#character study prompt maybe

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

At times, for inexplicable reasons, Jason feels drawn to his grave like a ghost to its haunt, and then he’ll just stay there for hours at a time regardless of the weather.

This happens at random, and the first time the batfam notice is when Jason suddenly wanders off mid patrol.

[adastra121]

“When working with dangerous elements, it is best to keep a safe distance.”

Template by @danger-bird. I included his full design below:

Other MCs' Character Lore:

Mourning Mist (Luneth the Reluctant Unnamed)

Thick as Thieves (Alon the Stray Hound)

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[ranger-kellyn]

hey brain, if we could write something. idk. more lighthearted once in a while, that would be Great

[per-oceanum]

[THE WORLD] :)

[ Tarot ] ㅤ⠀In Elio’s mind, there is no true achievable Utopia. Sure, that’s the dream- to have a place that is bereft of war, or pain, or suffering. Where crimes no longer exist. Did he once hope to create that in Alabasta? Yes. By finding the weapon schematics for Pluton, of course! But ever since getting humbled HIS DEFEAT in Alabasta, those thoughts have changed.

ㅤ⠀Utopia is impossible. Humans have too much greed for power ( like himself, like every other Warlord, like every Yonko, like most people in this damned world ), for money. Due to that, there will always be war. There will always be violence. There will always be one party that is stronger than another.

ㅤ⠀Utopia, in his mind, couldn’t logically exist, anyway.

ㅤ⠀After all, you can’t bring back the dead.

[dior-luxury]

I know you probably already plan on doing the other characters, but I need at least Floyd with the kiss and make out prompt like yesterday

(Absolutely no rush tho! Loving your work ^^ don’t forget to drink water and eat food!)

Kiss And Make-Out

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - no prns mentioned .

- [𝐜𝐡.] ace . deuce . cater . jack . floyd . epel . silver . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] suggestive themes . mentions of making out . romantic tension

Note: Alright! This will be the last part of the series, so I just decided to add all the characters I didn't do yet. (o´▽`o)

Ace Trappola

It started with a tug. Just a casual grip on his wrist as he passed by in the hallway, waving off some third-year who was teasing him about skipping class again. He barely had a chance to register the way your fingers laced through his before you yanked him—hard—into an empty room, the heavy door slamming shut behind you both.

"Whoa—hey! What the hell—!?"

He stumbled in, nearly tripping over his own boots, arms flailing for balance as he turned sharply on his heel. He looked up, just in time to see the glint in your eye.

Oh no.

That glint always meant trouble. The kind of trouble Ace didn’t know whether to run from or dive headfirst into.

"You—you planned this, didn’t you?" he accused, smirking despite the flush already crawling up his neck. “Dragging me into dark rooms now? So scandalous.”

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you stepped close, grabbed both sides of his collar, and kissed him like you’d been starved for days.

Ace stiffened for half a second, brain crashing like a poorly-coded spell. His hands fluttered awkwardly at his sides before finally settling on your waist, gripping you like he might float away if he didn’t hold on.

When you finally pulled back, he was breathless and dazed. Hair a little mussed, mouth parted like he wanted to ask a question but forgot what it was.

"...Okay," he exhaled, blinking fast. "What—what was that for?"

"Missed you," you said simply, already leaning in again.

Ace let out a short laugh—more air than sound—and shook his head, pretending to be exasperated. “Missed me? It’s been like—what, three hours since breakfast?!”

You silenced him with another kiss, this one slower. Sweeter. You kissed his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose, all while backing him against the wall like a predator closing in on prey.

"Y-You're being so dramatic right now," he stammered, though his voice was soft, almost giddy. “D-Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. You're trying to kill me. Death by affection.”

Another kiss. His neck this time. Right under his ear where he’s most sensitive.

He made the most embarrassing noise.

Ace clamped a hand over his mouth immediately, cheeks redder than his dorm uniform. “You—! You heard nothing. That wasn't a—hey! Stop laughing! I will hex your shoelaces together, I swear!”

But he didn’t move to escape.

If anything, he pulled you closer.

Your kisses were like fire—warm, addictive, burning away the sarcastic quips and cocky smirks he usually hid behind. With every one, you peeled back another layer, revealing the boy who secretly adored being loved this loudly.

Who basked in the chaos of your attention.

Who melted a little more every time you whispered his name against his skin.

“…You know,” he mumbled at one point, voice low and a little shaky, “you really suck at being subtle.”

You smiled into the next kiss. “Good thing I’m not trying to be.”

He huffed a laugh, arms sliding around your back as he finally gave in, completely and utterly, to your storm.

“Well, in that case… Don’t stop.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce had just finished class, books tucked under one arm, a determined look on his face as he strode through the hallway. He was focused—ready to get to his dorm, maybe squeeze in some studying before dinner.

Then you grabbed him.

It was quick. A tug to his uniform sleeve, a strong pull, and suddenly he was stumbling into an empty storage room, blinking like he’d been teleported into another dimension.

“H-Hey?! What’s going on—?! Are we hiding from someone?! Is it Ace?! Did he prank someone again—?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You pushed him gently against the door the second it shut, eyes locked onto his like a wolf who'd found its prey. And before he could take a breath—

You kissed him.

Firm. Deep. Like you had every intention of kissing away his ability to speak, think, or breathe. His eyes went wide, and he stood frozen in place like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus.

By the time you pulled away, he was flushed from the tip of his ears to the base of his neck.

“I—I—w-wait,” he stammered, lips still parted in surprise. “W-What was that for?!”

You grinned. “Just missed you.”

Deuce blinked rapidly. “Missed me? I saw you this morning—like, just a few hours ago!”

But then you leaned in again, planting kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, even brushing the tip of his nose.

His hands shot up in defense—though he didn’t push you away. Instead, he clutched your arms like he was trying to anchor himself. His knees might as well have been made of jelly.

“Y-You're really not gonna stop, are you?” he mumbled, heart racing.

You didn’t answer—just kissed him again, slower this time, your fingers tangling in his hair as if you were savoring every second.

He melted. Right there. Right into you.

“…Okay,” he whispered, barely audible. “But don’t tell anyone I like this so much.”

You pulled back, raising a brow. “Oh? So you do like it.”

He groaned, covering his red face with his hands. “That’s not what I—! Ugh… just—kiss me again before I start overthinking this.”

Cater Diamond

It had been a busy day at NRC—classes, club meetings, and then a whirlwind of social obligations that only someone as outgoing as Cater could manage with that ever-present smile. But even someone like him needed a break, especially when the day was dragging longer than expected.

You had been waiting for the right moment all day. Cater had been bouncing from place to place, always surrounded by others, always distracted by something. And even though he texted you little hearts and selfies throughout the day, you wanted more. You missed him—not the filtered, peppy Cater that everyone else saw, but your Cater. The one who melted when you kissed his cheeks, the one who whined dramatically when you ignored his texts for more than ten minutes, the one who looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

So, when you spotted him walking past an empty classroom, your body moved before your mind could stop it. You yanked open the door, stepped into the hallway, and grabbed his wrist.

“Wha—whoa, babe?” Cater blinked as you tugged him inside and shut the door behind you with a click. His eyes sparkled, green and gold with a glimmer of surprise and amusement. “You know, usually I’m the one doing the kidnapping~!”

But before he could say another word, your hands were on his cheeks, and your lips crashed into his.

His back hit the door lightly, a muffled gasp escaping against your mouth as you kissed him again—then again, then again. His fingers fluttered, unsure of what to do for a second. You didn’t give him time to process. You kissed his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, even his forehead before returning to his lips, completely overwhelming him with affection.

“Babe—ha—wait, are we even allowed to be this cute in school?” he tried to tease, but his voice cracked into a breathless laugh when your lips brushed just under his ear. His knees nearly gave out.

Each kiss landed with intention. Soft and lingering, or quick and fluttery, some playful and others dizzyingly passionate. You buried your hands in his hair, and he melted like cotton candy in your arms.

“Aww, you missed me that much?” he asked between kisses, his voice going soft, vulnerable. His arms finally wrapped around your waist, pulling you in. “I mean, not that I’m complaining, but wow—this is seriously intense for a classroom makeout sesh.”

You only answered with another kiss, this time longer, deeper. And this time, he didn’t say anything. His eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting against yours like second nature.

Eventually, when the kisses slowed and you rested your forehead against his, Cater let out a dreamy sigh. He looked dazed, cheeks flushed with a blush that reached the tips of his ears. His hands were warm against your back, and his usual sparkly persona was replaced with something softer—something more real.

“Okay, confession?” he murmured. “I was so over today. But this? You pulling me in here like some drama movie lead and smothering me with love? Total game-changer. Honestly, if you ever wanna ruin my day just to fix it like that, go right ahead.”

You chuckled, and he grinned, brushing his nose against yours before stealing one last kiss.

“Let’s stay in here a little longer,” he whispered. “Just a little. It’s not every day I get ambushed by the best kisser in the world.”

Jack Howl

It started with the echo of heavy footfalls in the hallway—the rhythmic stomp of someone strong, composed, and dead set on getting to his next class without distractions. That someone was Jack Howl, and he was already mentally reviewing the next training regimen he’d be doing after school, earbuds tucked in, his brow furrowed in quiet focus.

You, on the other hand, had been plotting this for at least an hour.

He had been so distant today—not on purpose, of course. Jack never ignored you. But he’d been busy, running errands for Leona, staying late at practice, grunting his usual “I’ll text you later” without realizing how much you were aching just to touch him, to hear his voice in your ear instead of through a phone screen.

So when you saw him walking toward the empty corridor, you struck.

“Jack!”

He blinked, tugging an earbud out just in time for you to grab his hand and pull him forward with a firm yank. His eyes widened in confusion, his large body moving on instinct alone as you dragged him into the closest vacant room and shut the door behind you.

“Wait—what’s going on?” Jack’s ears twitched as he glanced around the dim classroom. “Is something wrong? Did someone—?”

You didn’t give him time to finish. You reached up, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him down to your level—pressing your lips firmly to his.

His body froze. Every muscle locked in place like you’d hit a pressure point. His hands hovered awkwardly at your sides, trembling slightly as if afraid to touch you too roughly.

Your lips kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. A kiss on the jaw, one near his temple. You didn’t stop. He could feel your love in every press of your mouth—messy, heartfelt, craving closeness in a way that made his whole chest go tight.

Jack made a choked, very un-wolf-like noise deep in his throat.

“Y-You can’t just… do that,” he finally managed, voice thick and low, his tail twitching nervously behind him. “You can’t just pull me in and kiss me like that out of nowhere.”

Another kiss silenced him—right between his eyebrows. His hands finally moved, wrapping around your waist, large and warm, grounding you to his solid frame. You looked up to see his face flushed crimson, his ears flat against his hair, eyes darting between yours and anywhere else in the room.

“You missed me that much?” he muttered, voice quieter, breathless.

You nodded and kissed him again, softer this time. His whole expression changed. The lines of tension in his brow eased. He exhaled a shaky breath, as if he'd been holding it in since he first walked through the door. His hands tightened around you protectively, holding you against his chest like he didn’t want to let you go again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so earnestly it made your heart swell. “I’ve been too busy. That’s no excuse—I should’ve made more time for you.”

You kissed him again before he could start overthinking. This time he kissed back.

It was clumsy at first. Jack wasn’t the type for public displays of affection, and this kind of ambush? It short-circuited his brain. But now, pressed against you, with your warmth in his arms and your lips seeking his again and again, something in him unraveled.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Just… give me a second, okay?” he whispered, a rare vulnerability in his voice. “You overwhelmed me, and I’m not mad. I just—damn. You’re gonna kill me with those kisses.”

You grinned, brushing his white bangs from his eyes before placing a final, lingering kiss on his lips.

Jack sighed. His tail wagged slowly behind him, betraying his calm facade. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

He glanced at the door before glancing back at you. “We should get going before someone walks in. But... maybe we stay just a little longer. I think I owe you a few kisses back.”

And with that, the quiet growl he’d held in finally broke, not in warning, but in affection—low, deep, and unmistakably his.

Floyd Leech

It was one of those late afternoons where the hallways of NRC shimmered with sleepy sunlight, long shadows stretching between tall columns. The students were scattered—some still lingering after class, others already making their way back to their dorms. The air was thick with the kind of quiet that only existed in the lull between chaos and curfew.

And Floyd Leech?

Floyd was bored.

His long strides carried him lazily down the marble corridor, shoes scuffing just to hear the sound echo. His blazer hung open, his tie loosely draped like he couldn’t care less—which, in typical Floyd fashion, he didn’t. He hummed some offbeat tune under his breath, mismatched eyes scanning the area for something interesting. Anything.

That’s when he saw you.

You were lingering a little too long near the end of the hallway, eyes darting to the corners, shifting nervously like you were waiting for someone—or hiding from something. But when your gaze locked with Floyd’s, something electric jolted between you.

“Shrimpy~” he drawled, a sly smile spreading across his face as he started walking faster. “You’re actin’ sketchy again. Whatcha plannin’?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped forward, grabbed his wrist with sudden determination, and yanked him—hard—down the corridor.

He let out a bark of laughter, not resisting, even as he stumbled after you with amused eyes. “Oho~ What’s this? A kidnapping? I didn’t know you were that bold. This is kinda fun!”

You didn’t stop to explain. You just opened the nearest empty room—some forgotten classroom bathed in soft, golden light—and shoved him inside with a mix of urgency and giddy adrenaline. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the world.

Before Floyd could even finish turning toward you, your hands were on him. Gripping his collar. Tugging him closer.

Then came the kisses.

One.

Two.

Three.

They landed like raindrops in a sudden storm—fast, breathless, messy. His cheeks, his lips, his jaw, the tip of his nose. Kisses that spoke of longing, of needing, of missing him so much it hurt. You kissed him like you were starved for his touch.

And Floyd? He froze.

His arms hovered in the air for a beat too long, stunned, like his body hadn’t caught up to his heart. Then—slowly, deliciously—his grin widened, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat.

“Well, well, well~ Look at you goin’ all wild on me,” he purred, grabbing you by the waist and lifting you so easily off the floor that your feet dangled in the air. “You missed me that bad, huh? Cute~”

But even as he teased, there was something breathless in his voice. Something tight in his chest.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against yours, eyes half-lidded and warm.

You kept kissing him—softly now. Slowly. More like an apology than a storm. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you didn’t want to let him go. And deep down, Floyd understood. He wasn’t exactly… reliable. Not in the usual way. He wandered off. Vanished for hours, sometimes days. Chased boredom with reckless abandon. But here, in your arms, there was a different kind of pull. One that terrified and thrilled him all at once.

“I’m not used to this,” he murmured against your lips, voice quieter now. “All this sweetness. All this… real stuff. It makes my chest feel weird.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth again. “I just love you.”

The words landed like an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

Floyd went silent.

Then—gently, reverently—he lowered you down until your feet touched the ground again, though his arms never left your waist. He stared at you with a seriousness that rarely graced his face, his usual grin softened into something real and unguarded.

“…Say it again,” he whispered.

You blinked up at him. “I love you.”

He grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you like he was drowning. All teeth and lips and raw, aching affection. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Passionate, hungry, and completely lost in you.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, voice muffled and shaky.

“You’re in trouble now, shrimpy,” he said, arms tightening possessively. “You keep kissin’ me like that, and I’m never gonna leave you alone again. I’ll follow you to class, to lunch, to the freakin’ bathroom.”

You giggled, and he nipped at your shoulder.

“I mean it,” he said, a little louder now, eyes lifting to meet yours again. “You messed me up real good.”

And despite all his chaotic energy, his violent teasing, the jokes and the nibbles—right now, in this quiet space, with your love still warm on his skin—Floyd was just a boy in love. Hopelessly. Deeply.

Dangerously.

And as he dragged you closer again, murmuring silly threats of never letting you go, of biting anyone who even looked at you—he meant it.

Every word.

Epel Felmier

The quiet clack of your shoes echoed down the nearly empty hallway of Night Raven College. It was late afternoon, the soft amber glow of the sun filtering in through the tall windows and warming the stone floors. Most students were off in clubs or retreating to their dorms, giving the campus a rare pocket of calm.

But you were pacing—nervously, purposefully—waiting.

And there he was.

Epel Felmier, your boyfriend, coming out of class with his bag slung over one shoulder, that ever-present look of mild frustration on his face. His lips were pressed together like he'd just finished arguing with someone—or more likely, fending off another comment about how “adorable” he looked. His hair was slightly tousled, the soft lavender locks catching the light just right.

You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he walked just a little too fast, like he had something to prove even when he was tired.

And suddenly, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Without giving him time to react, you rushed toward him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the nearest empty room with a force that surprised even yourself.

“H-Hey—?!” Epel stumbled behind you, eyes wide and cheeks already going red. “What’re ya doin’? Wait, slow—!”

Click.

The door shut behind you both with a soft thunk, cutting off the hallway and leaving the two of you in a forgotten classroom that smelled faintly of paper, chalk, and dust. Shafts of sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, casting golden stripes across his confused face.

“W-Why’d you drag me in here—?” he started, but you didn’t let him finish.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that silences words, that speaks of longing, of affection that built up far too long. One kiss turned into two. Three. A trail of warm, fluttering kisses scattered across his cheeks, his forehead, his jawline—so many kisses, fast and giddy, you couldn’t even keep count. Your hands tangled in his soft hair, brushing back his bangs to kiss his temple.

Epel stood frozen in your grasp for a solid few seconds, blinking in stunned silence. His breath hitched.

Then, slowly, his hands found your waist. Tentatively. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold you this tightly. His fingers curled in the fabric of your shirt as your kisses kept coming, soft and hungry, until his breath came out shaky.

“…Y-You’re bein’ real unfair right now,” he muttered, his ears burning bright pink. “Springin’ this on me without warnin’…”

You finally pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was completely flushed, lips slightly parted, and eyes wide and glassy—half dazed, half drunk on your affection. He wasn’t used to this. Not like this.

But the moment he saw how you were looking at him—genuinely, lovingly, like he was the only person in the world—it broke through his embarrassment like sunlight cutting through fog.

“…Was it ‘cause I looked mad?” he asked softly, brows knitting together. “I—I wasn’t tryin’ to take it out on ya. I just… had a rough day. Some Octavinelle jerk called me ‘cute’ again and—ugh!”

He groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “It ain’t even what they say—it’s how they say it! Like I’m some lil’ doll or somethin’. I hate it.”

You kissed his forehead gently, arms wrapping around him tighter. “You’re beautiful, Epel. And strong. And I love you like this—exactly as you are.”

That did it.

He squeezed you like he’d been waiting for those exact words. Like you were the one thing grounding him after everything else had tried to knock him off balance.

“…You always know what to say,” he mumbled, voice muffled into your shoulder. “No one else ever sees past how I look. But you… you see me.”

He pulled back just slightly, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart race. That strong, determined gaze you knew he tried to hide from most people.

“Ya better be ready to take responsibility,” he said, grinning through his blush. “You keep kissin’ me like that, I’m gonna start expectin’ it every day.”

You smirked and leaned in again. “Then I guess I’ll just have to give you more.”

Epel laughed—a real laugh, soft and breathless and boyish, like all the pressure melted off his shoulders in your arms.

And in that quiet, golden-lit classroom, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the warmth between you, he held you close and whispered, “Don’t let go yet… just a little longer.”

Because when he was in your arms—when you smothered him in love like this—he didn’t feel small or cute.

He felt real.

He felt loved.

Silver

The breeze outside rustled the trees, the sound like soft whispers brushing against the windows of the long hallway in Diasomnia’s east wing. The castle was quiet this time of day, almost abandoned as classes had wrapped up and most students had dispersed. Even the ever-watchful Sebek had rushed off to fulfill some loud, energetic duty elsewhere.

But not Silver.

Silver walked with a steady, unhurried pace—his long legs taking him gracefully down the hallway, the silver of his hair glowing faintly in the filtered afternoon light. His expression was unreadable as always, calm and composed, yet his pale lashes drooped slightly, the telltale signs of sleep gently pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

Not until you stepped out from the side hallway, barely giving him a chance to register your presence before grabbing his hand and pulling him gently—but firmly—into the nearest room.

“Ah—[Name]?” he blinked, his voice low and surprised as the door shut behind you both with a soft click. “Is something the matter?”

The room was some kind of unused study or storage space—quiet, dim, forgotten. A few stray books were stacked in the corners, and light filtered in through half-shuttered windows, casting warm golden streaks across Silver’s face.

He looked at you with soft confusion, his hand still in yours, never pulling away.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Instead, you reached up on your toes and kissed him.

One kiss. Then another. Then another—each one soft, hurried, breathless with affection. His eyes widened, body tensing as your lips pressed against his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, the tip of his nose.

“Wait… ah—[Name]…!” he mumbled, cheeks flushing a delicate rose. “You’re being very… affectionate today…”

But he didn’t stop you.

If anything, his hands—gentle and warm—came to rest against your back, grounding you. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head as he leaned into your touch, just slightly, like a man surrendering to something he knew he could never resist.

You kept kissing him, brushing over the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips, his collarbone, all the places he often forgot were kissable. His armor was off, his guard down, and in this room—with no Malleus to guard, no Sebek shouting in his ear, no duty demanding his focus—he was just Silver. Just a boy in love.

And gods, was he beautiful like this.

“Did you miss me that much?” he asked softly, a gentle laugh in his voice, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he closed his eyes under the weight of your affection. “I’m sorry… I’ve been busy lately. I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

You shook your head quickly and buried your face in his shoulder. “It’s not that. I just… I needed you. And I wanted to remind you how loved you are. That’s all.”

He exhaled, slow and tender, wrapping his arms around you fully now, like the warmth of your presence had melted the last remnants of his knightly restraint. “Then allow me to return the favor,” he murmured into your hair.

You felt him kiss the top of your head.

Then your temple.

Then your cheek.

And finally, your lips.

His kiss was slow. Reverent. A far cry from your giddy flurry of affection—but somehow just as intense. Silver kissed you like someone memorizing the feeling, like someone afraid that if he blinked, the dream would vanish. His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile and sacred, something he couldn’t afford to lose.

“You always find me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Even when I get lost in dreams… you pull me back.”

You smiled, heart thudding like thunder in your chest. “Because you’re my dream too. And I want to live it with you—awake.”

His eyes fluttered open, silver meeting yours, soft as starlight.

“…Then I’ll stay awake. As long as you’re here.”

You held each other in the quiet, the world outside forgotten. Silver didn’t fall asleep this time. No… wrapped in your arms, kissed breathless and full of warmth, he stayed fully awake—for the first time in what felt like forever.

Sebek Zigvolt

The halls of Diasomnia were eerily quiet that afternoon. Most students were finishing their classes, with Sebek himself hurrying to the next duty his unrelenting sense of responsibility had thrust upon him. His boots echoed with a sharp, rhythmic thunk against the cold stone floors, and the usually loud, energetic Sebek looked more tired than usual. The wild look in his eyes had dimmed a bit under the weight of his duties, and he was deep in thought when you stepped out from behind the corner.

Before he could even react to your sudden appearance, you grabbed his wrist, pulling him into one of the empty rooms nearby.

“Hey! What are you—”

Sebek’s voice cut off, his eyes wide with alarm, but his protest quickly faltered as you slammed the door shut behind you, effectively trapping him inside. He looked around in confusion, and his brows furrowed. His gaze locked with yours, puzzled, almost a little nervous, yet filled with that undying, unshakable loyalty.

“[Name],” he started to say, his tone more demanding than usual. “Why have you brought me here? I still have duties to—”

But before he could finish, you stepped up to him, cupped his face, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle peck or a soft, polite kiss—it was fierce, hungry, desperate. Your lips met his with so much energy, so much emotion, that it almost knocked the breath out of him. The sudden closeness of it—the weight of your kiss—caused Sebek to freeze, his wide, green eyes blinking rapidly, as if he couldn’t comprehend the sudden shift in the air between you.

"W-Wait, wait—!" Sebek stammered, his hands moving to your arms as if to push you away. But the moment your lips brushed against his again, he faltered. "This is… this is highly inappropriate! We should not—mmph"

Another kiss silenced him, this time across his cheek, then his jawline. You were relentless, pressing soft, passionate kisses along his skin, completely ignoring his flustered protests. His breath quickened. His body tensed. There was an edge to his nervousness, but there was something else too—something deep within him that wanted this.

"Stop being so stubborn," you whispered against his lips, your breath warm against his skin. "I just want to kiss you, Sebek. Is that so wrong?"

The words hung in the air, hanging heavily on him. His eyes flickered, searching yours, as if his mind was caught in a storm of confusion and surprise. His heart pounded in his chest. His breath was shallow, his usual fiery persona momentarily disarmed by your tenderness.

"Ah... [Name], I..." Sebek’s voice trailed off, shaky and uncertain. His hands, which had previously been trying to keep some distance, were now slowly wrapping around you. His arms snaked around your waist, holding you close as he let his guard down. For a moment, he felt completely vulnerable in your arms.

Then, finally, after a beat of silence, his lips found yours—this time, not because you’d kissed him, but because he wanted to. His kiss was more controlled than yours, more cautious, yet still full of that fervent, wild energy that was so Sebek. His hands, once unsure, now pulled you into him with a quiet intensity. His grip on you was firm, the kind of forceful affection that came from a deep, unspoken need to protect, to love.

"I—" he started, pulling back just a little, his breath ragged. His usual authoritative voice faltered for a moment, giving way to something raw, something real. "I don’t know how to handle this, [Name]. I’m supposed to be the one protecting you. But… when you’re this close… it feels like I need protecting.”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "You don’t need to protect me all the time, Sebek. I want you. I want this."

His eyes softened at the words, the storm of his usual intensity dimming just a little. He let out a quiet, almost reluctant sigh, his head tilting down to rest against your forehead. "You’ve got the strangest way of showing affection, [Name]. But… it makes me feel… something inside."

The words were soft, but his voice held a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to show. The Sebek Zigvolt who was normally so brash, so sure of himself, was now completely captivated by you, caught in the warmth of your embrace. His strong, confident stance softened as he tilted his head to meet your lips again.

This time, his kiss was more tender—gentle, yet still filled with that passion that only Sebek could give. His hands slid down to your back, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. His heart beat rapidly against his chest as he kissed you deeper, as though he wanted to pour every ounce of his heart and soul into that moment.

When he pulled away again, he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as if he had been running a race. His eyes were a little hazy, and his cheeks were a bit pink from the intensity of the moment. "I… I can’t believe you’ve done this to me, [Name]. I don’t even know what to say. But… I don’t want you to stop."

You smiled softly, resting your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. "I won’t stop, Sebek. I’m not going anywhere."

Sebek held you tighter, his arms never letting you go. "Then I suppose… I’ll have to get used to it," he muttered, his voice now a little more teasing, a little more confident in its own way. "Being loved by you, huh?"

Your laughter filled the room, warm and soft, and in that quiet, intimate space, Sebek finally let himself rest. For once, his heart wasn’t racing in a battle or a training session. It was racing because of you.

And he knew, deep down, that as long as you were by his side, he would be yours. Fully, completely, always.

⟡ tag list : @dreaming-of-tae @chai-yas @yunar1 @fever-en @sol3chu @alastor-simp

[uravichii]

"best friends who kiss?"

character/s: bakugo katsuki

summary: recently, your best friend has been kissing you at random times. you have no idea why because he refuses to talk about it. either way, you're not about to let this to ruin your precious friendship.

genre & trope: fluff, best friends to lovers, angry confessions, reader is terrified of love but bakugo wants them so bad 😁, tw kind of ooc bakugo

a/n: i've been watching a lot of pride & prejudice and bridgerton scenes n i'm now obsessed angry confessions 🤩 + this is heavily inspired by that scene in little women :) ALSO i haven't posted in a year 😟 so pls be nice ik my writing's rusty in this :'D

the first time bakugou katsuki kissed you, he pretended he never did.

"what... " you brush your fingers against your bottom lip, your whole face hot. "what the hell was that for?"

"what?" bakugo shrugs, feigning innocence as he takes a swig of his soda.

you try and trace back the events that could have led to the kiss.

you said something along the lines of: "i wish i had a boyfriend. i could definitely pull a cute guy off the street."

then you heard him scoff and say: "no man's sane enough to put up with your insufferable ass." ーor something more insulting than that.

you can't remember what you said in response, and you rack your brain to figure out what prompted him to grab your face and kiss you. it's impossible when all you can think about is the unexpected supple feel of his lips, its faint ghost still lingering on yours.

"that kiss, katsuki! you violated my mouth!"

"dunno what you're talking about. you hit your head or something?"

you blink and second-guess yourself for a second.

"okay, no. you're not gonna gaslight your way out of this." you swat his arm, earning an irked glare from him. "why the hell did you kiss me?"

"you're imagining things, idiot. this stupid game's givin' ya some serious brain damage for sure."

he stands up and swings his bag over his shoulder.

"where are you going? we're not done yetー!"

and he's out of the door.

was he drunk off his soda? maybe he kissed you to mess with your head. he's not that cruel though, you think. maybe he couldn't think of any other way to shut you upー that was something he always struggled with after all.

at least the second time bakugo katsuki kissed you, he was kind enough to warn you.

after enduring the most awkward hour-long study session with him, you decide to put an end to your agony by wrapping it up. you start gathering your things when he stops you with a calloused hand on your wrist.

"what?" you turn to him, your cheeks already heating up from his touch.

there are no thoughts you could read behind those vermillion eyes, and all of a sudden, you don't know your best friend very well anymore.

he walks some tentative steps closer to you until the back of your knees hit the table. he cradles your jaw with such delicacy you didn't even know he was capable of. he slips past your awaiting lips and presses his nose on the side of your head, his warm breath kissing your flushed skin.

"punch me in the face and scram if you don't want this, got it?"

you gulp and forget to answer if not for the gentle squeeze on your wrist. "y/n, you got it?"

"s-sure."

when you two kiss, it's different from last time. it's unhurried, curious, and so intoxicating. the kiss speaks: 'i want you. i want you. i want you' but whose thoughts are these?

he groans into your lips as if to urge you to keep up with the sheer hungriness that has consumed him. you try your best to do so as he deepens the kiss with a palm on the back of your head and practically drinks you in. he doesn't pull away until he hears the tiny whine that escapes you.

"shit, sorry." he mutters, avoiding your stunned gaze.

"t's okay."

"did i hurt you?" the quiet lilt of his voice surprises you.

"no, no. i'm okay, but why'd you kiー"

"bye." he blurts out as he turns to the door and leaves, as if he didn't just invaded your mouth and permanently tainted the years of friendship you two have had. you click your tongue as the heat subsides in your cheeks.

"son of a bitch."

the third time bakugo katsuki kissed you, you let him, and he didn't stop.

you had barely escaped death when you lost your footing while sparring with todoroki. naturally, bakugo yelled the poor guy's ear off and would have murdered him if eraserhead hadn't interfered at the last second.

now, you find yourself heaving in your bed. you don't know whether your hastened pulse is from the adrenaline rush or from the fact that bakugo is all over you right now.

he's planting feather-light kisses all over youー your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your eyelids, your hands, and your wrist, as panicked murmurs spill out of him in between kisses. 'you scared the hell out of me. you have no idea, fuck. are you okay? are you really okay? tell me you're okay, y/n.'

"i'm okayー" you barely manage to gasp before he dips his lips into yours, desperate and frantic. tremulous hands find solace in your hips as he holds you, gentle enough not to mar your injuries but snug enough to assure his restless heart that you are safe.

your head feels hazy. your limbs ache and lie motionless, and though your lips could barely move to reciprocate his kisses as much as you wanted to, bakugo didn't stop. you tried to ask him about it the next morning, but of course, he ignored you and walked away.

you don't know when he stopped kissing you that night. all you know is that there was a line that was crossed, and your friendship was never going to be the same again.

bakugo katsuki is going to kiss you again. your heart thrums incessantly. whether it's dread or anticipationー you don't know.

you think about the sensation of his lips that's become so familiar to you that you've learned to crave it. it shouldn't be familiar to you, and you sure as hell shouldn't want it. so you do what you think is necessary.

you kick him in the shin.

"motherfー!" sure enough, he's pissed. "what the hell is wrong with you?!"

"what the hell is wrong with you?!"

"i was going toー"

"no! you're not gonna kiss me again and walk away and pretend it never happened. you're messing with my head, katsuki! it's not funny!"

"wasn't trying to be funny!" he barks back.

"okay, so what exactly are you trying to do? what is this? i meanー" you stammer, struggling to find the words. "katsuki, what are we?"

he sighs and shifts his stance, his discomfort apparent. when the silence lingers on for too long, you speak.

"well, whatever it is that you want from me, we're going to stay friends. nothing more, nothing less. that's it." your breath hitches, and you don't know why you feel like crying as you speak. "... so i don't want your stinky mouth anywhere on me again."

silence weighs heavily between you. sometimes you wish you didn't know him too well, then the hurt he veils in his eyes wouldn't be so plain and vivid to you, and you would have walked away by now without an ounce of remorse.

"i like you, y/n." is all he could say when he finally speaks.

you shake your head. "no, you're just confused."

"i'm not confused. i like you."

"katsuki, you've been bitchless all your life, and i'm just the closest thing to a s/o. maybe go take a walk or something."

"i like you." he persists. "i've liked your stupid ass forー"

"stop saying that. you don't."

"i do, and you like me tooー"

"what?!" you laugh incredulously.

'who does this dumbass think he is?' is he right? surely, he's not. then what are you so afraid of in the first place? why have you been counting down the days until he kisses you again? why do you yearn for his touch as if it's something you own? why do you feel so infuriated and so tormented when he leaves the room after kissing you?

you do what is necessary again.

"you're delusional!" you yell at his face, a childish shrill that's awfully familiar to your childhood best friend.

"jesus christ." he inhales sharply in frustration. "you're a fucking pussy, y/n."

you clench your jaw and match his glare. anger surges in your chest and bleeds into your voice.

"i'm not the one who chickens out after kissing their best friend! you can't even acknowledge the fact that you kissed me because you'reー!"

"do you think i want to chicken out? why do you think i run away after kissing you?! if i stayed and confessed all this shit the first time, you would've refused to hear it like the damn coward you are!" he leans close to you, his voice lowering into a ragged snarl that quickens your pulse. "and you're just proving it right now, y/n. you're always going to shut this down and deny your feelings because you're a fucking pussy. you're terrified of relationships, and it's dumbest shit ever. pathetic, really."

you rear back from his words. if anything, you always thought it was katsuki who was afraid of love. now, you can't help but feel small and vulnerable underneath his searing gaze.

"it's not dumb..." you shuffle uncomfortably. "what, i'm supposed to ruin our friendship for a relationship that we're going to break off anyway?"

"we're not going to break it off."

"how do you know that?"

"because i'll be the best goddamn boyfriend in the world!"

"first of all, gross." you scoff. "second of all, it's never gonna work out! you're going to get sick of me in three days max."

"i've known you since we were brats, and i still want you."

"you literally said no man's sane enough to put up with my obnoxious ass."

he smirks. "i said 'insufferable ass'."

"katsuki!" you fight the urge to strangle him and punch that stupid smile off his face.

"wasn't even serious that time." he grimaces and reluctantly continues. "you know damn well you can pull any guy you want, and he'd be the luckiest bastard on earth."

if it were any other day, you'd grin at him and say 'i told you so,' but your lips remain unmoved, and your eyes stay dim. you're afraid you'll never go back to being the same katsuki and y/n again.

"this is pointless, katsuki. i mean, look! we're already fighting." you grouch and tell yourself you don't want this. "i still don't want us to happen so while this friendship is still salvable, let's agree to stay friends, and whatever sappy shit you feel for meー suck it up."

in one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, his face hovering dangerously over yours.

"suck it up?" he breathes, his face taut in frustration. "restraining myself from you is the hardest shit i've ever had to do. it takes everything in me not to kiss your stupid face!"

he shudders, weakly resting his forehead against yours as if this conversation alone has exhausted him. still, he goes on.

"and everytime i failedー everytime i kissed those lips, it was... a moment of weakness, but that's the fucking problemー you're just..." he buries his face into the crook of your neck, a desperate attempt to escape your wide-eyed gaze. "i'm weak for you, y/n. every second. and it drives me fucking insane that you keep running away from me."

he rises to meet your eyes again. the cadence of his voice changes into something weak and desperate, stripped of all the pride and anger he's ever known.

"i love youー fuck. i love you." he lets the words hang in the air, letting the words hear itself spoken because for once, you're not stopping him. "i love you, so please... let me."

after much thought and another agonizing minute of silence, you lean in to kiss bakugo katsuki.

he kisses back almost instantly and revels in the way you wrap your arms around his neck and bear your weight on him completely. he kisses back ardently, his pent-up desires and years of longing etched in the way he seeks your lips, kiss after kiss after kiss.

when you finally pull away, you're met with a devilish smirk, his begging eyes long gone. you wonder to yourself when you'll see those eyes again.

"took ya long enough." he kisses you again. he raises a brow at the way you're caging him in your arms. "jesus, no one's gonna snatch me from you."

"i'm making sure you don't run away again, dumbass."

"i won't." he says earnestly as he props his forehead against yours. "and you won't either. i'll make sure of that."

you nod your head with a giddy smile as he pecks your lips again.

"so..." you say as you exaggerate a pensive look, a cheeky grin spreading across your face. "we're best friends who occasionally kiss?"

he rolls his eyes. "you're impossible."

"recite that speech again, and i'll consider calling you my boyfriend."

"fuck off!"

TAGLIST [1/2] @uxavity @joy-the-reader @kiiraes @escapenightmare @afk-dreaminq @avocamich @theboredvee @wonderwrench @ur-local-simp @p-ol @x0xuglyh0tgrl2005xoxo @cosmonettica @melin-oe @mitzi127 @lilac-o @r2katsu @bakucumsackslut @idunnomynamesince2005 @astralwaifu @taurus852 @creepyproxies @maycat-19-142 @stella-fleurets @veenxys @devilgirlcrybabiey @drawingaddict @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @lexiv-web @angelshimaa @izukus-gf @christiansdior @homosexualjohnwayne @uwiuwi @hirugummies @cupidines @loveisningning (bold couldn't be tagged)

[always-just-red]

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, okay? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, okay?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you okay?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, okay? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.  

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, okay?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

[anika-ann]

The (Un)Expected - S.R.

Type: one-shot, soulmate AU, good ol' meet-cute (soulmates meeting for the first time prompt)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8k

Summary: 

A soulmark shows the first words your soulmate will speak to you. A soulmark tells you there is the person for you out there. A soulmark tells you what to expect.

For that, Steve’s is a source of comfort and anxiety to him. You always had a complicated relationship with yours.

But maybe they will teach you a lesson in the end – that the only thing one should really expect, is the unexpected.

Warnings: brief angst, mention of cancer (not reader), canon-typical violence, mention of death (no major character), blood and injuries, language, FLUFF so take it easy on sugar before reading

A/N: written for the Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by the wonderful @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 . Thank you both so much for hosting and stirring life in the fandom! I loved seeing the traffic and positivity on my dash - you're doing god's work 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Steve Rogers was a sickly child.

He spent too much time to his liking in his bed – and even more time outside of it despite feeling sick for he couldn’t bear resting anymore, craving to explore the world instead – and was sneaked into a doctor’s office by his mother quite often as well. She only got him in as a favour, courtesy of her own good name – a nurse working double shifts and lending a helping hand wherever she could, a single mother working herself to a bone to take care of and set example to her only son.

A single mother, a nurse, a good person – a beautiful soul. She left this world too soon, but she left an imprint on Steve’s heart larger than any other person, perhaps besides Bucky, ever could.

All that told him, even as indirectly, that his soulmate would be one special dame. She would be kind, she would be brilliant and for that alone, he knew she would be beautiful.

Steve knew that as soon as he could read, as soon as he could decipher the words on his skinny forearm.

In a world where first words your soulmate would tell you were laced into your skin for you and your soulmate’s eyes to see only, his words told him his soulmate was a little miracle.

'I’m not a doctor yet.'

Steve had spent a fair amount of time around nurses and doctors to know that all nurses were women and the overwhelming majority of doctors were men – by the time he was ten, barely a few women were allowed to attend medical schools, let alone graduate. But you, you would be on your way to reach that. Brilliant. Driven. Desiring to help people, to heal.

It was only when other children, other guys and girls alike, began laughing at him for being too little, too weak, too bony, when his heart began to ache for a different reason than illness. If you were to be all these amazing things he had dreamed of, what were you to do with a sickly fella like him? With your words to him being these, it was a fair assumption to make that you would meet due to his health issues, perhaps a smart dame taken under a more experienced doctor’s wing during your studies. How disappointed you would be when your soulmate, the one person meant for you and chosen by destiny itself, would be… that?

That upsetting idea haunted him, hurting more than the bruises that had formed under fists of bullies Steve kept trying to save those even weaker than him from, more than stick and stones and words alike.

Then again… there was a little silver of hope in his heart, a little shy voice in his head. If you were to be his true love, then certainly you’d accept him, yes? If he tried, if he tried hard enough to be a good man, the best possible version of himself, if he worked hard to protect and feed his future family, set a good example for your future children as his mother had, worked towards making a better world, you’d accept him? If he could live with not being as great as others but never stopped trying, you would respect him and perhaps even loved him for what he was?

Then, of course, war came and those thoughts were pushed aside.

Then, he grabbed at his chance to fight that war, to do his part, to help – and incidentally, he also earned his chance to literally grow. Healthy. Strong. More worthy; but remaining good, because that was the one part of him he wanted to hold on to no matter what, that one part he would wish his love, wherever she was, would love him for, even if he suddenly shrank back into the back of skin and bones he used to be.

Then, he lost his best friend Turned into a failure.

And then… then he died.

One of his last thoughts were of you, a beautiful woman with vague appearance but strikingly kind heart and sharp mind. He prayed you’d get a new soulmate somehow, even as those cases weren’t heard of. He prayed you’d live a happy healthy life without him, at least as good as he would have tried his best to give you, to build with you, even as his own heart was breaking to pieces, regret veiling his body as water and snow and icy wind would, regret for missing his chance to meet the most special person in his world.

When he closed his eyes and still saw the white of ice and the blue of the deep sea, he’d swear he saw your face, crystal clear, for the first time – and the last time – in his life.

Seeing you, a stunning mirage, his last thought was that you were an angel gently leading him into afterlife.

When he woke up to a new millennium, one of the first things he did was checking his forearm; he words still sat there, taunting, mocking and heartbreaking, another screaming reminder of him not belonging here.

As years passed by, the sense of alienation subdued. Steve Rogers learned to belong, even as a piece of his heart was missing, longing for the past life – and the life he had never got to have – always humming in his chest quietly.

The mark on his forearm remained, a sad memento to a soulmate he had never met, turning him into a martyr.

But many people had rejected the idea of soulmates in this time, rebelling against their so-called fate, taking off on a path of searching love on their own. Steve learned they did so for various reasons – a sense of adventure before they’d truly find their one true love, a quest to choose the fortune and love on their own terms, a fuck-you to the universe when their soulmate turned out to be less than they imagined and hoped.

His own reasons, as he reluctantly started to look for a person to share his life with, were rather unique, but no one looked at him through their fingers for that. If anything, those who cared about him encouraged him, wishing for his happiness.

It was only when he got Bucky back – one of his greatest regrets not erased, not lessened since Bucky had endured unimaginable pain, but transformed, a piece of Steve’s past brought back to life – that he began to wonder about the almost blasphemous thought he had forbid himself from entertaining when he had been first brought back to life from ice.

Were you still there somewhere?

And then, a shier thought:

Is there still a chance for me to find my true soulmate?

And then, the shiest one of them all:

Is there a chance for me to find happiness with you?

When he had thought of that before, he was certain that since you were still alive – he had read reports of people claiming their soulmark changed colours if their loved one died – he had thought of you as an old lady who had hopefully lived her life as he had genuinely wished for her.

But what if fate, that little minx who had taken his best friend for life from him only to give him back, had somehow blessed Steve with a soulmark decades before you were even born? What he hadn’t lost his chance, what if you were still young enough to build a life with him? Was that even possible? There were aliens, flying suits of armour, other realms, downright magical weapons… he had been given a second chance at life. There were things happening Steve would have never thought possible before. So was there a chance…?

The idea of you being a doctor became much more plausible too – in this century, female doctors were a much more common occurrence. That, naturally, did not diminish your brilliance whatsoever, the fundamental idea of who you’d be never changing in Steve’s mind. The image only became less surreal in one way and a whole lot more surreal in another.

For his own sake, he didn’t give in into that hope fully; at least he told himself that despite lying awake at night, a ghost of a woman he had never met lying next to him, radiating non-existent warmth he wished with his whole being he could touch.

He wasn’t chasing after the ghost, didn’t allow himself that – there was no way to do so to his knowledge anyway – for the chances of success were rather slim.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

And the longing for love, whether it was in the hands of fate or in his own to find it, remained, built into his very body; etched into his bones, flowing through his veins, laced into his skin beyond the words on his forearm, always humming quietly in his heart.

In the age of information and science, the concept of having your ideal partner for life chosen by some mysterious abstract entity called Fate was literally otherworldly. Alien. Absurd even.

And yet, it still ruled the lives of many.

Which, in all honesty, was almost even more fascinating than the existence of soulmarks itself – the belief people had for them despite being no logic to them at all.

Perhaps it was the little piece of human soul, an inner child people so desperately wanted to cling to for its own beauty and purity, a child who never wanted to stop believing in magic, fate, dragons, mighty knights and kind-hearted ladies, in all things of fairytales and happy-endings the most. Because to a point, that was what soulmarks were – and little fairytale-like book of destiny.

One that not even science seemed capable of beating.

And you should know; you were somewhat of a scientist yourself. And despite how unfathomable the nature of soulmates was, you could not say that you rejected the idea of them, of someone who was born to belong with you, someone you could share your life with, the right partner in the crime of life. Basic bodily needs aside, wasn’t that the most fundamental need of all? To love and be loved; to belong?

Who wouldn’t wish for that reassurance that they could have that, that some strange force of universe itself created a person like that for them? They were the god’s strongest soldiers you supposed; because you were certainly not immune to that tempting comfort.

But you weren’t obsessed – and you prided yourself in the fact. Mostly because the sheer fanaticism of the world over soulmarks, the one thing that kept defying science – besides alien portals, magical blue cubes, demigods walking the Earth and things alike – was dialled up ad absurdum.

There could be billions of dollars poured into research of curing cancer. Cure autoimmune diseases. Helping the homeless. Slowing down global warming. Erasing poverty and famine. Protecting nature, endangered species. Discovering new worlds, exploring space.

But no. Governments poured billions of dollars into researching soulmarks. How was it they existed? How was it you could cut through skin, you could cut off skin and the mark would reappear somewhere else? What was the grand scheme of them? Why was it that only two people who belonged together could see them and the person speaking the words could only see it on their soulmate’s skin after they spoke the words, almost like a fail-safe that couldn’t seem to be broken with any tricks?

It wasn’t a question of physics as far as people knew; they had tried to build sets-up of various optics, thermovision cameras and complex sets of lenses and mirrors, and none of the reports you had ever heard of claimed success. It wasn’t genetic markers either; no one had discovered a sequence of DNA responsible for soulmarks, let alone turned whatever discovery they would have made into a tool of reading anyone’s but their own and their soulmate’s mark. It didn’t seem to be chemistry either; no one had made a groundbreaking discovery or at least they hadn’t informed the scientific or any other community so far.

But by gods, forget the space race. Attempting to be the first one to somehow read everyone’s soulmark and then create an algorithm to monetize it as the one and only soulmate dating app, now that was a competition overflowing with cutthroat madmen. Not to mention the crowds looking to temper with soulmarks, to make another one appear on someone’s body; or worse, to erase the original soulmark and instead design one capable of manipulating the outcome of a soulmate match.

You found the force of that obsession insane – and frankly, all the attempts morally wrong. While dedicated to science and loyal to discovery, you found soulmarks to be something sacred, one of the things that should not be touched by filthy human hands; god knew humanity, while doing a lot of good, had mucked up about just as much.

You were not alone in that belief. There were, in fact, numerous demonstrations against scientists experimenting with soulmarks, people protesting against anyone creating such tool and using it to temper with natural course of things no one fully understood, not for the lack of trying. However – as expected everywhere where politics and money were involved – these protests were in vain.

They were as vain and futile as the research of the marks itself.

As for your own soulmark, you had a rather complicated relationship with it.

On one hand, it gave you a sense of peace – there was someone for you, even as sometimes it did not feel plausible at all. You had time too – because based on those words, you would not meet your soulmate until in your twenties at least. You had plenty of time to become who you were meant to be before a man could turn your life upside down, even as that was not supposed to be what soulmates did, at least not in a bad sense of the word.  

On the other hand, it was a ball and chain. You would not find you soulmate sooner than in your twenties and sometimes, you missed them despite not having met yet. When imagining what your meeting could be like based on their first words etched into your skin, you feared they might be a little disappointed – even as you did not let that stop you from pursuing the life you wanted. And despite you wanting to choose the career either way, it felt like someone – be it god, fate or another cosmic entity humanity was yet to discover – had chosen the path for you the moment you had been born if not before.

'Doctor, are you alright?'

Four simple words that couldn’t be more ordinary and yet extraordinary for they represented one of the most meaningful encounters of your life. The source of as much comfort as anxiety.

You couldn’t stand hospitals ever since you were a child. The cold environment reminded you of the strange icy feeling that had settled in your chest over the months you had been visiting your dying father, your naïve eyes watching cancer bite off his energy and smiles first, before it swallowed his whole body and soul. He had been a ghost long before he passed; and in your mind, despite all rationality even years after, that ghost haunted any hospital you visited.

Learning what your soulmark was as a child, you had spent countless nights crying, soul torn into pieces, pushed and pulled between the visceral desire to live up to your soulmark and the crippling nausea at the mere thought of dealing with people drowned in misery caused by any illness in the cold institution they called a hospital.

However, the curious kid you had been, you had fallen in love with science itself.

And that one day at school, when a classmate of yours had brought their father to the class to talk about his job as a doctor, you had burst into tears. You began to sob in the middle of him explaining to third-graders that he was not a medical doctor, but a physicist with a doctorate earning him the degree of a doctor as well. You remembered your teacher leading you outside of class, concerned and absolutely baffled, trying to sooth you helplessly even as you were completely inconsolable – because you did not need consolation.

You were crying the happiest, most relieved tears of your life.

You could still be a ‘doctor’. And you genuinely wanted to be one, not just because of what your soulmark read. You had always wished to help people indirectly, even as you looked back at your life now. Sure, your soulmark could have been adding fuel to your drive when your motivation had been running low, but this was who you desired and was meant to become.

A molecular biologist. A doctor in making. Researching the effects of medicinal drugs with hopes to improve them.

A scientist not researching soulmarks, thank you very much.

And yes, there was the lingering feeling of missing a person you hadn’t even met yet – especially when Doctor Simmons’ face lit up like fluorodeoxyglucose in PET scans whenever she saw Doctor Fitz – but you had other things to focus on. And you had time. There was no pressure.

You were not a doctor yet, after all.

Naturally, just because you dodged the joys and sorrows of being a medical student and later on, a medical doctor, it did not mean that you had it easy. No one working on their doctorate did. But when you decided to pursue your degree and work in research, you signed up for that.

You signed up for a lot of things.

It was a little peculiar for you to be on the SHIELD campus in the science division without a doctorate. It was a known fact that SHIELD only recruited best of the best, this Science ad Technology in particular: you needed at least one doctorate to even walk through the door, which was something you were reminded a lot because you did not meet that requirement and here you were.

But SHELD owned the best equipment and you were fortunate enough to get in by the lovely game of fate, being good and driven enough and having met the right people at the right time. SHIELD Academy’s Science & Tech division had the unique equipment you often needed for your research. Your research was interesting enough for people who had perhaps more power over your little life than fate itself. Stars aligned.

It was no walk in a parc, but you were no fool; jumping after that opportunity after having one too many doors shut into your face was a no-brainer. Even though it meant signing up for a whole extra load of shit.

You signed up to be the weird girl. The privileged girl. Hell, even the stupider than local average girl, because you were only an engineer at this point.

You signed up for being the young girl, even as you had met a few people there who had started younger, having actually earned their first PhD at age 17 or less.

You signed up for mockery and misogyny, for as you were aware the level was blissfully low here compared to other workplaces, especially where science was concerned; in exact science, you observed, more than anywhere you ever heard of, it was customary to keep that one insufferable employee, because they were simply that good at their job, no matter that they had cost the department a few other employees.

You signed up for living on campus with other SHIELD recruits, which meant living in close quarters with other divisions; as a result, some days the whole area seemed to swim in testosterone emitted by the hulking special agents in making from Operations.  

But that was okay. You could do it.

There were bright sides too, many of them. Like pursuing your dream career. Being among like-minded people whose brain, to a large point, ran on the same wavelength. Hooking up with a handsome but notbrainless recruit from Operations or Communication here and there, some flings, some relationships, because if you were to wait for the love of your life, you might as well not wither completely. You were only human and you had needs along with your lifegoals.

You more than willingly signed up for working with Agent slash Doctor Jemma Simmons.  With her two PhDs and rich experience from the field, she had left the action behind in order to work on her third PhD and help humanity without having her life on the line every day. She was hard-working, with no-nonsense approach and lovely sense of humour with plenty of stories to back it up; she was overall pleasant person to work and be friends with and despite having been through amazing and terrifying experiences other people couldn’t even imagine, she remained surprisingly down-to-Earth.

Sure, she had her quirks like insisting on having a gun at hand at all times and stashing a few small vials of altered Molotov cocktail, a mixture of chemicals which would ignite upon the vial breaking, in one of the nearby cabinets – but you supposed there were worst things to get used to than that in a coworker or a friend. She used to be an active agent after all; in fact, unofficially, she remained one. Much like anyone, you knew that certain habits died hard and being through what she had been – she confessed to you that she once spent months on a nearly deserted ancient planet, among other things – left a mark. If this made her feel safer, you’d take it.

Another great thing about Jemma, Doctor Simmons, was that she was adorably English and was in dedicated relationship with Doctor Fitz who was a Scotsman, so that was the spice of long workdays at times; especially if you agreed to play Scrabble with them and a few friends in the evening.

But there were things you had not signed up for when following the alluring promise of a prestigious spot and unique equipment.

And one of them was a damn Nazi revival group in the form of fucking HYDRA attacking the lab while you were in the peaceful process of waiting for your PCR to finally be finished.

Influx of men in full tactical gear interrupting Jemma updating you the vacation plans, Fiji and all the rare species of fishes that could be observed there when scuba diving.

When you heard the first shouts, breaking of glass and dull echoes of gunshots from afar, your immediate thought was that you had been having a good day and that the experiment had been coming along nicely – and that whatever mess was happening was for sure about to ruin all your progress.

By the time panic settled in, Jemma was practically tackling you down, hand over your mouth to muffle your startled squeak at the sudden movement, her eyes alert and serious, screaming at you to keep quiet.

The sickening shouts of HAIL HYDRA, COOPERATE AND YOU’LL GET HURT LESS was what sent your brain crashing into reality; that and the distant agonized cries of people, coworkers and recruits you knew and met in the hallways every day, following the sounds of gunshots growing in volume and frequency.

You could hear Jemma shuffling next to you further.

You yourself were unable to move beyond stifling a cry behind your suddenly sweaty palm as another female voice wailed in pain.

Blood seemed to freeze in your veins despite your heart thundering in your ribcage and your temples and it helped you shit at all that you were aware that was such thing was literally impossible. By the time Jemma’s hand grabbed yours again and squeezed hard, you realized you were shaking – half in anger, half in paralyzing fear, half in utter shock. It didn’t matter it didn’t add up.

What mattered was the gun in Jemma’s hand. She was holding a gun, ready to shoot, because there were enemy agents, fucking HYDRA burst through the door, guns blazing. And killing people.

You were whispering with exasperation worth of a shout before you knew what you were doing.

“Why?! Why the fuck-“

“Probably the samples they brought in today, precious cargo,” Jemma whispered back frantically, loading the gun and reaching into another cabinet behind her. You only stared at her in utter confusion and mute horror, rapid heavy footsteps approaching and sending your already racing heart into a madness. “Gun or cocktails?”

“I can’t shoot a-!”

Before you could finish, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening and a horrifying echo of tactical boots reached your ears, a set of vials pressed into your palm.

You gulped, pulse thundering in your temples.

Those goddamn Simmons’ cocktails as you named them since she had insisted on keeping around.

You couldn’t believe the moment was here that you were actually grateful for them, even as they seemed to burn in your hand even with the vials themselves intact.

Your eyes snapped to Jemma’s face to question it wordlessly at least, but she wasn’t looking at you; she was listening intently, lying in wake as if she was the predator and not the prey you felt like.

Your own breathing seemed too loud as you allowed yourself to squeeze your eyes shut for but a moment, a desperate attempt to wake up from the nightmare; but the morning didn’t come.

Instead, a gunshot rang in the room, glass shattering somewhere above your head to your right, sending a waterfall of shards flying next to you.

And causing you to cry out in fright.

Which revealed your position to the agents flowing into the lab.

Without a thought you snapped your eyes opened, jumped to your feet and threw two vials in the direction of a black blur with a shockingly clear red patch of the mythical Hydra monster in the middle; peripherally, you saw Jemma attacking as well, deafening noise of gunshot nearly blowing your eardrum.

You crouched back behind the counter so fast you felt vertigo swing you to the left, sharp pain erupting from your palm. It was pure miracle your right hand didn’t clench in instinct and shatter the two remaining vials, setting yourself on fire as well.

As well.

Someone was screaming – a man, you realized – the acid smell of burned flesh and plastic and various chemicals punching your nose and your stomach hard. You had hit someone with the vial. They screamed because of what you had done. You had-

You had no time to feel sorry. You had no time to properly think fucking serves them right.

More steps, more gunshots, movements you weren’t sure how happened or came to you in the first place, flashes of light and crimson and noise and godawful smell--- and pain erupting in the back of your head and suddenly you were barely catching yourself on the counter with your slippery palm--- your fingers brushed metal, knees weak but hands grabbing with all your might, lifting and swinging, a sickening crack on your right before you were falling, landing on your wrist, back hitting the cabinet door and making even more noise as you sent equipment clattering around.

However, the loudest sound was another gunshot; but the strangest sound was unfamiliar whizzing and metal hitting metal and someone most definitely shouting “clear!” that sounded as distant as a whisper over the ringing in your ears.

Instinctively, your head snapped to the voice as you tried to prop up on your hands to see; the world swam in front of your eyes, dizziness forcing you to fall back on your ass and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes to stop the world from spinning, a sting in your palm drawing a hiss from your lips.

You could hear Jemma’s talking to someone, her words blurred into a mumble despite her voice sounding firm and methodical; footsteps, quick and heavy but somewhat soft, accompanied by a brush of air against your skin, making you open your eyes again just as navy blue with speckles of silvery grey glinting in a flickering light filled your vision.

Then, a face; an extremely handsome face even as a helmet made of blue similar to the rest of his suit covered the upper half of it, framing a pair of the dreamiest blue eyes you had ever seen, as beautiful as blurry as a dream indeed.

Somewhere in the back of your brain it started clicking into place – that the man in front of you looked a whole lot like Captain America and he was there to kick HYDRA’s ass; he was hunk and looked righteous and unfairly pretty, the cut of his jaw sharp enough to appear as if sculpted by ancient masters of art and it might be softened by the leather strap holding his helmet in place but that only brought out the sheer beauty of his lips even with a small bloody split on them.

And he was talking to you, his leather-clad hand gently grasping your arm as you involuntarily swayed to side when moving your head to take in the entirety of his large figure.

“Doctor, are you alright?” he asked slowly, velvety voice sweet and heavy with concern at once, the gentle but firm hold on your arm growing stronger when you blinked owlishly, the connection between the meaning of his words and his apparent intention to talk to you slow and fragile.

Your tongue felt as if made of lead even as it tasted of bitterness of adrenalin, but you willed yourself to answer, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

“’mm… not a doctor yet.”

As you responded, you brain began to clear; and it occurred to you that it was a fair assumption for him to make.

You had grown used to clarifying, but hadn’t done so in months, because everyone already knew. However, he was an outsider to this lab and he couldn’t know you were the exception to the local rule. And you were wearing a lab coat, one that now had to be covered in mixture of chemicals you did not wish to identify, but perhaps you should try, because your forearm was beginning to burn.

The beautiful man kneeling in front of you silently observed you for what seemed like an eternity and half, surprise written all over his face. You couldn’t blame him; you were the weirdo of the lab. The fact the person who had purposely stacked explosives at hand was less of an anomaly than that was a thing to consider, but your head hurt too much to think about that and your heart was still beating unhealthily fast and his error seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things of HYDRA having attacked your lab and Captain America being right in front of you, holding onto your arm.

His soft baffled smile as he hung his head and shook it a bit with a breathless chuckle, and then lifted his downright shining gaze back to you, well that certainly made for a spectacular distraction from such unimportant thoughts.

Did his thumb just brush your arm as he still held you up a bit?

And had anyone ever told him he had a stunning smile that could melt hearts even if it was barely there and it was certainly melting yours?

“Apologies, miss. I’m going to help you get to medical, alright?” he suggested, those damn gorgeous eyes roaming your face with what almost seemed like wonder, even as his voice sounded all kinds of reassuring. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Safe. You were safe. Because there had been HYDRA agents, but Captain America and actual SHIELD operatives had come to the rescue. And because Jemma was-

Jemma. Your straightened, dull ache pounding in your back as you did so, vision clearing a fraction with the sudden realization that you couldn’t hear your friend anymore. Your friend whom you owed your life very likely, but even if you didn’t, you would have-

You craned your neck over Captain America’s impressive frame, head snapping from left to right, nausea rising with the movement, but that didn’t matter, you had to-

You turned your alarmed gaze back to the man who was still holding you, an urgent question on your lips.

“Jemma? Is she--- Doctor Simmons, brunet, lab coat-“ you paused, realizing bitterly that you had just described half of the Science and Technology. “Female. She’s a doctor and an agent too, she was with me had a gu-“

A warm squeeze on your arm, the concern which had grown even more evident on Captain’s face melting away and giving way to a soothing smile.

“She’s alright. She’s already left to be checked up and to give her statement.”

Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping a bit; the violent vertigo that seized your body at that was not pleasant and you tried to blink it away, gaze catching the reflection of the still-blinking fluorescent lamp on the Captain’s shield.

Oh. That was probably what had made the whizzing sound before. As your brain conjured an image of that, a spinning shield flying through the air, you cursed yourself mentally for letting your mind even go there since you had already felt like you were the flying piece of metal and the thing you’d hit eventually would be the floor.

“My head is spinning,” you muttered absently as you attempted to refocus your gaze, praying to gods of religion and science alike you wouldn’t throw up on the poor caring man.

Why was he still sitting here with you? Surely there were much more important things to tend to than one little post-grad? How was he so kind and gentle? Wasn’t he known for inspiring speeches in a deep serious voice and for beating up villains with both his physical strength and brains?

So many questions and no answer in those pretty blue eyes.

In fact, the number of your questions grew exponentially when the hand on your arm released the pressure and gently rubbed your elbow instead; his free hand carefully cradled the back of your other hand, the contrast of leather and his warm skin surprisingly sensual, suddenly making you understand why so many regency era literature spoke of hand-holding as indecent even as it was barely Fifty Shades of Grey level of filth.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Rogers said, snapping you from your thoughts. “Let me help you up and they’ll check you up too, including this nasty cut, okay?”

Huh?

Purposely slowly as not to make the vertigo worse, you glanced at your hand in his, feeling a fresh sting just by looking at your palm, your gaze instantly snapping away.

And falling straight onto two intact vials full of liquid of a distinct colour, lying carelessly about two feet away from Steve Rogers’ tactical boots. Your heart jumped in your chest, your hazy mind finally growing aware of your surroundings.

“Shoot! Careful around those, they’re highly flammable!” you warned him swiftly, his gaze snapping to the vials in question, while ours slowly trailed over the utter, utter messthe lab had become.

The sheer amount of broken glass, spilled chemicals, broken pipettes, torn papers and unidentifiable piles of junk was staggering and it was actually a miracle nothing had exploded yet – and as a cherry on top, a few feet away, a relatively small portable PCR machine, the very equipment you had been using, downright murdered along with your experiment and a smudge of blood around it. Jesus.

“Okay, that’s good to know. More the reason to get out,” Captain Rogers remarked, slight amusement lacing his voice, only growing stronger as he continued. “Keep a lot of these around?”

You could have scoffed, but you didn’t. You have no idea, pal.

“My friend is paranoid…” you explained, still staring at them, even as you mentally added ‘or not’, since those little things might have very well saved your life. As your gaze returned to Captain Rogers, your eyes caught on something else, having you sit up straighter in sheer horror. “Is that a stab wound?!”

You gulped at the sight, even as your uninjured hand instinctively reached out towards it – as if you could fix it. The already dark suit, a lovely navy blue, appeared downright black at left his side, right where it seemed to be singed by a flame.

Had that injury been there the whole damn time he had been sitting here with you, eternally patient with your slowed brain, Simmons’ cocktails lying around in one huge chemical dump in risk of exploding any damn minute?

You logically knew the answer had to be yes, but it made zero sense – and his answer made even less sense.

“Bullet, actually. Some sort of chemical damaged the Kevlar lining and they got a lucky hit. It’s just a graze.”

“A gra-“ you choked on the word, spit stuck in your throat causing you to cough and a groan escape past your lips as the sudden rapid movement sent your head pounding again.

“Hey, you-“

“You’ve been shot and you called my cut nasty?” you questioned through the tears, earning a smile worth giving up a career for – painfully warm, kind and… almost fond.

You truly must have hit your head hard.

…as if it hadn’t been evident before.

“I heal fast. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright, doc.”

A knee-jerk reaction – again. What was it with him? Had he hit his head, forgetting you had already explained – you had, you hadn’t imagined that, right? – and now he called you a doctor again, turned into a familiar nickname, no less.

“I’m not a doct---- holy shit.”

It slammed into you like a train, struck you like a lightning, even as neither of those things had ever happened to you – yet, you imagined it had to feel like this.

A massive force, a force of nature, realization as bright and as unexpected as a lightning from a clear sky.

Doctor, are you alright?

He had asked that. He had asked that. He had said your words. He had said your goddamn soulmate’s first words to you, what must have been minutes ago, and only now it hit you.

You were left staring at him with wide eyes, myriad of emotions written all over his face, including  slight amusement and what you had earlier inexplicably identified as fondness, because the reason why he was still sitting here with you – though perhaps that was what he always did when rescuing, what did you know, you didn’t, this was your first meeting, that was why he had said the words – was that unlike you, he had realized you were his soulmate right away.

He kept watching you, silently letting you process the crucial revelation, a tight but no less kind smile on his lips.

“You said my words,” you said oh so intelligently. “You--- what… what did I—say?”

It was perhaps the stupidest question of all you could have come up on the spot, but you genuinely couldn’t remember – and wanted to know what words he had been looking at his whole life.

…this part of life? Or before the ice too? How did he feel about that? How did he feel about you? Was he disappointed? He didn’t look like he was, but didn’t even know what you had said—

What you did know and remember was that you were supposed to be smart and yet it had taken you an eternity to even notice you were facing your soulmate you had been probably spewing complete nonsense, you were now stammering like an idiot and for someone who had been worried, always, even if in the back of their mind, if their soulmate would find them good enough, you were generally making a bloody awful first impression.

But seriously, what had been your first words-

“You said you weren’t a doctor yet,” Captain Rogers reminded you, voice soft with affection of someone who had imagined hearing those words at least as many times as you had wondered about yours, hoping they would be pronounced by someone who’d respect you and cared about what kind of person you were, and would hopefully, eventually care for you. Loved you even. The tender way the syllables rolled of his tongue, spoken as if they tasted of honey, nearly chased fresh tears to your eyes. Alright, perhaps your first impression hadn’t been as bad as it appeared in your – albeit injured – head.  “But if you really don’t remember saying that, that’s not a good sign. We need to get you medical attention. Come on. Hold on.”

Blinking slowly, still processing the light and yet suffocating feeling that found residence in your chest as it was starting to truly settle that this man, this painfully beautiful and criminally gentle man, was your soulmate, he was leaning closer to you, his hands guiding yours to wrap around his neck, a wordless order you had obediently followed, and then one of his arms was sliding under your knees and his other wrapping around the middle of your back.

And then your vertigo hit you anew because you were suddenly up in the air, hands gripping hard at anything you could reach – conveniently, the only thing was him, because he had lifted you upin his arms, some of your weight resting against his chest – despite the pain that shot up your left hand.

“Whoa-“ And then, because your memory did serve you at least a little: “You--- have been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he repeated patiently, fondly almost, and you did recall he had said that.

You recalled despite the scent of pleasant aftershave and peak man suddenly enveloping you as much as his arms and the firm armour – or perhaps that was the muscles underneath? And those pretty blue eyes were watching you with a glint of amusement and a surprising amount of affection for a guy saying he had been hit by a bullet, while effortlessly carrying the girl he had just met in his-- very, very strong, muscly arms and perhaps your head was not only spinning because of the sudden height you found yourself at.

…amusement? How was he amused? Was that-- was that a joke? Was he making fun of his bullet wound, playing it down? 

“That’s… really not better.”

He grinned down at you as he made his way to the exit.

Walking. Watching you. Grinning and not even really looking where he was stepping.

Oh no.

Oh no, he was one of those people. You had met men like him at Operations, except for some reason – perhaps some sort of a soulmate telepathy – you had a feeling in him, that the peculiar recklessness many people from suffered, the disregard for their safety, because they could handle it, was dialled up to eleven in him. On a one to five scale. Because scaling mattered; you were a scientist. You’d know.

However, he did make it out of the laboratory without blowing anything up – perhaps at least that recklessness was balanced up by enhanced senses of a supersoldier and indeed, healing fast. And you hoped with your whole heart that walking out unscathed was a conscious effort, be it for him (somehow you doubted that) or for the cargo he was carrying (you had no doubt about that, not when he was looking at you like that). At least he had kept the helmet on; you were thankful for that, even as you’d love to see him without it.

See your soulmate.

You knew what he looked like everyone knew what he looked like. If they had missed the WW II. ed, they could barely miss the news about an alien invasion he had had a hand in stopping, the fall of majority of SHIELD, and other exciting horrifying news.

“I’ll be fine, doc. Now let’s get you away from exploding vials and lab equipment you could knock me out with. I’d rather be safe when I ask you out for dinner.”

You gulped, gripping him a bit tighter as a memory hit you – literally.

The PCR machine. You had done that. You had grabbed it and used it to smash into a HYDRA agent’s face, using the nearest improvised tool of defence. Jesus.

I really did that?

“You… saw that?” was what you asked instead, a few second ticking by as the rest of his words registered in your brain – and god, you really hoped your cognitive abilities would restore soon and the head injury had not caused permanent damage. “Oh.”

As much as your heart started pounding at that, a pleasant somersault in your stomach for a change, it was a little unfair to sort-of ask you when you were in your current predicament. Being carried like that, so close to him, so gentlemanly and tenderly handled despite your weight no doubt straining him, especially since he had been shot – grazed –, yoursenses wrapped in everything that was him and pulling you in, you were fairly certain you might say yes to just about anything he’d ask.

And not just because he was your soulmate.

Your soulmate carrying you in his arms, while wearing a very flattering suit of armour.

“If you’d like, of course,” he added with slight hesitance that only made your heart race further, because he was laying out his own heart for you already, expressive, genuine, and maybe sweetly handsy but not pushy despite his title and rank technically giving him every right to do whatever the hell he wanted. “But either way, I’ll save the real question for when I know you’re not suffering from a concussion. That sounds good?”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. It did sound good, his consideration warming you from inside out. His voice sounded good too. “Sounds good to me.”

His smile was bright as the sun itself and basking in its light and warmth felt just as precious. Except he was to be your private sun forever shared with other to a point, but yours. Chosen by fate itself, defying all you had ever believed, beating time by decades, only so you could find each other.

“Looking forward to it, doc. Maybe I’ll get to know your name too while we’ll be at it,” he teased lightly, but without malice. “My name is Steve.”

Steve.

You knew that. You liked that.

Hand trembling a little, but not because you worried he’d drop you as you partly let go of his shoulders, you reached for the clasp on his helmet, a fluttery feeling in your chest eager to indeed see Steve rather than the Captain.

You felt your lips curl up and mirror his when he gave a tiny nod at your brief hesitation, your fingers finally undoing the strap and revealing his face with his help.

His hair was adorably ruffled, a slight shade of dust on his cheeks whispering of where the protective gear had been; but scientifically speaking, as well as speaking directly from heart, he was absolutely beautiful, his tender smile telling you he thought the very same about you.

He was meant to be yours; as you were meant to be his.

And you couldn’t wait to get to know him.

You could tell there were people around you and they were probably staring; but for the moment, you didn’t care at all. You had just met your soulmate.

And you weren’t even a doctor yet.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Steve. But I have to admit…” you said, teasing him with a pause, rewarded by his eyes earning a curious glint, “that the Doc nickname is kinda growing on me.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Oh this feels like coming back to my roots 🤭 but hey, this challenge is a revival of all thigs good of the past, so why not go with the good old-fashioned soulmate meet-cute with a little angst beforehand, right?

AND BEHOLD I WROTE SOMETHING SHORTER THAN 10K. SHORTER THAN 8K ACTUALLY! It’s an extravaganza miracle 😂

Also. There might be some unrelated smut in the works, but I will not finish that today so... won't be part of the cum together extravaganza... ah well 🤭

Thank you for reading and potential feedback 💕

May the Fourth be with you and the rest of May be kind ✨

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

I drew inspiration from the TikTok lipstick challenge, which, to be honest, left me feeling incredibly lonely. The whole experience stirred something in me, prompting me to write about it.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Sooo, I was influenced by @fraternum-momentum and their OC with Sol, which added another layer to the idea. As for whether this should be marked NSFW or SWF, I'm torn—it's really more of a playful game involving lipstick.

Also, I think I might've missed the birthday of a certain character in the game...

I wonder who that could be?

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The student council room was eerily quiet after hours, lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp on the far end. The usual hustle and bustle of meetings, debates, and planning sessions had faded, leaving the space unusually still. 

Except for him.  

Crowe was seated at the large oak table, his posture impeccable as he reviewed a stack of neatly organized papers. His sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. His black bottom-up shirt was loosened but still perfectly modest, and his purple vest hung from the back of his chair. He looked, as always, impossibly put-together.

And that’s exactly why you’d decided to stop by tonight, coming from a late night studying at the library, you could help to pay him a visit, after all, you have the key. He was too perfect, too composed. It was high time someone tested just how unshakeable Crowe’s gentlemanly façade was.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him briefly before clearing your throat. "Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Crowe glanced up, his brows lifting in surprise at first, but his expression quickly softened into a familiar, warm smile. “You have a habit of sneaking up on people, you know that?”

“It’s one of my better skills,” you replied, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind you. “What are you doing here so late, anyway? Don’t tell me it’s another mountain of paperwork.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was?” he asked, motioning to the neatly stacked papers in front of him. “Someone has to make sure this place doesn’t fall apart.”

“Ever the responsible one,” you teased, crossing the room toward him. “But don’t you ever get tired of being so... predictable?”

Crowe raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Predictable? That’s a new one. Care to elaborate?”

You grinned, circling the table to stand behind his chair. “You’re always so composed, so polite, so... gentlemanly. Doesn’t it get boring playing the role of the perfect man?”

“Not particularly,” he replied smoothly, though his shoulders tensed ever so slightly. “Someone has to keep things in order.”

“Mm, but what if someone didn’t?” you murmured, leaning down until your lips were close to his ear. “What if someone decided to mess with that perfect little image of yours?”

Crowe turned his head slightly, his deep blue eyes meeting yours with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Is that what you’re here to do?”

“Maybe,” you said innocently, stepping around to face him. Without giving him a chance to respond, you perched yourself on the edge of the table, just close enough to be in his space without overstepping.

Crowe tilted his head slightly, his deep blue eyes fixed on you with a spark of intrigue. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”  

You didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, a sly smirk played on your lips as you slid off the table in one smooth, deliberate motion, closing the small distance between you and him. Without hesitation, you eased yourself into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs.  

Crowe stiffened immediately, his posture going rigid as his hands hovered uncertainly in the air, unsure where to land. His usually composed demeanor faltered, and the faintest trace of a blush began creeping up his neck. It was subtle, but on his warm, light brown skin, it was enough for you to notice—and grin.  

“Well,” you started, looping your arms lazily around his neck, your fingers toying with the ends of his braided brown hair. “I thought I’d start by seeing how much it takes to make you blush.”  

Crowe’s breath hitched as you leaned in, your lips brushing his cheek in a featherlight kiss. “That’s one,” you murmured, your tone playful, your lips curling into a mischievous smile.  

His jaw tensed, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Are you keeping score?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with a nervous edge.  

“Maybe,” you teased, planting a second kiss on his other cheek. “Two.”  

Your hand moved to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his single braid as you tilted his head slightly to the side. The motion exposed the line of his jaw, and you didn’t hesitate, pressing soft kisses along the sharp angles, your lips tracing the warm expanse of his skin.  

“Three, four…” you counted softly, letting your lips linger just a moment longer with each touch.  

Crowe swallowed hard, the tension in his body melting just enough for his hands to find a place—tentatively settling on your waist. His grip was light as if he were still unsure if this was something he should allow himself to enjoy. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Playing such a dangerous game.”  

“Am I?” you asked, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still idly twirling single braid. Your voice took on a mockingly innocent tone. “Or are you just afraid I might win?”  

He looked up at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smiled faintly. "I suppose that depends on what you’re trying to win."

You smirked, reaching into your bag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. Crowe’s brow furrowed in confusion as you uncapped it, applying the deep crimson shade with practiced ease. 

"And what’s this for?" he asked, his voice carrying the slightest hint of wariness.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his skin, lips hovering near his cheek. “Call it an experiment,” you murmured, your voice soft and teasing. Without waiting for a reply, you pressed a deliberate kiss just below his cheekbone.

The faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air as you pulled back, a perfect lipstick mark standing out against his warm, light brown skin. You tilted your head slightly, inspecting your handwork with a mischievous smile. “Not bad,” you said lightly, as if critiquing a painting.

Crowe blinked, visibly stunned, his deep blue eyes locking onto yours. He didn’t move, his breath caught as if trying to process what just happened.

But you weren’t finished.

Tilting his chin slightly with a gentle finger, you leaned in again, this time brushing your lips along the edge of his jawline. His skin was warm beneath your touch, the tension in his shoulders betraying his carefully composed demeanor. Another kiss followed, slower this time, leaving a bold imprint just below his jaw.

Crowe’s lips parted, his breathing uneven now, though he still didn’t stop you.

“Hmm,” you mused, leaning back slightly, only to trail your gaze down to the column of his neck. “This feels incomplete.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat when your lips found the curve of his neck. A soft gasp escaped him as you pressed another kiss there, then another, just above his collarbone. His hand twitched as though he might reach for you, but he held back, his restraint only making the moment more electric.

When you finally leaned back, Crowe’s usual polished, gentlemanly demeanor was in tatters. His skin was a masterpiece of faint crimson marks—his cheeks, jawline, and neck all kissed and claimed. He reached up hesitantly, brushing his fingers over one of the marks on his jaw, his touch lingering there as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of your lips.

“You—” he started, his voice rough, but you cut him off with a soft laugh.

“Speechless?” you teased, recapping your lipstick and slipping it back into your bag with an air of nonchalance. “I must’ve done something right.”

Crowe’s jaw worked, his lips pressing together as he struggled to find his composure. His usual confidence had been thoroughly dismantled, leaving him looking uncharacteristically vulnerable yet… yearning. The once-pristine picture of composure—the meticulous student apart of the council—now looked delightfully disheveled, his face, jawline, and even his neck adorned with vivid, unmistakable stains.

“There,” you said, stepping back and tilting your head as if you were admiring a masterpiece. “Not so perfect now, are you?”  

“You’ve officially ruined my ‘gentlemanly’ image,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. His fingers hesitantly brushed over the fresh stain near his jawline, his expression equal parts baffled and amused. “I can’t believe you just did that.”  

“Oh, believe it,” you teased, crossing your arms and giving him a satisfied grin. “Honestly, I think it suits you. Adds a little color. You’re welcome.”  

Crowe let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. How am I supposed to explain this?”  

“Explain it?” you said, feigning shock. “You mean you’re not just going to own it? What happened to that legendary confidence of yours?”  

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off by leaning in again, adding a quick kiss to his forehead. “Now you’ve got the full set,” you said with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Face, neck, and...” You trailed off meaningfully, letting the pause hang in the air.  

Crowe raised an eyebrow, his composure slipping as he caught the implication. “You wouldn’t—”  

You didn’t let him finish. Before he could say another word, you planted a deliberate kiss at the corner of his mouth, then slowly worked your way to the center, leaving faint marks in your wake.  

When you pulled back, your face was the picture of triumph. “Now you’re officially branded. Guess that gentleman thing has its limits, huh?”  

Crowe’s deep blue eyes narrowed slightly, though the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”  

“Absolutely,” you replied without hesitation. “And admit it—you are too.”  

He exhaled, his hands resting lightly on your waist as if he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or himself. “You like testing me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, tinged with both amusement and something deeper.  

“And you like failing,” you shot back, leaning in so your faces were barely an inch apart. “Don’t worry, though—I think you wear it well. Lipstick suits you.”  

Crowe’s lips quirked into a smirk, his usually poised demeanor finally cracking under your relentless teasing. “You’re not making this easy,” he murmured, his voice low but laced with a playful challenge.  

“And why should I?” you quipped, settling more comfortably on his lap and letting your arms drape lazily around his neck. You leaned back just enough to take in your handiwork. The soft smudges of lipstick painted a trail of your victory across his cheeks, jaw, and now his neck. A particularly bold kiss near his collarbone had left a bright red mark against his brown skin.  

Crowe raised an eyebrow at you, his deep blue eyes flickering between exasperation and amusement. “I look like I lost a fight with a makeup counter.”  

“Correction: you lost to me,” you replied with a smug grin, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. Your voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “And you didn’t exactly stop me.”  

Crowe huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and rich despite the predicament. “Oh, I’m fully aware,” he said, his tone dry but edged with amusement. “Do you make a habit of ambushing people with lipstick, or am I just special?”  

“You’re special,” you teased, drawing the word out in a sing-song tone as your eyes narrowed, fingers slowly unbutton his shirt. “But don’t get too excited—I just thought someone as put-together as you needed a little... color.”  Your eyes looks up at him with a playful charm.

His breath hitched, and for the briefest moment, his usual restraint faltered. His hands slid up to your waist, his fingers curling slightly as if to anchor himself. “And here I thought you were here to apologize for interrupting my work,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, his eyes darker as they locked onto yours.  

“Apologize?” you repeated, feigning innocence. “For what? For making you look even more pretty? For proving you’re not as unshakeable as you pretend to be?”  

Crowe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Again, impossible,” he muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.  

“Impossible?” you echoed, shifting slightly in his lap, your fingers lightly tracing upper chest. You leaned in closer, your nose just brushing against his, and your voice dropped to a low, teasing whisper. “That’s funny, coming from someone who’s supposed to be a gentleman. Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know... stopping me? Resisting temptation?”  

Crowe’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to mask the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face. His gaze dropped, lingering on your lips for a heartbeat too long before meeting your eyes again. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your waist, his grip firm but still careful, as though he were holding himself back.  

“And why,” he murmured, his voice lower now, the usual steadiness giving way to something rougher, more deliberate, “would I want to stop you?”  

Your smirk widened, victory already bubbling in your chest. “That’s a good question,” you mused, leaning in until your lips brushed his, the contact feather-light and achingly slow.

His breath caught, and you could feel the tension in his frame, the way he held himself still, like he was caught between giving in and holding on.  

“Good answer,” He whispered against your lips before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so composed and guarded, were darker now, his composure visibly slipping.

You caught the faint flush rising along his neck, creeping just beneath his jawline, and you couldn’t help but grin.  

Crowe exhaled sharply, breaking the silence as he leaned his head back against the chair, a wry, unsteady chuckle slipping past his lips. “You’re trouble,” he said, though his voice betrayed him—uneven and laced with something softer.  

“And yet,” you replied, hopping off his lap with a triumphant flourish, smoothing the hem of your clothing as if nothing had happened, “you haven’t asked me to leave.”  

Crowe tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as that familiar glint of mischief returned to his expression. He looked at you now with the kind of calm that was just daring you to keep pushing. “Maybe,” he said slowly, his voice steadying again, “I like a little trouble.”  

You laughed softly, stepping back to admire your handiwork. His shirt was slightly wrinkled from where your hands had rested, and his face was a mess of lipstick smudges—on his cheeks, along his jaw, and the faintest stain at the corner of his lips.  

“Good,” you said with a mischievous grin, nodding toward the streak of lipstick on his neck. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Crowe’s eyebrow arched, his lips curling into a small, amused smile as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady and teasing. “Then I’ll be sure to prepare myself,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“Oh, you’d better be,” you shot back, taking a step back from his lap with deliberate slowness, your eyes lingering on him for just a moment longer. “Because next time, I might not be so... gentle.”

Turning on your heel, you strode to the door, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet room. Just before you left, you glanced over your shoulder, your grin still firmly in place. “Try not to miss me too much.”

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Crowe alone in the dim light of the student council room. He let out a quiet breath, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the mark you’d left on his neck. 

A faint chuckle escaped him as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the closed door with a small shake of his head. “You really are something else,” he muttered to himself, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. 

Trouble, yes—but perhaps the kind of trouble he wouldn’t mind getting used to.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The living room was a cozy chaos, with warm fairy lights casting a golden glow over the dark walls and mismatched furniture.

The lights draped lazily over the curtain rods, twinkling faintly as if encouraging the quiet mischief brewing within. The couch—its cushions sagging in all the right ways—sat at the center of it all, surrounded by a battlefield of cosmetics.  

The coffee table groaned under the weight of lipstick tubes in every shade imaginable, from muted nudes to shocking neons. Tissue papers lay crumpled beside an array of smudged hand mirrors, and the faint scent of vanilla and wax lingered in the air. The room was comfortably warm, the heater humming faintly in the corner, adding to the intimate atmosphere.  

You perched on the couch's edge, your legs tucked beneath you, wearing an oversized hoodie that dwarfed your frame but left your enthusiasm unrestrained. A wicked grin played on your lips as you reached for the next weapon in your arsenal—a vibrant crimson lipstick labeled Scarlet Desire.

Sol sat beside you, a reluctant participant in your glamorous experiment. His dark, disheveled hair framed his pale face, strands occasionally falling into his reddish-orange eyes that seemed to glow like dying embers in the dim light. He slouched dramatically, his arms crossed as if that might shield him from the barrage of attention you had planned.  

"All right, Sol," you announced with mock seriousness, brandishing the tube like a wand. "You’ve been chosen as tonight’s test dummy. Congratulations on your moment of fame."  

Sol let out a groan that was half dramatic and half genuine, tipping his head back against the couch and staring at the ceiling as if it might offer an escape. "Why do I feel like I’m about to star in a weird beauty guru horror story?"  

"Because you are," you replied with a smirk, twisting the lipstick open to reveal its bold crimson shade. The color gleamed under the fairy lights, a promise of chaos to come. "Now, sit still and quit whining. Let’s see if ‘Scarlet Desire’ lives up to its name."  

Before he could muster another complaint, you leaned in, one hand gently cupping his jaw to steady him. His breath hitched, his body freezing under the unexpected closeness. The faint scent of your perfume—something floral and sweet—floated between you, making his pulse quicken.  

You applied the lipstick to your lips with precision, pausing briefly to inspect the smoothness in the hand mirror. Satisfied, you leaned closer again, your face just inches from his.  

"Ready?" you teased, your voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper, your grin turning impish.  

Sol’s eyes widened slightly, their reddish hue glinting with a mix of trepidation and something else he couldn’t quite place. "Do I have a choice?" he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.  

"Not at all," you replied cheerfully, brushing aside his weak protests.  

Without hesitation, you pressed your lips to his cheek, the cool touch of lipstick contrasting with the warmth of his skin. The kiss was quick but deliberate, leaving behind a perfectly shaped crimson stain against his pale complexion.  

Sol blinked, his mouth parting slightly as he tried to process what had just happened. His usual indifferent mask cracked the faintest hint of pink creeping up his ears. The lipstick stain on his cheek seemed to burn hotter than the room’s heater, a brand he couldn’t ignore.  

You leaned back, tilting the hand mirror to inspect your handiwork. "Still intact," you mused, tapping your lips thoughtfully. "That’s a point for ‘Scarlet Desire.’"  

Sol finally found his voice, though it came out uneven. “Is… is this going to take all night?”  

“Probably,” you replied, lips curling into a mischievous smile as you reached for another tube. You held it up to the light, inspecting the label. “‘Forbidden Plum.’ Sounds dramatic enough, don’t you think?”  

The deep purple shade gleamed as you twisted the tube, the realization dawning on Sol that this was far from over. He groaned again, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed the fact that he wasn’t entirely upset about the situation.  

“Relax,” you teased, leaning in close, your warm breath brushing his ear. “I’ll be gentle.”  

Before he could respond, your lips pressed softly to his jawline, leaving a perfect, dark imprint just below the curve of his cheekbone. You lingered for a moment, letting the heat of the kiss sink in before pulling back to inspect the mark.  

“Not bad,” you murmured, tilting your head and running your thumb over the stain as if appraising your work. “But I think this color needs a little more flair.”  

Without waiting for his approval, you leaned in again, this time brushing your lips against his neck. The touch was softer, teasing, and you felt the slight hitch in his breathing as your lipstick left another vivid mark just above his collarbone.  

Sol swallowed hard, his face now a canvas of warmth and embarrassment. This wasn’t just a lipstick test anymore—it was a battle to maintain his composure against your relentless, flirtatious charm.  

“Hm,” you mused again, holding up the mirror to check your lips, then twisting open another tube. “Alright, next contender: ‘Midnight Rose.’ Let’s see if it’s as dramatic as it sounds.”  

His reddish orange eyes tracked your every move, flickering between the lipstick in your hand and the playful glint in your eyes. As you leaned in to kiss his other cheek, the cool press of your lips sent a jolt down his spine, and his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the couch cushion.  

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, voice low and unsteady.  

“You say that like you’re not,” you shot back, your tone as playful as the smile that followed.  

This time, you kissed along his jawline again, dragging your lips lightly over his skin before pulling back with a smirk. The fairy lights cast a warm glow over the room, adding to the intimacy of the moment as your laughter filled the space.  

By the fourth or seventh kiss, Sol was no longer slouched but sitting ramrod straight, his breath uneven, and his lips parted in a dazed expression. The air between you felt charged, and every teasing glance you shot his way only added to his visible fluster.  

“Now how… how many more of these are there?” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You tilted your head, pretending to count the remaining tubes. “Oh, only about five or six. Maybe seven. You’re handling this so well, Sol, I might just have to make you my permanent lipstick tester.”  

He groaned, a hand flying to his forehead in mock defeat, but his reddish-orange eyes lingered on you longer than they should have.  

“You must be getting bored with this experiment by now,” he mumbled, though his tone lacked conviction.  

“Bored? Not a chance,” you quipped, leaning in one more time, this time planting a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Though I think you might be getting dazed from all the attention.”  

Sol’s breath caught, and his cheeks flamed brighter than before. He could only sit there, speechless and utterly smitten, as you reached for yet another lipstick tube.  

“This one’s called ‘Velvet Sin,’” you announced, holding it up with a playful wink. “Let’s see if it’s worth the hype.”  

For a moment, he thought about protesting, but then he realized—what was the point?

He was already lost in the haze of your laughter, your teasing touches, and the warm, lingering impressions of your kisses. The pink, purple, and red smudges peppered across Sol's pale skin. He sat stiffly, his black and green streaks bangs veiling his burning cheeks as he avoided your amused gaze.  

You held up the mirror again, turning your head to inspect your lips carefully. "Still nothing, maybe I should just stick to clear gloss,” you said, a triumphant edge in your tone. "It’s like these lipsticks were forged in a lab to smudge. Great…."  

Then you turned the mirror toward Sol, revealing his reflection. His reddish-orange eyes widened as he stared, dumbfounded, at the chaotic array of lipstick marks scattered across his face—his jaw, cheeks, and even a faint smear near his collarbone from when you leaned in a little too close earlier.  

You burst out laughing, breaking the silence. "You look like a really sad art project," you teased, clutching the mirror with one hand and your stomach with the other as you doubled over in laughter.  

He huffed, clearly trying to mask his growing embarrassment, but the corner of his lips twitched upward in a sheepish smile. "You’re enjoying this way too much."  

Sol, typically composed in his aloofness, looked anything but indifferent as you leaned in, armed with yet another lipstick in your collection. His usual mask of stoicism had cracked, replaced by a look of pure, unguarded vulnerability.

“And you’re taking it way too seriously,” you teased, your voice low and dripping with mischief.

Before Sol could respond, you closed the gap between you, planting a kiss squarely on the tip of his nose. The kiss was playful, a soft smooch that left behind a faint, heart-shaped lipstick mark. The vibrant maroon stood out against his pale skin, and you pulled back, your lips curving into a satisfied smirk.

"Perfect," you murmured, tilting your head to inspect the tiny flourish you’d left behind.

Sol sat there, motionless, his lips slightly parted as if he’d forgotten how to form words. His reddish orange eyes were wide, darting to your lips and then back to your eyes. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual brooding demeanor utterly replaced by something unsteady and raw.

You didn’t stop.

You leaned in again, closer this time, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Sol’s breath hitched audibly as your lips ghosted over his cheek.

“Let’s try something more daring,” you whispered, the heat of your breath brushing against his skin before you pressed a deliberate kiss just beside the corner of his mouth.

His entire body stiffened, his hand gripping the edge of the couch like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. The lipstick left a bold mark just shy of his lips, teasingly close. You pulled back ever so slightly, your gaze lingering on the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

“Hmm, maybe I should try it here next,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers gently brushing his chin to tilt his face toward you.

Sol’s eyes widened, his lips trembling slightly as you leaned in further. This time, you kissed him squarely on the mouth, a soft, deliberate press of your lips against his. The kiss was slow, your lips brushing his with just enough pressure to leave a faint imprint of the maroon shade.

When you pulled away, his lips glistened faintly, the color smudged ever so slightly. His cheeks were burning red now, the flush spreading up to the tips of his ears. Sol’s expression was a mix of stunned disbelief and something else—something heavier, like a quiet yearning he couldn’t contain.

"Oops," you said with a playful grin, holding up the mirror to show him the faint but unmistakable lipstick mark lingering on his lips. "Looks like you’re officially part of the experiment now."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering there a moment too long before darting back to your eyes. "You... you’re really not holding back," he mumbled, his voice cracking slightly.

"Should I?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you reached for another lipstick. "I think you’re holding up pretty well, Sol. You’re a surprisingly good test dummy."

Sol didn’t respond. He just stared, his lips still tingling from the kiss, his mind racing in directions he wasn’t ready to admit. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. You reached for the next tube—deep plum, almost black, its sleek metallic casing glinting under the dim fairy lights.  

"All right, final test," you declared, twisting the lipstick open with a satisfying click. The color was rich and bold, a shade that dared anyone to look away. You leaned in, closer than before, your breath brushing against Sol’s cheek.  

He stiffened, his head tilting slightly as though torn between leaning away and leaning in. "You’re relentless, you know that?" he muttered, his voice low and strained.  

"Let’s see how kiss-proof this one really is," you whispered, your lips curling into a playful grin.  

Before he could protest, you kissed him, deliberately slower this time. The plush warmth of your lips pressed deeper against his lips, lingering longer than any of the others. Sol’s breath hitched audibly, and you could feel the heat radiating off him as his tension melted into something softer.

When you pulled back, you admired your work: a perfect, bold imprint on his pale red lips, perfect and center.  

You shifted slightly, cupping his chin with your hand to turn his face toward you. His eyes were half-lidded, his dark lashes casting shadows against his flushed cheeks. He looked wrecked in the most endearing way.  

"Don’t tell me you’re getting tired already," you teased, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.  

Sol didn’t answer. He seemed dazed, his lips slightly parted as though the words had escaped him entirely. Undeterred, you leaned in again, pressing a kiss to his temple this time, your lips lingering against the curve of his hairline.  

"Still intact," you murmured, half to yourself as you pulled back and inspected your own lips in the mirror.  

Sol blinked, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite manage it. The next kiss landed on the bridge of his nose, soft and playful, and the one after that trailed down to the corner of his mouth.  

"Okay, this one’s holding up really well," you remarked, leaning back to evaluate the results. You laughed softly at the kaleidoscope of lipstick stains that now adorned his face—a collection of reds, pinks, and purples, each mark a testament to your experiment.  

"Sol?" you prompted, tilting your head as you noticed his unusually quiet demeanor.  

He blinked again, his gaze focused on you but far away.  

"Hello? Earth to Sol—" You waved a hand in front of his face, but before you could finish the thought, his hand shot up, gently catching yours mid-wave.  

You froze, startled by the suddenness of the movement and the look in his eyes—smoldering and uncharacteristically intense.  

"Huh…" you trailed off as he guided your hand down, his fingers curling over yours in a firm but careful grip.  

"Enough," Sol murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.  

Before you could process the shift, he moved. In one smooth, almost predatory motion, he pressed you back into the couch, his weight pinning you against the cushions. Your back hit the fabric with a soft thud, and his hands found your wrists, holding them gently but securely above your head.  

"Sol—"  

"You're so mean," he said softly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark hair fell messily into his eyes, and his gaze burned with something raw, something that made your chest tighten.  

You stared up at him, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he leaned closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. The space between you felt impossibly small, the room charged with a quiet intensity that neither of you dared to break.  

"All those kisses," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your cheek as his lips curved into a teasing smirk. "And you still act like you’re in control."  

Your heart raced, the world outside the living room forgotten entirely. "Sol, I—"  

But his expression softened, his grip on your wrists loosening slightly. "I think," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "it’s my turn to test your limits, pumpkin."  

Oh no, not again.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜 [ 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝒹𝒹𝑒𝒹 ]

It’s one of those crisp afternoons, the air just cool enough to send a slight shiver down your spine as you sit on a bench by the archery range. The college campus is quiet, with students scattered here and there, but your attention is entirely on him—Geo. 

The archery field is his domain. He doesn’t know it yet, but you’ve got a plan that will catch him off guard.

Geo stands tall at the center of the field, adjusting his posture with precision, his focus entirely on the target in front of him. The sun casts a soft, golden light across his pale skin, making his aquamarine eyes seem even sharper. He’s dressed in usual uniform.

Which make him look even more intimidating as he stands tall and composed. His hair, dark bluish-purple, is tied back neatly in a low ponytail, the bowl cut framing his face in a way that makes his expression appear even more brooding.

Despite his best efforts to look aloof, there’s something about him that calls for attention. His movements are deliberate, almost as if he knows he’s being watched. You lean back slightly, pretending to be absorbed in the scene but really just observing him, thinking about the plan you’ve hatched.

Geo pulls his bowstring back with precision, his aquamarine eyes narrowing as he takes aim. Everything about him is calculated, a display of discipline honed through years of practice. You bite your lip in anticipation, then grab the lipstick from your bag, uncapping it with a soft click.

The color is a deep red, the kind that will stand out against his pale skin. You’ve decided: it’s time to throw him off just a little.

You stand up quietly, making your way to where Geo is, and as you approach, your heart beats a little faster. The air around you feels charged with the quiet energy he exudes. Geo is too focused on the target, his fingers inching toward the release. You take a deep breath, then step forward just as he releases the arrow.

Before he can even blink, you lean forward and plant a bold, quick kiss to his cheek, the lipstick leaving a bright red mark against his pale skin. The sound of the arrow shooting through the air fills the silence as you pull back, watching the surprise flash across his face.

Geo’s eyes widen for the briefest moment. He freezes for a split second, just enough for you to see his cheeks flush under his usual stoic exterior, the pale hue quickly warming to something deeper. The arrow he released flies off course, landing just beside the target rather than hitting the bullseye as it usually does.

He’s caught off guard.

You step back slightly, a mischievous grin on your face. “You missed it,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

Geo’s gaze shifts to you, his expression darkening. His lips part, and for a moment, it’s like the weight of the world shifts. "What the hell?" His voice is low, his tone not entirely angry, but certainly perplexed.

For someone who’s always so controlled, so composed, you’ve definitely managed to make him lose that edge. He quickly recovers, wiping his cheek with his sleeve, and for a second, you wonder if you pushed him too far. But then you see the slightest tug of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t do that,” he warns, but there’s no heat in his words—just that familiar sharpness that seems to be his natural state. It’s clear he’s still processing, but you can tell this little moment has left its mark on him.

You smile back, not backing down. "I thought I’d get your attention. Looks like I did."

Geo shakes his head, his smirk growing as he nocks another arrow. "You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into," he mutters under his breath, but you can hear the playful challenge behind it.

Despite his usual brooding demeanor, you can’t help but notice the slight curve of his lips as he prepares to take another shot. It seems that, for once, he’s not quite as untouchable as he wants everyone to think.

You can feel the tension in the air as Geo reaches for another arrow, but you’re already plotting your next move. The excitement bubbling inside you is hard to contain—this is more fun than you thought it would be.

Geo draws his bow back again, taking aim with the kind of precision only someone like him could master. But before he can release it, you lean forward just enough to interrupt his concentration, tapping his shoulder lightly with a teasing smile. 

“What now?” he asks, his voice as gruff as always, though you can detect a hint of amusement hiding in his eyes. “You miss again?”

You shrug innocently. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if I could make you blush again." You let the words hang in the air, watching as his expression shifts. His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment, you're convinced he’s actually considering the idea of doing something more than just shooting arrows.

Geo takes a deep breath, clearly trying to regain his focus by ignoring you, but before he can, you lean in—this time, a little bolder. You press another quick kiss to his neck line, leaving a fresh red mark on his pale skin. And just like last time, he freezes—eyes wide, jaw slightly ajar.

The arrow that should’ve been heading for the bullseye instead veers wildly off course, missing the target completely and burying itself in the grass.

You burst out laughing. "Not so precise anymore, huh?"

Geo whips his head toward you, eyes narrowed in something between surprise and irritation. “Are you trying to sabotage me?” he growls, though you can see the amusement hiding behind his scowl.

You’re still laughing, clearly enjoying yourself far too much, and that’s when Geo decides to do something about it.

With a swift motion, he reaches out and grabs your wrist before you can step back, his fingers tightening around it just enough to stop you from making any more cheeky moves. You stare at him, caught off guard for a moment—he’s not known for being touchy, but here he is, holding you in place.

"Alright, enough of this," he says, his voice suddenly less gruff and more playful, though his eyes still carry that glint of challenge. "If you think you can distract me with kisses, you’re mistaken."

You grin up at him, unfazed by his grip on your wrist. "Oh? Then you should’ve seen what happened when you missed your shot," you tease. “I think the whole campus heard your arrow crash into the grass.”

Geo rolls his eyes, but the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Don’t think this is over,” he warns, his grip on your wrist tightening a little more, though it’s more playful than threatening. "You’re gonna regret this, trust me."

“You sure about that?” you quip back, your voice filled with playful defiance.

Geo raises an eyebrow at your defiant tone, clearly weighing his options. For a second, you swear there’s a flicker of something almost... fond? It vanishes just as quickly, replaced by his usual broody persona. “I could have you running laps around this field by the end of the day,” he threatens, though his eyes are twinkling with the unmistakable sign of a challenge.

“Make me,” you shoot back, tugging your wrist free from his grasp just enough to push your luck a little further. 

Geo chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. "You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

“Yeah, all for you~” you tease, throwing him a wink.

Geo doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but the corner of his mouth lifts just a little higher this time. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Despite the gruff exterior, you’ve managed to ruffle his feathers just enough to see a side of him that’s not all business. 

And honestly? 

You kind of like it.

As you step away, pretending to give him space, you can feel his eyes on you. You’re not sure if he’s still trying to figure out what the hell just happened or if he’s plotting his revenge. 

Either way, you’re all in for whatever comes next.

Geo steadies himself, the bow string pulled taut as he lines up another shot. But the second you lean in, it’s like the world goes into slow motion. You can see his shoulders tense, his jaw clenching slightly as you get closer. He knows exactly what you're doing. His grip tightens on the bow, and for a split second, you think he might just let the arrow fly—into the target this time.

But before he can fully focus, you press a soft, teasing kiss to his bottom jaw again, the lipstick leaving a fresh red print. 

Geo’s eyes snap wide open in surprise, his finger twitching against the bowstring. “You—” He cuts himself off, trying to maintain his composure, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him, his pale skin turning a shade darker. The arrow in his hand nearly slips from his grasp as he blinks in confusion. 

You pull back just enough to see his expression, a mix of shock and that brooding intensity you’re so used to. His lips twitch, a barely-there smirk playing at the corners, more like disbelief?

However there’s something else in his eyes now—something... tempting.

"Alright," he growls lowly, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice now, "You want to play that game, huh?"

Before you can even react, he’s closing the space between you, his hands gripping your wrists with surprising tenderness, pulling you in with a quick, deliberate motion. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s more intense than anything you expected. The rush of warmth from his lips against yours sends a little shock of electricity through you, and your breath catches.

Geo’s kiss isn’t soft or tentative. No, it’s like he’s trying to make a statement—daring you to say something, to break the moment. You feel the pressure of his lips, firm and demanding, and you can tell he’s not just kissing you for fun anymore. There’s something deeper in it now. The playfulness has shifted into something a little more heated.

You’re breathless when he pulls away just enough to speak, his voice husky, “There’s your kiss.”

You blink up at him—his lips now stained reddish color from the lipstick, looking down at you with irritating expression—dazed from the sudden shift in his demeanor. “I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me back, especially on the lips” you tease, a smile tugging at your lips despite the heat crawling up your neck.

Geo doesn’t smile—he just stares at you, eyes dark with the challenge of it all. His hands still rest lightly on your wrists, but now they feel heavier, almost like he’s holding you in place. “You should’ve known better.”

Before you can reply, he gently lets go of your wrists, his gaze lingering just a little longer than you’d like. The air between you two is thick now—charged with the energy of the moment, and there’s a sense that things are about to get even more complicated. You’ve managed to crack his icy exterior, but you’re not entirely sure what that means for either of you.

Geo turns back to the target without another word, grabbing another arrow. His focus is entirely back on the bullseye, but there’s an undeniable smirk on his lips now. And the way his fingers curl around the bow, steady and sure, tells you that this game is far from over. 

“You missed plenty of shots earlier,” you say playfully, “Think you’ll actually hit the target this time?”

Geo shoots you a look over his shoulder, a glint in his aquamarine eyes. "Watch me," he mutters, before losing the arrow. 

It’s a perfect shot—dead center. He doesn’t even flinch as the arrow hits the target. Quick and easy.

“Well, damn,” you say, impressed. “I guess I’ll just have to distract you more often.”

Geo doesn't respond at first, but a tiny smirk that pulls at his lips says it all. "Keep trying me, and you’ll see," he murmurs a warning, almost to himself before brushing the lipstick stain across his lips.

And just like that, you realize—he enjoys this more than he lets on.

[hederasgarden]

Hiya! David!clark with prompt 2 from your list pretty please w the juiciest cherry on top! SMOOCHES TO YOUUU

Smooches to you as well, anon!! This was such a cute drabble request!

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x F!Reader Word Count: 532 Rating: Gen. This is pure fluff with the prompt, Wait a minute. Are you jealous? A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca for looking this over! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

“And, anyway,” Clark continues, fumbling with the stack of papers in his hands. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to meet him alone. Someone should come with you. Just for safety, you know? You can never be too careful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a date, Clark. Not some shady source for a story. You’re acting like I’m meeting a criminal kingpin.”

He frowns, pushing his glasses back up his nose in a familiar gesture you’ve seen him do a hundred times. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m just saying, you don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. He could be an axe murderer, for all we know.”

It’s only the worried crease between his brow and the genuine concern you see in his eyes that keep you from laughing at how seriously he’s taking this.

“He’s friends with Jimmy,” you remind him, giving his very firm, muscly shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“How well does Jimmy actually know this guy?” Clark questions. “Are they actual friends, or more like ‘a friend of a friend’ kind of situation?”

“I think they play pickleball together?” you say, though you can’t fully remember. Jimmy tended to ramble a lot and well, truth be told, sometimes you tuned him out. “Or maybe it was D&D? I’m not sure which one it is, but he’s definitely not some random weirdo. Just a nerd.”

“I should talk to Jimmy,” Clark says with a nod like he hasn’t even heard you. 

Before he can walk past, you stop him with a firm hand on his chest, your fingertips grazing the crisp, starchy white shirt he’s wearing. 

“Wait a minute. What’s going on?” You question. 

Clark may have had the reputation of the office big brother, always looking out for everyone, but this was something else. It felt different. It felt like he liked you.

No.

That couldn’t be right. He was so wildly out of your league and that thought sounded insane, even to your own ears. But as you study his face, you catch the way his eyes flick away from yours for just a beat too long, the briefest hesitation, and how his hand tightens around the stack of papers, his knuckles whitening.

“Are you jealous?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You wince, wishing you could swallow them back up when you see the tips of Clark’s ears turn red. He opens his mouth, then closes it, before tugging on his collar. 

“Oh,” you whisper. 

“Is that a good oh?” Clark asks you, looking almost nervous. 

“Oh,” you say again like an idiot as your brain tries to catch up with the sharp left turn this conversation has taken. Clark Kent liked you. Like actually liked you. 

"I do," Clark murmurs, and it takes a second to realize you must have said that last part out loud.

“Well, I should probably cancel that date then,” you tell him.

“And I should probably ask you out,” he replies, glancing around the bullpen before stepping closer. 

“Yeah,” you agree, getting a little lost in how blue his eyes are. 

“Will you -”

“Yes,” you interrupt.

He laughs and you grin.

Send me a request

[pomefioredove]

Can I make a request for Floyd x reader yuu, where Floyd tries to confess to the reader in every way, even using mer courting methods, but they don't realize that, not that I'm not in love with him, it's just that the reader isn't good at understanding romantic advances? Just a fluffy request :)

this is such a cute prompt!! I got the worst writer's block when I started it, hopefully you're still here anon

summary: floyd confessing to an oblivious reader type of post: headcanons characters: floyd additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu author's note: this totally got me to rewatch the little mermaid, I also tried studying eel mating patterns and apparently scientists don't know how eels mate???

the change is... noticeable, to say the least

Floyd has been humming lately, skipping through the dorm, picking flowers and leaving them around the lounge

Jade finds it amusing, Azul is a little annoyed

after all, he's supposed to be working, not sprinkling little pink flowers all over Azul's desk

it becomes painfully obvious to everyone that Floyd has a thing for you

...everyone except you, that is

you suppose the company is nice

you've even gotten used to the way he hovers around you, watching everything you do as if it's the most interesting thing in the world

maybe you've even grown fond of it

after all, there's never a dull moment with Floyd around. he's as interesting and unpredictable as they come

so, you don't even bat an eye when he starts leaving little trinkets around for you

a fork here, a pair of glasses there, a few gadgets and gizmos...

you can't seem to figure out why, so you just call it Floyd being Floyd and don't read too much into it

one day, you get flowers

...although, when you ask Azul, he just grumbles something about Floyd leaving flowers all over the lounge

you're also not sure why everyone keeps giving the two of you odd looks when you're out together

or why Floyd is suddenly so insistent on being near you all the time

you catch him following you more than once

and he'll take any excuse to put his arm around you

your thought process is mostly sure, why not? whilst everyone else is already rolling their eyes at the PDA

if you ever get the hint, you might ask Azul and Jade if they think Floyd is into you

"Into you???" Azul says. "We thought you were already dating!"

[b0kevi]

random word prompts :P

summary: random words + random twst characters from a wheel

trope: comfort, sick trope, friends to lovers, teasing, angst

info: little angst in azuls part, kissing, jade

characters: silver, vil, jade, azul

w/c: 206 silver, 263 vil, 394 jade, 315 azul

Silver - Stomach

“thank you silver you didn’t have to.” you said as you quietly ate the soup silver had made you.

“it’s no problem y/n. please take this once you finish eating, it should help with your stomach.”

silver was over at ramschakle taking care of you since you had a stomachache, you two were supposed to be studying but your stomach had been hurting all day. silver of course wanted to help you feel better so made you some food and brought medicine.

“this is delicious! thank you so much silver, really” you finished your food and took the medicine he gave you

you leaned back against the couch arm and sighed, silver was sitting next to you

“how are you feeling?”

“better than before.” smiling at him, he gave a gentle smile back, his gaze switches from you to your stomach

“could I… rest my head for a bit?” he asked sheepishly

“of course silver”

silver gently rested his head against your stomach, not wanting to add pressure to it. you smiled and planted your hand in his hair

“I’m feeling much better now.”

silver was already dozing off but he hummed in response and left a soft kiss on your stomach before nodding off.

Vil - Effective

“are you sure this is really effective…?”

“are you questioning my ways darling?”

you sighed. Vil invited you over to his room to do your makeup, you couldn’t really say no so here you are, in vil’s room with him inches away from your face.

the only thing that was left was your lip combo, vil pulled out two different colors of lipsticks, looking at the two very intensely before putting one shade on his lips.

you were confused since he already had lip stick on so why did he change it? maybe he just wanted that color all of a sudden…

once he finished he turned to you and leaned in very close

“vil… what are you doing?”

“putting on your lipstick. what else?”

his lips are centimeters away from yours while the lipstick is on his vanity.

“uhm the lipstick is over there though…” vil furrowed his eyebrows slightly

“who’s the one doing the makeup here?” sighing at his words you nodded, letting him have his way.

he gently kissed your lips, thoroughly getting the shade on your lips. vil pulled back slightly taking a look at his work, fixing it up a bit before putting another color on his own.

“this one is definitely more your color.” he said as he took off the shade he just put on you

“then why did you put this one on?”

“I thought it was this color”

“those are two very different shades vil.”

“are you questioning me sweetheart?” he said before kissing your lips with more passion than the previous one

“never.”

Jade - Decisive

“are you serious? him?”

“are you okay?”

“is he blackmailing you into saying that?”

this is why you don’t tell them anything. you’ve been crushing on a certain eel and finally told adeuce about it.

“no! he doesn’t know and what’s wrong with him?

…

don’t answer that. but yes him.”

“at least it’s not floyd”

“isn’t he worse than floyd?”

“they’re both bad!”

you sighed as the two bicker, why did you tell them…

you made your way to mostro lounge for your shift, you started to work there to make some extra money, no other reason, not to hang out and watch jade work… no just for the money.

“y/n. what a pleasure to see you.” jade said as soon as you walked through the doors like he was waiting for you.

“hi jade.”

throughout your whole shift you would spare glances at him, watching how swiftly he moves, doing the job of many but still managing. you tried to keep your glances minimal but knowing jade he could tell you were looking at him.

you two were closing together, you both were cleaning up in comfortable silent, you were wiping tables while he grabbed dirty dishes

“you seemed distracted today y/n.” you sighed, of course he knew. he knows everything.

“was I? Must have been the stress of today.”

he hummed, “really. work stress or…”

you could feel his breath near your ear, when did he get so close… “the stress of those two friends of yours?” you felt a shiver down your spine both from the proximity and his words.

was he there? did he hear what you said about him?

you turned your head, his face was so close to yours you’re sure he can hear how loud your heart is beating.

“you… you heard that…?” there’s no point in hiding it.

“perhaps.” he had his signature smile, he trapped you against the table

“I assure you I would never blackmail you my perl, but are you sure you want this? to be with me?” his heterochromia eyes were beautiful as they stared right through you, you know that first part was a lie but you’ve never seen him like this, you could tell he was being genuine behind that smirk

you grabbed ahold of his hands and smiled

“I’m positive, I want you jade, only you.”

Azul - Fight

you knew dating azul was going to be challenging with some ups and downs and you never mind it. Although sometimes his pride gets in the way of things

“you know jade and floyd are capable of taking care of things on their own sweetie.”

azul has been engrossed in his work and contracts for the past couple of weeks which you understood in the beginning but you were starting to miss him, you would be in the room with him but you wanted some attention from him every now and then.

“I’m well aware but this will only take a minute darling”

“you said that two hours ago.”

you’ve set up a little date between you two—wanting to get him out of the lounge— you were going to have a little picnic, you had everything in your basket but you were sure everything had gone to waste for how long you’ve been waiting for him to be done.

"you know, I'm just gonna go azul."

Azul finally looked up from his work, you never call him by his name.

"I'm sorry darling I promise this is the last one then we can go."

you had enough, "no azul. it won't be the last one. we both know it's not, everything is spoiled by now, your work is more important obviously, just forget it."

"y/n..." he finally got up and walked towards you but you stopped him, "I understand you got a lot going on but you have the twins to help you, can't you just take one day off for me? you've been like this for days and I miss being with you. its obvious i'm not that important to you azul. just leave me alone."

you left without giving him a chance to respond, leaving him alone in his office. He felt tears forming as he sighed, angry with himself.

"damn it."

── .✦

a/n: I should have made these longer, maybe next time, these random words were fun to do. if you have any prompts lmk ! have a good night/day ! <3

[velaris-fic-repository]

Wicked Witch

@sjmxreaderweek May 7th Prompt: Villain/Hero

Slight Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader, Rhys is barely in this, ANGST, very little to no comfort, major character death, death of a mentor, Beron is a warning all his own

Inspired in part by the TV show Agatha All Along and the narrative podcast Old Gods of Appalachia. Both are very good, you should check ‘em out!

Summary: You were born cursed to wither every living thing you’ve ever touched. You’re convinced that you are a monster.

A/N: This ended up being more world building and character study than I originally intended, but I think it works! May make this a series, may not, I’ll have to think about it, enjoy!

You were a monster.

At least, that’s what your father had always made you believe.

High Lord of Autumn’s only daughter, cursed to wither everything she touched to ash and dust. Useless to your court, useless to your society. What marriage alliance could possibly be made when any suitor would be scared - literally - to death to touch you?

You were older than most of your siblings, second only to Eris. Most of your brothers however, gave you the widest berths they could when you were allowed out of your rooms. Lucien and Eris were the only ones who deigned to interact with you outside of appearance only events. Your court, and you supposed Prythian, thought you were simply ill. Frail. The fawn with a broken leg. The one thing the notoriously ruthless Autumn Court wanted to preserve.

You loved your closest brothers dearly, lamenting the hands the three of you were dealt. It hurt you endlessly that even they wouldn’t touch you. Eris, thanks to having watched the powers you felt cursed with, Lucien, from instruction. You didn’t blame them, you were terrified of yourself as well. There was nothing for it.

When you were younger, in the beginnings of dealing with your affliction, your mother told you a friend of hers had scoured his libraries to find some answer to this curse. He’d apparently found none.

You’d looked for answers on your own, only for Beron to find you and punish you for stepping out of the suffocating box of isolation he’d painted for you. You’d studied in secret for near three hundred years, hoping to cure yourself and become the useful female heir he’d wanted you to be. For once to gain the love or at least the respect he’d denied you.

That punishment was not pretty. No need to spare the face or skin when no suitors would come calling.

Something had died in you that day. Burned to a crisp and crumbled to soot. In the same manner your youngest brother would one day do, you fled the Forest House. You’d left a note for Lucien and some handmade toys for Eris’s hounds - he’d know who they were from, they were the only way you could interact with the creatures you loved so much. After, you were gone, traipsing through Prythian with no one else the wiser. No one expected a High Lord’s daughter to bear such scorch marks.

The official story was the frail princess of Autumn had succumbed to her illness. Maybe she had.

Consumed by your anger and pain you withered an entire forest at the edge of Autumn’s border with Winter. The incident explained away by the proximity of the seasons. The symptoms of your powers were no different than a natural autumnal rot anyway.

You found yourself in The Middle in your wandering. The place seemed perfect for you. The dumping ground for dangerous, unwanted fae.

You had been content to lie there, waiting for whatever horrid creature haunted your nightmares as a child to come and find you.

Something eventually did.

The moon was full that night when you heard a crunch in the under brush. Thank the Mother for your brothers giving you clandestine hunting lessons. Those tracking and observation skills were the only reason you’d managed to survive.

Your favorite hunting knife clutched in a vice grip, you stalked behind a tree, careful not to touch its living bark.

“I know you’re here, Withering One. I mean you no harm, little fawn.”

You watched an elderly female limp into your camp, towards your fire. She made herself at home there, sitting on a log, leaning on her walking stick and warming her hands. Something stirred in you watching her, a living being warmed by something you created. The aide you’d wanted to provide your family, someone, anyone, realized here.

“Will the princess be joining me out here? Or is she content to hide behind a tree all night?”

You poked your head around the tree, a fussy pout on your face.

“There she is. Come, child. Sit with me. And change your face, it could freeze that way.”

A fawn gaining her legs, you tentatively crept over to the fire, sitting far away from her, your knife still clutched in your hand.

“Put the claw down, child. Look at me, I’m too old to pose any real threat to you.”

“Appearances can always be deceiving,” you said, eyes narrowed.

The old female laughed, a crow’s laugh, “And you know more about that than most. This I know, girl.”

“And you know so much about me, why?”

She held up a slip of paper, “the cards told me, dear.”

You frowned at it, the painted image on the card meaning very little to you.

The card vanished with a flip of her surprisingly nimble fingers. “There are magics far more varied than those your father keeps, girl. I can teach you, if you’d like, and help you master those gifts of yours.”

“Gifts,” you spat.

“Yes, gifts. Your father is a fool for keeping you caged. You are dangerous only in your ignorance, child.”

You lowered your knife, keeping it in your lap.

“Master your gift and it won’t hurt you anymore,” she said, “you could see your brothers again, hug them. You could love freely, unafraid of what you would do to those you hold dear, just like you’ve always wanted.”

She extended her hand, obviously not for you to shake it, but an offering to match her words. You looked between it and her elderly face. Steel lined your expression.

“What would I have to do?”

You were her apprentice witch for decades. Studying the various crafts, tapping into other sources of magic while you struggled to grapple with your own.

Divination and tarot reading was your strongest suit, warding places following after. Practical magic, with herbs and roots, was out of the cards for you. Every ingredient shriveling in your hands.

You never seemed to improve on that front, so fearful of the effect that you hesitated to even try touching anything alive.

Frustrated by your lack of progress after a particularly bad night, in a particularly bad week of a particularly bad month and so on, you turned to your cards, hoping to find answers there.

First card, Eight of Swords, wonderful… A card of helplessness and fatality. Hard times ahead. But, that’s where you’ve been. The next two could show better things in your future.

Second card, Death. “Seriously!” You whined. Death as a card, you had learned often did not mean a literal one. More an ending or separation. A phase of life concluding.

Third and final card, Knight of Swords. Something sudden, violent, and dangerous. A fight one will need courage for.

You were tired of fighting, tired of trying. You were tired of losing and losing and losing no matter what you did.

In a fit of exhausted frustration you screamed out, slamming your palms to the ground and just let your power consume the ground around you. A circle formed around you of withered, dead grass. The decay oozed around you in a ring. Twigs snapped, aged and splintered to pieces. A nearby tree groaned as rot set into one of its roots. The sounds of insects ceased as birds and other woodland creatures ran like hell away from your clearing. Those who weren’t fast enough were bones in seconds.

Those sounds of the forest dying in that little circle around you caused a new kind of grief to settle in your chest. The land you loved so much decimated because of you. All those wonderful sounds, gone. It was a horror you had tried with everything in you to ignore, but the facts were here. Ugly, unpleasant and in your face as you grappled with the destructive nature of yourself.

That silence also gave way to new terror as you heard a familiar three pronged crunch in the grass just beyond the clearing. Two feet and a stick.

“Little fawn, we really ought t-“

Her words were cut off before you could call out, scream, beg her to stop at the edge of the clearing.

You looked up in silent shock and horror to see her just within the circle you’d thoughtlessly created.

All was quiet until a sickening cough came from her throat. One of effort and hurt as she stood bolt upright, looking for all the world like the fae equivalent of a lightning struck tree.

She grit her teeth as you watched the lines of her aged face deepen, her skin thinning and stretching over her bones. “It’s alright, child.”

Liar. She was dying.

You were frozen, unable to do anything but weep as your greatest fear of nearly five hundred years finally came to fruition.

“I… I’ll be alright… child,” every word of hers was a struggle, you could hear it. Every pause sending a crack through your heart. She was your mentor. Your sister in the craft.

She was your friend.

“I’ve lived a… long time, Princess. These bones could use… the rest.”

You fell to your knees and sobbed, the decay winding along the woman’s arms “I’m so sorry.”

“Remember… remember what I’ve taught you… dear. Your power… does not have to be your enemy…” Tears welled in her eyes as the final moments came, and you found yourself by her side as she sank to the ground. You couldn’t stop it now, you didn’t know how. Touching her now wouldn’t make a difference. So you held her, clutched her to your chest and wept over her as she smiled painfully up at you.

“It was my honor… to teach you, dear…”

Then she was gone, crumbled into dust before you had the chance to say anything back.

You wept in that clearing for a good long while.

A monster, that’s what you were. Of that you were sure. There was nothing you could do to stop the power that haunted you. So, you put it to the only use you could think of. You traveled Prythian after that, decaying those who would leave unjust bodies behind. You were not a feeble little fawn, but a diseased and deadly vixen. A monster to kill other monsters.

Those next years passed in a fugue state. You didn’t care where you went, only that the task you assigned yourself was complete.

When the warriors caught you, you didn’t struggle. You didn’t fight. You didn’t touch anyone. You let yourself be pulled, corralled and brought before whoever had ordered your capture. Whoever it was could do as they wished.

You were done. Empty. Rotted away from the inside.

You hadn’t talked when they brought you in. Azriel had warned him as much. You had hardly reacted to anything he’d said the entire time his men had you in custody. You hadn’t eaten either.

Rhysand didn’t need his brother to tell him that last part. He had eyes.

He’d tried to rouse you from your stupor but couldn’t, so he played the only card he had left. He’d entered your mind, viewing every terrible memory of yours as you replayed them in your mind, a horrible echo chamber of the worst parts of your life, your greatest fear, and your deepest senses of loneliness and despair.

He pulled himself out of your mind, seemingly pulling your consciousness up with him as you began to look more lucid.

“You’re Beron’s daughter,” he said after a beat.

“And I’m in the Night Court,” you responded, resigned.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he mused.

You said nothing.

Rhysand caught a thought of yours as it passed and it was not a pleasant one. The assumption that what you assumed the Night Court to be would be a fitting end for someone like you. Prythian’s villains would know how best to deal with one such as you and all you’d done.

But Rhysand thought better than that. He’d seen in the bits and pieces of your history that you had been so close to figuring it out. You weren’t cursed. Autumn had always been a season of death, a season to harvest what could be and purge that which could no longer stand. A season not of cruel and harsh ends, but of making room for what was to come and kindly laying the earth down to rest. Your mentor, though beloved by you, was old, amenable to rest and making room in the world for something new. That’s what she’d tried to tell you but your fear and grief refused to let you hear it.

“Please,” you said, a sob breaking up your speech, “I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

Rhys nodded, “We can help you.”

“Why?”

Rhys’s eyes shared the pain in yours as he responded, “because I never wanted to be a villain either.”

[endofthelinegang]

the patriot

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  #90 from the prompt list "If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?" 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bad words 

use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :)

The op was supposed to be clean.

Get in, get the files, don’t get blown up. Real simple. Barely an inconvenience. Except for the part where every camera system in the building was running on spaghetti code and Cold War duct tape. Except for the part where John Walker—your Thunderbolt teammate, reluctant handler, and possibly a human caffeine tablet in a tactical vest—was stuck in the same room with you, trying to keep you from pushing every glowing button just to see what they did. And especially the part where Valentina Allegra de Fontaine called you two specifically instead of anyone else on the team to do the most absurd thing imaginable mid-mission.

“Don’t touch that,” John barked, not looking up from his datapad. He’d said it four times now. He was practically hitting you in the head with his elbow from how close he was standing to make sure you hadn’t gotten bored and decided to just mess around with something. 

You hovered your finger over the blinking red control switch labeled COOLANT OVERRIDE.  “You don’t even know what this does.” 

“I don’t need to,” he muttered, thumbing through corrupted files. “I know you, and if you touch it, it’s gonna end with us knee-deep in radioactive soup or setting off an old Soviet alarm that wakes up a bear.”

You dropped your hand. “One time, Walker. I trigger one bear one time and suddenly I can’t have a little fun anymore?” In all fairness to which you did not bring up was that it had not just been you who had done it. It was actually you and Yelena discussing what the little symbols meant, she thought bear and you thought maybe a small house dog. You were wrong, and no one died. 

He gave you a look. “You shouldn’t name the bear, either.” You smiled at him and just remembered the look on his face when he walked in to see a bear three times the usual size staring him down. He was trying to kill it, and you were considering maybe keeping it as a pet, 

“Dmitri had a soul.”

He sighed like he’d been aged by this job, by you, by everything. You tapped the tops of your boots on the floor taking your hands away from the buttons you looked up at John. He was reading really intently, his thumb tapping off the back of the device creating the tiniest little noise when the hard piece of his tactical glove hit. Before he could notice you were studying him the comms crackled.

“Hey, so, uh…” It was Val. The two of you immediately made eye contact and listened in. The two of you could tell from her little “uh” that she had been on the phone all day thus far. Which was never good. “We’ve got a situation.”

You and John exchanged a look. Neither of you wanted to talk first so you pointed a finger at him before he shook his head and nudged you with his boot. “What kind of situation?” you asked slowly.

“The kind where CNN’s en route, the press already knows you’re in-country, and Walker’s last mission made him trend for destroying national land with a motorcycle  instead of the enemy. We need positive coverage. Like, immediately.” 

You blinked. He was throwing his hands around ready to respond to her and have a repeat conversation about how he did not know it was national land and that he was just doing what had to be done. But not wanting to hear that conversation you broke the brief silence, “How is that our problem?”

There was a pause on the line but you could still very faintly hear her making little sighs and the fact that she had stopped walking wherever she was headed because the little clacking of her heels stopped. You knew right then she was going to tell you something you did not wanna hear. 

“You’re both hot, you’re both in one piece, and the system’s still down so I can’t even see where the rest of your idiot team is. We’re going with plan D.” Val finally breathed it all out so fast that you barely understood her but you did catch the “you’re both hot” part which you could not fathom was going to go anywhere good. 

John narrowed his eyes looking at you before setting down what actually needed to be worked on because he too could sense this was going to be some shit,  “What’s plan D?”

“You kiss.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Eye contact seized. 

Even the building, full of ancient rust and creaking pipes, seemed to go quiet. The machines that had been making fuzzy noises were silent. John said nothing for a second. Then: “The hell we do.”

“I’m serious,” Val snapped, now she knew the two of you had heard her and were considering her little plan. That is all a woman like herself needed. “Sell a romance arc. I don’t care if it’s real, fake, or hate-fueled. Make the press eat it up. We need a distraction.” You grabbed onto John's arm and pulled yourself up off the ground because this was way more serious than whatever she originally had you working on. 

You rubbed your forehead and started pacing back and forth, with a slightly raised voice you spat at her, “Val, I swear to God—”

She cut out. 

“Val?” you said again. “Val—”

Nothing. Comms dead.

Meanwhile, back in the basement, the team was losing it.

“We’ve almost got it,” Bucky said through clenched teeth, typing furiously at an old Soviet terminal hooked up to an external power supply Ghost had hotwired together from literal scrap metal. The keys were sticking on and off thanks to the metal of his fingers slamming them so deeply into the board. 

“Are you sure that’s the right port?” Ghost asked, upside down, practically inside the wall. She was hoping anything would work so that there was a possibility of leaving this dingy and smelly place as soon as possible. 

“It’s glowing red,” Alexei said, pointing helpfully. “That seems promising.” He was nodding and absolutely no one in the room was even looking at him.

Yelena threw her hands in the air. “Everything in this place is glowing red! The coffee machine glows red!”

“I told you not to drink from that!” Bucky barked, usually John was the one giving helpful advice or rules such as that but he was too busy running around with you. Which was honestly beneficial, Walker would have already shattered that keyboard into the wall and everyone would have been standing around bored as a team. 

Yelena shrugged. “Too late. I have regrets.” She gagged and fanned at her mouth taking in deep breaths.

“Focus!” Ghost said. “We need visual back before Val loses her entire mind.” Ava nudged into Bucky watching what he was doing to make sure nothing else went wrong.

Alexei leaned over, his piece was the only one that had been working this entire time, which he did not mention, but now he had something fun to say so it would be worth telling on himself, “Pretty sure she already did. She told them to kiss.” 

The others paused in synchronized horror, Buckys hands stopped typing, Ava did not even look backwards at the man who was now belly laughing, and Yelena slowly put her tongue back into her mouth and her hands fell to her sides, 

“…Oh no,” Yelena whispered. “They wouldn’t.”

Bucky’s fingers flew faster, he snapped out of his trance just long enough to get into a rhythm of typing and then slamming the keyboard onto the desk to prevent his earlier issue from happening. “What happened now? What could warrant that?”

“Visual coming online,” Ghost announced, shaking the hell out of the box connected to the computer that was so hot from being overworked that no one else was even willing to touch it.

Bucky smacked the monitor and jiggled it a bit watching as the static would stop and start. Then the static cleared—

And then—

“OH MY GOD,” Alexei shouted, running over to the computer and putting both hands on Bucky’s back. “I—THEY’RE—”

“ARE THEY KISSING?!” Yelena shrieked practically jumping on top of Ava who was frozen in total shock not even caring that Yelena now reeked of what smelled almost like coffee but worse.

Ghost slammed a button. “Recording started.”

“We do not need a recording of this.” Bucky groaned and sat back in the chair that was now sitting straight up and down thanks to Alexei’s weight pushing on the back of it. 

Back in the camera's line of sight, you and John were still standing close together, you had stopped pacing once you realized there was really no getting her back online and that just not doing it was not going to be an option. 

He muttered, for once he was trying to not be rude and just handle the situation for what it was, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

But you? You broke into a grin, an evil and sinister little grin as you now stood toe to toe with him, arms around his neck and hands resting right on the back. He didn’t move a muscle he just stared you down.

“Well, Walker,” you said leaning into him just enough to feel his chest rise and fall against yours. “Ready to be a patriot?”

He touched the side of his head to yours placing two hands on your hips. “You enjoy this way too much.”

“If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?” Before John could again be the one to make the final blow, you pulled your face back from his ear and pulled your arms back so that your hands could grab onto his face. The kiss hit like a switch flipping. His hands moved against your waist instinctively, firm and grounding. You felt the tension in his shoulders melt and re-coil in new, unfamiliar places. His lips were warmer than expected, mouth soft but insistent, the kind of kiss that said we’re doing this, and we’re doing it right. Then of course John took things into his own hands like you knew he eventually would, guiding you back against the cool panel wall. Your hands were going everywhere now. First you curled then into his vest, then up into his hair without thinking, because of course it was soft, and of course he groaned low in his throat when you did it. The angle shifted, deepened—

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE STILL GOING,” Yelena howled, Ava had sensed moved on once she realized that this may only be the beginning of whatever was going on so Lena had a front row seat to the action now. 

“That’s the most American thing I’ve ever seen,” said Alexei, sounding weirdly proud smacking both of Bucky’s shoulders, still choosing to be right behind him instead of his right side which was completely empty. 

“I’m turning this feed off,” Bucky muttered. “I’d call HR if they weren’t the ones insisting they do this.” He scowled, watching in clear view of Walker moving one hand from your waist up your body and into your hair. 

“I’M RECORDING,” Yelena declared, moving the keyboard away from him. 

Val shrieked something about “fireable offenses” and “weddings get 30% off in DC if you use my name.” To the entire group seeing as to how everything for the actual mission was now at a complete standstill. 

And you? You pulled back just an inch, breath warm against John’s jaw, grinning like an idiot.

“That’ll sell it,” you whispered, not moving to push him back or anything to get away from him just staying put. 

He looked at you, expression unreadable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a second. “It will.”

Back at the safehouse, nobody let you live it down. Yelena and Ava brought popcorn to the debrief. Red Guardian reenacted the whole thing with sock puppets for your good friend Bob who could not go on the mission. Bucky tried to avoid any and all conversation or reenactments of the whole thing. Val sent a legal contract titled Thunderbolt Relationship Clause 4B: I Told You So.

And John?

He sat next to you on the old couch, legs spread wide, one arm behind your shoulders—casual, like nothing had changed. Except everything had. You can feel his warmth all of a sudden, you can’t stop thinking about how you could just curl up next to him and cuddle.. Or how you could get in his lap and start kissing him all over again the way he was sitting.  Instead you decided to move closer to him now you were touching side by side. Not saying a word he dropped one arm from behind the couch and sat it around your shoulders. 

“You know,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy, “we might need a... sequel. For the press.”

He turned, slow and deliberate, one brow ticking up. “You talking damage control?”

You shrugged, playing with your own hands, spinning the rings around your fingers as you spoke. “Public morale. National interest. You know. All that patriotic stuff.”

His mouth twitched, but not into a smirk—something softer, more thoughtful, like he was weighing the truth in your joke. Or the lie in it. He was staring at you, watching how just started curling into his side. The way your hands were so unsure of what to do or where to go. 

“We make a good headline,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges as he let out a little cough using the arm that was around your shoulders to dip down and wrap around your waist to pull you up closer to his face. 

You met his gaze, “Then maybe we should give ’em something to write about.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t for show. No click of cameras. No orders in your ear. Just the press of his hand against your cheek, warm and certain. Your breath catching as he leaned in—slow, like he wanted you to stop him but knew you wouldn’t. Just the quiet hush of lips meeting, the kind of kiss that didn’t care who watched because no one was.

It was steadier than before. Realer. And when he pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours, the world felt... quieter somehow.

Like the mission was done.

Like something else was just beginning.

(Kind of.)

[luna-azzurra]

Dark Romance Prompts #2

The Daughter of His Enemy (Who He Shouldn’t Want). She’s the one person he should hate. The daughter of the man who ruined his life, the girl raised in privilege while he grew up in war. Taking her was supposed to be revenge. Keeping her was supposed to be cruelty. But now she’s unraveling everything he thought he knew about himself. And now, he doesn’t think he cares.

The Bodyguard Who’s Not as Good as He Pretends to Be. She hired him to protect her, but if she knew the truth about him, she’d run. He’s not just there to guard her, he’s there to watch her, study her, learn everything about her until she trusts him enough to never see the knife coming. But the closer he gets, the harder it is to remember why he started this in the first place. Because she’s looking at him like he’s good. And maybe, for her, he could be.

The Priest Who Wants Her (But Shouldn’t). She came to him looking for salvation. He’s the one person who should guide her away from sin, not into it. But some desires don’t fade, and when she confesses the things she really wants, his restraint snaps. Now, neither of them is innocent. And in the quiet, candlelit darkness of the church, he whispers the one thing that seals her fate: "God isn’t the one who’s listening right now."

The Serial Killer Who Leaves Clues Just for Her. She’s a profiler, trained to hunt monsters. He’s the ghost that no one can catch, except he’s been watching her. Leaving messages, signs, gifts wrapped in blood and obsession. At first, she thinks it’s a game. A way to taunt her. But the deeper she falls into his web, the more she starts to wonder if it’s something worse. Something sick. Something she doesn’t want to stop.

The Cursed Prince Who Can Only Be Saved by Her... At a Cost. The legends say the monster in the castle is doomed to die, cursed by his own sins. No one has ever survived meeting him. But when she’s dragged before him, something strange happens—he lets her live. Now, she’s trapped in his domain, and every time she tries to leave, the shadows close in. He doesn’t want her. Not really. But there’s something in his eyes when he looks at her. Something broken. And she has no idea if she’s here to heal him… or be destroyed by him.

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