s hard when every inch of you feels like it’s trembling.

Vi’s eyes flicker to the ground below for a moment, her cheeks suddenly flushed, the soft red hue creeping up to her ears. It was that same familiar blush that’d show during the times she’d gift you a tiny present from those adventurous jobs she was in. She’s so close now, you can hear her breath hitch slightly as if she’s gathering the courage to speak words that she’s kept locked away for far too long.

“I’ve always loved you, you know,” she said finally. “I never got the chance to tell you…”

The words tumble from her mouth, quiet and unsteady, but every one of them feels like it’s been etched into her soul for years. She looks up at you, the faint redness still coloring her face as she holds your hand.

“I’d really like to make for the time I lost with you.”

The noise from the jukebox below, faint music playing through the speakers, the distant chatter of the Firelights—it all fades away, drowned out by the thundering silence between you both. You stare at her, your heart racing, a million thoughts running through your mind, but none of them can fully process the weight of what she’s just said. You feel the tears burn at the back of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You just stare at her—really look at her—like you haven’t in years.

Vi’s ears are bright red now, her gaze flicking away nervously. She’s never been good with things like this, always hiding behind her strength, her toughness.

And now, it’s all laid out in front of you.

She’s always loved you.

You swallow hard, your hand squeezing hers as you finally manage to find your voice, even though it feels as if it’s been taken from you for so long. You’re not sure if you want to speak, if you’re ready to speak, but it doesn’t matter.

A single tear slips down your cheek, catching in the moonlight that spills across the roof. You huff, your breath shaky, and quickly turn your head, trying to wipe it away before Vi can see.

But you’re not quick enough.

Vi’s blue eyes are already on you, her gaze soft, understanding, and something deeper, something tender that makes your heart ache even more. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you quietly, her thumb gently brushing over your knuckles as she holds your hand tighter.

The silence stretches between the two of you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels like the beginning of something, something you both need but are too afraid to admit.

“You’re such an idiot,” you murmur.

You shake your head, still unable to fully meet her gaze, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. The sting of the tear on your cheek fades as you try to swallow down the lump in your throat, but it’s useless.

Vi’s lips twitch, just a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’s always known how to make you smile, even when everything else around you seemed to be falling apart. Now, it’s the same thing. She’s still that person who knows how to make your heart feel lighter, even in times like this.

“I know.”

Her voice is soft, almost teasing, but there’s no mockery in it, only the acceptance of your words—because she’s heard them before. She’s known, deep down, that you always thought she was an idiot, that she was reckless, that she made mistakes.

But none of that mattered.

She’s always loved you. And you’ve always known it, even if you didn’t want to admit it at first.

She scoots closer to you, the space between you shrinking as she leans in, her body warm against yours. You can feel the weight of her presence beside you, the soft strength that always made you feel safe. Her hand tightens around yours, pulling it into her lap, and you let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes as if you can’t bear to look at her yet.

But her touch reminds you of who you were before everything fell apart, before the years, the distance, and the pain.

“I know,” she repeats softly, her smile growing. She brings your hand up to her lips, softly pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, the red still staining her ears as she nudges you with her shoulder.

“But I’m your idiot.”

And you want to laugh, want to smile and tease her like you used to, but instead, you just sit there. Just breathe.

Vi is here. She’s real. And she’s never stopped loving you.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re ready to love her back the way she’s always wanted you to.

ty for reading! | masterlist

[woniedarlin]

Love at First Bite

Pairing: Chef! Jay x Food Lover! Reader

Synopsis: Jay, a perfectionist chef, has no time for distractions, so when an ordinary guest like you barges into his world, eating like it’s your last meal, he becomes irritated. What starts as irritation turns into late-night kitchen encounters, and moments that leave Jay wondering if it was just the food or you all along.

Author's Note: Yes, I watched Attack on Titan. The idea was random because I suddenly thought of Sasha and Niccolo. And then I thought of Jay. So I put two and two together, and voilà! Most of my works are about Jungwon, but I also wanted to start writing about other members—so I started this. Happy reading!

Warnings: This story is a fun, lighthearted take on a food-loving character. No harmful eating behaviors are intended. It also contains moments of class-based prejudice.

Permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy

Heavily based on Sasha and Niccolo from Attack on Titan.

The rich smell of seared meat and herbs drifted through the grand dining hall of Luminara, the finest restaurant in Korea. The chandeliers lit up, and the voices of high-class guests were heard. Jay stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, looking closely at the dishes before him. Each plate he sent out was a piece of art made with care and pride. He had spent years refining his craft, serving only the most elite patrons who understood fine dining. He didn’t cook for just anyone. Only those who could appreciate the delicate balance of flavors and the effort behind every carefully plated meal.

"Jay," the owner of Luminara approached him with a smile. “Tonight, we’re inviting a few special guests. Not our usual clientele, but a few people outside this city are getting a taste of real luxury."

Jay frowned and set down his utensils. "You’re letting outsiders in? What’s the point? This place was built on exclusivity."

The owner chuckled at Jay’s apparent irritation. "To remind ourselves what food is really about. You’ll see."

Jay scoffed. He didn’t cook for people who wolfed down meals without appreciating the craftsmanship behind them. He cooked for those who knew how to savor every bite, who understood the layers of flavors and the artistry in each presentation. The thought of common diners stuffing their faces without a second thought made his blood boil. But the decision wasn’t his, and as much as he hated it, he had no choice but to comply.

As the evening went on, the dining hall changed. Louder and rougher conversations replaced the usual calm atmosphere. The guests that gathered had a different energy. They weren’t dressed in tailored suits or designer gowns. They were ordinary people, eyes wide as they took in the grandeur of Luminara. Some gawked at the lavish decor, while others whispered excitedly, clearly unfamiliar with such luxury.

Jay watched with narrowed eyes as the servers hesitated before placing dishes in front of these new guests. He clenched his jaw as laughter echoed from a table near the center, a sound far too carefree for his liking. His gaze zeroed in on one particular diner who was already making an impression…and not in a good way.

You were excited and couldn’t sit still as you looked at the menu. When the server brought a basket of fresh bread, you eagerly dug in, enjoying the soft, warm rolls as if you hadn’t eaten in days. Jay noticed your lack of grace and restraint

This was pure indulgence.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath while shaking his head.

Then came the main course: a perfectly cooked steak, truffle-infused mashed potatoes, and a delicate garnish. As soon as it was set in front of you, you dug in without waiting. Your fork and knife moved quickly, and you ate before the server left. Jay frowned when he saw this. This was precisely what he had worried about. His food was being consumed without any appreciation.

But then, something unexpected happened. You stopped eating, and your face changed into something gentler. Tears filled your eyes as you softly said, "This is the best thing I've ever eaten."

Jay felt embarrassed and looked away, frowning. "What an idiot," he said quietly.

For the first time, someone had shown pure joy from his food.

Sitting next to you, your friends exchanged looks as they watched you joyfully eat bite after bite, with tears still shining in your eyes. "Slow down!" one of them urged. "You're going to choke if you keep eating like that!"

You barely acknowledged them, too overwhelmed by the flavors dancing on your tongue. Between mouthfuls, you managed to blurt out, "This is—so—good!" before hastily swallowing and turning toward the kitchen. "Chef!" you called out with gratitude. "Thank you! This is the best meal I've ever had!"

Jay, observing the scene from afar, stiffened at the sudden attention. His ears burned red. "There's more food," he snapped. "Stop crying over one dish." His flustered expression only deepened when you eagerly nodded, grabbing your utensils to continue devouring your meal.

Despite his grumbling, Jay found himself sneaking another glance at you. Something about how you appreciated his cooking….so openly and genuinely…affected him deeply.

The restaurant remained open for drinks and light conversation as the night wore on. The kitchen, however, had officially closed. Jay retreated to his station, cleaning up and ensuring everything was in order before heading out for the night. The owner was still entertaining the guests, their laughter filling the otherwise quiet space.

But then, a sound of soft footsteps on the tile.

Jay narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t alone.

Peeking around the corner, he spotted you crouched near the counter, eyeing a tray of leftovers. Your fingers twitched as you reached for a piece of untouched steak. Before you could bite it entirely, however—

"What the hell are you doing?"

You froze mid-bite, eyes wide, as you turned toward Jay. His arms were crossed, and his face had an unimpressed scowl, but the slight furrow in his brows betrayed his disbelief.

"Uh… late-night snack?" you offered sheepishly while the stolen food was still halfway to your mouth.

Jay let out a sharp sigh and rubbed his temples. "Unbelievable. Don’t you have no shame?"

"I do!" you protested. "But look at this! It’s a crime to let food this good go to waste!"

Jay opened his mouth to argue, but then he noticed how you looked at the food, like it was some treasure. That same unfiltered joy from earlier still sparkled in your eyes, and damn it, it made something in him falter.

"Tch," he muttered. "Please… sit down properly if you’re going to eat."

Your face lit up. "Really? You’re letting me?"

"I didn't say that! Just—" He groaned. "don’t make a mess."

You grinned, eagerly settling into one of the kitchen stools. As you took your first bite, humming in delight, Jay crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, watching you.

"By the way, I’m y/n!" you said brightly as you extended your free hand while holding a piece of steak in the other. "Nice to meet you, Chef grumpy!"

Jay scoffed but hesitated before shaking your hand. "Jay."

You smiled and chewed happily. "You know, you’re talented. I think you might be the best chef in the whole world."

Jay’s face turned red. "Shut up and eat."

♟️

Weeks had passed since the night Jay caught you sneaking into the kitchen, and somehow, your presence had become a constant in his life. You weren’t just another guest the restaurant had invited once, and you kept returning. Sometimes, it was with the same group of people who had been asked that first night. Other times, it was just you, sitting at a table near the kitchen, peeking inside whenever you thought no one was looking.

Jay had no idea why the owner let you roam around so freely, but somehow, he always ended up dealing with you. At first, he acted indifferent, telling himself he didn’t care. But over time, he found himself watching how your eyes lit up at the sight of food, how you would hum in satisfaction after the first bite.

Tonight was no different. The dinner had ended, and the kitchen had closed, but the restaurant remained open while the owner entertained the guests. You, as usual, had eaten to your heart’s content…or so it seemed…until you suddenly groaned.

“I’m still hungry.”

Your friends turned to you in horror. “You just ate a five-course meal!” one of them whispered sharply. “Stop embarrassing yourself.”

“But I’m seriously still hungry,” you whined and pouted. “It’s not my fault everything was so good! I could eat forever.”

Cleaning up near the kitchen entrance, Jay overheard your complaint and sighed heavily. He really shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t.

Yet, before stopping, he muttered, “Wait here.”

A few moments later, he returned, placing a plate before you. It wasn’t on the menu, just something he had made earlier and hadn’t used. “Eat this,” he said. “It was going to be wasted anyway.”

Your eyes widened as your eyes lightened up instantly. “For me? Really?” Without hesitation, you dug in, humming happily after the first bite. “Ah, Jay, you’re seriously a genius! This is amazing!”

Jay cleared his throat as a faint pink dusted his ears. “Whatever. Just don’t complain about being hungry anymore.”

Your friends exchanged knowing looks while you, completely oblivious, happily continued eating. Jay wasn’t sure what was more frustrating,

How you ate so eagerly, or how he wanted to see that reaction again.

♟️

Time had passed, and somehow, you were still here.

Jay wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point, he stopped questioning why you kept showing up at the restaurant. It had become typical to see you hovering near the kitchen, making excuses to talk to him, sneaking bites of food whenever you thought he wasn’t looking.

At first, he was irritated. You were loud and shameless and had no concept of acceptable dining etiquette. But then, something changed…

Maybe it was how you reacted to his food as if every bite was the best thing you’d ever tasted. Perhaps it was how you always showed up with the same bright energy, never letting his cold demeanor push you away. Or maybe it was because, without realizing it, you had started learning more about him.

You knew that Jay had been cooking since childhood, that his parents expected him to be the best, and that he had spent years perfecting his skills. You knew he barely had time for himself, rarely ever sat down to eat his dishes, and hated when people wasted food. “You never actually enjoy your cooking, do you?” you asked one evening, watching as he wiped down the counters after a long shift.

Jay barely glanced at you. “I taste everything I make.”

“That’s not the same,” you argued. “Tasting and enjoying are two different things.”

He scoffed. “Not for me.”

You rested your chin on the counter while watching him work. “You know, I think I’m starting to understand you.”

He shot you a skeptical look. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “You act like cooking is just a job, but deep down, it’s more than that. You want people to appreciate your food but pretend not to care. You act like you’re all serious and professional, but you secretly have a soft spot for people who genuinely enjoy eating.”

Jay stilled for a moment, “Shut up.”

You grinned. “See? You’re blushing. I noticed it whenever your ears redden.”

“I’m not,” he grumbled and turned his back to you.

But he didn’t tell you to leave.

And when he caught you stealing a bite from a leftover dish, he sighed and slid the entire plate toward you instead of scolding you.

♟️

The restaurant was packed days later, filled with the city’s most elite customers. You sat at your usual spot, enjoying a simple dish Jay had grudgingly given you when the sound of elegant laughter caught your attention. At the entrance, a woman stepped in. A textbook definition of perfection. She was tall and graceful, dressed in a designer outfit that screamed wealth, and walked with the confidence that made people turn their heads.

You hadn’t thought much of it until you saw her walk straight to Jay.

She leaned in slightly as she spoke. Jay didn’t react much but didn’t brush her off either. Instead, he listened, nodding occasionally as she continued talking.

You felt so different…

You had never thought about it before, but seeing someone so poised, so naturally fitting into Jay’s world, made you feel… small like you didn’t belong here.

You stared down at your plate and suddenly lost your appetite.

“What are you doing here?” A sharp voice cut through your thoughts.

You looked up to see a wealthy-looking man sitting at a nearby table. His eyes narrowed in distaste as he glanced at your plate.

“I—uh, eating?” you answered, confused by his hostility.

He scoffed. “Do you even belong in a place like this? The owner lets anyone in these days.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as embarrassment flooded through you. You weren’t dressed in designer clothes, you didn’t have the same effortless elegance as the other guests, and you certainly didn’t carry yourself like someone who belonged in a fine-dining restaurant.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you were just a joke here.

And for the first time, you pushed your plate away. You suddenly didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

But before you could get up, a familiar voice interrupted.

“If you have a problem, take it somewhere else.”

Jay’s voice was colder than you’d ever heard it.

The rude customer was startled by his tone. “Excuse me?”

Jay didn’t back down. “They’re a guest here. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.”

The entire table fell silent. Even the elegant woman Jay had been talking to earlier turned to watch the scene unfold.

Your heart pounded. You had never expected him to defend you.

The rude customer scoffed, muttering something under his breath before turning away.

You looked up at Jay, who still had that unreadable expression. But instead of saying anything, he picked up your untouched plate and placed it back in front of you.

“Eat.” His voice was quieter this time.

You hesitated. “But—”

“You like food, don’t you?” he muttered, “Don’t waste it just because of some idiot.”

Your chest tightened.

For the first time, Jay wasn’t just tolerating your presence. He was defending it.

♟️

The night air was cool as you stepped out of the restaurant. You were still feeling a little shaken from earlier. You weren’t sure why the customer’s words had gotten to you so much. Maybe it was because, deep down, you had already felt like you didn’t belong.

You sighed, hugging your arms as you stared at the street. It was late, and you’d have to catch a bus home.

“Let’s go.”

You turned at Jay’s voice, surprised to see him standing beside you with car keys.

“Huh?”

He looked uncomfortable. “I’ll drive you home.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Jay scoffed. “Do you always question free rides?”

“Well, yeah. Especially from you.”

His jaw clenched. “It’s late. I’m not letting you take the bus alone.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure him out. This was the same Jay who had barely tolerated your presence when you first met. And now he was offering to take you home?

A slow smile crept onto your lips. “Jay, are you being nice to me?”

His ears immediately turned red. “Get in the car before I change my mind.”

Giggling, you hopped into the passenger seat.

The drive was quiet at first. Jay kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel. You, on the other hand, kept sneaking glances at him. “You know,” you said, breaking the silence, “I think I like this side of you.”

He scoffed. “What side?”

“The side that cares.”

Jay clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I don’t care.”

“Mm-hmm. Sure.”

He exhaled sharply. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” He groaned, “I should’ve let you take the bus.”

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had all night. Maybe you didn’t fit into the world of fine dining and expensive lifestyles, but Jay was letting you into his for some reason.

And for now, that was enough.

The car slowed to a stop in front of your place. You unbuckled your seatbelt, stretching slightly before turning to Jay with a grin.

“Thanks for the ride, chef.”

Jay rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

You giggled. “Okay, okay. Thanks, Jay.”

He didn’t respond. Typical.

You opened the door but hesitated before stepping out. Maybe it was because Jay, despite all his grumbling, had gone out of his way to make sure you got home safely. Before you could overthink it, you leaned over and quickly kissed his cheek.

Jay froze.

You pulled back, biting back a laugh at how his entire body tensed up.

“Goodnight, Jay!” you chirped, hopping out of the car before he could react.

Jay remained in the driver’s seat and did not move for five minutes.

Then, slowly, his head dropped forward, pressing against his hand, while the other remained tightly gripping the steering wheel. Completely flustered.

♟️

The kitchen was silent. It was tense, almost cinematic kind, where something big was about to happen. You stood in the middle of the restaurant’s empty kitchen. You looked determined. The lighting overhead made dramatic shadows across your face. In one hand, you gripped a whisk like a weapon; in the other, a wooden spoon rested firmly against your palm.

Jay, dressed in casual clothes for once, an oversized hoodie and joggers, stood by the doorway watching you with the most unimpressed expression.

“…What are you doing?” he asked flatly.

You took a slow breath. Then, with all the seriousness of a battle-hardened warrior, you said:

“Let’s go.”

Jay blinked. “Go where?”

“To war.” You turned and grabbed an apron, tying it around your waist swiftly. “Tonight, I become a chef.”

Jay groaned as he was dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. No.”

“Yes.” You opened the fridge with purpose. Your eyes scan its contents. “I will cook. And you will teach me.”

“I never agreed to this.”

You turned to him. “You are my mentor. My guide. My—”

“I literally never agreed to this,” he repeated, but you were already gathering ingredients, your mind was set.

Jay sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. He should’ve just walked out, gone home, and left you to whatever chaos you were about to cause. But instead, he leaned against the counter and muttered, “Fine. But don’t start crying when you ruin something.”

You grinned. “I would never.”

Fifteen minutes in, you were a wreck.

Tears streamed down your face as you aggressively rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. You were sniffling so hard.

Jay squinted at you. “…Are you crying?”

You sniffled. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s just—” You wiped your sleeve across your face, only to wince when the burning worsened. “Why do my eyes feel like they’re on fire?!”

Jay blinked. Then, very slowly, he pointed at the cutting board. “You do know onions make you cry, right?”

You stared at him while mouth slightly open. Then, in pure confusion, you looked down at your hands.

“…Wait.” You squinted. “Is that why?”

Jay’s jaw dropped. “You—you didn’t know?!”

You gasped. “I thought my body was just rejecting cooking!”

Jay dragged a hand down his face. “Oh my god.”

Still wholly clueless, you kept rubbing at your eyes…

with the same onion-covered hands.

Immediately, you let out a strangled noise. “WHY IS IT GETTING WORSE?!”

Jay smacked his forehead. “Stop rubbing your eyes!”

“But they sting!”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE RUBBING ONION JUICE ALL OVER THEM!”

The realization finally hit you. You froze, hands still pressed against your face.

“…Oh.”

There was a pause. Then, Jay let out a soft, breathy laugh, barely audible at first, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He pressed a hand against his lips. You could see his shoulders shaking slightly. The sound wasn’t mocking or loud… it was quiet, amused, genuine.

You frowned. “Are you laughing?”

Jay exhaled, looking down for a second before meeting your gaze again. “No.”

“You so are.”

Jay let out another chuckle before reaching for your wrist. “Come here.”

He guided you toward the sink, turning on the faucet. He didn’t say much, gently nudging your hands under the running water to help you rinse them off. His touch was careful.

“…You laughed,” you mumbled while watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Jay huffed softly and shook his head as he grabbed a towel to dry his hands. “Maybe.”

You stared at him. “You never laugh.”

Jay glanced at you, then looked away as he wiped his hands. “Guess you’re just that ridiculous.”

You pouted. “Hey—”

Before you could finish, he flicked a drop of water at your face, his smirk widening slightly.

For some reason, your face suddenly felt warmer than before.

♟️

You were stirring the sauce as brows furrowed in concentration. Jay stood beside you,

“Not bad,” he murmured, peering over your shoulder.

You perked up. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Jay reached over, his hand brushing against yours as he adjusted your grip on the spoon. “But you’re stirring too aggressively. It’s sauce, not a workout.”

You rolled your eyes but followed his guidance, stirring slower.

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. The only sounds were the pot's gentle bubbling and the occasional spoon scrape against the pan.

Then, suddenly—

“Jay.”

He hummed.

You turned your head slightly, only to realize how close he was. His face was just inches away. You could see the sharpness of his jaw and the slight curve of his lips.

Your heart stuttered.

“…You have flour on your cheek.”

Jay blinked. “What?”

You grinned. Before he could react, you reached up, swiping your thumb against his cheek. “There.”

Jay stiffened. His eyes flickered to yours, and neither moved for a second. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in, his eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before going back up.

It happened so quickly and naturally that you almost didn’t process it.

A soft press of lips.

Warm. Gentle. Just a second, maybe two…barely enough time for your brain to catch up.

Then Jay pulled back,

You blinked.

He blinked.

Then, instead of scrambling for words or looking away, Jay exhaled softly. A small smile, barely there but real…tugged at his lips as he tilted his head slightly.

“Oh…” he murmured. His eyes softened as he looked at you. “What would I do if I never met you?”

For once, you had no words.

And Jay… Jay just kept smiling.

♟️

You both sat at the kitchen counter, and the freshly cooked meal was between you. For once, it wasn’t just Jay’s cooking. It was something both of you had made together. Jay picked up a spoon and scooped up a bit of the dish. You watched as he took the first bite,

Your fingers fidgeted slightly against your lap. “…So?”

Jay chewed slowly, eyes narrowing as if analyzing every flavor and texture. You swore he was dragging this out on purpose.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled softly. “It’s… not bad.”

You gasped. “Not bad? Jay, that’s practically a Michelin-star review coming from you!”

His lips twitched. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Then, without hesitation, he scooped up another bite and held the spoon out toward you.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Just eat.”

Not one to refuse food, you quickly leaned forward, taking a bite.

The moment the flavors hit your tongue, your eyes lit up. “Oh my god—” You barely even finished chewing before eating at your usual speed before reaching for another bite.

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Hey. Slow down.”

You barely heard him, too caught up in how delicious it was. “I can’t! It’s so good!”

Jay sighed, shaking his head, but his expression had no real annoyance. It's something softer. Fond.

“…You’re one of a kind” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You grinned at him while still chewing.

His ears turned slightly pink, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he chuckled and reached over, ruffling your hair gently before pulling his hand away. He shook his head. “Finish your food.”

And so you did.

♟️

Since that night in the kitchen, things between you and Jay had felt… different. Not in a bad way. Just softer. Warmer. He wasn’t as quick to roll his eyes at you anymore, and sometimes, you caught him watching you for no reason.

Today, the two of you had decided to hang out outside of the restaurant, outside of work. It was nothing extravagant, just a simple walk through a quiet part of the city, stopping by different food stalls because you couldn’t eat while out. As you happily munched on some street food, Jay suddenly cleared his throat beside you.

You glanced at him. “What’s up?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small box, and handed it to you.

“Huh? What’s this?” you said, confused, while accepting the box.

“Just open it.”

You gave him a suspicious look but did as told, flipping open the box. Inside sat a small but delicate pastry. Something handcrafted, topped with intricate chocolate lettering that read:

“I love you. Will you be my girlfriend?”

You stared at it. Then at him. Then, back at the pastry.

Silence.

And then—

You burst out laughing.

Jay’s face turned red in an instant. “Why are you laughing?”

You clutched your stomach, still laughing between breaths. “Because! This is so you! Instead of just saying it, you baked the question?”

Jay groaned and rubbed his face. “I knew you’d react like this.”

Still grinning, you looked at him. “Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, chef.”

Jay exhaled, his shoulders relaxing because he had been holding his breath the whole time. But then, he quickly narrowed his eyes at you. “You still have to eat that, you know.”

You picked up the pastry with a smirk. “Obviously.”

And with that, you took a big bite,

Answering him in the best way you knew how.

♟️

The kitchen was alive with movement. The clang of pots and pans echoed against the walls as chefs moved swiftly to prepare for one of the year's most meaningful events. Jay stood at the center, commanding the room with his sharp gaze and precise instructions. “Keep the plating clean. We need consistency across all dishes,” he ordered, scanning the line of chefs. “Timing is everything tonight. If one dish is late, it throws off the whole rhythm. Stay focused.”

He was strict, but only because he wanted everything to be correct.

And then—

He saw you.

Standing at the kitchen entrance, watching him with that bright, familiar smile.

His expression softened in an instant. His tense grip on his clipboard relaxed, and before anyone could say anything, he walked over to you and gently kissed your forehead. “You’re early,” he murmured, his voice losing its previous sharpness.

You grinned. “Figured I’d get a sneak peek of the magic before the event starts.”

Jay chuckled. “You’re lucky I’m making an exception for you being in here.”

You pouted. “I’m always the exception.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Let’s step outside for a bit before I get pulled back in.”

The two of you found a corner outside the kitchen,

“You’re amazing at this, you know,” you said as you watched him fondly. “You look so in your element back there.”

Jay sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s stressful, but yeah… I love it.”

“And I love watching you do what you love.”

He looked at you softly. “You always say things like that so easily.”

You shrugged. “It’s because I mean them.”

Jay exhaled and shook his head with a quiet laugh. “I swear, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder. “At least you’ll be well-fed.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah… I think I can live with that.”

As the evening carried on, as the restaurant filled with guests and the kitchen came alive with the sound of cooking, Jay worked with a little more lightness in his heart,

Because no matter how busy or stressful things got, he knew that you'd always be there at the end of the day.

[buckyseternaldoll]

Snowy Alps: Alpine.

Summary: Bucky brings home a stray cat. Alpine brings home a new routine.

Disclaimer: fluff, domestic bucky, stray cat adoption, alpine supremacy, soft cuddles, pet store chaos, bed-sharing (with cat), light teasing

The door slid open with a gentle swoosh, and Bucky stepped into your shared Watchtower unit, a takeout bag in one hand, your steaming cup of coffee in the other, and—most notably—white cat fur clinging to the black of his jacket like he’d wrestled a snowstorm on the way home.

“Baby?” he called out, voice lighter than usual.

You peeked from the couch where you’d been curled up with a blanket and a book. “Hey, welcome back.” Then your eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re covered in something… fuzzy.”

He blinked, then glanced down. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. About that.”

He set the food down and shrugged off his jacket, revealing even more fur speckled along the sleeves of his black long-sleeve shirt. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. Instead, he practically beamed as he sat beside you, still riding the high of his afternoon discovery.

“There’s this cat,” he began, already breathless with excitement. “At the café downstairs. All white. Like—not cream or off-white. White-white. Snow.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “And she attacked you?”

“No,” he said, eyes softening as he looked at you. “She curled up on my lap while I was waiting for your pastries. Like she just decided I was furniture. Didn’t flinch when I pet her. She even rolled over so I could scratch her tummy.”

“She showed you her belly?” you laughed, heart fluttering at how gentle he sounded. “That’s trust. Instant soul bond.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” His knee bounced slightly. He was trying to contain himself, like he was unsure if this would sound silly—but you already knew the answer.

“So… I wanna bring her home,” he said, glancing at you, hopeful but cautious. “If you’re okay with that. I already checked—she’s a girl. I’d name her Alpine. Like the snowcaps in the Alps. Pure white. Peaceful. It just… felt right. I think she reminds me of that part of me I never got to have.”

That last part made your chest ache a little—softly, sweetly. You leaned forward, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his stubbled cheek.

“I love it,” you said. “And I love her already. Let’s go get Alpine.”

—

Later that evening, you were both back at the café. The little white cat was still perched in her usual spot by the patio, paws tucked under her like a loaf of bread.

Bucky crouched down and softly called, “Hey, Alpine…”

Her ears twitched. She lifted her head, saw him—and without hesitation, padded straight over. She hopped onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, head bumping against his chest before she curled against him.

“Yup,” you murmured, watching him hold her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “You’re hers now.”

He scooped her up carefully, and she made no fuss—just settled in with a quiet purr, trusting and content.

—

The evening ended with a smooth vet visit—Alpine was healthy, just a little underweight—and a very enthusiastic trip to the nearby pet store that felt, quite honestly, more like preparing for a royal homecoming than a casual adoption.

The moment you stepped inside, Bucky froze like a soldier facing an unexpected new mission.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered, surveying the rows of colorful packaging and towers of cat furniture like they were tactical assets on a battlefield. You watched his eyes dart from brand names to ingredient lists with the same intense focus he used when analyzing mission files.

He lingered in the litter box aisle for an embarrassingly long time, crouched in front of three nearly identical models with his brow furrowed. One had a carbon filter, another promised “maximum odor control,” and the third came in sleek matte black.

“This one looks like it belongs in Stark’s bathroom,” he grumbled.

“Then she’ll probably hate it,” you replied, laughing as you nudged him. “Just pick one that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

“She deserves something classy,” he insisted, eventually settling on a simple beige model with a privacy hood and golden trim. “She’s got dignity.”

The indecision didn’t stop there. In the food aisle, he hovered like a man trying to choose the perfect wine for a Michelin-starred dinner. He held up one bag of premium organic kibble like it held the answer to the universe.

“This says wild-caught salmon,” he mumbled, reading the back. “But this one has freeze-dried duck. Which one’s better? Which one screams ‘I love you and I respect your primal instincts’?”

“She’s a five-pound cat, Buck.”

“She’s my five-pound cat,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t give her anything boring. What if she hates me?”

Then, with sudden intensity, he looked at you and said, completely serious: “Should I just buy raw steak? Like… once a week? A little Friday night ritual? We could call it Alpine’s Ribeye Hour.”

You burst out laughing. “No, babe. No ribeye hour. She doesn’t need red meat marbled to perfection.”

A staff member nearby chuckled and gently stepped in. “If she’s not on a raw diet, that much red meat might upset her stomach. Fancy kibble and wet food will do fine. Maybe throw in a few freeze-dried treats.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred instructions.

“I just want her to feel safe,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Like she’s somewhere soft and permanent.”

“She already does,” you reminded him softly.

Eventually, you both left the store with a small cart piled high: a tall cat tree (“She deserves the high ground,” Bucky declared), a pastel pink ceramic bowl set (“Matches her tiny murder princess energy”), a soft faux-fur bed, several mouse-shaped toys, a bag of treats shaped like little fish, and a feather wand Bucky couldn’t stop playing with while waiting in line.

“She’s gonna think we’re insane,” you said.

“She’s gonna think she won the lottery,” he replied.

—

By the time you were both back at the Watchtower—inside your cozy, shared space that passed for a home more than a mission base—Alpine was already out of her carrier and trotting forward like she’d been here before in another life.

Tail held high, she made her rounds with purpose. First the kitchen, where she sniffed the legs of the island and examined the corner near the fridge. Then the couch, where she clawed lightly at the throw blanket you’d folded earlier that morning, as if testing the texture for naps. She darted into the hallway, disappeared into the bathroom, and reappeared with what looked like a stray cotton swab in her mouth.

“She’s inspecting her kingdom,” you whispered.

“No—she’s checking for weak spots in our defenses,” Bucky replied seriously, crouching to retrieve the cotton swab from her mouth. “Classic flanking maneuver.”

Eventually, she made her way into the bedroom, pausing only once to look over her shoulder and chirp—a soft, curious sound that neither of you had expected to melt your hearts the way it did.

You followed her inside, and watched as she leapt effortlessly onto the bed. But not just anywhere. No. She walked with clear intent to Bucky’s side—his pillow still creased from that morning—and plopped down like she owned it.

“I…” Bucky blinked. “I think I’m the chosen one.”

“You are,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re covered in fur and she already slept on you once. You’re marked.”

As if to prove it, Alpine stretched and rolled sideways, exposing her belly to the ceiling as she purred and rubbed her face into Bucky’s pillow like she was stamping her signature all over it.

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she might vanish. But when he sat on the edge of the mattress, Alpine stood, walked over, and—with the most casual entitlement—climbed halfway up his leg like a tiny mountain lion scaling familiar terrain.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to move. “She picked me again.”

You grinned, arms crossed. “Yeah. She’s definitely got good taste.”

Alpine nuzzled her cheek into the dark fabric of his pants before curling into a loaf at his feet, purring like a little motor. The kind of sound you could feel if you stood close enough—warm and steady.

Bucky’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “She’s home.”

—

Dinner was easy that night. The two of you ate on the small dining table tucked against the window, city lights sparkling far below. You passed each other bites between conversation and quiet laughter, half of your attention stolen by the soft presence now occupying the middle of the table.

Alpine had curled up just to the left of Bucky’s plate, nose tucked under her tail, the tips of her ears twitching ever so slightly. Her soft, rhythmic purring filled the space like background music—comforting, cozy, like a fireplace crackling.

Bucky just stared at her for a long moment, chin resting on his palm, spoon suspended in his other hand.

“You good, Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t even look away from her. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I’m full already. Could listen to that purr all night.”

You snorted into your drink, setting it down with a smirk. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve lost my queen position to a white cat with jellybean toes?”

Bucky finally turned to you with the softest look—like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life—and said, “Nah. You’re the queen. She’s just… the royal advisor. Or a tiny fluffy tyrant.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her paw.”

“She does,” he admitted, completely unbothered. “And I’d do anything she asked.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be jealous. Watching him like this—gentle, light, his guard down so far it was practically gone—you felt the warmth of this little family settling into place around you.

And across the table, Alpine purred on. Content. Safe. Home.

—

Night fell quiet over the Watchtower, the kind of stillness only broken by the hum of distant aircraft traffic and the occasional creak of the unit’s HVAC system. In the soft light of your bedroom, all was warm and calm. Alpine was nowhere to be seen for now—last you saw, she’d been investigating the inside of Bucky’s tactical boot.

You were already under the covers, curled into Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm stretched behind your pillow and his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns over your shoulder. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just the kind of closeness that spoke in silence—shared warmth, steady heartbeats, fingers laced under the sheets like they belonged there.

“I love this,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed into your hair. “Me too.”

But then, after a beat, you felt him shift. Just slightly. Then again—shoulders squirming, fingers pausing on your back.

“Bucky,” you said, suspiciously. “Why are you moving?”

He hesitated… then whispered like a kid asking for dessert past bedtime, “Can I… go pet Alpine now?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been waiting all day to cuddle with her,” he said, completely sincere. “I thought maybe she’d sleep on my chest tonight or curl into my arm or something.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You traitor. I lose my spot to a rescue cat in less than twelve hours.”

But before either of you could move, there was a soft thump from the hallway—then the elegant click of tiny paws against the wooden floor. Alpine strutted into the room like she owned the lease.

“There she is,” Bucky whispered excitedly, already shifting up onto one elbow with a smile spreading across his face.

You watched, amused, as Alpine paused at the edge of the bed, assessed the situation like a military tactician… and then, with no hesitation whatsoever, padded to your side and flopped down against your stomach. Not between the two of you. Not on Bucky.

Just you.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

Alpine let out one satisfied purr, stretched long across your middle like a sash, and closed her eyes. Her white fur glowed in the soft bedside lamp, her little pink nose twitching like she’d claimed her spot and would not be moved.

“…She picked you,” Bucky said, sounding personally wounded.

“Oh no,” you gasped, not hiding your grin. “Oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I believe you’ve been rejected.”

“I fed her salmon bits tonight,” he said, genuinely baffled. “I carried her around PetSmart for two hours like she was royalty. I said she was my girl!”

“She was your girl,” you teased. “But clearly, she has her eye on the throne now.”

He narrowed his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Betrayal. In my own bed.”

You reached over with a smirk, gently shifting Alpine so she now lay in the middle between you both. She didn’t curl into a tight ball, like she had before—instead, she stretched out flat and long, paws extended forward, belly facing up proudly as if to say yes, I own you both now.

Her purring started almost instantly—loud and deep, vibrating against the mattress like a lullaby.

“Well,” Bucky murmured, giving her a fond scratch behind the ear, “if she’s in the middle, then at least I get joint custody.”

You smiled, snuggling closer, your arm brushing his over Alpine’s fluff. “Looks like the bed’s not just ours anymore.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re both here.”

And under the soft hum of Alpine’s purring, the three of you slowly drifted off to sleep—safe, warm, and home.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Love and Care.

Pairing: Yandere!Clark Kent x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 4.0k.

Commissioned by the very lovely @distortedhumor.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Prolonged Captivity + Kidnapping, Spanking, Psychological/Physical Abuse, Slight Infantilization, and Delusional Behavior.

You were going to freeze to death.

That was – if you didn’t die of dehydration, first. You really weren’t sure which was supposed to work faster; thirst or exposure, the acidic dryness crawling up the back of your throat or the slow, numbing chill spreading up from your toes, your fingertips. You didn’t have to worry about hunger – even if you could feel something sharp and hollow gnawing at the pit of your stomach. You remembered reading somewhere that it took longer than a month for someone to starve to death, even if it was hard to believe that when it felt like you were on the verge of collapsing into yourself.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t been prepared. Admittedly, it’d been an impulsive thing to do, the half-baked result of a door left unlocked and the daunting awareness that you had at least twelve hours before you so much as heard from Clark again, if not the full twenty-four. You didn’t have shoes more durable than house-slippers and the delicate, lovingly polished, Mary Jane heels he liked to see you in, but you’d put on your thickest dress, stuffed a bottle of water and a few slices of homemade bread into a knapsack, and started walking into the lifeless, rolling plains that surrounded the rustic farmhouse he kept you in. You didn’t run – he always seemed to know if your heart rate spiked– but you had all day to walk until you found a road, or a phone booth, or anything else that could at least remind you that other people existed. You figured you’d come across something eventually, even if you couldn’t find the help you were looking for.

Except, you’d underestimated just how cold the countryside could get in autumn, and you hadn’t thought to ration your meager supplies until after they’d already run out, and as far as you could tell, he’d found the most vacant, lifeless, desolate corner of the world to trap you within. The hem of your skirt was caked with mud and dust, your knapsack had been left behind entirely after you realized there was no point in carrying and empty bag, and one of your heels had broken off about two miles back – leaving you reduced to a slow, hobbling limp. Your body was exhausted beyond exhaustion, but you couldn’t imagine a world where you stopped walking. The only thing worse than knowing you were going to freeze to death in the middle of nowhere would be knowing that you’d just laid down and accepted it, and if you’d been willing to do that, you wouldn’t have run away at—

Your foot caught on a dense patch of undergrowth, and too tired to catch yourself, you crumpled – your knees hitting the earth with enough force to make you whimper. The last of your perseverance crashed and shattered as soon as you hit the ground, and before you could so much as try to stand up, you fell apart completely. You felt the tears before you realized you were crying – just one, at first, then another, then more than you could ever hope to count. You threw your head forward, sniffling miserably as you collapsed onto your side. You were going to die out here, but…

But, that was probably for the best, wasn’t it? It was either die out here, or die in that lonely farmhouse when Clark finally lost his temper or the roof collapsed or the ‘villains’ he was also so worried about finally did their job and put you out of your fucking misery. With a full-fledged sob, you curled into yourself and clenched your eyes shut, and—

And of course, less than a full second later, you felt a pair of muscle-bound arms wrap around your crumpled form, sweeping you off the ground and dragging you into a broad chest. You were too weak to meaningfully resist, but still, you tried to writhe and nudge yourself out of his iron-clad hold to little success. He was already talking, too. Great. On the ranked list of things you might’ve wanted to hear immediately after accepting your own mortality, your kidnapper’s nervous babbling didn’t crack the top hundred.

As if that had ever stopped him before.

“—and I thought you’d gotten hurt, and your pulse sounded so far away, and— and I don’t know what I would’ve done if it’d taken me any longer to find you.” You tuned in mid-rambling, trying to swallow your agitation. He was bent over you, his face buried in your hair, giving his voice an unsteady, muffled quality. For the world’s strongest man, he was quick to fall apart whenever he thought you so much as might be in danger. You couldn’t really judge him for that, though. You fell apart whenever he wasn’t around, too, and you didn’t care about him at all. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? There’s a hospital about fifty miles away, I can—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in, your hands shoving at his forearm where it was barred over your waist. With an airy sigh, he repositioned you – letting you fall into a proper bridal-carry rather a fully-body tackle. You noticed, for the first time, that his feet weren’t touching the ground. He was levitating, a nervous habit that he fell back into too often to keep track of. He must’ve genuinely thought you were in danger. More importantly, he must’ve known there was no one around to see him doing something so obviously superhuman. “Just a little cold. I‘m sorry for worrying you.”

Another sigh, this one more genuine than the last. For the first time, he drew back, and you were able to see him properly. He must’ve come straight from Metropolis; he was still wearing the suit you’d seen him in that morning, his hair slightly disheveled and his glasses shoved haphazardly into his shirt pocket. You tried to breathe, not to be thankful for how quickly his inhuman warmth was ebbing away the harsher edges of your hypothermia, and for the most part, you succeeded. You felt his lips brush against your cheek, then the corner of your jaw – Clark as affectionate as he was paranoid. “Poor thing,” he muttered, haphazardly shrugging off the jacket of his suit and draping it over your shoulders. “We’ll have to get you warmed up once we get home.”

Despite yourself, you stiffened. It was over - you knew that. He caught you, and even if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to go on much longer. You knew that.

And yet, you held yourself that much tighter as you asked, “…do we have to go home right away?”

Clark’s smile softened; his expression slackening is a patronizingly sympathetic sort of way. He didn’t need to answer, not really, but you still cringed when he inevitably did. “Of course, dear.” And then, with another kiss to your forehead. “How else can I keep you safe?”

You might’ve been nicer than him, after all. Rather than respond, you bowed your head and tucked yourself against his chest, shutting your eyes and blocking him out entirely. Clark only hummed in acknowledgement, flying that much higher and taking you home.

~

It took an embarrassingly short time to reach the farmhouse – less than a full minute, if that. It wasn’t what you deserved, but it was what you needed: a reminder that you were trying to run away from someone who didn’t have to run at all to keep up with you. Trying to escape on your own was pointless. You’d either have to find another way to get away from him or give up entirely.

Despite your constant squirming, Clark only put you down once you were inside (meaning, once the front door was locked and deadbolted with you securely trapped behind it), and you stumbled to your feet, still on the verge of collapsing. He let you struggle through all of two steps before taking you by the hand and, with that award-winning smile, guiding you through the farmhouse. “A warm bath should do the trick. Some tea, too – or coffee, to keep your blood flowing.” His eyes flickered down to the mud-caked hem of your dress, your ruined shoes. “It’s a pity. I know that’s one of your favorites.” He paused, squeezed your hand. “We’ll have to pick out another together. Maybe tomorrow, before I leave for work.”

You bit the side of your tongue, nodding along absently and letting him ramble. When you passed the staircase leading to the second floor, to your bedroom, you started to move towards it, but Clark only continued further into the house.

“Uh, Clark?” You dragged your feet as he pulled you into the kitchen. “I— Um, tea sounds nice, but I’d really like to change, first, and—”

“In a few minutes.” Another infuriating smile, another squeeze to your hand. “Do you remember what happens when you break one of our rules?”

You felt something in your throat tighten. You’d managed to forget, but it came back quickly enough. “I do, but— I was out there for a few hours, and I can’t really feel my—”

“We’ll take care of that in a few minutes, love.” He was already moving towards the kitchen table, your hand still trapped in his. “We should get this over with now.”

Trying to argue would’ve been useless. You did your best to grit your teeth, to brace yourself, but your vision still blurred as he finally released you, settling into one of the simple wooden chairs. You crossed your arms over your chest, but it did little to put a barrier between you and his prying gaze. “Do you want to undress yourself? Or do you need my help?”

Shaking your head, you fumbled with the buttons lining the back of your dress. Usually, you could manage on your own, but your hands were still numb, and you were fighting back tears, and Clark only watched you struggle for a few seconds before motioning for you to come closer. Soon enough, cotton and lace pooled uselessly at your feet, leaving you all-but entirely exposed in front of him. You didn’t need to be told to take off your shoes, kicking them into the depressing pile of fabric that used to be your favorite dress, but when it came to your panties, you hesitated, glancing toward Clark with a pleading look. “All of it,” he confirmed, with a tone bordering on apologetic. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

As if that would make you feel any better.

You sucked in a deep breath, then eased your panties down to your ankles. You’d been wearing one of your nicer pairs – white and silken, with a lace trim around the edges and a ribbon bow that was just slightly too big to be entirely inconspicuous. They were one of Clark’s favorites, even if you doubted you’d ever hear him admit something crude out loud. You could only hope you’d never see them again.

You kept your eyes on the floor as he took you by the waist and with as much effort as it might’ve taken to move a doll from one shelf to another, lifted you up and laid you over his lap. His thighs bit into your stomach as a hand found its way to the small of your back, rubbing slow circles into the base of your spine. “We’re only going to do fifteen, alright?” It wasn’t really a question, so you didn’t bother pretending you were going to answer. Clark didn’t seem to need you to. “And you know I’m doing this because I love you, right?”

That, you couldn’t get out of so easily.

“I know,” you mumbled, because that was what would upset him the least. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.”

He didn’t make a sound. You wondered if he’d heard you at all, at least until the flat of his palm came down on the plush of your ass and immediately, it was impossible to think about anything at all.

It was a small mercy that he didn’t make you count. It was something he’d tried early on, the first couple of times you‘d thrown a chair through a window or stolen his phone or hoarded weapons underneath the mattress of your shared bed, but you’d never really been able to hold yourself together long enough for anything like that. You broke down too quickly, too easily – fuck, you were breaking down right now and he’d only hit you once. You could already feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, a knot welling up in the back of your throat that only seemed to let little, pitiful whimpers and miserable sobs slip by. You tried to steel yourself, to bite back any signs of weakness, but that only meant you’d forgotten to brace yourself for the second strike – just as bad as the first, centered more towards the back of your thigh than your ass. He was trying to spread the pain, to make sure any marks he left wouldn’t be permanent. He was trying to be gentle.

It was scarier than it should’ve been – knowing that he really did care about you. You couldn’t call it ‘love’, not really, not if you still wanted to be able to live with yourself, but he had to care about you, at least enough to pay some amount of mind to your well-being, at least enough for you to be sure he didn’t hate you (although, some days, you could still be convinced otherwise). He didn’t love you, but he thought he did, and the fact that he could earnestly believe he loved you and still treat you like this made you very, very afraid of what could happen if he ever changed his mind.

By the third strike, you were crying unabashedly, and by the sixth, your hands were clamped around his thigh, your nails biting into his skin in less of an attempt to hurt him and more of a desperate scramble for any kind of stability he had to offer. It was all force, no friction – a bruising, throbbing type of pain quickly spreading outward from every part of your body unfortunate enough to be under his palm. You couldn’t seem to talk, but Clark didn’t have an issue, pausing after every blow to rub circles into your bruised skin and mutter to himself. You couldn’t imagine he still thought he was talking to you. “I just worry about how you’d manage things, out there, all on your own,” he explained, his tone cloyingly sweet. Like he was talking to a child, too naïve to know any better. Like he could still expect you to believe there was anything in the world more dangerous than him. “You know I’ll always keep you safe, but I can’t be everywhere at once. It’s easier for both of us if you just—” A pause, an airy chuckle. “—if you just stay out of trouble.”

You’d lived in the city for years and never gotten into trouble, not before meeting him. Saying that felt pointless, though, especially when he was already moving onto the seventh.

Fifteen was a terrible number. If there’d been twenty or more, you might’ve been able to go numb by the time he finished, and ten or less would’ve given you a chance to preserve at least some of your dignity. At fifteen, though, the pain was still intense enough to be blistering, and you couldn’t seem to choke down your own keening sobs as Clark brought down his hand for the final blow – using just a little more force than he really had to, making sure the lesson would stick for the next couple of days, if not the next couple of weeks. He was strict, like that, despite how tender-hearted he pretended to be. If he wasn’t, you would’ve acted out more often.

You had to believe you’d act out more often.

You were still limp and crying when his arm wrapped around your waist and with a raspy, adoring sound, he sat you up – letting you straddle one of his thighs. Whatever relief you might’ve felt at the end of your punishment was immediately overshadowed by the pale, reddish tint spread visibly across his face, the feeling of something too large and too stiff pressing into your leg where it fell between his. Clark didn’t acknowledge it, and you were happy to follow his lead, melting into his hands as he cupped your face, basking in his happily provided comfort. There was a shallow exhale as he tilted your head back, pressing another lingering kiss into your forehead, before dipping lower – falling immediately to your neck. You let his lips make contact with your throat before sniffling and shifting in his lap. “Hurts, Clark,” you murmured, doing your best to make your voice that of something small and in need. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but… can we go upstairs, first?”

That was enough to snap him out of it. “Right. Of course.” There was one last peck to your collarbone before he pulled you into his arms, any thought of letting you walk on your own prematurely dismissed. You tried to go blank as he trailed through the farmhouse, not to focus on anything but the pain and your exhaustion, but your gaze seemed to catch on everything you didn’t want to see – the bowl of dough still rising on the kitchen counter, the torn dress-shirt you’d planned on mending today, a dozen tiny things that all drove their own little needles into the pit of your stomach. In Clark’s defense, the housewife shtick hadn’t been his idea, but you couldn’t say he was entirely blameless, either. When you were left trapped and alone, given nothing to do and no way to occupy your time, there was only so long you could last before resorting to household chores. It was just a happy coincidence that the byproducts of your captivity were practically identical to the kind of sugar-sweet, domestic behavior that’d always seemed to melt his heart, back when your relationship wasn’t so insidious.

At least the bathroom was warm. Still too unsteady to be trusted to walk on your own, you sat on the vanity while Clark ran a bath, staring at your hands absentmindedly as the steam started to ebb at the chill. When the tub was nearly full, he helped you into it, more than happy to make it seem like you couldn’t so much as move without his help – which, in his defense, you really couldn’t. As you sunk into the scorching water, you made a mental note not to let him touch you at all tomorrow. You doubted it would be enough to fix the damage tonight had done, but it’d be better than letting him coddle you half-to-death.

Surprisingly, Clark didn’t hover over you for very long. “I think I promised you something to drink,” he explained as he moved to the doorway, his smile suddenly sheepish. Like he had any right to be shy about what he’d done to you. “I’ll be back in a second – unless you think you’ll need a hand?”

You hesitated, but shook your head. “’m fine. I just need some time to think.”

“Not too long.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes prying into you for a second, then another before he turned away. “I think we should be careful about what gets into your pretty little head, for the next few days.”

And just like that, you were left alone. For the first time since he’d brought you home, you let yourself relax. The hot water momentarily dulled the pain, but without the agony to distract you, humiliation quickly took its place. You shouldn’t have let Clark take you back so easily – that only gave him more leeway to treat you like some naïve, fragile object he’d been tasked with looking after. You shouldn’t have taken your punishment so quietly, even if you doubted clawing at his legs and thrashing would’ve actually accomplished anything beyond salvaging your pride. You shouldn’t have run away at all, not if it meant triggering Clark’s paranoia, not if it reminded Clark that you’d still take any chance you saw to get away from him. You’d have to be smarter about it, if you ever to escape tried again.

(You did your best to ignore that, a few months ago, the same sentiment would’ve been followed by ‘when you inevitably tried again’. You weren’t superhuman. You didn’t always have the strength to be so delusionaly optimistic.)

When Clark did return, he was blissfully quiet and careful to keep his distance, sitting on the edge of the tub while you haphazardly washed the dust out of your hair and scrubbed the mud from your skin. Even after the water had gone cold and you’d managed to struggle to your feet, his touch remained fleeting, ginger as he bundled you in a towel and lifted you into his arms – his sudden distance no excuse to treat you like a living, breathing, capable person, apparently.

You didn’t have the energy to be frustrated. Exhausted and beaten down, you closed your eyes and rested your head against his chest, only stirring slightly when you felt Clark lower you onto a quilt-padded bed. You started to sit up, but the feeling of a hand laying over your hip was enough to stop you. When you opened your eyes, you found Clark, still standing, still staring down at you with that dazed, lovesick smile. “It’s really amazing, how someone like me could ever end up with someone like you.” He dipped lower, his lips finding the side of your throat. There was no pretense of innocent affection, this time, just his mouth on the side of your neck, his teeth ghosting over your skin. His voice was stifled by proximity, but mournfully audible. “I love you. I’m always going to love you. You know that, right?”

“I... I do.” You sounded hoarse, weak – more so than you would’ve liked. Clark nipped playfully at your collarbone, nearly breaking the skin. “I know you’ve been waiting, but—”

“Guess I’m just that impatient, when it comes to you.” There was an airy chuckle, a glint to his smile, but neither were very comforting. Again, you made an attempt to flee, and again, he found a way to keep you where you were – his hands curling around your thighs as he eased your legs apart. There was a hollow thud of body against floorboardas he fell to his knees, as he pressed yet another open-mouthed kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I just can’t help it. You make it hard for me to think straight.”

Not that he was trying to. You opened your mouth, trying to think of something that could distract him, that could convince him you just couldn’t do this, but he’d latch onto your cunt before you could spit anything out – the flat of his tongue running over your entrance while his nose ground into your clit. With your ass still blistered from your punishment and your nerves still on-edge from the cold, that was all it took for you to bolt upward – your hands automatically finding their way to his hair in a desperate attempt to pry him off of you. Of course, he didn’t budge, and of course, when he did glance up, he did it with that lovestruck expression that you’d never been able to stand. That you never wanted to see again.

That you just couldn’t seem to wipe off of his fucking face.

“Clark,” you whined, his name fractured and mangled on your tongue. “Please, I— It hurts, and I’m so tired, and I just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing harshly and trying to catch your breath. “Please, don’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Your heart skipped a beat, hope swelling in your chest. He melted into your palm, grinning like an idiot. “You can relax. I promise, I’ll be gentle.”

And just like that, you felt something deep in your chest crack open and shatter.

The next time he bowed his head, burying himself between your thighs, you didn’t bother trying to stop him.

You didn’t do anything at all.

[aspenmissing]

Hi! I love your work and I was wondering if you could do a sunshine reader with the usual suspects (arcane) but like they all think she’s this sweet innocent person until someone tries to mess with the characters and she just gets lethal. And they’re like “holy shit, where’s this side been?” X

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ɢʀɪᴘ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴠɪ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 4932 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ(ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ. ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ! ꜱᴏ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ!! <3 <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴠɪ

JAYCE

The golden light of the sun streamed through the grand windows of Piltover’s Council Hall, illuminating the intricate designs that adorned the chamber. The city thrived under the watchful eyes of its leaders, and among them, Jayce Talis stood as its brightest innovator.

And at his side, always gentle and unwavering, was Y/N.

She was the embodiment of warmth, the kind of person who could soothe even the most furious storms within him. Jayce had always been a force of will, a hammer striking against the anvil of progress, but Y/N? She was the soft breeze, the quiet melody that reminded him there was still beauty in the world beyond politics and inventions.

Everyone in Piltover adored her—she was kind to the children, patient with the Council, and impossibly sweet to Jayce. She would wake up early to make him tea before his meetings, place gentle kisses on his tired face, and remind him to eat when he became too absorbed in his work. She was his safe haven.

But Piltover was a city built on ambition. And ambition always bred danger.

=

It started as a normal evening. The two of them were walking along the illuminated streets of Piltover, Jayce’s arm wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders as she giggled at his latest failed attempt at cooking.

"Okay, but you have to admit, the bread wasn’t that burnt," he defended, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Jayce, I could have used it as a weapon," she teased, her bright eyes full of mischief.

He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. "I’ll get better, I promise."

Before she could reply, a loud voice cut through the air.

"Jayce Talis!"

The playful atmosphere dissipated in an instant. Jayce tensed as a group of enforcers turned thugs approached. He recognized them—disgruntled ex-guards who had lost their positions when Jayce had cracked down on corruption. Their leader, a burly man with a cruel smirk, cracked his knuckles.

"You cost us everything," the man sneered. "It’s only fair we take something from you."

Jayce instinctively stepped in front of Y/N, his protective instincts flaring. "Walk away. Now."

The man laughed. "Or what? You’ll hit me with your hammer in the middle of Piltover’s streets?"

Jayce clenched his fists, knowing that using his weapon here would only cause more problems. He was about to reason with them when—

"Jayce, sweetheart?"

Her voice was soft. Innocent. A whisper of something familiar. But when Jayce turned to look at Y/N, something in the air shifted.

Gone was the warmth in her eyes. In its place was something chillingly calm, something sharp and lethal. The leader barely had time to register the shift before Y/N moved.

Fast.

Too fast for someone who had spent her life being delicate, gentle.

Her hand shot out, grabbing the man’s wrist before he could even swing. With an effortless grace, she twisted it until a sickening snap echoed through the street. He screamed, stumbling back, cradling his broken wrist.

Jayce blinked. What—?

But Y/N wasn’t finished. She turned, grabbing another thug by the collar and slamming his face into her knee, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestone. The third man tried to grab her, but she dodged with a feline-like precision before delivering a devastating kick to his ribs.

Within seconds, the men were writhing on the ground, groaning in pain.

Y/N, sweet, kind Y/N, looked down at them with an eerie stillness.

Her voice, usually honeyed and warm, dropped into something cold. "You think you can try and hurt Jayce and walk away?" She knelt beside their leader, tilting her head. "That was your first mistake. And your last."

The man’s breath hitched in fear.

Jayce... had never seen her like this before. He had always known she was strong in her own way, but this? This was something else entirely.

She turned back to him, her expression softening in an instant. "Jayce, love, are you okay?" Jayce stared at her. Then at the men groaning on the ground. Then back at her. Finally, a slow, incredulous smile stretched across his lips.

"Remind me never to make you angry."

She giggled—actually giggled—as if she hadn’t just taken down three fully grown men. "Oh, sweetheart, you’d never give me a reason to."

And then, like nothing had happened, she took his arm again, leading him down the street as if it were just another ordinary evening.

Jayce chuckled, shaking his head in pure amazement. He had always known Y/N was his safe place.

He just hadn’t realized she was his most dangerous weapon, too.

And god, did he love her even more for it.

VIKTOR

The soft glow of the workshop’s lamplight bathed the room in gold as Viktor sat hunched over his desk, his cane resting against the table’s edge. You stood nearby, watching him with that gentle, adoring gaze you always wore when he was lost in his work. There was something about the way he poured himself into his inventions that made your heart ache in the best way possible.

You, his sweet, doting lover, were a stark contrast to the grim reality of Zaun. You were the kind of person who hummed while you cooked, who always remembered to bring him tea before he even asked, and who whispered words of encouragement when he doubted himself. There was a softness to you that Viktor found intoxicating—like sunlight breaking through a storm.

But he knew better than anyone that even the sun could burn.

It wasn’t often that people underestimated you, but when they did, it was a grave mistake. Especially when it concerned Viktor.

“Did you think you could just steal from him?” Your voice was light, almost amused, as you tilted your head at the trembling thief before you. The man had snuck into the lab, no doubt underestimating how fiercely you protected what was yours.

Viktor had barely managed to rise from his chair before he saw the glint in your eyes, the sharpness in your stance. He knew that look.

“Y/N…” he murmured, gripping his cane tightly as he watched you, torn between fascination and concern.

The man before you held a stolen blueprint in one hand, but his other was shaking as you took a slow step forward. You had been all sweetness and warmth before this moment, but now? Now, you were something entirely different.

“You must be quite foolish,” you continued, voice still eerily sweet. “Or perhaps you simply don’t understand what happens to those who threaten what’s mine.”

Your hand moved too fast for Viktor’s eyes to track, and within seconds, the thief was on his knees, gasping for breath as you pressed a small, hidden blade against his throat.

Viktor exhaled sharply, but he didn’t stop you. He knew better.

“I—I was just following orders,” the man stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

You smiled, but there was no warmth in it now. “Then go back and tell whoever sent you that if they touch Viktor, if they so much as think about taking from him again… I’ll make sure they regret it.”

A beat passed, thick with silence, and then you stepped back, letting the man scramble to his feet before he bolted out the door like a frightened animal.

Viktor let out a breath, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know, můj drahý, there are times when you terrify me.” (My Dear)

You turned to him then, and just like that, the shift was instant. The sharp edge in your expression melted, replaced by the soft, affectionate woman he knew so well.

“I’d never hurt you,” you said, stepping closer to cup his face with delicate hands. “I just… I can’t stand the thought of anyone trying to take advantage of you.”

His golden eyes searched yours before he chuckled, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his waist, careful of the cane as you nestled against him. “You’d never have to worry about that. You’re my heart, Viktor.”

He sighed, allowing himself to lean into you, allowing himself to bask in the warmth only you could give.

“And you,” he murmured against your hair, “are the most terrifyingly wonderful thing to ever happen to me.”

JAYVIK

The sun was high over Piltover, casting a warm golden glow over the city. It was a rare day of peace for the three of you—Viktor, Jayce, and yourself—where work and responsibilities had been set aside in favor of a quiet afternoon stroll. You walked between them, one hand laced with Jayce’s, the other resting lightly on Viktor’s arm. The gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, and for once, everything felt perfect.

But, as always, perfection never lasted.

It started as a murmur. A few sneered words just loud enough to be heard. At first, you ignored it. Viktor was used to the occasional stare, the whispered remarks about his limp and the cane he relied on. He usually brushed them off with that sharp wit of his, never letting them wound too deep.

But today, it was different.

=

"Surprised they let a cripple like him work at the Academy," one man sneered from a bench nearby, laughing to his friend. "Must be Jayce doing all the work."

You felt Viktor stiffen slightly beside you. You saw Jayce’s grip tighten on his hammer-shaped pendant, his jaw clenching. You knew he was seconds away from stepping forward, from throwing his weight around in defence of Viktor like he always did.

But you moved first.

Before either of them could react, your fingers slipped from Viktor’s arm, smoothly wrapping around his cane. With one swift motion, you yanked it from his grasp and strode forward, your footsteps light and unassuming.

Until you swung.

The wood struck the man’s shoulder with a satisfying crack, sending him sprawling against the bench. His laughter turned to a yelp, his friend scrambling back in shock.

"What the hell—?!"

"How dare you." Your voice was soft, honeyed even, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. The kind of edge that could draw blood if provoked further. You adjusted your grip on the cane, twirling it in your hands as if you had every intention of using it again. "I don’t care if you’re the richest man in Piltover or a rat crawling through the gutters. You don’t speak about Viktor that way. Ever."

The man scrambled to his feet, hands raised defensively. "I was just—"

You swung again. This time, you stopped just short of hitting him, the tip of the cane hovering mere inches from his gut. The threat was clear.

"Apologize." Your eyes bore into his, your sweet demeanor never faltering. "Now."

"I—I'm sorry!"

You held his gaze a moment longer, ensuring the sincerity of his words, before lowering the cane and stepping back. Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned on your heel and returned to Viktor’s side, handing him back his cane with a soft smile.

"Here you go, love."

Viktor blinked at you, his golden eyes wide with shock, before an amused chuckle escaped him. "Well, that was... unexpected."

Jayce, who had been caught between stepping in and just standing there in dumbstruck admiration, let out a low whistle. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

You giggled, slipping your arms through theirs once more. "You never will, as long as you treat Viktor with the love and respect he deserves."

Viktor shook his head, laughing softly as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with you."

Jayce grinned, draping his arm around both of you as you resumed your walk. "Yeah, I second that."

As the three of you strolled onward, Viktor gave your hand a small squeeze. "You are full of surprises, moje láska." (My Love)

You hummed in response, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Only when necessary."

Jayce chuckled, shaking his head. "I should’ve expected that. You act all sweet, but the moment someone crosses the line, you’re a force of nature."

You smirked. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

Viktor exhaled a laugh, shifting his cane slightly. "It is both endearing and terrifying. I will never look at my cane the same way again."

"Well," you mused, tilting your head, "it’s a very sturdy cane."

Jayce shook his head fondly before pulling you both in closer. "I'll say it again, remind me to never, ever make you mad."

You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before whispering in his ear. "Oh, you could never make me mad, Jayce. But protect Viktor with your life, always."

Jayce turned to you, his expression softening as he nodded. "Always."

And just like that, the day felt perfect once more.

VANDER

The Last Drop was quieter than usual tonight, the low hum of conversation blending with the faint clink of glasses. Vander leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily along the back of yours. The amber glow of the lanterns cast warm shadows over his face, highlighting the faint smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, sweetheart?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

You hummed in response, fingers curled around your own glass. “Of course,” you said, giving him that soft, gentle smile that always managed to unravel him. “A quiet night, a good drink, and my favourite person. What more could I ask for?”

Vander chuckled, shifting slightly so his knee brushed against yours. “Can’t argue with that.”

Then the door slammed open.

Both of you turned at the sound, brows furrowing as Vi stormed in, Mylo and Claggor trailing behind her. Powder was hovering near the entrance, her big eyes darting anxiously between her sister and Vander.

Vander pushed his chair back immediately, his gaze hardening. “What happened?”

You were already reaching for Vi before she could speak, your hands cupping her face as you examined the fresh bruise forming along her cheekbone. Her lip was split, and there was a faint tremble in her jaw—anger, frustration, and maybe a little bit of pain.

“Vi…” you murmured, your voice as soft as ever, but there was an edge underneath. A quiet storm.

Vi huffed, rolling her shoulders. “Some bastard started somethin’ with me outside. Called me a ‘Zaun rat’ or whatever. I ignored him, but he—” she clenched her fists, jaw tightening. “He got a little more hands-on. Didn’t like that I pushed back.”

Vander’s expression darkened, but before he could say anything, you turned to Mylo and Claggor.

“Who?”

They hesitated.

Vi shrugged. “It’s not a big—”

“Who?”

Something about your voice sent a shiver down Vi’s spine. Mylo coughed, shifting uncomfortably before muttering a name. A name you recognized. Some lowlife thug who thought he could throw his weight around Zaun unchecked.

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Alright.” Then, without another word, you stood up and walked toward the door.

“Sweetheart.” Vander’s voice was even, but there was a warning in it. “Don’t.”

You paused, looking back at him with that same gentle expression you always had, but there was something beneath it. Something dangerous.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised. And then you were gone.

=

You found him easily enough. Sitting outside a run-down shop, laughing with a few of his friends, completely unaware of the storm heading his way.

He noticed you too late.

The first hit cracked against his jaw, sending him sprawling off his chair. His friends barely had time to react before you were on him, hands lethal despite their softness, your movements precise.

He tried to scramble back, hands coming up in some weak attempt at defence. “W-What the hell?!”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop.

Your fist connected with his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. When he tried to crawl away, you grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up just to slam him back down. His nose cracked under your knuckles. Blood splattered across the ground.

One of his friends flinched, stepping forward like they might try to help—until they got a good look at your eyes.

Cold. Unyielding. Lethal. No one dared to stop you. Then the door to The Last Drop swung open. Heavy boots. A sharp inhale.

“Y/N?” Vander’s voice. Low. Dangerous. You didn’t pause. Didn’t even look up.

Your knuckles slammed into the man’s already swollen jaw, sending him crashing back to the ground with a thud. His groan barely registered over the sound of footsteps approaching fast.

Vi, Mylo, Claggor, and Powder all froze at the sight.

They had never seen you like this.

Vander had.

And yet, it still made his chest tighten.

“Shit,” Mylo whispered under his breath.

Vi’s bruised face twisted into something unreadable as she watched you crouch down beside the man, your fingers gentle as you tilted his bloodied face toward you.

“She’s just a kid,” you murmured, voice as sweet as honey. “You ever put your hands on her or anyone ever again, and I promise…” Your grip tightened, nails biting into his already bruised skin. “I won’t stop at this.”

The man whimpered, barely able to nod.

Then, just like that, you let go, standing up and brushing the blood from your hands like it was dust. Like it was nothing.

That’s when you finally looked up.

Vi stood frozen, fists still clenched at her sides, her bruised face set in something between shock and awe. Mylo’s mouth hung open slightly, as if he wanted to crack a joke but couldn’t quite find the words. Claggor raised his eyebrows, shifting slightly like he was trying to wrap his head around what he’d just seen. Powder just blinked at you, trying to piece together how the same woman who always kissed their foreheads goodnight had just beaten the hell out of someone without hesitation.

And Vander—

Vander’s jaw was tight, his eyes dark, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Not out of anger. Not at you.

But at what this city had done to you.

To the sweetest person he had ever known.

A long silence stretched between you all. Then you smiled—soft, warm, the same way you always did when you kissed Vander’s bruises and brought the kids home-cooked meals.

“I took care of it,” you said simply.

Vander exhaled, slow and deep. “Yeah,” he muttered, stepping toward you. His rough hands reached for yours, thumb brushing over your bruised knuckles. So small in his hands. So deceptively dangerous. “You alright?”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Of course.”

Vander sighed, shaking his head with something between love and resignation. He pulled you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice gruff but fond. “Let’s go home.”

Vi smirked, nudging Mylo as they turned back toward the bar. “Remind me to never piss her off.”

And with Vander’s arm wrapped around you, leading you away from the carnage, he realized something.

You were still his peace.

You were just lethal about it.

SILCO

The shimmer of Zaun's neon lights cast a haunting glow through the old warehouse windows, dancing off dust motes in the air. Silco sat at his desk, swirling a glass of whiskey, deep in thought. The weight of the undercity rested heavily on his shoulders, yet tonight, something softer occupied his mind.

You.

His delicate flower, his innocent girl who somehow found beauty in the darkest corners of the world. You never seemed to flinch at the blood on his hands, never recoiled from the violence that followed him like a shadow. No, you only looked at him with warmth, as if he were just a man, not a villain.

“Silco,” your voice lilted through the room like a melody, drawing him from his thoughts.

He glanced up, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile as you approached. You carried a tray with a fresh pot of tea—because you always insisted he drink something other than whiskey before bed.

“You’ll ruin your stomach,” you’d scold sweetly.

He chuckled, setting his glass aside. “And you’ll be the one to save it, hm?”

“Always,” you promised, setting the tray down and settling beside him. Your fingers brushed over his knuckles, warm and soft, so gentle it was hard to believe you belonged in Zaun at all.

His sweet girl.

If only the rest of the world knew.

=

Silco rarely slept deeply. Years of war and bloodshed had ensured that. But tonight, with you curled against his chest, your warmth melting into him, he allowed himself the smallest indulgence of rest.

Your breath was soft, even, the rise and fall of your chest lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. Your fingers, absentminded and delicate, traced over the rough, jagged scars that marred his skin.

He hummed, low and pleased, his hand slipping through your hair, anchoring himself to the moment. It was rare—these quiet nights where the weight of the undercity didn’t press so heavily on his shoulders. Where you were all he could feel, all he could breathe.

Then—

A creak.

It was subtle, nearly imperceptible. But to a man like Silco, trained by years of paranoia and survival, it was as loud as a gunshot. His body tensed. His hand instinctively reached for the dagger beneath his pillow.

A breath too heavy. A misstep too loud.

Intruder.

His mind sharpened, adrenaline cutting through his drowsiness like a blade. He prepared to sit up, to reach for his gun, to—

But you were faster.

One second, you were nestled against him, warm and soft. The next, you were gone—a blur of motion in the dimly lit room.

A sharp gasp. A wet gurgle.

Silco sat up fully now, his dagger gripped tightly in his hand. But he didn’t use it. He didn’t need to.

Because the fight was already over.

The assassin, a shadowed figure clad in dark leathers, barely had time to react before you were on him. The moonlight from the window illuminated the scene in eerie clarity—your form straddling the man as he collapsed to the floor beneath you, your knife buried deep in his throat.

His body jerked, fingers twitching, a desperate attempt to claw at the wound, to fight for breath he would never take again. Blood bubbled from his lips, spilling over his chin in thick rivulets.

And your expression?

Cold. Unwavering. Lethal.

Silco didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply watched.

Watched as you twisted the blade with precision, ensuring the kill was swift, absolute. Watched as the life drained from the assassin’s eyes, as the body beneath you stilled, as the pool of crimson widened across the floor.

It had taken mere seconds.

His sweet, gentle girl had just slaughtered a man without hesitation. Without mercy.

And Silco found himself utterly fascinated.

You inhaled slowly, then exhaled, your posture relaxing now that the threat had been neutralized. Your bloodstained fingers flexed once before you pulled the blade free, wiping it carelessly on the dead man's shirt.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned back to him.

Silco took you in—disheveled hair, bare feet against the floor, soft nightclothes now streaked with red. Your eyes, still holding that sharp, lethal edge, flickered briefly to his face, assessing him, ensuring he was unharmed.

And just like that—your expression softened.

The cold calculation bled away, replaced by something warm, something achingly familiar.

You padded silently back to bed, climbing onto the mattress, into his lap, slipping into his space with ease. Blood stained your hands, but your touch was gentle as your fingers brushed against his jaw.

He blinked.

“Darling…”

“He was going to kill you,” you murmured, voice soft, unbothered, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience. As if you hadn’t just ended a life. Your lips brushed against the corner of his mouth, featherlight. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Silco chuckled, low and dark, amusement curling through his chest. He let his dagger fall from his grasp, instead bringing his hands to your waist, feeling the warmth of you against him.

“No,” he mused, fingers sliding up your spine. “I don’t suppose you were.”

Your head dipped, resting against his shoulder, heartbeat calm. Steady. Peaceful.

As if you hadn’t just gutted a man in cold blood.

Silco exhaled through his nose, lips quirking as he traced slow, lazy patterns along your back.

Lethal, yet loving.

His sweet girl.

His ruthless girl.

And Gods, did he love you for it.

VI

he streets of Zaun were never safe, but Vi had always managed. It was different now, though—she had something worth protecting, someone worth fighting for beyond herself. Y/N. Sweet, innocent Y/N, who somehow managed to bring light into the darkest corners of her world. The one person who could make her laugh even on the worst days, who held her hand without hesitation, who looked at her like she wasn’t just a fighter, but someone worth loving.

Vi had never thought she deserved someone like Y/N, but the universe had given her this small miracle anyway. And Vi was never going to let anything happen to her. That’s why she always kept an eye out, always made sure no one even looked at Y/N the wrong way. She was the protector, the fighter. That was her job.

Or at least, that’s what she thought.

Until tonight.

=

The evening had been calm—Vi and Y/N had been sitting together in a quiet little bar, enjoying each other’s presence. Y/N had been telling some ridiculous story, giggling as she traced small patterns on Vi’s hand, when a group of thugs decided to ruin everything.

Vi had recognized them immediately. Piltie enforcers who thought they could do whatever they wanted just because they had the law behind them. She felt her muscles tense, her hands clench into fists. But before she could react, one of them grabbed her shoulder and yanked her up from her seat.

“You think you can just walk around like you own the place, gutter trash?” one of them sneered, shoving her back against the table. “You should know your place.”

Vi bared her teeth, ready to swing, when suddenly—

A hand shot out. Small. Delicate. But when Y/N’s fingers wrapped around the enforcer’s wrist, her grip was iron.

The room shifted. It was subtle, but Vi felt it. The air grew heavier, the warmth in Y/N’s eyes flickering out like a candle in the wind. The sweet, gentle girl Vi loved was gone, replaced by something cold. Something dangerous.

Y/N’s voice was quiet, steady. “Take your hand off of her.”

The enforcer scoffed. “Or what, sweetheart? You gonna—”

A sickening crunch filled the air as Y/N twisted his wrist so fast that Vi barely saw the movement. The enforcer howled in pain, stumbling back as his friends rushed forward.

And that’s when it happened.

Y/N moved like a ghost, like a shadow that had suddenly learned how to kill. Her fingers curled into precise, practiced blows, her body shifting with deadly grace. One by one, the enforcers fell—wrists snapped, knees buckled, throats struck with just the right amount of force to send them gasping for air but not quite killing them.

Vi could only watch, stunned, as Y/N took down men twice her size without breaking a sweat. She had never seen anything like it. This wasn’t wild, uncontrolled violence—this was calculated, merciless efficiency.

And it was all for her.

By the time Y/N was done, the last enforcer was whimpering on the floor, cradling his broken arm. She crouched beside him, her voice a low whisper, but full of something that sent shivers down Vi’s spine.

“If you ever touch her again,” Y/N said softly, “I won’t let you crawl away next time.”

The enforcer nodded frantically, and with that, Y/N stood, dusting herself off as if she hadn’t just dismantled an entire group of trained officers in mere moments.

She turned back to Vi, and just like that, the switch flipped again. The warmth returned, the sweetness settling back into her features like the violence had never existed. Y/N reached out, brushing a hand over Vi’s cheek with the softest touch.

“You okay, baby?” she asked, as gentle as ever.

Vi blinked. Her heart was still pounding, but not from shock. No, this was something entirely different. Something dark and hungry curling in the pit of her stomach, making her breath hitch.

She grabbed Y/N’s face and kissed her hard, pouring every ounce of heat and adrenaline into it. The taste of danger, of raw power, was intoxicating, and Vi wanted more.

When she pulled away, her smirk was laced with something primal. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N smiled sweetly, tilting her head. “Only when someone messes with you.”

Vi let out a low whistle, running a hand through her hair, trying to cool herself down. “Damn, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Y/N giggled, linking her arm with Vi’s. “Don’t worry, Vi. I could never hurt you.”

And Vi knew, without a doubt, that was the truth. For everyone else, though? Well…

They should pray they never made the same mistake those enforcers just had.

[hummingbird24220]

Hello hello ^^ if it’s alright, could I request a scenario where reader gets a nosebleed in response to something Sanji does, I think it’d be cute or funny to have him be on the receiving end of it

(Also I rlly love the way you write the straw hats ^^<3)

hehehehe yes, my leggy boy deserves to be simped for in return.

Enjoy!

Crush à la Carte

Sanji x Reader

The galley smelled like heaven — butter sizzling, garlic browning, the faint, toasty undertone of fresh bread in the oven. But none of that compared to him.

Sanji was plating lunch like a magazine cover model had decided to try food styling as a hobby. Shirt sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, tie loosened just a little, blonde hair falling lazily over one eye, cigarette bobbing at the corner of his lips like he didn’t have a care in the world.

You were mid-sentence with Usopp, giggling about something dumb he’d said — when your brain glitched. All focus dropped out of your ears and straight into the black hole of your dumb little crush. And then Sanji did the thing.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and smiled. Not the wild-eyed, hearts-for-eyes “mademoiselle~!!” routine he usually pulled. No. This was soft, warm. Lazy, like a sunbeam. It hit your soul like a truck.

You short-circuited.

Blood. Nose. Everywhere.

“GAH—!” you gasped, slapping your hands over your face and practically knocking your stool over as you scrambled backward.

“Y/N?!” Sanji turned, alarmed. “Are you okay?!”

“Nope! Fine! Everything’s cool!” you called out in a high-pitched squeak, already spinning on your heel and sprinting out of the galley like it was on fire. “NOSE JUST DECIDED TO DO A THING, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!”

You could feel his footsteps behind you. That man was fast when worried.

“Wait—! Did you get hurt?! Did something hit you?!”

Yeah, your face hit the full force of his raw, untamed attractiveness.

You dove behind a stack of folded deck chairs on the upper deck, holding your face with both hands, praying your nose would stop bleeding before he found you.

Footsteps slowed nearby. His voice dropped, gentle.

“…Y/N?”

You stopped breathing.

He sounded worried.

But also kind of… guilty?

“Did I say something wrong…?”

Oh no. Oh no no no. Now you felt bad and nosebleedy.

Sanji’s shoes scuffed gently against the wooden deck as he stopped, peering behind the stack of deck chairs. You could see the tip of his cigarette curl a little trail of smoke into the sky. He was about to call your name again.

No time for pride. Only time for damage control.

You popped up like a Meowbanese jack-in-the-box — nose clearly stuffed with two balled-up tissues, hands awkwardly behind your back like that somehow helped your case.

“What? Huh? Oh—just, uh… dropped my… dignity!” You flashed him two thumbs up and the most painfully forced grin imaginable. “Haha! Carry on, Chef Extraordinaire!”

And then you bolted again, tissues fluttering as you turned the corner, slipping through the door like a ninja with no stealth and way too much panic.

Back in the galley, Sanji blinked after you. He looked around, slowly, like maybe someone else had seen what just happened. Nope. Just him. He gave a small exhale, scratched his head, and muttered:

“…Dropped their dignity, huh?”

Shrugging, he went back to delicately arranging garnish like nothing was weird at all. King of cool. Unbothered. Focused on the mission: make this meal perfect.

-

You returned a few minutes later, face scrubbed, tissues trashed, and nose only slightly red — though your pride had taken a direct hit and was bleeding out somewhere in the hallway.

Sliding into your seat as if nothing had happened, you folded your hands neatly on the table and tried to appear so normal. Calm. Collected. A person who definitely didn’t spontaneously bleed from the face over a pretty boy’s casual charm.

Sanji turned and gave you a polite little smile, setting a plate in front of you like usual.

“You’re back. Hope you’re feeling better.”

You nodded. “Much, thank you. Totally fine. Very healthy. Normal blood pressure and everything.”

Usopp, across from you, was barely holding it together.

“Dropped my dignity,” he mouthed at you, shoulders shaking.

You kicked him under the table.

He giggled louder.

You tried. Oh, you tried.

You sat at the table like a model of composure, hands folded, nose clean, staring at your food like you were very invested in the marbling of the grilled fish and not, in fact, in the man who was currently adjusting his tie just out of reach — sleeves still rolled, wrist veins on full display, looking like a romantic tragedy in a magazine spread.

Your blood pressure? Through the roof. Your dignity? Still MIA. Your brain? Scrambled eggs.

Usopp, of course, was living.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked with a smirk. “Not gonna, you know, explode again? Should I move my plate this time? Maybe wear goggles?”

You shot him a death glare. He winked. Bitch.

Chopper scurried up with his thermometer, concern in his giant sparkling eyes. “You do look a little flushed. Do you have a fever?! You did bleed earlier, it could be a sign of internal—”

“I’m fine, Chopper,” you said too quickly, waving him off with the limp enthusiasm of someone in a full-body crisis. “Just got… caught off guard. My body was like ‘hey let’s spontaneously combust’ and I said sure.”

Robin, sipping tea like the queen of ice she is, looked at you over the rim of her cup.

“Sanji flustered them,” she said simply, like she was narrating a documentary. “It’s love.”

SILENCE.

Everyone froze.

Your eye twitched.

Sanji turned from the counter slowly, like a cat who just heard the can opener.

“…What was that, Robin-chwan?” he asked, blinking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Robin just sipped her tea again. “Nothing at all.”

But the damage was done.

Sanji walked over, that gleam in his eye, like a hunter spotting prey that wants to be caught.

You backed your chair up one inch. He took two steps closer.

And then — smoothly, without fanfare — he reached down, took your hand gently in his, and with the grace of a prince at a ballroom, kissed the back of it.

Your brain blue-screened.

The room was dead quiet.

He grinned up at you, eyelashes stupidly long. “For your speedy recovery, mon chéri~.”

You stared at him. Blinked once.

Geyser.

Zoro, without looking, leaned back in his chair and lifted his food just in time as the fountain of nosebleed erupted from your face like a broken fire hydrant. Everyone flinched as it rained down like a cursed blessing from the gods.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even make a sound.

You just tipped backward out of your chair and hit the floor with a soft thud, one twitching leg still propped on the seat.

“Daaaaamn,” Usopp whispered, poking at your twitching hand. “She’s not gonna make it,” Franky muttered. “She’ll be fine,” Robin said, placid as ever. “…Should I kiss her again?” Sanji asked.

Chopper panicked. “NO.”

-

Your consciousness returned in a wave of lavender-scented horror.

You were on the floor, Chopper gently patting your cheek with his tiny hoof, concern etched across his fuzzy face. “Come on, come on, wake up! I gave you a cotton pad and everything!”

Something burned in your nose. A sharp sting. You jolted upright with a gasp.

“I’M FINE.”

The room stared.

You blinked, pupils dilated like a startled raccoon, hair stuck to your forehead, shirt absolutely soaked in your own blood. Chopper held up a small bottle of smelling salts with an apologetic expression.

“…Okay, not the ideal wake-up scent,” you muttered, dabbing your nose with what pride you had left.

“Y/N,” Sanji started, voice smooth as buttercream, “you didn’t have to faint over me—”

“Shut up, Sanji.”

Usopp snorted.

You pointed a warning finger without looking up. “You too. Shut. Up.”

You kept your eyes locked on the floorboards. Not on Sanji’s stupid, beautiful face. Not on Usopp, who was probably pantomiming geysers behind your back. Not on anyone. Your soul was already halfway out the window. You weren’t gonna risk the rest of it with another glance.

You took the plate Sanji had gently set beside you, now cooled slightly, and just… ate. In silence. Like a haunted Victorian ghost girl. One elbow on the table, spoon shaking slightly. You were fine. This was fine.

Meanwhile, Sanji had gone oddly quiet himself. Not in embarrassment. Not in smugness. Just… quiet.

His eyes softened, watching you out of the corner of his eye as he cleaned up your mess with a towel and a fond little smile tugging at his lips.

“She reacts like that to me, huh…”

He said it under his breath. Genuinely flattered. Like someone who’d just been told a puppy fainted from excitement at seeing them.

And while you definitely heard it, you didn’t acknowledge it. You just shoved more rice in your mouth and gave the table a threatening side-eye.

-

The room was starting to settle again. Forks clinked against plates, Chopper finally relaxed, and you were almost — almost — convincing yourself that no one was ever going to bring it up again.

And then, Luffy — sweet, innocent, chaos-in-human-form Luffy — glanced up from his food mountain, pointed at you with a grin, and said:

���Hey, Y/N! Your shirt matches mine now!”

You looked down. Blood. Blood everywhere. Your once-nice, light-colored shirt looked like it had been used as a prop in a horror movie.

Luffy grinned, proudly tugging at his own red vest. “Twinsies!”

Your head turned very slowly toward him.

“Luffy.”

He blinked at you, still chewing. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to curse your children’s children.”

There was a beat of silence before Usopp howled laughing, nearly choking on a fishbone. Chopper gasped. Robin covered her mouth in amusement. Zoro wheezed into his drink.

Luffy blinked. “Huh. Can you do that?”

You shoved more food in your mouth with dead eyes. “Watch me.”

Sanji coughed behind one hand to hide his chuckle, but you could still see the way his shoulders shook — and that warm, flattered little smile hadn’t left his face since the geyser incident.

He looked at you again. “If you want, I could get you a new shirt. Preferably not red.”

You didn’t look up.

“Preferably made of Kevlar,” you muttered.

[httpsxarien]

imagine being the eldest daughter of king bruce wayne of sparta.

your birth was a celebration—born in the capital of sparta, gotham. a celestial event marked by meteors streaking across the night sky, the temple oracles claiming aphrodite herself had kissed your forehead. the people of gotham called you the beauty of sparta, the jewel of the kingdom, beloved and adored. wherever you walked, petals followed. your voice could calm storms, your laughter brought crops to bloom.

they said you were the most beautiful woman in all the known world. not just for your face, but for your soul.

you were crowned young—not queen, but heir. gifted silks from the east, bathed in oils from the west, your flower crown delicate, hand-woven, adorned daily eventually turned into the very crest of your line: golden, regal, with wings shaped like a bat’s.

your father, bruce, once the mightiest of warriors, was no longer just a king, he was a member of the justice league, a sacred order of the greatest kings and queens from far-flung kingdoms: queen diana of themyscira, king arthur of the seas, king clark of krypton.

and so, when war threatened the world of men, your father left.

his duty, he said.

his vow, he whispered to you, with hands rough from battle gently cupping your face.

he kissed your forehead and left his crown in your hands.

you were eighteen. and alone.

your brothers were far from home. dick, your eldest, married off to queen koriand’r of tamaran, ruling beside her as prince consort, his heart gentle, his strength unmatched. tim, off to claim the lands his mother’s bloodline had left behind, sharp as steel and silent as shadow.

and then there was damian.

your baby brother. your sun. only three, then. a prince born from war, too young to know pain, too precious to be left behind. his mother talia, led another kingdom far from sparta, closest to the underworld with her father, the catalyst of it all, a diplomatic mission ended in an affair creating your little brother.

so you became his world. mother. sister. queen. all in one breath. raising him to become a good man, to be a warrior of the mind, to become a future king that would lead this kingdom, so that when there’s a problem, he’d know the answer.

you ruled. you taught. you smiled when the suitors came knocking, their hands heavy with gold and promises.

but your heart was never theirs to take.

because it already belonged to a boy named jason.

jason todd. born of nothing. son of no name.

he was a street thief when your father first saw him. no older than seven, wrenching iron from the king’s own carriage. and instead of condemning him, your father knelt and offered him bread.

a few days turned into years.

and suddenly jason was training beside your brothers.

a commoner raised among royalty.

he was rough-edged, wild-eyed. but with you? he was quiet. soft.

you shared your books with him. your secret garden. your laughter.

and slowly, without ever saying it aloud, he became yours.

your sworn knight. your protector. your secret love.

when war came calling, jason answered it, like your father. like your brothers.

he left you with a ring. his mother’s. a simple iron band tied to a chain.

“i’ll come back to you,” he said. “as soon as the war’s won.”

and so, you ruled the kingdom alone.

with alfred by your side—loyal, aged, kind and damian growing stronger by the day, sparta stood firm under your hand.

you were a just queen. a fair ruler. your people loved you.

but love… love brought danger, too.

adonis. a name that once meant nothing, a boy you and jason once called friend.

he came from foreign lands, noble-born, clever, charming… at first. he arrived in your nation in hopes that your father would take him under his wing & was deeply upset when he favored jason over him. and so, resentment grew as he is stuck in a nation he wasn’t familiar with.

and obsession wears many masks.

you noticed it slowly. the way he watched you. the way he lingered. the way he hated jason, though he never said it aloud.

and when you rejected every suitor, when your hand remained untouched by any other… he snapped.

as the years have gone by, you grew older, and so whispers started..

so you issued a challenge.

if any man wished to marry the queen, he would first have to survive your father’s training.

the very same trials he put his sons through. brutal. legendary.

they all tried.

and they all failed.

and still, they whispered. schemed. turned bitter.

until one night.. under cover of darkness, they took you.

adonis and his men.

your guards slaughtered. your room desecrated.

your crown stolen. your song silenced.

you vanished. like helen took paris. taken from your homeland.

you were stolen.

your brother, damian, who went on a diplomatic to his mother, returned to find the palace desecrated, sacked like troy. the throne room bloodstained and cold.

your crown lay shattered at the foot of the dais.

alfred trembled.

the wind itself seemed to scream your name.

your family came home.

imagine the way the skies darken the moment they return, like the gods themselves turn their eyes toward the house of Wayne.

lightning cracks across the heavens as bruce wayne, king of sparta, steps foot onto the marble steps of his palace—no longer pristine white, but blackened with soot, dusted with blood. his eyes are hollower than they were ten years ago, but something sparks behind them once he sees the flowers on your windowsill wilted and untouched. your crown missing from its shrine. your song no longer sung.

his hands curl into fists. the silence is deafening.

and then alfred speaks. voice brittle, spine bowed, like a pillar finally cracking under the weight of guilt.

“they took her, sire.”

imagine damian, only thirteen, but already with fury in his blood and shadows in his step. they call him the prince of blades, forged by grief, raised by a sister he called mother, queen, home. he stares at the blood trail left on the throne room floor, jaw clenched, sword unsheathed.

“i will kill them,” he says, not for the first time.

tim looks at him, older now, calm but coiled like a storm. the quietest of the brothers, always watching. but it’s always tim who pieces together the web, who finds the threads and tightens the noose.

dick says nothing. not at first. not until he places a hand on damian’s shoulder and kneels beside the throne. the place where you sat. the place where you ruled in his absence. his little sister — now the memory of silk gowns and flower crowns, gone.

“we will bring her home.”

imagine jason.

he does not speak when he returns. not until he sees your favorite garden torn apart. not until he finds the necklace he gave you, your engagement ring, abandoned, cracked, lying atop a shattered vase.

he picks it up with shaking hands.

and then the fire returns. the same fire he had when he was a street boy, teeth bared to the world. the same fire you soothed with soft words and pressed palms.

but you’re not here to calm him now.

“give me a name,” he says.

“adonis,” alfred tells him. “adonis of corinth.”

a prince-turned-madman. jason remembers him. remembers the way he lingered too long near your presence. the way you always brushed off his stares, turning instead to jason with that smile of yours.

and now—

he sharpens his blades. dons his armor. not the polished steel of royalty, but the blood-red of vengeance. every inch of him screams wrath. he was born in fire. raised in battle. and now the world will burn for you.

imagine the house of wayne. scorned, grief-stricken, angry.

bruce, summoning the remnants of the justice league, now fractured and tired but still loyal to him. old gods rising from the ashes of old wars.

dick and tim, uniting their kingdoms. tamaran’s fire and the drake family’s might, standing behind the black banners of gotham.

damian, leading the war scouts, sending ravens to the underworld if he must.

and jason, who doesn’t speak of what you were to him, only acts. only kills. only carves his promise into the battlefield, etched with every enemy slain.

while you, the queen in chains, sat on a throne not yours, in a palace that did not know your name as they try to break you. you do not break. you did not scream. you did not weep. you waited.

because you knew that your family will come back for you with fire & blood.

history is laid out right in front of us to never repeat, we have seen this tale before. a beauty taken. a kingdom defiled. a thousand ships launched. a city, burning. but we, humans, remain blind - our pride louder than our memory.

we forget. or worse—believe we can rewrite fate.

and the gods flip a coin to see how this tale will end this time.

(inspired by the iliad, greek mythology & epic the musical so i bought the song of achilles & it brought me back to my greek myth/epic the musical hyperfixation. aaa this has been in my mind for months now & only got to finalize it this time after multiple drafts 😭 anywayss i’m gonna sleep now school’s back tomorrow, hope u enjoyed <3)

[novaursa]

I have a request!! Could you write something about it being Cregan’s birthday but he forgets that it’s his birthday. Like it starts with little things like the kids bringing him breakfast in bed and he is thinking “how odd” but doesn’t mind it, sometime later he’s listening to some concerns from the locals and his daughter just runs up and sits on his lap and gives him a flower and a kiss on his cheek before jumping down and running away. Basically his wife and children are doing little things for him throughout the day and the day ends with a cute surprise dinner, his son manages to snag Ice or tells him something is happening in the main hall and he needs to go quickly but he gets there in the main hall and is surprised with some people of the North and his wife and kids and they have a nice small feast together. After the dinner they have a cute family hug and he thanks them. Please and thank you!

Valyrian Bride (nameday)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Cregan notices his wife and children doing strange (well, stranger then usual) things for him throughout the day.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: I've blended in your request with this series. I hope you don't mind, dear anon. ☺️

- Previous part: dragon's bath

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Cregan Stark woke to the scent of fresh bread and something sweet. Groggy from a late night spent discussing strategies with his bannermen, he blinked his eyes open, feeling unusually warm. The early morning light filtered into the chambers, and as his vision adjusted, he found himself staring at an odd sight—his children standing by the side of the bed, balancing trays full of food, their faces lit with excitement.

“Good morning, Papa!” his daughter chirped, her silver-gold hair falling around her face as she held a tray of honeyed bread and eggs.

His son, holding a pitcher of steaming tea with a grin that was a little too mischievous, echoed, “Happy morning, Father!”

Cregan blinked again, sitting up slowly. His brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s this, then?”

“We brought you breakfast in bed,” his daughter announced proudly, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. She carefully set the tray on his lap, beaming.

His son plopped down on the edge of the bed, handing him a cup of tea. “And we didn’t even burn anything!”

Cregan accepted the cup with a bemused look, glancing from one child to the other. “Aye, and I appreciate it,” he said, taking a sip of the tea, which, to his surprise, was perfectly brewed. “But what’s the occasion?”

The siblings exchanged a quick glance, then shrugged in unison, far too casually for Cregan’s liking. “No occasion!” they said, practically in chorus.

He raised an eyebrow but decided not to press further. Children had their whims, after all, and if today’s whim involved breakfast in bed, he wasn’t going to complain. Still, something tugged at the back of his mind as he tucked into the meal. There was a familiarity to the kindness, a sense of something he should be remembering, but it slipped just out of reach.

“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head as children began chattering about their plans for the day. “Odd, but… I’ll take it.”

Later that morning, Cregan found himself in the courtyard, listening to the concerns of one of the local farmers who was having trouble with the wolves getting too close to his sheep. As usual, Cregan was methodical, going over possible solutions, but as he was deep in thought, something small and swift barreled toward him.

His daughter.

She darted up to him, completely ignoring the fact that he was in the middle of a conversation, and, without a word, climbed into his lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Cregan blinked, startled by her sudden appearance.

“Papa!” she said brightly, brandishing a small, wildflower. She placed it delicately in his hand, then leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “For you!”

And with that, she jumped down and scampered off, leaving Cregan holding the flower, thoroughly perplexed. The farmer stared at him, eyebrows raised, but Cregan could only offer a sheepish grin as he tucked the flower into his pocket.

“How… odd,” he muttered under his breath again, but a smile tugged at his lips. The day was starting to feel more and more unusual, but he had work to do, and so he carried on.

The afternoon brought more strange little moments. His wife seemed to be uncharacteristically affectionate, brushing her hand along his arm as they passed one another in the hall, pressing a kiss to his temple when no one was looking. At one point, she even slipped him a small note during lunch, which simply read, “Tonight, you’ll see.”

Cregan narrowed his eyes at her, but she just smiled in that secretive way of hers, leaving him both intrigued and slightly wary. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening right under his nose, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put it together.

And then, just as the sun began to set, his son burst into his study, eyes wide and breathless with excitement. “Father!” he said, grabbing Cregan’s arm and tugging. “You need to come to the main hall. Quickly!”

Cregan stood, frowning. “Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s important! Hurry!” the boy insisted, already half-dragging him toward the door. Cregan, still baffled but curious now, allowed himself to be pulled along.

As they made their way through the corridors, Cregan’s brow furrowed deeper. Something was definitely going on. The halls were suspiciously quiet, and the usual activity of the castle seemed to have hushed as if Winterfell itself was holding its breath. His son glanced back at him every so often, grinning like a cat that had caught a mouse, but gave no further explanation.

When they reached the main hall, Cregan pushed the heavy wooden door open, and—

“Surprise!” A chorus of voices filled the air, followed by the sound of clapping and cheers.

Cregan stood frozen in the doorway, staring in disbelief. The great hall was filled with familiar faces—his bannermen, the local farmers, his closest friends and family. Long tables had been laid out, piled high with food and drink, the hearth was roaring, and banners adorned the walls in celebration.

And at the head of the table stood his wife, smiling warmly, with their children flanking her on either side.

Cregan blinked, completely taken aback. “What in the—”

“Happy nameday, my love,” his wife said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and the realization finally hit him.

His nameday.

Of course.

Cregan let out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “I forgot, Y/N.”

“We know,” she teased, laughing as she pulled him into the hall. “That’s why we had to remind you in the most obvious way possible.”

He glanced around the hall, at all the people gathered there—the people of the North, his family, his friends—and felt a deep warmth fill his chest. “You’ve all been plotting this the whole day, haven’t you?”

His son puffed out his chest. “Of course! Did you like your breakfast?”

“And the flower?” his daughter chimed in, skipping over to tug on his hand.

Cregan laughed, pulling his children into a tight embrace. “Aye, I should’ve known something was going on.”

The evening passed in a blur of laughter and feasting. Cregan sat at the head of the table with his family by his side, enjoying the small but heartfelt celebration. The food was simple but delicious, the company warm and lively, and as the fire crackled and the stars began to twinkle in the sky outside, Cregan realized just how blessed he was.

After the meal, his children ran to him, wrapping their arms around his legs. His wife joined in, placing her hand on his shoulder, her eyes filled with affection. They stood together for a moment in a quiet, perfect family hug, the warmth of the day filling the space between them.

Cregan looked down at his children, then up at his wife, and felt a smile spread across his face, one of pure, unfiltered contentment. “Thank you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “All of you.”

His wife pressed another kiss to his cheek. “You deserve it.”

And as the fire burned low and the night deepened, Cregan knew he’d remember this nameday not for the gifts or the feast, but for the love that surrounded him—the love of his wife, his children, and his people.

[bellaveux]

Helloo!! can i ask you a fic where reader is obssesed with cooking/baking and is really good at it and nat loves to eat whatever reader gives to her, super fluff! I just love the way someone can mix some things together and make it taste good tho i'm not able to :P

taste of home | n. romanoff x fem!reader

genre: fluff

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary: natasha loves your cooking, especially when it’s made just for her. after being away on a mission, she finds herself missing not just your food, but you in general—and everything that comes with being home.

content warnings: fluff, kissing, soft!natasha, reader is good at cooking but nat will probably start a fire lol

word count: 2.4k

Natasha was never really one for cooking. She was great at a lot of things—following orders, handling high-pressure situations, even outsmarting some of the most dangerous people in the world—but somehow, cooking always felt like it required a kind of patience she didn’t have. Following instructions? Sure. That part was easy. But there was something about the process, the time it took, the attention to detail that seemed to escape her. It wasn’t that she didn’t try, but everything she made always came out either too bland or a little burnt. Even the simplest meals seemed to mock her, reminding her that not everything could be solved with precision and efficiency. She found herself more often than not reaching for a jar of peanut butter, slathering it on some bread, and then calling it dinner. It was easier that way—quick, no mess, no stress.

But then there was you. You made cooking look like second nature, your hands moving with a kind of ease Natasha envied. Your meals were homemade, warm, and full of flavor, and every bite left Natasha wondering how something so simple could taste so perfect. It was one of the many things she loved about coming home—knowing that you would have something on the stove or in the oven, filling the apartment with a warmth that Natasha had never really known before.

She had long grown accustomed to the food she encountered on missions or during her travels—unremarkable meals in sterile hotels or bland, quickly prepared rations. The food rarely satisfied her; it was functional at best, a means to an end rather than something to be enjoyed. She could eat it, of course, but it never brought her the kind of comfort she craved. It was always your cooking that had spoiled her palate for anything else.

When Natasha found herself hungry and miles away from home, away from the large apartment you shared with her, she would think of you, and it was like a switch would flip. The image of you standing by the stove, a warm promise of something delicious, would fill her with an eager joy that made the waiting almost unbearable. In those moments, she would dream of coming home, of the way you would smile at her, greeting her with a gentle kiss, as you stirred a pot or slid a dish into the oven, the kitchen filling with the rich, inviting aromas of a meal made with love. It was a small, comforting certainty that awaited her after each mission.

Natasha found something inexplicably thrilling about watching you cook. It wasn’t just the delicious meal you made for her that excited her—it was the sight of you looking so beautiful, the way you moved effortlessly around the kitchen, lost in your own world. It was endearing. She’d often stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a small smile, just observing, feeling a flutter of warmth in her chest. Your delicate brow furrowed as you tasted and adjusted seasonings, your hands deftly working with ingredients. She always finds it hard to resist the urge to come up behind you, wrap her arms around your waist, litter kisses against your shoulders, listening to your laugh.

Steve glanced over at Natasha, noticing the faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at her lips. They were both sitting in the Quinjet, the low hum of the engines filling the quiet space as they cruised back home after a grueling two-week mission overseas. He hadn’t seen Natasha this relaxed in a while, and he certainly didn’t expect to catch her lost in thought, eyes soft, her usual sharp focus dulled into something more distant.

“What’s got you smiling?” Steve asked, his voice breaking the silence.

Natasha blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, her smile fading just slightly as she looked over at him. She shrugged, trying to play it off, but Steve knew her better than that.

“Nothing,” she said, but there was a lightness in her voice that didn’t match her usual tone after missions.

Steve raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. “Right. I’ve never seen you smile after two weeks of dealing with mercenaries and sleeping in freezing bunkers.”

Natasha couldn’t help but smile a little wider at that, shaking her head. She glanced down at her hands, fingers brushing the edge of the seat. Her mind was drifting to you, as always. Just the thought of walking into their apartment and seeing you there, warm and welcoming, was enough to make her feel like she could breathe again. She thought about you standing in the kitchen, an apron tied loosely around your waist, cooking something that would inevitably taste better than anything Natasha had eaten on the mission.

“I’m just... thinking about home,” Natasha finally said, her voice softer now, a warmth spreading in her chest at the thought of you waiting for her.

He grinned knowingly at Natasha’s response, his tone teasing as he leaned forward a little. “Yeah? Got someone waiting for you?”

A faint heat rose to her cheeks, though she masked it quickly, rolling her eyes at his question. “Something like that,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward again.

Steve laughed softly. “You don’t have to hide it, you know. I think it’s nice. You deserve something—someone—good to come home to.” His voice was genuine, and when she looked up at him, she could see the sincerity in his eyes. It meant a lot coming from Steve.

“Yeah,” Natasha murmured, her mind drifting back to the image of you back in the apartment. There was something grounding about knowing she had someone to come home to, someone who made the hard world that surrounded her a little softer. Her smile deepened at the thought, her fingers tapping lightly on her knee. “I guess I’m pretty lucky.”

Steve glanced at Natasha, his smile lingering for a moment before his gaze shifted out the window. The horizon stretched before them, the compound slowly coming into view, nestled miles away. He watched it quietly for a moment, the soft hum of the Quinjet filling the air.

Natasha leaned back in her seat, stretching her arms above her head with a sigh. "I’m also pretty excited to eat something that’s not the stale food they pack us for these missions." She wrinkled her nose, thinking about the bland, vacuum-sealed meals they'd had for the past two weeks. "If I have to eat another energy bar, I might lose it."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, nothing like field rations to make you appreciate real food." He took a sip from his water bottle, glancing at her with a teasing grin.

Natasha was never a picky eater. But throughout the two weeks away from you, she didn’t eat as much. The food they had packed was functional—protein bars, dehydrated meals, and tasteless energy snacks meant to keep them going. But Natasha could only force herself to eat the bare minimum, just enough to keep her energy up for the task at hand. Meals usually felt like a routine, not something to enjoy, and as the days dragged on, her appetite shrank even more. She ate just enough to keep herself going, but it never felt satisfying.

And she was grateful to have something, of course—yet each bite only reminded her of what she was missing. But out in the field, food was just fuel, but at home, when you cooked, it was more than that. It was comfort. It was love. And as much as Natasha needed sustenance, she craved that feeling more.

After what felt like the longest mission in months, Natasha finally stepped off the Quinjet and into the compound, exhaustion clinging to her bones. The familiar hum of the base was a strange kind of comfort, but all she could think about was getting back home. Back to you. After sending you a quick text, she moved quickly, her mind already half out the door as she peeled off her tactical suit and threw on something more casual. Her simple black leather, jeans—nothing special. Her body was sore, her muscles tight from the mission, but the thought of seeing you made everything easier to bear.

Natasha sped through the dimly lit streets of New York in her sleek black car, the city blurring past in streaks of neon and headlights. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, excitement building in her chest. She could feel the familiar hum of the engine beneath her, but her mind was already miles ahead, picturing you waiting for her at home. The drive felt agonizingly slow, even though she was pushing the speed limits, navigating the familiar route with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. Every red light felt like an eternity, every stop a moment too long. She wasn’t one to rush, usually careful and calculated, but tonight she wanted nothing more than to be home, to see you.

Finally, her building came into view, and Natasha parked quickly, barely able to contain the smile that tugged at her lips as she made her way inside.

You always missed her when she was away on longer missions. And you tried not to think about it too much, but every night, you’d catch yourself making enough food for two, even though you were the only one there to eat it. Tonight was no different. You made enough for two, like always, as if some part of you knew Natasha would be back soon. As you reached for a spice jar, the soft click of the front door unlocking echoed through the apartment. You paused, your heart skipping, your hand stilling over the stove.

The door creaked open, and you felt a familiar flutter in her chest. You heard the soft jingle of car keys and the faint click of the front door closing from the kitchen. The footsteps that followed were gentle, and you could almost picture Natasha’s careful movements—the way she set down her bag and slipped off her shoes.

You continued to stir the pasta, your smile remained soft. After a beat, you felt Natasha’s strong arms wrap around your waist, sending a shiver of delight down your spine. Your breath hitched slightly, a contented sigh escaping your mouth as you leaned back into Natasha’s body.

“Hi,” you let out a soft laugh as Natasha’s lips brushed softly against your shoulders, trailing delicate kisses along the curve of your neck. Each touch was light, almost hesitant, but full of love. You laughed softly, the gentle tickling sensation making your shoulders shake as you tried to stifle her giggles.

Natasha mumbled quietly back against your skin, the vibrations from her voice causing a shiver of delight. The sound was barely audible, but it was filled with tenderness. Natasha’s kisses continued, mingling with the soft laughter that filled the kitchen.

“Hi, baby,” she repeated, her chin now resting atop your shoulder, looking down at the stove where your hand mixed the pasta gently. “Missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” you said, turning the stove off, the sizzle of the pasta fading as you gently moved to turn in Natasha’s hands.

Her arms kept you close to her body, and before you could fully turn around, Natasha’s lips found yours. She sighed against them, feeling you smile softly against hers. Your hands found their way to her face as her hands squeezed your hips firmly.

 You pulled away from the kiss, your hands moving up to cradle Natasha’s face gently. You studied her for a moment, your brow furrowing as you took in every little detail—the slight hollowness in her cheeks, the way her body felt just a tad bit thinner against yours. Your thumb brushed softly along Natasha’s jawline, your voice soft with concern.

“How was the mission?” You asked, using your middle finger to brush a couple strands away from her face to tuck it behind her ear.

“Long,” she sighed, leaning in closer to your touch.

“You look a little skinnier,” you murmured, your eyes searching Natasha’s. “Have you been eating?”

Natasha gave a small nod, but it wasn’t convincing. You knew her too well. Knew how missions drained her, how she barely ate more than she had to, always brushing it off like it didn’t matter.

“You should eat more, Natasha,” you said quietly, your hands still holding her face as if you could protect her from the world, if only for a moment.

“I’ll eat when you cook for me,” Natasha’s eyes softened as she stared down at your lips, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. “I like it when you cook for me.”

You exhaled softly, your lips curving into a gentle smile as Natasha’s fingers lightly traced the edges of your waist. You could see the sincerity in her gaze, the way her tiredness seemed to melt away just being here, just being with you. It made your own heart swell.

"Let’s eat, then,” you replied, your smile widening as you brushed a thumb tenderly over her cheek.

Natasha pulled you closer, if it was even possible; her voice was a low murmur against your neck, her lips grazing the soft skin there in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “What if… I had some dessert first before dinner?”

You let out a small laugh, rolling your eyes even as a coy smile tugged at your lips. “Very funny, Romanoff,” you replied, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when your fingers tightened in Natasha’s shirt. You gently nudged her back with a soft, playful push. “Go get the plates.”

Natasha chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. She quick kiss to your lips again, lingering just long enough to leave you wanting more before finally pulling away. Her hands trailed down your sides as she stepped back, a grin still playing on her face.

"Fine," she said, her voice light as she moved toward the cabinets.

She set the plates on the table, her movements slower than usual, as though savoring the moment. When she finally sat down and took her first bite, the rich, creamy taste of your truffle pasta hit her immediately. It was delicious—better than anything she could’ve imagined after two weeks of bland mission rations. She let out a contented sigh, her shoulders relaxing, the tension of the last few days melting away. You sat across from her, watching with that soft, knowing smile, and all Natasha could think was how much she loved this—loved you. She loved the way you took care of her without even trying, loved the way you made coming home feel like a blessing. For the first time in weeks, Natasha felt truly at peace, and as she took another bite, she couldn’t help but think that there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

navigation! (natasha’s masterlist is still in progress lol)

[beloveds-embrace]

I don't know if you've done something like this before but dukedom with a florist/botanist reader

The scent of fresh lavender and damp earth clung to your fingertips as you arranged the last bouquet of the morning, tying it off with a delicate ribbon. The small flower shop you owned, nestled near the outskirts of Duke Price’s grand estate, was quiet save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

You often supplied flowers for the manor- centerpieces for dinners, fresh herbs for the kitchen, roses for the gardens- but you had never once met the Duke himself. You had not met much of his household, either, though that wasn’t too surprising; there must be at the very least a hundred workers there.

But fate had other plans for you.

The bell above your shop door chimed, and you turned, expecting one of your usual customers. Instead, a broad-shouldered man strolled in, his sleeves rolled up as if he had just left a heated kitchen.

“Ah, finally found ye,” he said, his accent thick with a lilt. “Was beginnin’ to think this place was a myth.”

You blinked, setting down your shears. “Can I help you, sir?”

He grinned. “Johnny MacTavish. I run the kitchen over at Price Manor.” He leaned on the counter, glancing around at the hanging bundles of herbs and freshly cut flowers. “Kyle- that’s the head butler- told me you’ve got the best lavender around. I need some for a honey cake I’m makin’, and we’re runnin’ short.”

You hummed, already moving toward the drying racks. “You’re in luck, then. Just harvested some fresh stalks this morning.”

As you carefully wrapped the bundle for him, Johnny watched you with a curious expression. “Never seen ye ‘round the manor,” he remarked. Then gave you a grin. “But I seen ye pretty flowers ‘round often.”

“I usually deliver when you’re busy in the kitchen, I assume,” you said, handing him the wrapped herbs with a soft smile. “Though I’ve heard of you. Your bread is very popular.”

He grin widened, pleased. “Aye, I do my best.” He took the bundle, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Might have to find excuses to come by more often. You’re far more charmin’ than the usual market vendors, lass.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I imagine you say that to all the merchants.”

“Only the ones worth complimentin’.” He quipped, winking before heading out the door.

And just like that, your first thread into their world had been woven.

A week later, you found yourself face-to-face with the Kyle Garrick, the Duke’s head butler, standing at your shop’s doorstep in the early morning light.

“Apologies for calling on you so early,” he said, tone smooth and professional, eyes warm enough to replace the sun. “His Grace is hosting a dinner, and we’re in need of arrangements.”

You nodded, ushering him inside. “Of course. Any particular requests?”

Kyle glanced over the selection of flowers, thoughtful. “Something warm. Rich colors- autumnal, perhaps?”

You set to work, carefully selecting blooms that matched his vision, all the while feeling the weight of his gaze on you.

“You work quickly,” he observed, amusement and approval in his voice. “These will look wonderful when they will be used, I have no doubt.”

You glanced up, catching the small smile on his lips. “Years of practice.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, arms folding over his chest. “Johnny was right. You’ve got a charm about you.”

You raised a brow, finished with the arrangement; of course, this was simply to show him what you’d be making in hoards for the dinner. One arrangement was most definitely not enough. “Are you two always this flattering?”

Kyle smirked. “Only when it’s deserved.”

“He said the same thing!”

They weren’t the only ones you ended up interacting with; you had heard of Duke Simon Riley before. A man as mysterious as he was respected. Some said he was cold. Others said he was simply a man who valued silence over frivolous conversation. But all agreed that he and Duke Price were close friends.

So when he stepped into your shop one evening, his imposing frame half-shadowed by the setting sun, you were caught off guard.

“You’re her, then.” He said without much preamble.

You frowned, the little flower pot in your hands held carefully. “I… beg your pardon?”

“The florist.” He glanced around the shop, his expression unreadable beneath the mask of neutrality he wore so well like a lot of other nobles- though in your opinion, no one did it quite as well as him. “You’ve made quite the impression.”

Setting the pot down, you fingers tightened slightly around the stem of its rose. “I wasn’t aware I was being … observed. Forgive me for the use of such a word, sir, but-“

His gaze flicked back to yours, and he shook his head. “No apologies are needed. I understand, but… we notice things. Especially things worth noticing.”

We?

A beat of silence passed before he finally moved closer, picking up a baby’s-breath from a basket. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed over the little flowers.

“They say flowers speak in their own language,” he murmured. “What would this one say?”

You swallowed, carefully choosing your words. “Baby’s breath represents sincerity and- and everlasting love, sir.”

Simon hummed, tucking the sprig into his coat pocket. “…Fitting. I shall return soon.”

And just like that, he was gone- even before you could tell him he would always be welcome (even if he was so strange).

And at last, you met Duke Price himself.

Deliveries to the manor were routine, but you never expected to meet the Duke himself. That changed one crisp afternoon when you arrived with your arms full of flowers, only to find the man himself standing at the doorway.

He was an imposing figure- broad shoulders, sharp blue eyes, and a well-tended-to beard flecked with gray. But when he smiled, it was warm, not intimidating.

“You’re the florist, then.” He mused, looking over the bouquet, unintentionally reminding you of Duke Riley’s words.

You managed a curtsy, despite your hands being full. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Beautiful work,” he said, gesturing for you to follow him inside. “Kyle, Johnny, and Simon have spoken highly of you.”

You hesitated, surprise blooming on your face. “They… have?”

He let out a deep chuckle. “Indeed. Said you’re clever with flowers. And sharp with words.”

Embarrassment crept up your neck. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”

Price halted mid-step, turning to face you fully. His sharp blue eyes met yours, steady and intent.

“You have one now.”

There was something in his gaze- something deep, and it sent a quiet thrill through you, like the first whisper of a storm on the horizon.

(That first whisper, you’d eventually learn, would be their starting attempts of courting you).

[nanamiskentos]

🌿 I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA! — gojo satoru sfw!

prologue. → green was the color of life, and gojo satoru, in all his contradictions, carried life in the way he loved recklessly, laughed shamelessly, and held you like the universe began and ended with you. 🌿 🤍 part of the cookbook (@antizenin)

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

but green is the colour of earth. of living things, of life. and of rot. — unknown.

warnings+. sweetness and established relationship, there's angst in this i genuinely couldn't help it, reader wears a dress in a scene, mentions of injury!

word count. 4k! song inspiration. luther — kendrick lamar, sza

a/n. i'm doing the sukuna shibuya bow from making another predictable twist and ending. but i actually rlly loved writing this, this fic is gonna stay with me i fear <3 gif made by me!

mp3. if it was up to me, i wouldn't give these nobodies no sympathy. i'd take away the pain, i'd give you everything

most people think of gojo satoru in shades of blue.

not the soft and wistful kind that paints summer skies, or the quiet ripple of a lake at dawn. no, they think of an unearthly blue. sharp and electrifying, the kind that stings your eyes and lingers even after you look away.

the shocking azure of his cursed technique, like lightning bottled and ready to shatter the earth. or maybe it's the endless stretch of his eyes, the kind of blue that is so bright, you may burn yourself if you look too long.

to everyone else, gojo is blue. bold, and unrelenting and impossible to ignore.

but to you, gojo satoru is green.

it took time for you to notice it. green doesn't always shout or demand attention. it waits quietly in the background, sometimes content to let others take the stage.

but once you saw it, it was everywhere. it bloomed and took over your life.

the café smells like freshly brewed coffee, warm bread, and the faint sweetness of jasmine blooms sitting in a vase by the window. it's a quiet day, the kind that only seems to exist when gojo has finally managed to wrangle some rare time off.

your boyfriend sits across from you, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning like he's thought of something utterly brilliant.

"okay, hear me out," he says, holding up a hand like he's about to make a groundbreaking declaration that will shatter the earth and bring world peace, "you're the oolong one for me."

you pause and scrunch your face, mid-sip in your tea, "please don't."

gojo leans forward, his grin growing wider ever still, "no? how about this? you're simply tea-rrific."

you bury your face in your hands, as an elderly couple looks at the two of you oddly, "you're unbearable."

"tea-rrific. like terrific," gojo laughs, wagging a finger like a professor lecturing his class, "get it? because -"

"oh, i get it," you cut in, shaking your head but still smiling at your entire world of a boyfriend, "i just refuse to reward bad behaviour."

but you should know better than to think you've tampered down on the relentless force that is gojo satoru. he is relentless in all things, especially when he decides to make you laugh. he's launched into an entire string of tea-related puns, each one worse than the last.

chai think you're amazing! we're a matcha made in heaven! leaf me alone, i'm on a roll!

and somehow, somewhere between the chai and matcha, you start to notice the green.

the delicate stems and leaves of the jasmine says slightly as the café door opens and closes, catching your eye. their soft green isn't loud nor is it attention-seeking. just quietly present, a backdrop to the white blooms that adorn their head.

it is the kind of colour you don't realise you've been missing until it's suddenly there.

you glance at the window, and the trees lining the street are the same, their leaves dappling the sunlight as they sway in the breeze. even the café walls, painted in a muted, sage-like shade, seem to glow just a little in the sunlight. a backdrop to gojo's charming antics.

he's still in front of you, his hair gleaming the same dewy shade as the jasmine blossoms. so animated as he explains why leaf me alone was an under appreciated pun.

there's green in him too, you think.

not in the obvious sense for gojo satoru is far too outwardly vivid to be defined by something as soft as the green akin to your matcha. but it's still there, beneath the flash of his grin and the sharpness of his humour. in the way that he leans closer to make sure you're still smiling.

in the way he somehow turns the whole world into a quiet garden on days like this.

"okay," gojo says, leaning back to cross his arms over his crisp white tee, "i'll stop. but admit it, i brewed up some great ones."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "fine. one of them was acceptable."

gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you've delivered a fatal, cleaving wound, "one? one? i give you comedy gold, and the love of my life repays me like this!"

the jasmine leaves quiver again as your knee knocks up, shaking the table, "you're impossible."

gojo smiles softer this time, tipping his head as though you've delivered the greatest compliment in the world, "yeah. but love me so matcha!"

the strongest sorcerer in modern history is cracking himself up again, and you can feel the warmth of the colour green around you. in the leaves, in the dappled light, and the man across from you who somehow makes the world softer, and sweeter. and full of life.

there's a matcha-green hoodie in gojo's closest. it's oversized, cozy and worn just enough at the cuffs to feel like a bit of a secret. something loved so well that it holds pieces of him in the quilted fabric.

it's nothing like the sharp navy and indigo of his uniform that he wears on duty, where every line is a untouchable warning. no, these clothes are the opposite for you. it's familar. it's gojo's off-duty self, the one that the rest of the world doesn't get to see.

gojo only really wears it at home, when he's padding around barefoot with tousled, snowy hair brushing over his forehead as he pretends to tiptoe (and fails spectacularly) to let you sleep in. it's the kind of green that somehow makes the mornings softer, as if the day dances quietly around you too.

it's also the green of the evenings when he drapes himself over the couch in your apartment, long legs dangling over the armrest while he beckons you with a lazy smile.

the fabric is impossibly soft against your cheek as you settle into his broad chest, and his arms loop around you like they were always meant to belong there. it smells like him too, a little like cedar and a little like pine. and you think it might be your favourite place in the world.

one time, you stole it.

you hadn't planned it. you had been cold, and it had been right there. before you knew it, you had been walking around the house in its oversized embrace.

when gojo had caught you for the first, his grin stretched wide, playful and wicked.

"hey, well," gojo had drawled, leaning against a doorframe like a cartoon cat that had finally cornered the mouse, "look who's going through other people's closets."

you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, "it's comfortable. you take my shit all the time."

"it's cute on you," gojo says, sauntering closer and placing his large hands on either side of your face, "but you know...no one looks cuter than me."

you snort and turn your back on him, which only encourages for the six-foot-three man to chase after you. and even though he claimed he needed it back, he didn't get it for a week.

maybe because you refused to give it up, or maybe because every time he saw you in it, he just shook his head, grinning as if he’d been caught in the middle of something he didn’t mind losing.

when gojo invited you back to the family estate, you had braced yourself for grandeur. looming gates, and endless halls. the suffocating weight of tradition.

and yes, the grandeur had been there. but what lingered most in your memory wasn't the vastness or the architecture. it was how beautiful it was.

there were several shrines that lay nestled among the estate, hidden away on plots of land. this one had been worn soft by time, covered in moss and nestled among the larger stones.

spring had woven itself into every corner of the estate, from the blossoms swaying overhead to the long grass brushing against your ankles as you walked.

gojo stood a few steps ahead of you, glancing back as if to make sure that you hadn't disappeared, hadn't been swallowed up by the earth. he was dressed in far more traditional robes for once, navy linen lowing and rippling as he moved.

but there was something endearingly out of place about him here, like a bird perched on the wrong branch.

"spring makes it look nicer than it is," he said, running his fingers over the soft, white edges of his undercut. you can hear the underlying vulnerable note in his seemingly casual voice.

you didn’t reply right away, too caught up in the way the sunlight filtered through the cherry blossoms, scattering dappled green shadows across the worn stone steps. when you reached the base of the shrine, you paused, taking it all in: the moss, the blossoms, the breeze, and him.

"it's beautiful," you said finally, and he gave you a lopsided smile that felt more honest than any grandeur could ever be.

he waited for you at the top of the steps, his gaze steady and warm as the spring air. for a moment, he looked like he belonged here, a part of the ancient garden itself. like a carven statue created by loving hands, forever memorialised as something not quite human. but you knew better.

he didn't like this place — this house that felt more like a museum than a home, this estate heavy with the weight of a family name he wore like armour. since arriving, he’d been quieter than usual, his usual spark dimmed by old memories and expectations, and constantly bowing servants who called him lord and master gojo.

but now, as gojo watched you walk through the long grass, something shifted. his shoulders have relaxed, his hands hung loose at his sides. and then, so softly you almost missed it, he says, "i want to marry you."

you froze, the words catching in the breeze between you.

he wasn’t looking at the shrine anymore, or the blossoms, or the sky. gojo satoru was looking at you, his blue eyes calm and unwavering, like he’d found his answer in the very place he’d been avoiding.

"i know it's not much right now," he added, his voice low and rough around the edges, as though he wasn’t used to baring this part of himself, "and i don't care what the elders say. but you're the only person i want."

at the edge of the jujutsu high campus, there's a vending machine of incredible drinks. its green paint had faded, and chipped from the years of stubborn sun and countless coins clinking into its slot.

it hums faintly, blending into the scenery like a reliable friend that carried you through your own years of high school.

somehow, it's become your spot. not officially, no. there was no grand declaration, no conscious agreement and treaty. but after his classes, he always ends up here.

and so do you.

it starts the same way each time. gojo satoru saunters up to his fiancé with that unmistakable grin, white hair catching the light as if he was trying outshine the sun itself.

you watch as he slides a coin into the slot with theatrical position, with his finger hovering dramatically over the buttons. like he's choosing between life and death, instead of commercial canned drinks.

"one iced matcha," gojo announces in a tone meant for a training arena, and not a quiet campus corner. his hand arcs in an exaggerated flourish as he offers you the drink, "for the love of my life."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "flattery won’t get you anywhere," you reply, accepting the can and cracking it open with practiced ease.

it's a dance you've done a hundred times, but somehow it never gets old. he leans against the vending machine, towering and smug, watching you take a sip like he’s waiting for something.

"don't even think about it, satoru" you warn, holding the can just out of his reach.

but it’s gojo, so of course he thinks about it. he grins wider — how is that possible? and in one fluid motion, he leans in and steals a sip before you can react.

"i will get revenge, always so difficult," you weakly huff, but your fond smile gives you away.

"difficult to resist," he counters, winking like it’s a challenge, "besides," gojo adds, holding the can up to the light as if inspecting its soul, "it tastes better when it’s yours."

you snatch it back, pretending to glare at him, but he’s already leaning closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches to press another button.

"second round?" he asks, as if this isn’t already part of his plan.

the vending machine hums again, green and steady and familiar, as it delivers another drink with a satisfying clunk.

green had grown to be more than just a colour. it had been a thread that stitched its way through your love story. quiet and constant.

so when the day came, when your heart thudded heavier than ever before and your hands shook just slightly as you smoothed down the expensive fabric, it only made sense that the colour of vitality and new beginnings was everywhere.

the first ceremony itself had been steeped in tradition, from the elegant folds of your formal robes to the rhythmic chants that seemed to echo on in your head. you were grateful for its beauty, but it was the dinner afterwards that felt like yours truly.

the reception was tucked away in a corner of the sprawling grounds, where the tables were adorned with white lilies so luminous they seemed to carry their own light. they sat in vases of muted jade, the colour rich and soft, like the grass after a spring rain. the candles flickered in delicate green holders, casting shadows that waltzed across the tablecloths.

gojo was, of course, the first thing you noticed when you stepped into the space. he wasn’t wearing robes anymore; he’d swapped them for a sleek black suit that fit him perfectly, save for the ever-so-slightly loosened tie (because he couldn't help himself). his hair, as untameable as always, gleamed in the low light.

and then there was you, in a flowing green dress that felt like you’d stepped out of a dream and into his orbit. the soft fabric caught the candlelight, shifting from deep emerald to pale sage as you moved, shimmering. you thought about how this colour, the one that reminded you of leaves and tea and moss-covered shrines — had always meant life to you.

gojo's grin when he saw you was wide enough to rival the moon, and he made a show of adjusting his tie like a movie star spotting their co-star for the first time, with an awfully cliché wink.

"you clean up nice," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief, and then something more love-struck, "my beautiful wife. i must be the luckiest man on earth."

"and you’re just realising this now?" you teased, the soft fabric of your dress whispering as you stepped closer.

dinner wasn’t a grand banquet, but it was perfect — just your closest friends, a table overflowing with warmth, and gojo stealing glances at you as if you’d disappear if he looked away for too long. between bites of food and sips of something sweet, he leaned over to whisper ridiculous commentary in your ear about your guests: how much wine nanami had thrown back, or how shoko had situated herself perfectly near the food.

but then, in quieter moments, he’d reach for your hand beneath the table, his thumb tracing soft, lazy circles on your skin.

the night blurred into laughter and soft music, of digital cameras and drunk speeches. the green hues around you shifting like memories folding into themselves. you caught sight of the lilies swaying gently in the breeze and thought about how gojo had insisted on them when you’d been indecisive.

"white lilies mean devotion," he'd said, smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

"and green?" you'd asked.

"green's for us," he replied, "or for you. i know you like it so much. an' it's cute when you're sentimental."

by the end of the night, gojo's tie was completely undone, and his jacket hung over the back of a chair. he pulled you onto the dance floor despite your protests that your feet hurt, practically yelling in their strapped heels.

"then i'll carry you," he said dramatically, dipping you halfway before breaking into laughter when you yelped.

the two of you swayed there, in the gentle green glow of the reception, his arms wrapped around you and the world falling into place. your husband smelled faintly of the lilies and something warm you couldn’t name. you're sure if you put pen to paper, like a poet of old, you might be able to name that feeling.

"you know," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, "i've been to a lot of ceremonies, but this one’s definitely my favourite."

"oh? why's that?" you asked, resting your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"because this time, i got to marry you."

you used to love the colour white. it had been the colour everything pure. everything soft that made you feel safe. the brightness of it had brought a clarity to the world.

it was the colour gojo's unruly hair, glistening in the sun like a crown. you had been so enamoured, watching him run slender fingers through soft strands. to you, white had always been perfect and radiant in all of gojo's unbridled glory.

but the winds of the snow storm must have shifted.

you still remember that day so vividly, as if your mind could never forget it no matter how much you wished it could. the white falling on the streets of shinjuku, covered with layers of freshly fallen snow. pristine and untouched.

but there had been a sickening crack of flesh against pavement, the wet thud that only those who've known death too closely can identify.

you had seen it before you'd even registered the horror of it all. the red, the bright crimson that bled into the snow. staining it, warping it. turning it into something so vile. the ministrations of ryomen sukuna.

gojo's body, cleaven and unmoving. the garnet staining his snow-white hair as it pulled from under his spine. the quiet calm that had settled over his face, as if he had seen something so wondrous in his last moments.

that snow, once so untouched and pure, was suffocated by the iron scent of blood. and at that moment, when you had lost him forever, was the moment you knew that white would never mean purity again.

the colour of white, the colour of christmas eve — no longer held any softness for you. it wasn’t the gentle lightness of his hair; it was the cold, hard truth of loss. it was the memory of blood seeping into that pure snow, the last thing he saw before his life was ripped away.

now, you avoid it. you avoid white whenever you can, as if by doing so, you can erase that moment from your mind. you keep your house warm and cozy, perhaps almost unhealthily so, with shades of warm and soft earth tones, and you dress your daughter in colours that remind you of life, of what was still worth living for. but white? it's a shadow, a reminder. so, you avoid it.

but then, one afternoon, a few months later, your daughter tugs at your hand, small and warm, a soft giggle escaping her as she skips ahead of you. you can’t help but smile at her, at how much of gojo satoru is in her — the way she laughs without hesitation, the way her energy fills up every room, every corner.

you're walking down the street, the air still crisp from the tail-end of winter. it's one of those moments when the world feels ordinary, but in the best way possible. sunlight filtering down between reconstructed buildings, the bustle of the city in the background, your daughter's little chirp bubbling in the space between. you're lost in her, in the joy she brings.

but then, you stop.

you don't mean to. you didn't even notice where your feet were taking you until it happens. your gaze drops to the ground, and there it is.

that spot. the place where it all happened. the very spot where the white had been stained with merlot, the place where gojo's life was stolen from you. the pavement looks the same, the cracks just as they were before, but there's something different now.

a tiny green plant, barely noticeable, growing through the crack in the concrete. the leaves are soft, a rich shade of green that seems to pulse with life. it's small, fragile, but determined, its roots pushing through the cold, unforgiving pavement.

you swallow, the lump in your throat almost choking you.

"satoru..." you whisper to yourself, but your daughter’s voice pulls you from your morbid, breaking thoughts.

"look!"

you glance down, seeing her kneeling beside the plant, her tiny hands reaching out to touch it with wonder in her eyes.

"it's pretty, isn’t it? can i pick it?" she asks, her voice light and innocent.

you nod, tears welling up in your eyes that you refuse to let fall. you hold your breath, trying to steady your heart. it's absurd, you think, how something so small, so simple, could make you feel so much. how something as insignificant as a sprout could make the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

nitrogen, iron and phosphorus are all found in human blood. and hey! they're also needed for plants to grow!

you hear the voice of teenage shoko, kicking her legs back as you tried to finish your homework, right before yaga assigned you another detention. but now the memory comes back to you, sickens you. tears at your heart.

you crouch down beside her, your fingers gently brushing against the plant’s leaves.

"yeah, it's pretty," you whisper, voice barely audible. “best let it rest where it is, yeah?"

you've taken a deep breath and stand up, your daughter tugging you along as she continues on her path, unknowing, innocent. entirely unaware of the memory of her father, lauded as a hero and as a sharp weapon by all those who knew him.

most of those who knew him.

but you glance back at the little plant, the green leaves waving in the soft breeze, and for the first time in months, you don’t feel the crushing weight of grief.

you just feel… a little less lost. and for the first time, the colour green feels like something more than a memory of gojo satoru.

more of a promise for the future, for those who lived on.

[meazalykov]

its never enough

barca femeni x platonic!alexia putellas x reader

summary: the team had to intervene after seeing the amount of things you own

warnings: overconsumption, financial issues, childhood trauma, angst

you’ve always been a fighter, y/n. 

growing up in a small, cramped apartment with not much more than a kitchen table and a flickering television, you learned early on how to make the most out of little. your world was filled with the sounds of exhaustion: the tired creaks of your mother’s joints as she came back from long shifts, the gentle rumbling of your stomach as you lay in bed at night wondering if tomorrow would bring a meal or just another day of uncertainty. 

when you were younger, you were happy because you didn't know better. there was no one to tell you that many other kids didn't go through the poverty that you had to go through.

there were nights when you would curl up under a thin blanket, feeling the hunger gnaw at your insides, wishing for just a slice of bread or orange juice to ease the ache.

your mother worked tirelessly, holding down two jobs and often coming home with her eyes clouded from exhaustion, but she always made sure you had at least one decent meal a day, even if that meant sacrificing her own. the smell of burnt rice or old beans became an ordinary experience, an echo of sacrifices made out of love. 

she sacrificed a lot, even if you started to resent her after seeing all of the rich kids at your school with no worries about when they're going to eat next.

you remember the days when you would sneak out to the local park, pretending that the kids from the academy didn’t have talking points that revolved around the latest gear or shiny new sneakers. you wore the same worn-out cleats for years that you found in a thrift store, and while those shoes may have drawn odd glances, they also pushed you to play harder, to train longer.

those white colored adidas cleats of yours slowly turned yellow and green overtime due to the grass stains. 

the first time you were signed to an academy, it was through scholarships. you took public transport (sometimes without paying) back and forth from home to the academy from 6am to 9pm.

that’s where it all began—out in the sun-kissed fields—the heartbeat of your journey. every dribble, every sprint, made you feel alive. the coaches quickly noticed your raw talent; your feet danced like a lyrical melody, weaving in and out of opponents with fairy-tale grace. 

they’d call you into training sessions meant for the older girls and suddenly, you found yourself in a world where your poverty didn’t define you.

many of the nice coaches offered to pick you up from your home in the poor neighborhoods outside of your city, knowing that they couldn't afford to not have you on the pitch.

those were the fabrics of the beautiful game that would one day pull you from those struggling days into a life of unimaginable opportunity.

your childhood academy, once you graduated high school, called you up to the senior team. the salary was small but it was enough to finally see breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in the same day instead of sacrificing one or the other. sometimes, you're lucky that you still have muscle and strength for someone who was not eating enough.

fast forward to after you turned nineteen, a year after your first senior team callup from your childhood club.. you were standing in the hallowed halls of barcelona, far away from home.

the weight of your dreams now intertwined with the club’s crest stitched delicately onto your new jersey. barcelona had been keeping an eye on you for years.

the contract you signed with the catalan team was something you could hardly comprehend—it felt surreal, almost like playing in a fantasy. the money you received dwarfed anything you had imagined during those starving nights as a child. suddenly, you had means far beyond what you had deemed possible.

the first time the signing bonus hit your account, you stared at the numbers blinking feverishly on your screen, unable to process it. the world opened up before you like a child’s storybook, each page filled with opportunity. and so, you rented a bright little apartment in the heart of barcelona, sunlight pouring through oversized windows, casting warm hues upon your brand-new life. 

it felt like a fresh canvas; you could paint it any color you desired. and paint it you did—perhaps too much.

at first, it felt liberating. a new superpuff jacket from aritiza? an absolute must. four different colors? obviously, because how could you choose just one jacket? each item in the store beckoned to you like love notes, whispering promises of happiness that you’d long been denied.

body washes in five different scents? a practical necessity because—how could you ever pick just one that felt right? you bought them all, bringing home bags filled with excitement and haste, giggling as you unwrapped each item in your sunny living room, often spilling the contents across your pristine floor in a flurry, and marveling at your newfound abundance.

having a space to yourself where the shelves were always stocked, the floors were always cleaned, and the heater actually working was something that gave you more peace than you expected.

sometimes, looking around your apartment often made you realize that the walls were suffocating under the weight of your possessions. clothes spilled from closets, shoes lined the hallway and your closets, and accessories filled every surface; a delightful chaos really, yet one that made your heart race with a strange sort of anxiety. 

you owned everything you ever wanted, but somehow, it still felt like a little too much.

your relationship with your teammates blossomed, particularly with alexia. she was a guiding light for you; her encouraging words sculpted you into a more confident player, and her laughter felt like a reminder that you were not alone in this world. 

she took you in after seeing how much potential you had for a twenty year old. the way you'd tackle world-class forwards like you had ten years of experience under your belt was something that caught the spanish woman off guard.

at barcelona, you gained the closest companion in your life, esmee, your best friend.

esmee visited your apartment frequently, often gaping at the sheer amount of items you owned, her eyes wide as she stepped over a particularly extravagant pair of heels that you probably haven’t worn once.

“y/n, do you really need all of this?” esmee asked playfully during one of her visits, standing at the entrance as if she were an unwitting tourist exploring a museum filled with ridiculous wonders.

“of course! look at this,” you laughed, sliding on a pair of trendy sunglasses you had bought just that week. 

“i could be a runway model with these prada ones.”

esmee chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief, careful not to trip over the plethora of colorful items sprawled about. 

the dutch places her jacket in her walk-in closet, hoping to not mix it up with all of your other ones. seriously, it looked like a whole family lived in your apartment instead of yourself.

“the fashion runway maybe, but i genuinely wonder how many outfits you have.”

as the months went on, whispers began to circulate amongst the team, drawing a bit of humorous attention. 

mapi once teasingly commented to alexia, “you know, i’ve never seen y/n in the same outfit twice. it’s like she has a new look every single day!”

alexia raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the countless intricate combinations you’d flaunted during practice and the matches that followed. 

“are you serious?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. 

“you think she actually has that many clothes?”

“esmee and i were talking,” mapi continued, her lips curling into a smirk, 

“and we noticed that y/n always has new shoes, new clothing, she's always walking by with a new fragrance scent—it's hard to keep track. i don’t get it.”

the curiosity started to whirl in alexia’s mind. she respected you immensely and admired your skills, but now she felt a tug towards something deeper. the urge to check in, to see if this was just youthful exuberance or something more. 

so, she decided to probe a bit further, casually nudging esmee one afternoon while both of them waited for practice to begin.

“does y/n have, like, spending habits?” alexia asked casually to esmee, pretending to tie her shoelaces, her expression deceptively nonchalant. 

“not that it’s any of my business– nevermind.. who am i kidding, it is because i need to watch out for her.”

esmee looked a bit uneasy, weighing her words carefully. 

“you know, she does get a lot of packages delivered to her apartment,” she admitted after a short pause. 

“it worries me a little. she’s got a lovely place, but, um, some of the things she buys are expensive—like that vintage prada jacket she flaunts all the time.”

alexia nodded, her mind racing at the thought. 

“okay, but how does she really feel about it? do you think she realizes it’s become…well, a problem?”

“i don’t want to start anything,” esmee replied quickly, clearly hesitant. 

“but…i’ve noticed some little things here and there.”

a few days passed. you found yourself bustling through your apartment, obsessively tidying up as you waited for a batch of brownies to finish baking. the sweet aroma was filling the air, comforting and familiar, hard to resist. 

you had always loved experimenting in the kitchen since having your own space. growing up, you had no idea what brownies were until your childhood academy threw an, "end of the season" party for getting top of the league. they were delicious, but you knew that your mother at the time only had enough to feed your rice, chicken, and pinto beans.

a knock broke your reverie. you wiped your hands on a dish towel and opened the door, revealing alexia dressed casually in a simple t-shirt and sweats, looking relaxed yet focused. she stepped in, offering you a warm smile.

“hey, y/n!"

"ale!!" you say, hugging her before leading her into your apartment.

"whats that smell? are those brownies?” ale asked, stepping over a pair of athletic shorts you’d carelessly discarded near your living room. 

“mind if I grab one?”

“sure! they’re almost ready!” you chirped, feeling a bit of giddiness wash over you.

as you neglected the untidy piles around you to shuffling around the kitchen, you could feel alexia’s gaze wander.

she noticed your open closet door by your front door, she didn't notice the amount of jackets and shoes you had stored in there when she first walked in.

alexia knew that you didn't have a roommate, you or esmee would've told her. all of those items belong to you.

the older woman turned to you, her expression turning serious. 

“y/n, listen,” she began slowly, 

“i wanted to talk about something.”

you froze for a moment, piecing together the gravity of her tone. the brownies, still cooling, were suddenly secondary to her serious demeanor. 

“what’s up?” you asked with a slight frown, putting the tray down on your kitchen island to focus on her.

“i’ve been meaning to bring this up,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

“i heard some things about your, uh, spending habits, y/n. i think it might be good for us to talk about it?”

you instinctively shook your head, the edges of denial creeping in. 

“my spending habits? what do you mean?” you asked, your voice suddenly edged with defensiveness. 

you hoped that your bedroom door was locked, you thought inside of your head. that would’ve gave away all of your issues that alexia is concerned about. 

“it’s not like i’m, you know, drowning in debt or anything.”

“i—I know that,” alexia kept her eyes locked with yours, her gaze gentle yet unyielding. 

“but y/n, it’s a lot. i want to make sure you’re okay. i mean, it’s easy to go a bit overboard when you’ve finally got the chance to buy things you’d never dreamed of.”

“what do you mean? it’s not overboard,” you insisted, crossing your arms. 

“i grew up fine, really, i am not–” 

“y/n, please don’t lie to make yourself feel better.” 

“alexia–i–i just…i like looking nice, and it’s not just about the clothes. it’s—you know, it makes me feel good.”

“trust me, i get that, really.” alexia's voice softened, understanding behind her words. 

“but don’t you think all of this,” alexia points to all of your shoes in the hallway leading to your bedroom. 

“could be something more? an underlying problem?”

your heart suddenly felt heavy. 

“underlying problem? what are you saying, alexia?” the defensiveness you felt turned to an urgent need to protect the parts of yourself that had been so fragile for so long—the parts that still whispered fears of never being able to escape your past.

“i know how you grew up,” alexia said gently, the weight of her words settling like a blanket between you. 

“almost everyone on the team knows, y/n. and it’s okay. we all love you but you don’t have to be afraid of going back there—I promise, you’re safe now.”

you shifted uncomfortably, grappling with the urge to retreat, but alexia’s words were like a balm, soothing your frayed edges. yet, discussing your financial problems felt almost impossible.

“it’s hard for me,” you finally admitted, almost a whisper. 

“i’m scared, okay? scared that i’ll get back to being that poor little girl who was always hungry ale…i don’t want to be that person again, even if it was years ago.”

alexia stepped closer, her eyes radiating kindness. 

“y/n, you don’t have to live in fear anymore. you can have the nice things you’ve always wanted, but maybe you should think about getting a financial advisor? someone who can help you save, invest, and still enjoy life? you really can have both.”

you pondered her words, the idea gently pulling at your heartstrings, unsure of how you could intertwine the idea of safety with spending. 

“i don’t want to give everything up,” you breathed. 

“i just…I don’t want to feel like i’m back there—not again.” 

“you won’t,” she assured you. 

“you have the power to change, and you did. you can still get nice things, you deserve that since you work hard on the pitch with us– but maybe focus on less quantity and more quality? your childhood doesn’t have to dictate your future, y/n. believe me. you can have the nice things you still want.”

you nodded slowly, feeling a sense of warmth envelop you. 

“maybe that’s true,” you whispered.

“you don’t need to hide your past either, y/n. many of us did not grow up with a lot of dinero either. aitana’s family suffered while she was growing up, same situation as you but you didn't have the politics involved.” alexia lightly smiled, hoping to see you less scared of the conversation. 

“oh,” you said, leaning your arms against the kitchen island across alexia sitting on your stool. 

“i am just saying that all of this stuff and the idea of buying it will only last temporarily. you do not want to spend so much money to the point where you’re broke. i have an idea on how much your salary is at barca and with adidas, its a lot and you should not blow through that much money in one month.” alexia and you giggled at her last sentence. 

“i know, and i’m sorry.” 

“don’t apologize to me, you didn’t do anything to me. i’ll set you up with the financial advisor i have and we will put you on the right track okay? maybe a therapist at barca too?” 

“anything you think will help me, capi.” you leaned against alexia for a hug. 

masterlist

[deathbxnny]

So, this is another addition to our Arlecchino x Wife!Fem!Reader series, and I had to make a separate post from the ask due to formatting issues. You can see the inspo of said post HERE, tho!

Thank you otherwise to our dear X Anon for another great request, and I hope this is to your liking!!<33

(Also, sorry this took 5 years to make X Anon... life hates me-)

(Part one) (Part two) (Part three) (Part five)

Content: Female reader, fluff, slight angst, established relationship, actually wholesome for once!

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns

((Not proofread))

Sweet strawberry cakes and stitched together teddy bears. (Arlecchino x Fem!Reader)

You only vividly remember the last time you celebrated your birthday. You had just turned sixteen, and whilst no one usually ever put much importance on this day for you, Peruere and Clervie always did. You recall the pink haired girl approaching you in the darkness of your room as she crawled into bed with you carefully. Peruere stood at the door, unmoving and still, but she was there. Just for you.

Placing a clumsily made cake onto your lap, Clervie leaned her head against yours, her voice quiet and hushed in fear of being heard. "Happy birthday." She whispered into your ear, and it meant the world to you. Peruere delicately held a small gift in her clawed hands, her emotionless face partially illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the window. It was a teddy bear they had made themselves, or maybe Clervie stitched it together whilst your wife found it's pieces. Either way, it was lost to time eventually, just like your dearest friend was.

Now, many years later and far away from the past that still haunts you, you forbade Arlecchino to ever mention that day again. Or, well, you never had to say anything. Both of your birthdays meant nothing to you after your previous "mother's" fall and so, you took your rebirths into your own hands.

Your past life wasn't a part of you here.

But on this day, in which you are forever reminded of your mere mortality and the fact that many of your companions never got older than the last birthday you remembered, you find yourself rather somber, even more than usual at that. And despite your wish to forget about it, your wife still acknowledged it with a kiss on your wrist in the morning. You felt bitter every time she did so, even of you knew she meant well.

Thankfully, however, this day would usually pass every year without anyone even thinking about it being your birthday. You often forget it yourself, too, anyway.

But today felt... different.

Perhaps it was the way Arlecchino's gaze seemed sharper and more focused even in the home, or the way Freminet was practically sweating buckets as he asked you to come along with him and his other two siblings for a "short" outing. But you could tell something was off.

"... You want to go run errands with me?" The question was asked carefully, yet the three siblings could immideatly tell that you were suspicious. It wasn't often that you left the home and everyone knew that you would rather not if you could help it. You were always worried about everyone's well-being, considering your past and its hardships. So your son's request was definitely quite odd. They usually never bothered to ask unless the errand runs were absolutely necessary. And you couldn't necessarily remember anything out of the ordinary happening this week either.

Lyney gave you a sly smile as he pressed a hand against your back and practically pushed you towards the front door with a tip of his hat. "Yes indeed, mother! Now let's get going before the bread at the baker sells out for the day!" He chimed as happily as always, yet that just earned him a raise of a brow from both you and Lynette for similar reasons. It was 12 pm... the bread had most definitely run out by now.

Deciding not to question it, you concluded that they may have just wanted to spend time with you outside. Fair enough, you supposed that you could grant them a small outing. Surely everyone will be fine for an hour or two. Arlecchino just gave you and the three siblings a silent nod in approval from her seat in the kitchen as she flipped through her paperwork with mild interest. The Father of the Hearth house being home certainly quelled your worries as you finally allowed Lyney to drag you out with no further complaints.

--

The streets were rather busy at this time of the day. You usually stayed clear around these hours and preferred to go out at night if there was ever the need for it. But Lyney was ever so determined to complete this errand run and if it was the last thing he did. Lynette had yet to say a word about it, whilst Freminet clinged to your side, often glancing at his pocket watch in near worry for a reason you couldn't figure out.

"Lyney, child... are you sure this is absolutely necessary?" You asked just as you were about to reach the bakery. "Ofcourse! We just ran out of bread after all... and you know how the younger kids get about that, mother." That was a flat-out lie, you noted swiftly. You were pretty sure that you had more than enough at home. But once again, you didn't say anything more. Perhaps they really did want to just spend time with you... but why couldn't they just say that outright?

As expected, however, the baker not only had no bread left but had closed shop early too. Lynette gave her sweating brother a deadpan, as he clearly was trying to come up with an excuse. One glance at Freminet, who was quickly shaking his head behind you whilst holding up his watch, made it clear that they couldn't turn around yet. They doubted that everyone was done setting everything up and needed to buy time. But you were always so hard-headed when it came to spending too much time away from the house. So what should they do now?

Clearing his throat, Lyney turned to you with a strained smile. "Ah! My, my... quite the bad luck, right? No matter, we still have other things on the list we can get for todays dinner!" Your brows furrowed at that. You don't recall even mentioning what you'd make today to anyone yet. Lynette swiftly elbowed her brother in the ribs knowingly whilst you were deep in thought, which made the man quickly straighten up and take off his hat. "Oh ah! Because we wanted to cook today! Together!" "... You've never done that before." "Ahahaha... you're so funny, mother! Now let's get going before the other shops close too!" He quickly grabbed onto your arm and pulled you along, his head turning to give his other two siblings a silent nod to proceed with their plans.

Since the two were trailing after the both of you, they were quick to pick up any small gifts when you weren't looking. They already had plenty for you at home, but with you watching everyone intensely every day, hiding anything from you was near impossible. It was a blessing and curse alike, yet you taught them well as they began practically hoarding anything they found under their clothes or making them disappear through some little magic tricks. Freminet was shaking like a leaf throughout all of this, yet hoped you didn't notice it too much.

Thankfully, you were more preoccupied with your oldest son dragging you around for his imaginary ingredient list that you were by now convinced didn't even exist. The more time went by, the more anxious and irritated you became. Sure, you appreciated that they wanted to go out with you, but unfortunately, your excellent perception was beginning to make you restless. You just wanted to get home already and resume your schedule with the other children.

"Okay, next up is-" "-Lyney, enough of this boy. Let's head home." You said as the setting sun bathed the world around you in its last sun rays. Freminet hid behind Lynette at the finality in your voice, which made it clear that you were very much done with their games. They knew that you were catching on and that hiding everything from you was impossible. It was truly impressive yet expected from the Mother of the House of Hearth.

Said young man gave you his usual smile, yet you could tell how nervous he was. "But Mother-" "-I'm unsure of what you're doing, all three of you." You began as you crossed your arms with a frown. "And I appreciate it if all you want is to just spend time with me. I really do. But you can also just say that, children. I know how busy your father and I can get, so I can understand... but you also have to also understand, that I have alot to do at home and can't stay out for long." You gently scolded the three, who just glanced at eachother in response. Well, this was not necessarily their goal... but it did hold you up for longer anyway!

After your lecture, you dragged the three back home. You were very tired from the outing, and whilst you found it nice to leave the house for a bit, today just felt so awfully wrong for you. Stepping into the dark and silent house, however, you couldn't help but freeze. The house of Hearth was never silent. It was always moving one way or another, even into the late hours of the night. It never laid still, never truly slept. Your anxiety shot through the roof, as many possibilities ran through your mind at once. Years and years of loss, torture, and pain always made you fear for the worst in moments like these.

Yet when you quickly rounded the corner to the grand living room in absolute terror and worry, the lights suddenly came on and a deafening yell of "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHER!" rang through the vast house. Confetti flew into the air, and you blinked in surprise, as the three siblings, including the rest of the children and even your wife, stood in front of you around a large table filled with a beautiful cake and plenty of endless gifts. You opened your mouth in surprise, yet were left speechless in shock, as the fear melted away in relief.

Suddenly, everything made sense, and you nearly felt proud that your children were able to sneak past you and organize such a grand party... but only nearly. A sob suddenly shook your body as you pressed a hand against your mouth. That was definitely too much for your heart to handle. Everyone stopped for a moment, realising that they maybe had gone too far, yet Arlecchino approaching you made them all relax again.

She took hold of your hands and wiped away your tears with her claws so delicately. "My apologies. We may have gone overboard." The party wasn't necessarily her idea, nor did she truly understand its purpose, but she had hoped that it would bring you some joy on a day that had been soured forever. And thankfully, when you gave her a weak smile, she was glad to learn that it indeed had done exactly that. "No, I... am just very happy. That's all." It was a partial lie. But it melted into the truth when you looked at all of your happy children in your home. You had made it so far in life. Who would've ever thought that you would ever find yourself happy on this accursed day? "However, give me another heart attack like this one, and I am kicking you all out for a day." You huffed, making everyone giggle before dragging you over to the table to celebrate.

Arlecchino calmly watched you from afar, her gaze calm and gentle. Especially when you opened your wife's gift to find a certain teddy bear in it that instantly moved you to tears once more. You met her eye, an expression on your face she understood well.

You both hoped Clervie was celebrating with you from above, just like she always would.

[apoemaday]

Don't Bother the Earth Spirit

by Joy Harjo

Don’t bother the earth spirit who lives here. She is working on a story. It is the oldest story in the world and it is delicate, changing. If she sees you watching she will invite you in for coffee, give you warm bread, and you will be obligated to stay and listen. But this is no ordinary story. You will have to endure earthquakes, lightning, the deaths of all those you love, the most blinding beauty. It’s a story so compelling you may never want to leave; this is how she traps you. See that stone finger over there? That is the only one who ever escaped.

[kanyerealdaughter]

— ★ BLEACH MEN IN JAMAICA PT II

characters - shunsui , jushiro , kisuke , ryuken , starrk , mayuri , szayelaporro , grimmjow , nnoitra , tsukishima , ulquiorra , toshiro , as ndot , jugram , askin , bazz b. | pt I here! | all around the world event! |

—————————————————————————

SHUNSUI KYORAKU - fits into the caribbean breeze like he’s been here lifetimes before. his pink kimono flutters loosely over a linen shirt, straw hat tilted low, lips curled in lazy charm. he’s not trying to experience the island, he’s trying to romance it. and you.

beach reaction - lays out a shaded mat under a palm tree for both of you. naps with his hat over his face until you run sand between your fingers. “ wanna hear the ocean from this close forever,” he murmurs.

food experience - sips rum slowly, eyes on you the entire time. tastes everything twice, once for flavor, once for memory. helps you sneak a second plate of festival bread, winking.

cultural experience - plays dominoes with locals, wins easily, buys the next round. slow-dances with you during a street band’s impromptu set.

“ let’s never go back.” he whispers, into your shoulder.

—————————————————————————

JUSHIRO UKITAKE - walks with calm reverence, his smile softer than the waves. he carries his illness with grace, but here, something lifts the warmth, the laughter, maybe you. even the sun seems gentle around him.

beach reaction - walks along the tide with you, hand clasped loosely in yours. lets the salt cling to his sleeves, seafoam brushing his ankles.

“ this place… feels healing.” he whispers.

food experience - he is thankful for every bite, you can see it in his eyes. prefers fruit, especially fresh pineapple, which he offers you first.

“ i could get used to this, and to you.” he says, softly

cultural experience - he listens closely during storytelling night, asks thoughtful questions. gifts his wooden hairpin to a young girl who admired it. holds your hand as drums echo through the night sky, breathing in peace.

—————————————————————————

KISUKE URAHARA - arrives barefoot, already blending in, fan lazily fluttering in hand. his intelligence is hidden behind that straw hat, but you can feel it alive, burning, curious.he’s here for the sun, the music, and you especially you.

beach reaction - builds the shakiest sandcastle just to make you laugh. lets waves crash into him, arms wide.

“ refreshing, isn’t it?” he pulls you down into the surf with him, both of you laughing too hard to get up.

food experience - raves about the seasoning, gets obsessed with jerk chicken. somehow gets invited into the kitchen and learns how to make it. recreates it later just for you. “ my masterpiece.” he declares.

cultural experience - trades gadgets with a local inventor, both wide-eyed. gifts you a handmade bracelet with tech hidden inside. “ just in case.” calls this trip.

“ the best distraction i’ve ever had.”

—————————————————————————

RYUKEN ISHIDA - stands out in linen and pressed collars, but somehow the island bends to him anyway. aloof and unsmiling, but you notice his posture softening the longer he watches you dance in the breeze. you are the only thing that makes him stay.

beach reaction - he stays under the umbrella for most of the day, book in hand. watches you with a gaze like thunder, quiet but charged. finally joins you at the waterline.

“ i prefer the view this close.”

food experience - inspects everything before tasting it. ends up favoring grilled snapper and ginger juice. wipes your lips delicately. “messy,” he mutters, but doesn’t pull away.

cultural experience - listens to local music with a furrowed brow, until you pull him into a slow sway.

learns a traditional phrase just to say it to you under his breath. doesn’t smile, but his hand finds yours, warm and sure.

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COYOTE STARRK - moves like a man already dreaming. he lounges in hammocks, listens to ocean lullabies, and only really comes alive when you laugh in his direction. if peace had a name, it would be starrk in the shade beside you.

beach reaction - falls asleep before he finishes putting on sunscreen. lets you draw lines in the sand across his chest while he snores softly.

wakes up, mumbles, “ you look good in sunlight,” then goes back under.

food experience - prefers things grilled. eats slowly, but eats a lot. gives you the juiciest bites without a word. gets a small leaf stuck in his hair, neither of you bother to take it out.

cultural experience - plays dominoes with elders, never says much but wins anyway. he pets every stray dog he sees. lets you braid his hair while local kids giggle in the background.

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MAYURI KUROTSUCHI - looks out of place, until he starts asking questions. to him, the island is a living experiment. but around you, there’s less calculation, more curiosity that borders on wonder.

beach reaction - refuses to get in the water until he’s taken three samples. touches coral like it’s an artifact. finally relaxes when you splash him and run. he gives chase.

food experience - dissects ingredients aloud, annoys the cook. eventually shuts up after you feed him a piece of fried plantain by hand. he declares. “ acceptable.” but doesn’t stop eating.

cultural experience - trades herbs and knowledge with a village healer. makes you a strange-but-beautiful necklace from shells and wires. he lets you smear paint on his face during a festival. calls it “research.”

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SZAYELAPORRO GRANZ - stands out like neon in moonlight extravagant.the island’s simplicity confuses him. nd yet, you fascinate him more than any lab. he learns the pace of joy through watching you.

beach reaction - he complains about the salt in his hair. fifteen minutes later, he’s under a canopy with you, admiring seashells. braids one into your hair.

“ fashionable. like me.”

food experience - refuses to eat with his hands. eventually caves. shocked by how good everything is. demands science. licks sauce off your finger with unnecessary flair.

cultural experience - teaches local kids how to make colorful slime. chaos ensues. gets dragged into a dance circle, thrives in the spotlight. gifts you a handmade pendant, “ the only thing as brilliant as me.”

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GRIMMJOW JAEGERJAQUEZ - walks like the beach is daring him to fight it. barefoot, shirtless, the sun bouncing off his scars like medals. but next to you, he softens, just enough to let the tide reach him.

beach reaction - splashes into the ocean like it owes him money. drags you in even if you scream, laughing like a madman.

“ don’t be scared.” he grins. “i’ll wreck anyone who messes with you, even the sea.”

food experience - scarfs down jamaica patties, licking his lips with a hum. steals food from your plate and dares you to take it back. ends up learning how to grill from a street vendor, now swears he’s the best.

cultural experience - gets pulled into a drum circle. hits hard, too loud but they cheer. lifts a local kid up onto his shoulders and you’ve never seen him grin wider. he whispers. “ we should stay,” when no one’s listening.

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NNOITRA GILGA - walks like the beach, pisses him off. but when a pelican strolls up to him and just stares? he stares back, like he’s finally met a worthy rival.

beach reaction - sits in the sand, arms crossed, muttering “ this is stupid.”

a brown pelican appears. they lock eyes. it pecks the ground beside him. he huffed, as you young him try to feed the animal. he feed it crumbs from your snack bag.

food experience - complains the food’s too sweet, then devours five dumplings. bites your portion too. “ you weren’t eatin’ it fast enough.”

gets sauce all over his chin, refuses to wipe it. “adds flavor.”

cultural experience - arm-wrestles three locals. wins all three rounds. won’t stop bragging. lets someone braid beads into the end of his hair. gives you the biggest shell he can find.

“ don’t lose it.”

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TSUKISHIMA SHUKURO - doesn’t walk he glides. his sandals never scuff, his shirt unwrinkled despite the heat, and when he stands beside you, it feels like the sea holds its breath just to listen. he blends in without trying, but it’s you he orbits around, silent and watchful.

beach reaction - he stands under the shade of a palm tree, book in hand. doesn’t rush to the water but when you tug his wrist, he follows. the moment his feet hit the surf, he lets out the smallest laugh.

“ this is tolerable… because you’re here.”

food experience - asks detailed questions about every ingredient. the cook is impressed. tastes each dish with slow precision. smiles, just a little, when you try to copy him. lets you feed him a piece of fried festival bread.

“ mm. surprisingly sweet… you, not the bread.”

cultural experience - listens to every story like he’s archiving it in his mind. helps fix a broken fishing net, hands deft and clean. someone braids a tiny charm into your hair, he leans in close, brushing it with his fingertips.

“ it suits you. keeps you tied to the moment.” at night, while the fire crackles and music echoes soft in the background, he sits beside you on a stone ledge, fingers grazing yours.

“ you make anywhere feel like memory,” he says quietly. then, almost smiling.

“ and i remember everything.”

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ULQUIORRA CIFER - moves through the island like a passing storm silent, sharp, cold in a way that makes everything warm up around him.

but your presence is the only thing that makes him pause, gaze lingering longer than the sea breeze.

beach reaction - walks the shore alone, eyes scanning the horizon. stands ankle-deep in the surf, letting the water wash away thought. you sit beside him in silence. it’s enough.

food experience - tries everything with quiet precision. stops after one bite of pepper shrimp.

“ too much.”

watches you eat more than he does, memorizing the curve of your mouth.

cultural experience - listens to drumming with his eyes closed. says nothing, but stays. a child offers him a flower crown, he places it on your head.

“ you… belong here. with me.”

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TOSHIRO HITSUGAYA - walks the shore like a tide himself calm, unwavering, with a quiet grace that belongs here. his armor is gone, replaced by rolled sleeves and sand-dusted shoes.

he guards you without words, his eyes tracking everything, but softening only for you.

beach reaction - finds the quietest spot, sets down a towel, offers you half. he watches the waves. “ predictable, yet powerful.” pulls you close when the wind picks up.

food experience - thanks every cook, compliments every dish. shares his plate with you before you even ask. his favorite becomes anything you smile after tasting.

cultural experience - listens to stories under moonlight. asks about the ancestors. dances once slow, precise with only you. touches your hand to his chest. “ i’ll remember this with my whole soul.”

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ÄS NDÖT - arrives like fog slow, eerie, quiet. people keep their distance, but children don’t. they say he feels like shadows but not danger. you’re the only one he lets near and it changes him.

beach reaction - he sits in the shade, watching crabs move. you pull him toward the water. he hesitates then follows.

“ it’s… vast.” he murmurs. “but not empty. not with you.”

food experience - barely eats at first. the colors, the smells overwhelm him. you feed him a bite of sweet plantain. his eyes widen.

“ it’s… soft,” he says. you smile. “ so are you, sometimes.”

cultural experience - he listens to music like it’s speaking secrets. a child braids his hair. he flinches, but lets them.

“ i didn’t know places like this existed.” later in the night he whispers to you.

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JUGRAM HASCHWALTH - walks the shore like a tide himself calm, unwavering, with a quiet grace that belongs here. his armor is gone, replaced by rolled sleeves and sand-dusted shoes. he guards you without words, his eyes tracking everything, but softening only for you.

beach reaction - finds the quietest spot, sets down a towel, offers you half.

watches the waves. “ predictable, yet powerful.” pulls you close when the wind picks up.

food experience - thanks every cook, compliments every dish. shares his plate with you before you even ask. his favorite becomes anything you smile after tasting.

cultural experience - listens to stories under moonlight. asks about the ancestors. dances once slow, precise with only you. touches your hand to his chest. “ i’ll remember this with my whole soul.”

—————————————————————————

ASKIN NAKK LE VARR - shows up in designer sunglasses and bright prints like he owns the whole damn island. he’s sipping from a coconut, flirting with locals and dodging the sun, but always ends up next to you.

beach reaction - won’t step on the sand until he finds the perfect towel spot. yells when a crab comes too close. gets over it when you pour sunscreen into your hands.

“ wait, can you rub it in too?”

food experience - lives for the spice. ranks each dish with dramatic flair. nearly cries from hot sauce, hides it behind his shades. feeds you fruit with a wink. “ for hydration purposes.”

cultural experience - dances with strangers like he was born for it. buys matching bracelets for you both. leans in close, lips at your ear. “ i’d follow you anywhere. even here. especially here.”

—————————————————————————

BAZZ B - is loud, brash, and immediately challenges the sun to a fight. he’s all heat and swagger, shirtless and sunburned and laughing like a madman. but when it’s just you? his voice drops. his fire dims into something warmer.

beach reaction - cannonballs into the ocean like a kid. “ you’re missing out!” he yells, until you join him. lifts you up on his shoulders, dares you to push him under.

food experience - absolutely devours everything like a challenge. keeps demanding spicier and hotter, until he hiccups from heat. you offer a drink. he chugs it, eyes watering. “ worth it.”

cultural experience - he plays steelpan with a local band terribly, but proudly. burns his fingers trying to help grill food. wears the scar like a badge.

“ not pretty as you, but close.” he says. giving you a shell.

words - 2.1k

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