MomoH🗣️

21| here for the fics tbh & kpop content

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Masterpost of links for Palestine, Sudan, and more!

Google Doc of fundraisers for Palestinian families

Masterpost of vetted and trusted fundraisers

Operation Olive Branch Google Doc + Tiktok link

Mona and her family's GFM + fundraiser to distribute necessities to Palestinian people

Gaza Funds promotes new campaigns every time you reload the page

Care for Gaza helps bring aid to families in Gaza

Help Gaza Children fundraiser to help families afford necessities + Learning about Palestine + Ahmed Abdeen and his family's GFM

Masterpost for donations + petitions + campaigns for Palestine

Fundraisers for Sudan masterpost

Info on the "No Thanks" phone app that tells you what company to boycott

Palestinian GFMs in with very little donations masterpost

Scam donations + tips on how to spot a possible scammer

Mutual Aim is a fundraiser that splits donations to DR Congo, Sudan, and Tigray

Google Doc of resources for Palestine, DR Congo (DRC), Sudan, Tigray, Hawai'i, Haiti, and Yemen

eSims for Gaza masterpost

Spreadsheet of multiple fundraisers for Palestine, Tigray, Sudan, DR Congo, Syria, etc.

More vetted campaigns for Palestinian families

Master post for more fundraisers for Gaza- with more information (for example, fundraising for families, medical aid, direct aid with everyday living expenses, providing tents, etc.)

More vetted fundraisers for families in Gaza

More vetted fundraisers for families in Gaza

More verified families who need more funds in Gaza

Focus Congo is an organization for aiding and educating others about Congolese people

Keep Eyes on Sudan is a website with verified fundraisers and other resources on how you can help. I.e emailing your reps, upcoming protests, etc.

Sudanese gfm list

List of organizations for Palestine

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If you have donated to any fundraiser, you can get an art commission from me!

[iydiamartinx]

TAKE HIM BACK TO EDEN

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 8.3k synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce. warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated a/n: Okay, I was not planning to turn this into two parts, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger. I still have about 8,000 more words to edit — if not more. Also, this is definitely plot heavy, so if this feels a little soap-opera-ish, please blame my recent addiction to those short C and K-dramas. That’s where all the inspiration came from.

The marriage had been decided long before either of you had learned what love was supposed to feel like.

Your parents called it practical—an alliance between old names, old money, and old expectations. You had been young enough to believe that perhaps something warm could grow from something arranged. In the beginning, as kids, you and Bruce were inseparable, and that alone had convinced both families the match was right. 

Then Thomas and Martha died.

After that, Bruce became someone else. He was still polite, still impeccable in his manners, but the warmth he once showed you cooled into something distant and untouchable. You told yourself grief needed time. 

Time, however, did not soften him. Not even after you were married.

Wayne Manor was vast, echoing, and unbearably quiet. You learned his routines quickly: late mornings, later nights, long absences disguised as board meetings and galas. When he was present, he treated you with the courtesy one reserves for a a business partner. You were his wife in title, in public, in carefully curated photographs. In private, you felt as if you were another obligation that he needed to fulfill. 

At night, he came to you.

And damn him for that.

Bruce Wayne touched you with a fiery passion that felt almost cruel, because the only access you ever had to him was through his body while he kept every part of himself that truly mattered locked away. He knew every inch of your skin, every place that made your breath falter and your resolve weaken. He knew exactly how to draw those soft, needy sounds from your lips, how to make you arch into his touch and forget—if only for a moment—how alone you truly were.

Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittal—or sometimes saying nothing at all—before retreating behind the cold walls he had built around his heart, leaving you alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person. 

In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed. 

Tonight was no different.

The sheets were still warm when he rolled away from you. You lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed, listening to the subtle rustle of fabric as he stood. The air felt colder without his body beside yours. Like always you waited—foolishly—for him to say something. Anything.

Instead, you heard the soft click of cufflinks being gathered from the bedside table.

You drew the blanket up to your chest, the silk cool against overheated skin, and pushed yourself up slightly. Your throat tightened. You had rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you cared to admit. In every version, your pride stayed intact, your voice steady, your heart locked safely away.

But now that the moment had come, the words felt like a knot lodged in your throat, refusing to be undone.

You cleared your throat.

“Bruce… we need to talk,” you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. “I think we should get a divorce.”

Bruce stilled.

His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowed—then stopped altogether. For a moment, he didn’t turn around. His back remained to you, broad and rigid, the multitude of faint scars along his skin catching the low lamplight. You wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of him you would never truly know.

Finally, he spoke.

“…A divorce.”

He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.

“Yes,” you replied quietly.

Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him—not when you’d worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.

“This arrangement—whatever it was meant to be—is nearing three years,” you continued, forcing yourself into the role you had at work. She was someone who could survive this. You imagined you were sitting across from him in a boardroom instead of in his bed. “Both sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and I’ll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, I’ll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. There’s nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.”

It sounded clinical when you said it that way. Like a business transaction instead of the quiet unraveling of a marriage.

Bruce was silent for a beat too long.

“And what does your family think of this?” he asked at last.

You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. “We are no longer children,” you said evenly. “I’ll handle them.”

Then, after a brief pause, you added, “I’ve already had my lawyer draft the papers.”

That finally made him turn fully toward you.

“They’re ready,” you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. “Sign them when you have a chance.”

Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not anger—not quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.

“You’ve been planning this,” he said.

“Yes.”

There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.

Bruce studied you then—truly studied you—as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the silent presence who had moved through Wayne Manor for years without complaint. His wife in name. His obligation in practice.

“And if I don’t sign?” he asked quietly.

You finally lifted your eyes to his.

“I see no reason you wouldn’t,” you said evenly. “We’ve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.” Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. “We can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed upon—sharing company resources and maintaining professional relationships—without being tethered to each other.”

You drew a slow, careful breath.

“At least this way,” you continued, “we’ll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,” you added factually. “Without pretending this is something it isn’t.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened at that.

For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You weren’t sure whether it was anger or jealousy—neither made sense, not when he had made it painfully clear he had no interest in you. And yet Bruce had always been possessive of the things he considered his. You supposed that even if you were unwanted, you were still, in some quiet, inescapable way, his.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Someone else?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles paling. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, you wanted to scream the truth at him—that there had never been anyone else. That there had only ever been him. That you had loved him quietly and completely since the two of you had been children.

You swallowed it down and met his gaze steadily.

“If you’re implying I’ve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,” you said coolly, “then you’re mistaken. But a divorce,” you continued, your voice carefully controlled, “would certainly make things easier for you.”

You hated the faint ache that followed the words. Hated how it lodged in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing, testing to see if it still hurt. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone.

Bruce’s brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.

Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos you’d seen of him with  unfamiliar women on his arm. Once, they had felt like an insult. A personal humiliation dressed up as celebrity gossip. Over time, you had learned to numb yourself to them.

They were proof of something you had taken far too long to accept.

Bruce Wayne had never truly been yours.

Not in the ways that mattered.

And if this marriage had been a performance sustained by obligation and expectation—then the kindest thing you could do now was end it. Free both of you from the sham you had tried so desperately to believe in.

You lifted your chin slightly, resolve settling despite your aching heart.

“Letting each other go,” you said quietly, “is the only honest thing left for us.”

His jaw tightened.

Without looking at you, Bruce finished buttoning the remainder of his shirt, movements smooth and decisive. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and detached as it always was when he spoke to you.

“Very well. We can discuss the details in the morning.”

The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.

“I gave Alfred the papers,” you said, forcing composure into your voice. “You can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.”

He paused at the door.

For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hope—dangerous and unwelcome—flared in your chest.

Then he nodded once before striding out.

The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden silence. 

Only then did your composure falter.

A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension you’d been holding dissolving all at once. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape, blinking hard against the sting gathering behind your eyes.

You should have felt relief.

This was what you had asked for. What you had planned. 

But all you felt was the ache. Deep. Persistent. Settled beneath your ribs like something bruised and broken.

His agreement hurt more than his coldness ever had.

You curled inward beneath the blankets, the bed suddenly too large, too empty, and wondered when you had mistaken hope for foolishness—and how much of yourself you had lost in the process.

The second the bedroom door closed behind him, Bruce stopped.

His hand came up to brace against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool wood as a slow, controlled breath left his chest—nothing like the fracture splintering through him beneath the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there with his head bowed, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.

A divorce.

He had not expected this.

Bruce knew the marriage the two of you shared was not warm. From its very bones, it was meant to be a business arrangement—an old practice among families like yours and his. Alliances forged not from affection, but from legacy and stability.

Still, he had never imagined that you were unhappy enough to want out entirely. To sever ties so cleanly.

He had never mistreated you. Not intentionally. He had given you freedom—space when you asked for it, privacy when you wanted it. He had been loyal. He had ensured you lacked nothing, had seen to your comfort, your security, your needs.

Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do?

And yet—

There were things he had never given you.

Truth, for one.

You didn’t know about Batman. You didn’t know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didn’t know about the darkness that followed him like a second shadow. He had never wanted you to.

That was how he protected you.

Or so he had told himself.

Bruce closed his eyes, despite what he told himself and how much he tried to distance himself from you. He had loved you long before the marriage ever existed.

You had grown up together. And even back then—when he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at you—Bruce had loved you.

After his parents died, when the world turned dark and he learned just how cruel and unforgiving it could be, you were the single light that remained in his shadowed life. You were his constant. Proof that not everything he loved had been ripped away.

But grief hollowed him out. Anger took root in places love could no longer reach. He didn’t know how to show you what you meant to him without letting that rage bleed through, so he did the only thing he believed would keep you safe.

He kept his distance.

When you both turned eighteen, you left for college.

You—brilliant as ever—were accepted into Princeton on merit alone. Bruce followed you but he walked a different path, his admission secured not by intellect but by the Wayne name and the weight of its money. He could have earned his place the way you did—he knew that—but at the time, he simply hadn’t cared enough to try. 

That summer, between semesters, your parents pressed the issue.

The marriage.

You had both been young. Far too young. But grief and expectation had a way of cornering people into compliance, leaving little room for refusal. You married quietly and quickly, promises spoken like obligations rather than vows, your futures decided in hushed rooms by people who believed they knew best.

For a brief few months afterward, something almost hopeful emerged. The warmth you once shared began, slowly, to return. You chased away the shadows that surrounded him, and Bruce started to feel—just faintly—like the boy he had once been, before loss had hardened him. There were moments when he laughed without effort, when the weight on his chest eased enough to let him breathe.

Then Joe Chill’s hearing for release was announced.

And everything unraveled.

The anger Bruce had kept buried finally clawed its way to the surface, sharp and uncontrollable, and it turned on the one person standing closest to him. On you. The words he hurled were cruel—unforgivable things he didn’t truly mean but could not stop himself from saying. Rage drowned out reason, grief warped into something vicious.

You struck him across the face.

The sound echoed through the room, louder than the gunshots that haunted his dreams.

It snapped him out of it instantly. The fury drained from him all at once, replaced by horror as he saw what he had done. The tears slipping down your face felt like shards of ice driving straight through his heart.

He had hurt you.

The one person he had tried so desperately to protect.

And he had hurt you.

The truth of it had struck him with devastating clarity—just how far he’d fallen, how perilously close he was becoming to the very kind of men he despised. Men who let anger rot them from the inside out. Men who destroyed the people they claimed to love.

That realization was why he disappeared.

Five years.

He let the world believe Bruce Wayne was dead.

When he returned—scarred and remade by violence and discipline—the marriage still existed on paper. You had never divorced him. The bond remained, a legal echo of a life neither of you had truly lived. And when you stood before him again, there were no accusations. No demands. Just a quiet cold acceptance that hurt more than hatred ever could.

For three years, you stayed.

Until tonight.

Bruce dragged a hand down his face, breath heavy, chest tight as he looked back on the weight of every choice he’d made.

He had thought what the two of you shared was enough—that providing for you, giving you everything you could ever want or need, and keeping his distance was somehow kinder than letting his love reach you and risk corrupting you with the darkness he lived in.

But for the first time since the gunshots in that alley, Bruce Wayne realized he could lose you—just not in the way he had always feared. You had slipped through his fingers without him even noticing.

His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. Bruce drew in a slow, steadying breath and straightened, his shoulders settling back into place as the familiar mask slid on.

Tomorrow, he would deal with your request.

Tomorrow, he would be the Bruce Wayne Gotham believed he was again. 

But tonight, the city needed Batman.

And Batman could not afford to feel.

He turned away from the bedroom door and moved through the quiet halls of the manor, his footsteps soundless against marble flooring. With every step downward, he put more distance between himself and the ache in his chest, further from the woman he was losing.

The platform lowered. Batman rose to meet him.

In the Batcave, the world was simpler. Pain had purpose here. Rage could be sharpened into something useful. The suit waited offering Bruce the chance to take off his true mask and be the man he believed he needed to be.

As he suited up, Bruce locked the thought of you away into a mental compartment he had perfected over years of survival.

Batman would give him the distraction he needed. The city’s violence and its endless demand for justice asked nothing of his heart.

And as the Batmobile roared to life, Bruce told himself this was better.

It was a lie.

Batman moved through Gotham with a brutality that hadn’t surfaced in years. Strikes landed harder. Interrogations ended quicker. His patience wore thin, stretched to the edge of fracture. Thugs noticed. So did the GCPD. Whispers spread through alleyways and across rooftops alike: the Bat was angry tonight.

He barely registered it himself.

Pain had found an outlet—and Gotham was paying the price.

“My, my,” a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. “Someone’s in a mood.”

Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Not tonight, Selina.”

She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. “What’s got your tail all twisted up?” Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

His silence was answer enough. Selina’s gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadn’t quite burned off yet.

“Ah,” she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. “That bad.”

He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.

“Drop it.”

She smirked, utterly unoffended. “You know I never do.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You’re usually better at pretending to be emotionless,” she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. “Tonight? You look like you’re one bad thought away from breaking someone’s jaw because they looked at you wrong.”

His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I’m handling it.”

Selina arched a brow. “Sure you are.”

She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. “Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends well—for anyone.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attention—except tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didn’t want.

“It’s none of your concern.”

Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated.

The pause was small—barely perceptible—but to someone who knew him as well as Selina did, it might as well have been a confession. His jaw flexed, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth before he finally forced them free.

“…She wants a divorce.”

Selina’s expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.

“Well,” she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, “that explains the excessive force.”

He shot her a sharp look.

“I’m serious,” she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. “…I didn’t think she’d be the one to pull the plug.”

Neither had he.

“She’s already had the papers drawn up,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Gave them to Alfred.”

Selina blinked. “Damn.”

She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I’ll handle it,” he replied automatically.

She snorted. “You always do. Or rather—you bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do you want the divorce?”

Selina already knew the answer to that, after knowing You and Bruce for years she had a good insight on the marriage you two had.

Bruce turned his attention back to Gotham, to the endless sprawl of lights stretching out before him—the city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he was failing at that too.

Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control, you’re awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.”

Bruce’s hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasn’t something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.

“I’m not going to keep her tied down if she’s not happy,” he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasn’t ready to make.

Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. “God, you’re impossible.”

She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.

“Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Bruce,” she said bluntly. “And take it from a woman—if you love her, you don’t just let her go and call it noble.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand just fine,” Selina shot back. “You think giving her space is protecting her. But from where I’m standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.”

The words hit harder than any punch.

“She loves you, Bruce,” Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. “But love doesn’t survive neglect. It survives effort.”

He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. “I don’t know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.”

Selina’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You don’t have to give her your mask or your war,” she said quietly. “You just have to give her you.”

A beat passed, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Batman is who I am,” he said quietly. “This shouldn’t be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.”

“Fight for her,” Selina urged. “Because if you don’t, someone else will—and you’ll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.

You didn’t see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.

The absence was expected—yet it still left a hollow weight in your chest as you took your seat at the long dining table alone. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling pale gold across untouched china and silverware that gleamed far too brightly for the mood you were in.

When you asked Alfred, he hesitated. “Master Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,” he said gently.

You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruce’s silences. Your appetite had vanished entirely, the thought of food turning heavy in your stomach. After a moment, you rose from the table and excused yourself.

Work, at least, would keep your mind occupied.

As Mrs. Wayne—and after his disappearance—you had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your family’s firm. Bruce had never shown much interest in the day-to-day management of the company, and so the responsibility had quietly fallen to you. Over the years, you had become the steady spine of the enterprise: overseeing logistics, restructuring departments, smoothing fractures before they ever reached the board.

And now, you knew that role was nearing its end.

With the divorce, it made sense logically, to return to your family’s business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didn’t.

Still, you wouldn’t leave recklessly.

If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a month—two at most. That gave you just enough time to ensure a seamless transition. To find someone competent, steady, and capable of holding the company together once you were gone.

Wayne Enterprises deserved better than being left scrambling.

And Bruce—whether he realized it or not—deserved someone who wouldn’t allow his legacy to crumble simply because you were no longer there to hold the reins.

You dressed carefully, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you slid your composure into place the same way you always had, and left the manor with your head held high.

Whatever came next, you would meet it prepared.

Because if this marriage was ending, then it would end cleanly—without collateral damage, without regret, and without giving anyone reason to doubt the woman you had proven yourself to be.

A car waited out front, its dark exterior gleaming beneath the morning light. Your assistant stood by the open door, tablet clutched a little too tightly in her hands. One look at her expression had you pausing mid-step.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled. “I… I thought you should know—Julie is at Wayne Enterprises.” Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, “She came to see Bruce.”

Your body went still.

Julie.

The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmate—more Bruce’s friend than yours. In truth, the two of you had never really gotten along, though age had taught you both the subtle art of diplomacy. Even back then, she had always been chasing after Bruce. It was unmistakable that she was in love with him.

The last you’d heard, she’d started a modelling career and moved to Metropolis, tangled in an on-again, off-again relationship with Lex Luthor.

You supposed she was finally back for Bruce.

If not for the arrangement—if not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a merger—you had always been certain Bruce would have chosen her. You had realized it back in university.

The memory surfaced from years ago.

It had been a late evening, your class had run longer than expected. The corridors were nearly empty as you walked through them, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly. 

You slowed, instinct prickling, and peered around the corner to see Julie stepping closer to him, rising onto her toes as she leaned in to kiss him.

The sight made your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face as humiliation flooded through you. You turned away at once, retreating down the corridor before either of them could notice you, before you had to confront what you’d just seen.

Bruce had never known you saw.

You had never told him.

But from that moment on, you realized the truth. That despite the arrangement, Bruce had never truly been yours.

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then gave a small nod.

“Thank you for telling me,” you said evenly.

Your assistant watched you closely, concern flickering across her face, but you offered her no reaction.

You stepped into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.

Whatever Julie’s presence meant—whatever history was resurfacing—you refused to let it derail you now. You had already chosen to leave him. And if Bruce Wayne was moving on before the ink on the papers had even dried…then you would find a way to move on too.

You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the building—Julie at his side.

For a fleeting second, your fists balled at your sides before you forced them to relax, smoothing the reaction away as you lifted your chin and stepped out of the car.

Bruce froze the moment he saw you.

“Y/N!”

Julie’s voice was bright. “Hey! Long time no see!” she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruce’s side. “Bruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?”

You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,” you said evenly. “I’m sure we can catch up another time.”

Your gaze slid past her—unavoidable now—and landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.

“Bruce,” you said calmly, “I trust you’ve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?”

Julie’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.

Bruce hesitated. “Not yet,” he replied. “It’s been a busy morning.”

Your eyes slid back to Julie.

“I can see that,” you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.

“What papers?” Julie asked.

You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. “Bruce hasn’t told you?”

“Y/N…” Bruce warned quietly.

You didn’t look at him.

“We’re getting a divorce.”

Julie blinked.

“Oh.”

The single syllable hung there—surprised, yet almost hopeful. Julie’s gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.

“I—I didn’t know,” she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruce’s arm, almost as if to comfort him.

“That’s understandable,” you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. “It was a recent decision.”

Bruce stepped forward at last. “This isn’t the place for this.”

You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. “You’re right. It isn’t.” Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, “Enjoy your lunch.”

There was no accusation in your tone. No bitterness. You refused to let them see the pain beneath your composure. You stepped past them both, heels clicking against the pavement as you headed toward the building.

“God, she’s such a fake bitch,” your assistant muttered under her breath.

You fought the smile that threatened to break through, but a small twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed you anyway.

Behind you, you could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.

And when the doors slid shut behind you—sealing you away from the sight of them together—you told yourself one thing with unwavering certainty:

You would not beg for what should have been freely given.

Not love.

Not loyalty.

Not him.

You entered your office to find your usual breakfast waiting for you—coffee and a pastry from your favourite place on 23rd. You sighed softly in contentment as you took a sip. Perfect, like always.

If there was one thing you were certain of, it was this: when you left, you were taking your assistant with you. She went above and beyond for you. 

You sighed when you finally got home, the sound slipping out of you before you could stop it. Your head throbbed from staring at a screen for most of the day, numbers and contracts blurring together long after you’d shut your laptop. You’ve been determined to lock in one final deal for the company before you left. The Eden Project had been years in the making, and for the first time, it felt close enough to touch.

You just needed Nexus on board.

Lex Luthor, unfortunately, was being a pain in your ass—and deliberately so. He was circling the deal like a vulture, trying to steal it out from under you. If the project went through, it would mean that abandoned or underused properties owned by Nexus—land poisoned by decades of Gotham’s chemical runoff—would be transferred to Wayne Enterprises. From there, the Eden Project could finally begin: restoring the soil and waterways, rebuilding what had been left to rot, constructing affordable housing, and establishing a new clean water plant.

To you, it felt like the first honest step toward undoing the damage Gotham had been choking on for decades.

Lex Luthor, however, saw those same polluted dumps as cheap acquisitions—perfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldn’t fathom how Julie could stand dating a man like him. He rubbed you the wrong way every time your paths crossed. Too arrogant for his own good.

You were halfway through pulling off your heels when you noticed him.

Bruce stood at the top of the banister, half-lit by the low glow of a wall sconce, his posture rigid—as though he’d been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.

“You’re home late,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.

“I had a lot of work to get done,” you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. “I want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.”

“It’s too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.

You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. “Gotham is always dangerous,” you replied without turning back. “And like I said, I had work to finish.”

You moved to pass him.

His hand closed around your arm.

The contact stopped you cold.

You looked up at him, surprise flickering across your face before hardening into something guarded. His grip wasn’t rough—but it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.

“Is there something you needed?” you asked quietly.

“Why?” he said.

The single word stopped you.

 You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. “Why what?”

“The divorce,” he clarified.

You studied him for a moment—really studied him. The tension carved into his shoulders. The way his gaze searched your face, as though he were looking for an answer that might absolve him of his own shortcomings.

You exhaled softly.

“We both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,” you said evenly. “I thought I could handle that. I truly did. But this—” you gestured faintly between the two of you “—isn’t what I want.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasn’t what you wanted.

“So I see,” he said quietly. “And was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?”

You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.

“Do you think you’ve been a good one?”

The words weren’t cruel. They were simply honest.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for something—anything—that might justify him.

“You were never unkind,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “But I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. I’m setting us both free, Bruce.”

You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.

“So you can be with someone you truly want to be with.”

You turned to leave.

You barely made it a step.

He strode forward, and a sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, your back meeting the wall. His arms came down on either side of you, bracketing you in as he leaned close.

His presence stole the air from your chest. You looked up at him in startled disbelief, his body caging you in without ever touching—yet close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

Your fingers twitched, aching to grip his shirt, but you forced them still.

He leaned down, close enough that your traitorous heart stumbled. Your pulse roared in your ears as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, then drifted toward your ear.

“And who said I don’t want you?” he murmured.

It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him back—gently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.

“You want my body, Bruce,” you said softly. “And I need more than that.”

You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.

“Sign the papers, Bruce,” you finished quietly. “So we can start the proceedings.”

Before he could respond—before he could reach for you again—you slipped past him, moving away with a steadiness you did not entirely feel.

Your footsteps echoed softly down the hall, each one carrying you farther from him, farther from the life you had endured and the love you had never been allowed to keep. You didn’t look back.

Bruce remained where he was, frozen in place, watching you go.

Every instinct in him screamed to call your name. To pull you back and promise you everything he had deprived you of for so long.

But he couldn’t.

Because giving you more would mean giving you the truth.

Of who he was.

Of the darkness he carried.

Of the violence that shaped his nights and the war he waged in secret.

And he would be damned before he let that darkness swallow you whole.

Yet even knowing that… he selfishly found he could not bring himself to let you go.

You ignored the paparazzi photos of Bruce and Julie’s lunch from the day before. You refused to stare long enough for envy to take root, for that familiar ache to whisper that you had never been enough. You refused to spiral into self-pity.

Instead, you buried yourself in work—in the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthor’s arrogant ass to the curb.

You’d planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didn’t ask anything of your heart. It was almost working—until the door opened.

You looked up.

Bruce stepped inside.

You paused, confusion flickering across your face. In three years, you could count on one hand the number of times he’d set foot in your office. 

Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

“Lucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,” Bruce said, shutting the door behind him.

He ignored the two chairs set neatly across from your desk and instead moved closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.

You leaned back in your chair, wary as you watched him sit on the edge of your desk in front of you as though it belonged to him.

“I do,” you said simply.

“Why?” he asked. “Is it the pay?”

You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Bruce… have you even looked at the papers?” you asked. “We’re getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I won’t be a Wayne anymore.” You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my family’s name.”

“Keep the shares,” he said immediately. “You’ve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesn’t erase that. We’re not replacing you.”

You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. “Bruce,” you said patiently, “it’s not proper.”

Something shifted in him then.

In one swift motion, he surged forward—one hand bracing against the arm of your chair, the other gripping the backrest as he caged you in, an echo of the night before. You hated how his mere proximity made your breath hitch. His dark eyes locked onto yours making you painfully aware of the shallow rise and fall of your own breathing.

“You’re not leaving, Y/N,” he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. “I’ve already told Lucius to stop the search.”

Your eyes narrowed.

You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. “You can’t do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, I’m leaving.”

His jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he demanded. “We can renegotiate your contract. I’ll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another office—hell, name any price.”

For a fleeting moment, the desperation beneath his usually controlled exterior slipped through.

You shook your head slowly, something sad and resolute settling into your expression. “What I want isn’t something money can buy, Bruce.” You needed distance—clean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.

He stilled.

“You don’t get to decide this for me,” you said calmly. “Not as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.”

For a moment, Bruce said nothing.

Then he straightened, stepping back just enough to smooth his suit into place. His jaw flexed once, tension rippling beneath the his cold composure, before he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment.

“Very well,” he said evenly. “But as we are still legally married, there are obligations we can’t ignore.”

You tensed. You already knew what was coming.

“Tonight is the gala,” he continued. “Both our presences are required.”

You raised a brow. “We don’t usually attend together.”

He shrugged, deceptively casual. “If you’re insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that we’re parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.”

You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stay—wanted to keep working on the Eden Project—but the gala offered something useful. Nexus board members would be there. This could be an opportunity to chat with them individually and sway them to Wayne Enterprises side.

“I’ll meet you there,” you said.

“No need,” Bruce replied without hesitation. “Alfred will drive us together.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.

“Fine,” you said at last.

Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. “We’ll leave at seven.”

One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctions—each one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gotham’s elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, you’d learned long ago how to adapt and prepare around your busy schedule.

That was why you kept a small collection of emergency dresses in your office.

You opened the wardrobe tucked discreetly behind a panelled door, your gaze skimming over the hanging fabrics inside. Most were refined and understated. Creams, ivories, soft neutrals. Dresses that were considered the safe choices, keeping the clean cut billionaire wife appearance you had worked hard to craft.

Mrs. Wayne. The perfect executive wife.

Your gaze caught on something different, tucked into the far corner of the wardrobe.

It was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the other dresses. You remembered buying it on impulse, a rare moment of indulgence, telling yourself you’d wear it someday. A promise you’d never quite been brave enough to keep.

It was still appropriate. Still elegant. But there was no denying it carried a risk your usual choices carefully avoided.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering just short of the fabric.

Soon, you wouldn’t be a Wayne anymore.

The thought settled over you with an unexpected mix of grief and relief. A quiet ache paired with something lighter, freer. Beneath it, something firmer began to take shape—a resolve edged with steel.

You were tired of dressing for expectation. Tired of shaping yourself to fit what was required by your parents, by the Waynes, by a city that thrived on image more than truth.

You wanted—just once—to choose something because you wanted it.

Not for the cameras.

Not for the headlines.

Not for him.

So, in a split-second decision that felt far braver than it should have, you reached forward and pulled the dress free.

The fabric slid into your hands, cool and smooth beneath your fingers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt excitement bloom in your chest for the fact you were dressing for yourself.

By the time your assistant arrived with the hair and makeup team, you were in your dress and heels. You turned as she stepped into the room, and she nearly stumbled to a stop, eyes widening in open shock.

“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You look fucking hot.”

A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. “Thank you.”

She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Seriously—if Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, he’s an idiot.”

You forced a smile, though ignoring the sharp tug beneath your ribs.

You used to like to dress like this before. Long ago when you didn’t have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.

That was the truth you’d learned the hard way: Bruce Wayne had never been incapable of desire. He had simply never allowed desire to become love where you were concerned. Men, you’d learned, were remarkably adept at separating the two.

So you let the comment pass without response, turning your attention back to what remained to be done. You allowed the hair and makeup team to guide you into the chair, surrendering to their practiced hands as they set to work.

By the time you stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gotham, the sky bruised purple and gold between the towers. The air was cool against your bare skin, refreshing after being cooped up in your office all day.

Bruce was already there, waiting. 

He stood near the front steps, jacket buttoned, posture immaculate as always. If he had ever chosen to, he could have had a very lucrative modelling career

At the sound of your heels clicking against stone, he looked up. Whatever expression he’d been wearing faltered at the sight of you. 

His throat bobbed as his dark eyes drank you in with an intensity he failed to mask. Without thinking, his hand rose to his collar, tugging at his tie as if he suddenly found it too tight.

You looked like yourself. Not Mrs. Wayne, the woman molded to fit beside him. But the woman he knew before he left Gotham and began his crusade. 

“…You look,” he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. “You look… beautiful.”

There was something unsteady in his voice—just enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.

“Thank you,” you replied evenly, despite the way your heart began to race. Clearing your throat, you stepped closer and reached up to straighten his tie, the silk cool beneath your fingers. You tried not to think about how little space separated you now, or the way his gaze had locked onto you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

When you finished, you moved to step back but his hand found the small of your back instead, keeping you there.

Your breath caught as your eyes snapped up to his. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something. His lips parted, then pressed together again, the unspoken words settling heavily between you. Slowly, his hand fell away.

The sound of an approaching engine broke the spell.

You cleared your throat and stepped back, putting distance between yourself and whatever that moment had been. Headlights swept across the steps as the car pulled to a smooth stop. Alfred emerged at once, opening the rear door with his usual practiced grace.

“Shall we, sir? Madam?”

Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up.  He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”

You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadn’t known him as well as you did, you might have missed it—but there was something there. You could’ve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes. 

You shook off the thought, dismissing it as wishful thinking.

You broke eye contact first and without another word, you slid into the car.

Bruce followed a moment later, settling into the seat beside you. The door closed with a soft click, and Alfred took his place behind the wheel. As the car pulled away, the glow of Wayne Enterprises receded behind you,

For several moments, neither of you spoke.

Bruce sat beside you, posture rigid. You stared out the window, watching the city unfold—familiar streets, familiar towers—everything suddenly carrying the strange weight of impermanence. After all, who knew if Gotham would still feel like home once the divorce was finalized. You certainly had the money and freedom to choose to leave if you decided.

“Is that a new dress?” he asked at last breaking the silence.

“Mhm. Not really,” you hummed. “I’ve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just… thought it was finally time to wear it.”

He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

You turned toward him in surprise, the softness of it catching you off guard. Then his phone vibrated.

His attention dropped immediately to the screen, as it lit up his face. You didn’t mean to look, but the name had caught your eye and you felt your heart drop.

Julie Madison.

Your gaze drifted back to the window, the city lights blurring slightly as the car continued on. You let your expression settle back into neutrality, smoothing away the flickers of hurt you refused to acknowledge. 

This—this—was why you were leaving.

Not out of anger. Not even because of betrayal. But because of the quiet, relentless reminder that you were never his first choice.

Next Chapter →

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

omg what an amazing series from start to finish

[junebugonjupiter]

Don't leave | Tarsem x Sully!reader

Word count: 2.7k

Pairing: Tarsem x Pregnant!Sully daughter!reader

Description: You find out that your entire family is abandoning you just as you are about to give birth.

Based on this request and this request. Thank you @lumilily for Beta reading!!

Content Warnings/tags: pregnant!reader, Sullys are leaving without reader, angst, not a happy ending, but a bittersweet one.

Author's note: This is a fic that I have a feeling some people might not read just because it's Tarsem (he deserves people lining up at his door) and because it is pregnant reader, BUT I also know that this is going to be exactly up other people's alley, so I don't care. Enjoy the read!

“They what?!” you asked your mate, eyes wide as he told you the news about your siblings. 

“Yawnetu (loved one)-” he started but you pushed past him, stomping to your family's kelku with a hand cradling your pregnant belly. Tarsem hurried after you, a hand coming to support you at your elbow. 

“They are fine! Your dad was not even going to tell you. It is not a big deal,” he explained in vain, but it did not slow your roll. 

He knew the pregnancy hormones coursing through you would more than likely send you on a rampage when you found out your siblings had been momentarily kidnapped by the RDA. But he also knew that those same hormones would likely lead you to behead him if he kept it a secret and you found out through other means.

“Do not patronize me!” you ordered, “I am pregnant, not incompetent. I am going to see them for myself.” Tarsem winced at his headstrong mate but followed after you.

You stalked up to your parents kelku (home), stopping outside when you saw your siblings huddled by the gape in the woven material. “What did you skxawngs (idiots) do?” You demanded quietly. 

You loved them well enough to not ruin their spying, especially since you were the one who taught them how to do it in the first place. Tarsem stopped behind you, hand coming to rest on your back as your siblings flinched at being caught.

Four sets of eyes slowly turned to you and you saw varying looks of horror on their faces. 

“Sister!” Tuk smiled, running up to you and wrapping an arm around your hips, you hugged her back, smoothing her hair down as your other siblings started squabbling.

“It was Lo’ak’s fault,” Kiri exclaimed quietly, pointing her finger at your youngest brother.

“I was not even there until we saved them,” Neteyam defended himself, raising two hands 

“Why does it always have to be my fault?” Lo’ak complained, and Kiri rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Because it IS always your fault,” she replied.

“I was following them,” Tuk said softly up at you as the other three continued to fight.

“Enough,” Tarsem demanded firmly but still gently, making your eyebrows raise at his command over the situation.

All your siblings shut up and turned to their brother in law. “What matters is that you are safe. Do not stress your sister out,” he instructed and your siblings deflated. 

Tuk stepped back as Neteyam approached. “Sorry, y/n,” he mumbled, walking up to you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, coming in for an embrace. He had to avoid your protruding belly, but you pulled him close.

“Yeah, sorry,” Lo’ak agreed, following Neteyam’s lead and joining the hug on the other side. 

“Do not apologize, just be careful next time,” you muttered, hugging your brothers tightly and boxing their ears when they pulled away from you.

“Now, are we going to spy on them or not?” Kiri asked with a sigh, not being one for big shows of emotion.

“Right,” Lo’ak agreed, crouching back on the floor to hear better and your other siblings followed.

“I cannot get down there, I will have to do it the old fashioned way,” you grunted, letting go of Tuk to walk up right next to the opening of the kelku. Your parents were still arguing, so they were too involved in the fight to notice that your and your siblings were up to no good.

“I cannot. You cannot ask this. I cannot leave my people. I will not,” your mother cried.

Another voice cut through, “He's hunting us. He's targeting our family.” Your dad’s voice was angry and scared, something you had been hearing more of lately. 

“You cannot ask this!” your mother exclaimed and your heart sank. What could your father possibly be asking her to do that would require her to leave?  “The children. Everything they've ever known. The forest. We would miss the birth of our grandchild, our oldest cannot leave with us. This is our home!” she screamed, voice breaking.

“He had our children. He had 'em under his knife!” your dad shot back, voice now strong but still emotional.

Your mother paused, “My father gave me this bow as he lay dying. And he said protect the People. You're Toruk Makto!” Neytiri reminded him and you could mentally picture the wince he wore whenever that name was mentioned. 

“This will protect the People! Quaritch has Spider and that kid knows everything. He knows our whole operation, and he can lead them right in here,” you sucked in a breath at the new information. You had wondered where the little human was, figuring he was just with the scientists, but the news that they captured the boy you considered another brother made you feel sick.

“If the People harbor us, they will die. Do you understand?” your dad pleaded. “Look, I got nothing. I got no plan… But I can protect this family. That I can do.”

You stepped forward then, making yourself known and both of your parents turned to you.

“You are leaving?” you asked numbly, a hand on your belly. Two shocked faces turned to look at you and the air left the room.

“Babygirl,” your dad started, stepping forward, but you stopped him by raising a hand. 

“Are you leaving?” you repeated, looking at your mom knowing she would bite the bullet to tell you easier than your dad would.

“Yes,” she admitted, voice breaking as a tear fell down her face.

Your face screwed up at the confirmation. “You are just gonna leave us here?” you asked, turning to your dad, “Run and hide? Let us fight the battle you started?” 

“No, we're taking the fight away from you. If I’m gone, then they won’t hit half as hard,” your dad promised.

You shook your head, “That’s not how this works. What happened to Sullys stick together, huh?” you asked as he stopped in front of you, arms reaching to hug you but you knocked them away. “I am a Sully. That does not sound  like sticking together to me.”

“Babygirl, please.” he begged as you shook your head. “Tarsem will be Olo’eyktan, you will have your baby here, where it’s safe. It's gonna be safe, because they’ll be looking for us everywhere else, okay? They won't find any Sullys here, because you can blend in. They don’t know about you like they do the other kids.”

“How does that make any of this better, dad? You’re still leaving me,” you blubbered, tears falling down your face as emotion and pregnancy hormones took hold of you.

You heard the entrance shift as Tarsem stepped through, beating your dad out to wrap his arms around you and hold you close. “Shhhh,” he muttered in your ear. “I’m here.”

“Did you know?” you asked your mate through your tears.

“No,” he assured you, “I would not keep this from you.” he promised and it eased your mind some at the words.

“Tarsem, you know this has to be done,” your dad pleaded with his son in law, but Tarsem did not respond directly to him like he hoped.

“She needs rest,” he simply said, not meeting either of your parent’s gazes.

Your dad paused, backing up a step. “Of course,” he said, swallowed in regret as his babygirl was ushered out. It still felt so strange to him that another man took care of you now. That you were Tarsem’s responsibility to care for and not his.

-

Later that evening, you and Tarsem operated in grieved silence. He did not want to crack your barely held composure, and you did not know how to express the well of hormonal emotions inside you. 

You had finished crying only a few minutes ago, and you had both decided not to join the others eating in the communal space. Tarsem had gone to collect Teylu for dinner only to find you crying again when he returned.

You had sniffled back your tears, and sat on the floor with effort as he handed you your food and sat across from you. You thanked him quietly and ate, if only for the baby’s sake.

He did the same, eating as he watched you carefully. Then he set down his leaf of Teylu, moving to sit beside you. “Talk to me, Yawnetu, what can I do to make this less painful,” he asked, not able to handle the quiet anymore.

You shook your head, lowering your hands. “Convince my dad to let them all stay?” you said, knowing it was impossible, but answering truthfully. That was the only thing that would have changed the emotions in your heart now.

He smiled sadly, “You ask too much of me. Eywa herself would have to stop him when he has his mind set to something.” he said, smoothing the hair from your face and watching with pity as you wallowed in melancholy.

“I know, but it was worth a shot,” you sighed.

You tossed and turned that night on the cushiony floor of your kelku, feeling more uncomfortable than usual. Tarsem’s arm was your pillow and he stirred every time you moved. 

A strong shot of pain moved up your abdomen and out through your body every few minutes and when you involuntarily clutched his chest in pain, Tarsem shot up. “What is it?” he asked, eyes searching yours for any sign that something was visually wrong. “Is it the baby?” he asked, hands moving to your stomach as the pain finally subsided and you heaved in air. 

“I think so,” You muttered, sweat forming on your brow. “I think it’s contractions. I’m in labor.”

“Tsahey (ah hell),” he muttered, “I will get the Tsahìk, do not move,” he ordered.

 “I couldn't move very far even if I wanted to,” you grumbled, and he hesitated as if he did not want to just leave you there, but you both knew it was better to have help.

“Go, hurry!” you demanded, waving your hand, “I’m fine.”

He gave you one last wary glance before he ran off into the night, footsteps hitting high camps’ rock ground as he ran faster than he ever had before.

You breathed deeply, trying to manage your pain before another set of contractions hit you. You glanced to the side, spotting what you wanted, a braided, thin strap of leather hanging on your wall. You rolled over, moving as well as you were able and stumbling to your feet, your balance off kilter as your swollen belly threw your weight.

You made your way to the wall, pressing a hand against it for support and grabbed the piece of leather, slowly balancing as you hastily tied your hair up and out of your face. You slowly walked around, still using the wall as support, being on your feet felt a lot better than lying down. You slowly steeled your nerves in the brief reprieve.

Footsteps approached your home. “‘Itetsyìp!” Your mother called, scrambling into the kelku with grace as she flew to your side. Mo’at and Tarsem were on her trail, all three gathering around you. 

“Take this,” your grandmother instructed, handing you some herbs which you put in your mouth without question. Another round of contractions tore through you and Tarsem positioned himself behind you, pulling your head down onto his shoulder as you groaned in pain.

-

It was hours before you would give birth. A little girl with her mother’s stripes, her father’s eyes, her grandfather's nose, and her grandmother’s smile. A little girl you named Tsyaya (pronounced similarly to Zahya).

Your father had stood watch outside the kelku throughout the night, keeping an eye out for nosy neighbors and an ear out in case something was wrong. He paced in front of the door, back and forth, back and forth, until he finally heard a little cry.

He stilled, pausing as his grandchild took her first breaths. A smile spread across his face as she wailed inside. A mighty sounding roar. 

Neytiri stepped out a moment later, watching his face with mixed emotions. She knew this would be all the time they would get to spend with their little Tsyaya before they had to leave. Such precious little time. They barely got to even say hello.

“Your granddaughter is ready to meet you,” she said lowly.

He looked intently at his mate, mouth pressing together in a line. “Is she…” he hesitated, not sure how to phrase his next words.

“Your daughter is fine, she just wants to see her Sempu (daddy),” Neytiri answered, knowing her husband’s meaning without him having to voice it. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jake nodded, steeling his nerves similarly to the way you had and walking up beside his wife to face the inside of the kelku. 

His son-in-law sat on the floor holding a tiny blue body with one arm. Jake's eyes moved to you, laying on the floor beside Tarsem and holding his other hand. Both proud, new parents watched their baby with wonder. Mo’at moved about on her feet, praying to Ewya and blessing her great grandchild.

Your eyes moved to the door, “Dad?” you muttered the English word he had taught you all those years ago. 

“Hey, babygirl,” he choked out, entering the home and taking a seat on the other side of your body. 

“I just made a whole person,” you croaked, tears dripping down your eyes with emotion as you looked at your baby. 

“I helped,” Tarsem muttered, not looking over, eyes unable to be torn from his daughter.

Jake smiled at your words, ignoring Tarsem. “I know, I’m so proud of you. You did so good,” he praised, taking your hand and clasping it between his.

“Don’t leave me, daddy,” you cried harder, squeezing his hand. 

He shook his head, unable to find words for a second. “I’m so sorry, we don’t have a choice," he croaked. 

“Okay…” you said, reigning in your tears and looking at him with pleading eyes. “Then before you go, we want you to do one last thing as Olo’eyktan,” you said sniffling. 

In your eyes he suddenly saw the same little girl who had once sat on his knee and cried in his arms. The little girl he was leaving behind.

“Anything,” he agreed.

-

Jake walked through the crowd holding little Tsyaya as you and Tarsem followed behind him. 

Today would be his grandchild’s introduction to the clan as well as the day he passed his mantle to Tarsem. His chest was tight, full of emotions he was desperately trying to repress. 

Mo’at waited in the middle of the clearing as her family approached, the village stood circled around her holding hands. Already wearing their traveling clothes, Neteyam, Kiri, Lo’ak, and Tuk clasped joined hands at the front of the circle. You started crying as you saw your siblings, knowing it could be a while before you saw them again. 

You and Tarsem stopped, joining hands with the people as Neytiri wrapped her arm around you, holding you close. This was a celebration as much as it was a goodbye. 

“It is with happy hearts that Tarsem te Kumon Arun'itan and his mate, Y/N te Suli Neytiri’ite, announce the birth of their daughter to the people,” Jake announced, propping the cooing baby on his forearm before he held her up to the Pandoran sky.

“Tsyaya!” he called out, and the people repeated it, breaking into a prayer led by Mo’at for the baby's health and happiness. 

You gripped Tarsem’s hand, looking at him with eyes mixed with both joy and sorrow. Today would change everything. When he became Olo’eyktan, his responsibilities would change and as a father, nothing was the same. His whole life was getting upheaved in one swift movement. 

And you, your family would be gone by tonight. You would have to raise your baby without your mother’s steady hand and without your father’s laughter. Your siblings would not get to play the role of uncles and aunts until they returned, if they returned. 

“It will be okay,” Tarsem murmured as chants rose around you and tears fell. He always had the ability to read your mind.

“I know, just… don’t ever leave me, okay?” you asked.

His eyes softened, pulling you in so that your head rested on his shoulder. “Never. I couldn't if I tried.”

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[yawnzzzzzzzz]

​this is what I’m talking about ! Tarsem deserves his flowers 🙂‍↕️

[inkydelusions]

BECAUSE OF YOU (part 2)- 3.4K

requested: yes! pairing: jordan li x fem!reader summary: your twins finally develop their powers, which only makes vought more and more insistent on taking them for their "special" project. but if there's something clear is that neither you nor jordan are willing to let that happen. c.warning: all pronouns used for jordan (i think), reader is a mother, angst, timeskip/au where jordan is a member of the seven, babies (non-identical twins). a/n: sorry guys i tried to make this a slow-burn tye of story, but i really sucj at writing those :(. anyway, get ready becasue there's gonna be a thrid part to this and i'm already working on it. let me know if you want it to be more action or love/fluff centered!

part 1 | part 3

it takes a full two weeks for your schedules to match up so you can actually go on that coffee date. because life, fear, and two toddlers have a way of rearranging priorities.

however, this date doesn’t feel like any of your past dates with jordan. when they smile at you, it’s kind instead of heated, their eyes shining with curiosity about yours and the kid’s lives instead of oozing plain lust.

the hours seem to fly by as you two share stories about the time spent apart. jordan asks about the kids; their first steps, their weeks of life. they want to know everything and anything.

“did you know what you were going to name them from the beginning?” jordan questions as she takes a sip at her coffee.

“oh, no. i had multiple existential crisis trying to figure it out. my best friend helped with that. she...” you chuckle remembering the day she showed up at your apartment carrying a pile of baby names guides. and jordan seems to beam at the sight of your broad smile. “she took it very seriously. she helped me a lot during those horrible first weeks.”

jordan’s smile immediately drops. the meaning behind your unsaid words piercing them through the chest.

she helped you because jordan wasn’t there to do so instead.

 “i’m sorry.”

you look down at your cup, nodding slowly. “me too.”

jordan’s fingers tap the wooden table. doubting. scared. finally, they reach for your hands, not holding it but simply laying it on top of yours, a gentle gesture, a truce.

“it’s okay. we’re okay now.”

by the time you leave the café, the sun has almost set, the streets are quiet and very few people dare to walk around, the cold a great excuse to stay home on a saturday night.

jordan walks you to your apartment and you two share a comfortable, quiet conversation. somehow, joking and laughing feels too easy around them.

when you reach your building, jordan hesitates, looking down at the floor, hands buried in the pockets of their jeans.

“will you…? can i..?” jordan tries. clearing their throat, they try again. “can i see the kids before leaving?”

with a soft smile pulling at your lips, you nod. “of course.”

when you open the door to your apartment, your best friend looks up at you from the couch.

“so, how did the reconciliation coffee go with mr. dickhead?” she asks. your eyes open wide as you sign for her to shut up.

jordan appears behind your back in their female form. waving at your friend, she says, “i’d say it went good, right?”

“yes,” you say as you nod, cheeks flaring.

your friend nods one, looking jordan up and down. “that better be true.” 

she then starts picking up her stuff. coat hanging from her arm, she walks up to jordan. giving them her most intimidating look, she murmurs something that sounds a lot like a dead threat.

“i’ll keep it in mind. thank you,” jordan says, trying to hide a smile.

she nods and turns to you, “the angels are already sleeping. i washed the dishes and put the laundry away for you, too.”

“you didn’t have to do that,” you say, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

“i know. but i wanted to. it’s the least i can do after you gave me the coolest niece and nephew to brag about at work.”

she quickly pecks your cheek, sending one last weary glance at jordan before leaving. the first thing they say when the door closes is:

“i like her.”

“i love her,” you say, agreeing.

“she really loves you and the kids, too. i appreciate that.”

they don’t say it out loud, but jordan really appreciates that you had someone who worried about and took care of you during your pregnancy and your first months as a mom.

“i’m going to change into something more comfortable. feel free to check on the kids.”

jordan watches as you disappear into your room, standing in the middle of the hallway as they try to name the cozy, warm feeling growing in their chest. before they can get ahead of themselves, jordan walks to the kids’ room.

by the time they come out, they find you sitting on the couch, legs up and a thick blanket thrown over your shoulders. again, they hesitate, standing awkwardly behind the couch, wondering how weird it would be if they just walked up to you and sat down beside you. just for a short time.

“are you going to stand there all night?”

despite your voice startling them, jordan takes that as an invitation and finally gathers the courage to sit next to you. you’re watching some shitty movie, but jordan’s not paying any attention to it. they keep stealing glances at you, tracing the lines of your profile, noticing the way you seem unable to stop tapping your fingers against your knees. eventually, their eyes drift towards the kids’ bedroom like they’re afraid it might disappear if they look away too long.

when you notice this, you clear your throat.

“you can stay on the couch tonight.”

jordan blinks, surprised. “are you sure?”

“i wouldn’t have offered it if i wasn’t.”

they nod. “thank you.”

you both turn your attention back to the tv, but none of you are actually listening to any of the words the actors are saying. your mind is racing, wondering if you’re making the right decision by letting jordan back into your life. heart racing with the fear that this might end up bad for both of you.

suddenly, you find yourself voicing one of your biggest fears.  “jordan?”

“yes?”

“if vought comes back—”

“they won’t take them,” jordan says immediately. there’s no hesitation in their tone. no doubt. “over my dead body.”

and you believe them. maybe it’s the menacing tone in their voice, or maybe it was all those questions they asked about your babies that made you think jordan actually cares. what matters is, you trust them, and you believe them.

it takes jordan less than one week to memorize your kids’  nap schedule.

on the fifth day, they know which cup your daughter refuses to drink from and which song calms your son down fastest. by the end of the week, it’s like they’ve always been there. they move carefully through your space, never overstepping.

they don’t touch you unless you reach first.

they don’t refer to themselves as mom or dad.

they don’t make promises they can’t keep.

instead, they show up for you and the babies.

and you’re thankful every time. especially the first time your daughter’s powers manifest.

it’s small, but it still comes as a surprise.

your daughter gets frustrated when a block tower falls, and the air around her shimmers, ever so slightly. it’s barely a flicker. like heat off asphalt.

jordan freezes across the room, their eyes immediately looking for yours. but your attention is glued to your daughter.

you don’t scream. you don’t panic. you just scoop her into your arms, gently cradling her.

 “hey. hey, it’s okay. mommy’s here.”

jordan watches, chest tight, as the shimmer fades. after a few minutes, both you and the kid calm down and you help her down onto the playing mat again.

later that night, when the kids are asleep, you sit at the kitchen table in silence.

“so,” you finally say. “that’s what he meant.”

you don’t need to mention his name for jordan to know you mean xx.

jordan nods. “that’s what i was afraid of.”

you sigh, covering your face with your hands. “what happens now?”

jordan looks at you—really looks at you. not the girl from winter break. not the woman from the grocery store. but the mother who didn’t flinch when the impossible brushed against her child.

“we teach them,” they say softly. “we protect them. and we don’t let anyone tell them they’re monsters.”

your chest tightens at the use of that word.

we.

“if anything happened to them, jordan i…” your words are interrupted by a wave of tears.

jordan immediately jumps from their chair, reaching for you. you don’t complain when they pull you against their chest, cradling your head against the small space between their shoulders and their neck.

“i’m here for you now. i won’t anything happen to you or our kids.”

“what if this is bigger than us? bigger than you?”

gently, jordan steps away, only to hold your face firmly in their hands. before they can think better of it, they’re leaning their forehead against your eyes closing on instinct.

“i’ll fight for us.” when jordan opens their eyes, you’re already looking at them. “we’re in this together.”

“you promise?” you almost feel ashamed of how small and weak your voice sounds, how helpless you feel.

“i promise.”

and you see the truth reflected in their dark eyes.

before you can think better of it, you lean closer, lips gently touching theirs. jordan immediately melts against you. their hold turns softer, calmer, as their thumbs trace small circles on your cheeks.

this is your first kiss after what you shared during winter break. and you can safely admit this is nothing like what you shared during those few weeks. this kiss feels warmer, more intimate, heavy with the weight of promises and fears, and your shared love for your kids.

that night, jordan stays in your room.

the next morning, you wake up tangled in their arms, enjoying jordan’s soft breathing against your neck.

a couple of months pass without issue. jordan and you grow more and more used to the intimacy of your shared lives. your schedules align better than ever, jordan gets to spend most nights at your place, sharing dinner with you and the kids and sleeping next to you until they have to leave for the tower.

now, every time they leave, they make sure you know they’ll be coming back to you.

there’s a small voice whispering next to your ear that this little fairy tale you two made up in a matter of months could explode at any given time. it reminds you of vought, the dangerous stillness after their last visit.

but whenever you voice these worries to jordan, they make sure to assure you nothing bad could happen to you or the kids as long as they’re watching over you.

and you believe them.

and the days pass by, and your kids keep growing more and more attached to jordan, to the point where both your son and your daughter will giggle and clap in excitement when they see jordan enter your apartment in the afternoons, after their shift.

it’s one of those afternoons, jordan’s lying on the floor in their male form, holding your daughter above his head. your daughter giggles, shaking her arms and legs, having a really great time.

and then something happens.

jordan shifts. it’s accidental; it takes one second for them to take her female form. at first, she freezes, waiting for a reaction from your daughter, not wanting to spook her.

a few tense seconds pass, and you can see the way your daughter frowns at her, as if asking a question without any words. a quick look at jordan’s face let you know she’s scared of what your daughter might think of her.

you both wait patiently…

and then…

your daughter giggles. like actually giggles. it’s high and bright, like seeing jordan transform in front of her eyes is the coolest thing she’s ever seen.

jordan laughs too, startled, a half-laugh half-sob. “okay. alright. that’s… that’s better than fear.”

you watch from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, your heart doing something complicated and dangerous.

because this isn’t a fling anymore.

this isn’t a mistake.

this is a life you two are building together.

after a while, your biggest fears become true…

and when vought comes back, your whole world tips.

the first time, it was a man in a suit and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. the second time, it’s subtler.

their latest threat comes in the shape of an innocent email.

jordan sees it first because you’re elbow-deep in mashed bananas and laundry when your phone buzzes on the counter. they glance at the screen out of habit.

their body freezes when they see the name on the screen.

vought international – community outreach division

jordan’s  stomach drops.

“hey,” they say carefully. “did you… did you apply for anything? daycare grants or medical assistance, maybe?”

you frown, stopping mid-action. “no. why?”

jordan turns the phone toward you. you don’t even open the email before your blood runs cold.

“fuck,” you whisper.

jordan shakes their head. “this is how they start.”

the email is warm and friendly. congratulatory, even.

we’ve recently become aware of two exceptional young individuals with extraordinary potential…

“give me that.”

you forget about the dirty laundry and the stains on your shirt. you take your phone and unlock the screen, immediately deleting the email. jordan watches over your shoulder, noticing your shaky hands.

immediately he’s hugging you, pulling your trembling body close to his chest. they drop a kiss on the top of your head as they promise everything will be fine.

and god how you whish that was true. but things only grow more tense.

the next escalation comes through the daycare. a couple of weeks after the email is sent, the principal of your kids’ school pulls you aside when you arrive to pick them up, voice hushed and apologetic.

“two men came by this morning,” she says. “they said they were from a child development research group. asked very specific questions.”

your heart hammers. “did you give them anything?”

“god, no. of course not,” she says firmly. “but… they weren’t subtle with their intentions.”

you get home faster than ever that day. and when you do, jordan is already waiting there for you, pacing like a caged animal.

“they were at the tower today,” they say the moment you’re inside, reaching for the kids so you can take your coat off. “a bunch of executives.”

your chest tightens. “what did they say?”

jordan exhales sharply. “they called them assets. they referred to my babies as assets!”

that word makes something ugly bloom behind your ribs.

“my babies are not some tool for them to use at their own will,” you say, voice shaking with fury. “they are just kids.”

jordan steps closer, nodding. “i know, baby. i know. i won’t let anything happen to them. i promised you, and i intend on keeping it.”

that night, you don’t dare to close your eyes, scare you’ll have nightmares about vought stealing your babies from you.

and when you start sobbing in silence, jordan’s arm snake around your waist, offering you a shoulder to cry, as their hand gently plays with your hair in a calming gesture.

after a while, jordan tells you everything about their encounter with the vought executives at the tower.

about classified programs. about supe children being raised under observation. about “early development initiatives” that are anything but voluntary.

“they’ll picture it a them trying to help these kids,” jordan says quietly. “offer special tutors, medical monitoring and a false sense of security.”

your body shakes with a wave of anger and anxiety and fear for you sweet, little angels.

“and if we say no?” you ask in a whisper.

“they’ll push,” jordan answers, voice tight. “harder each time.”

your eyes drift to the bedroom wall, imagining the twins peacefully sleeping in the next room.

“i won’t let them grow up in a lab,” you whisper, throat thick with tears.

jordan’s jaw tightens. “neither will i.”

the breaking point comes two weeks later.

you’re all halfway through dinner when the windows of the kitchen rattle. your eyes immediately drift to jordan.

it’s not an explosion, nor an attack. it’s more of a sonic boom.

jordan is on their feet instantly. “stay here.”

before you can argue, the tv flickers to life. a vought broadcast.

a man you recognize from press conferences smiles calmly into the camera.

“tonight, we’re proud to announce a new initiative dedicated to the safety and future of the next generation of supes…”

jordan swears under their breath, “shit.”

the man continues, “including recent discoveries that prove extraordinary abilities can manifest far earlier than previously believed.”

your daughter squeals, clapping at the lights. your son, more perceptive, looks at you with his big brown eyes. he must feel the anxiety oozing from your body, because he starts pouting and calling for you.

jordan turns the tv off with a shaky hand.

“they’re announcing us,” you say hollowly, holding your son to your chest.

“no. they’re baiting us,” jordan corrects. “they want me to fall in line.”

you look up at them, eyes burning. “are you going to?”

jordan doesn’t hesitate. “no. of course not.”

that night, jordan brings the twins to sleep with you two, both babies sandwiched between your bodies sleeping peacefully as you and jordan try to come up with a plan.

at 3 a.m., when you wake to a strange sound, like a buzzing, your heart nearly stops. next to you, jordan sits up, shoulder tense, expression furious.

“did you hear that?” you whisper.

“yeah,” they murmur. “drone. high altitude.”

your voice trembles. “they’re watching us.”

jordan meets your eyes in the dark. they register the utter fear in your eyes and something inside them crumbles. then they glance at the two kids laying next to you, holding onto each other as if they were each other’s personal teddy bear.

“we need to leave.”

“what do you mean?”

jordan stands, reaching for a pair of pants.

“where are you going?” you ask, suddenly more scared of the idea of them leaving you again than the drones flying over your family’s heads.

how are you supposed to face this without jordan’s help? how are you going to go back to how life was without them in your life? if vought comes back for you and jordan’s not here, they will…

“i’m going to fix this, okay? i’ll do everything i can to assure you and the kids are safe.”

“please, don’t leave us.”

the desperation in your tone is like a punch to the gut. bending down, they drop a kiss on your forehead.

“i will be back. i promise.”

and, once again, you choose to believe them.

you don’t hear jordan come back, but when you wake up after catching less than a couple of hours of sleep, they’re already awake and preparing breakfast for you and the kids.

and as all of you enjoy the meal together, jordan explains every detail of their plan. pulling out a sheet of paper they start talking about fake names, about a temporary relocation… your stomach flips with anxiety, your throat tightens with unshed tears.

“marie helped me find a place off-grid. a cabin.”

it won’t be easy, they say. it won’t be clean.

“but it’ll keep you and the kids safe,” jordan assures.

“then that’s all i need.”

you two pack the essentials in less than an hour and it’s almost noon when as you buckle the kids into their car seats.

 jordan pauses, hands hovering above your daughters jacket uncertainly. you immediately notice.

“are you sure you want to do this?” you ask, reaching for one of their hands.

“what do you mean?”

“this… it might cost you your place in the seven. are you…?”

jordan stops you before you can continue.  “i don’t care about the seven right now. all i care about is getting you and the twins somewhere far away from this. somewhere safe.”

“really?” you ask, eyes glossy.

jordan smiles, small and real. “i made my choice a while ago, love. i choose you and our family.”

reaching inside the car, they kiss the top of your daughters’s head, then your son’s.

and when they finally look at you, there’s no fear left in their eyes. only resolve. gently pulling you towards their chest, jordan drops a kiss on the top of your head.

“let them come,” jordan says quietly. “they don’t get to take what’s ours.”

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

THIS IS SO TEA THE PLOT ?? 😫

[wistifuldiaries]

Pro Hero!Izuku Midoriya x Pre-school teacher! Fem!Reader

"Everyone deserves a second chance."

Summary: After Izuku's long lasting marriage came to a devastating end, and was left to raise a child alone, he lost his faith in love. Until he didn't.

a/n: hello! this is owner 2! (selesti), and this will be the first series of out blog! But for now, this is just a little sneak peak, enjoyyyyy!!! 💋💋

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

"JAPAN'S NUMBER ONE HERO WIFE CAUGHT IN AN AFFAIR WITH HER HUSBAND'S ASSISTANT??"

"PRO HERO DEKU FILING FOR A DIVORCE AND CLAIMING FULL CUSTODY OF THEIR 4 YEAR OLD SON?"

"PRO HERO DEKU PUBLICLY ANNOUNCED THE FINALIZED DIVORCED. BOTH FORMER ASSISTANT AND EX-WIFE HAVE BEEN BANNED FROM WORKING IN THE HERO FIELD PERMANENTLY."

Izuku sighed heavily as he scrolled through the news headlines regarding the past few months. He ran a scarred hand through his green curls as his tired eyes scanned his phone. It was like a switch, one minute he was happy with how his life was going, managing his agency and fighting crime during the day, coming home during the evening to his beautiful wife and son, celebrating his latest victories and accomplishments with his friends on the weekends, and doing his righteous hero duties.

What had gone wrong? Where did he go wrong? He knew he couldn't always be available, being a hero was time consuming, especially being number one! He always rescheduled important meetings or events when it came to his family, they were his top priority for goodness sake! He couldn't do everything at once, he was sure she understood the late night shifts, and coming home at the crack of dawn, right? They even had a deep conversation prior to about what and what not to expect when it came to their marriage. So why? Why did she feel the need to seek the same solace and love he gave her since the beginning, from another man? His assistant no less. If anything, his assistant was just as booked and busy as him! So when would they even find the time to meet up? Behind his back nonetheless!

But Izuku had been to naïve. The way she came home late nights with the scent of cologne, that she always blamed from 'Girls night out'. The longing looks his assistant would give his wife whenever she came into the agency for a 'surprise'.

The way his assistant would just so happen to go on break when his wife was leaving the agency. He should've of known. But he was to caught up in the same excuses of "it's all in your head!" or "you're just being insecure, you know you're the only one."

Izuku is pulled out his train of thought upon hearing his bedroom door creak open. Soft, tiny footsteps making its way to the side of Izuku's now cold, empty bed. A pair of big, bright, beautiful, green eyes stared up at him, slightly filled with tears. Izuku's heart clenched as he reached down to scoop his 4-year old son, Yuuto, up into his arms, holding his small shaking form.

"What's wrong Yuu?" Izuku asked as the small boy sniffled on his lap, patting his back and rocking him smoothly to calm his frayed nerves.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Izuku asks again after a few minutes, wanting to know what had his son so startled at this time of night.

"Scared.." Yuuto murmured softly, still sniffling away his tears. Izuku raised a brow. Scared? Of what?

"What's got you so scared Yuu?" Izuku asked gently still rubbing his son's back in a soothing manner.

"Scared of school.." Yuuto admitted weakly as he played with the hem of his pajama shirt.

Izuku mentally wanted to slap himself, how could he forget his son's first day of school was tomorrow. He even marked it on his personal calendar! He was too focused on his past that he forgot about the present. Izuku let out a deep, relieved sigh, grateful it wasn't anything major.

"Yuu, there's nothing to be scared of. I remember my first day of school and how I was a nervous wreck." Izuku says as he chuckles softly,reminiscing his childhood days.

"If it makes you feel better, I'll pack your favorite snacks and make sure you have your best outfit tomorrow." Izuku says comfortingly as he picks up Yuuto and carries him back to his own room down the hall, Yuuto's cheers echoing off the walls, the fear of tomorrow completely forgotten.

Once Yuuto was peacefully sound asleep, Izuku walked back down to his own room. He laid back down on his respective side of the once shared bed. Izuku stared up at the ceiling, worrying about how to tomorrow would play out. Would his son be bullied like he was? Would this whole fiasco with his ex-wife affect his son's future? Izuku brushed all the nagging thoughts away. Closing his eyes, he exhaled a shallow breath. Turning to his side he set an alarm bright and early for the next day, preparing for any challenges.

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

A devoted dad in need of a wife sign me up

[jsooly-deactivated20260222]

honey, 20 !

i watched atwow again and i need to hyperfixate or i'll die :)

my inbox is open for any sort of ideas & chatting !! <3

TAKEN IN BY THE SULLYS / DEATH IN THE FAMILY MASTERLIST (these are in order) bolded & blue chapters are the actual story, the others are filler/HCs! though the filler chapters do have lore to them, they're not absolutely necessary to get the story

if you were the sully's human kid (1)

taken in by the sullys (2)

taken in by the sullys (3)

death in the family (1) / aka taken in by the sullys (4)

taken in by the sullys (5)

death in the family (2) / aka taken in by the sullys (6)

taken in by the sullys (7)

death in the family (3) / aka taken in by the sullys (8)

death in the family (4) / aka taken in by the sullys (9)

taken in by the sullys (10)

death in the family (5) / aka taken in by the sullys (11)

death in the family (6) / aka taken in by the sullys (12)

death in the family (7) / aka taken in by the sullys (13)

death in the family (8) / aka taken in by the sullys (14)

death in the family (9) / aka taken in by the sullys (15)

death in the family (10) / aka taken in by the sullys (16)

.

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

GOD YES THIS IS SO GOOD 🫵

[syrecjh]

Okay, but bakugo leaning down to hear you🥺🥺🥺

It always starts the same way.

You’re saying something — usually in that normal, not-too-loud tone you use with everyone — and Katsuki Bakugo is across from you, arms crossed, scowl half-baked, like he’s listening but not really listening. Then, inevitably, his brow furrows, and you see the moment he catches the tail end of your words but realizes he didn’t catch enough.

Instead of saying What? like a normal human being, he does this thing.

The lean.

He steps into your space — not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that you can smell the faint burn of nitroglycerin and that sharp, clean soap he pretends he doesn’t use. He tilts his head slightly down, chin angling toward you, eyes locked on your mouth like your words are something to catch before they slip away.

“What was that?” His voice is low, not because he’s trying to be gentle, but because he’s listening. It’s rough around the edges, like the sound has to be dragged over gravel before it leaves him.

You repeat yourself, a little slower this time, and his eyes don’t leave you.

“Mhm,” he says — and it’s not just a sound, it’s Bakugo’s mhm. Short, deep, approving in that rare way, like he’s filing away what you said because it matters now.

One time, you were sitting at your desk in class, mumbling something about how the weather was nice, and he crouched slightly beside you to catch it, forearms resting on his knees, the sunlight streaking through the window and catching in his messy hair.

“You talk like a damn mouse,” he muttered, smirking faintly, “and then get pissed when people don’t hear you.”

“I wasn’t pissed,” you protested, looking anywhere but at him.

“Tch. Yeah, you were.” He leaned even closer, your elbows almost brushing. “Say it again.”

“…The weather’s nice,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He smirked wider, like he’d just won something. “Yeah. Guess it is.” And then he straightened up and walked away like he hadn’t just been that close for no reason.

It became a habit. Group conversations? He’d bend down slightly when you spoke, eyes narrowing in focus. Crowded hallways? He’d drop his head toward yours so you didn’t have to shout. Even during training debriefs, when you muttered something under your breath, he’d be there, leaning in with a sharp, “Say that again?” as if you were the only voice worth catching.

The worst part? You were starting to get used to it — to the way his attention made you feel like your words were worth hearing, worth leaning in for.

And he knew it.

You could see it in the small, knowing quirk of his mouth every time he straightened back up.

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

oh to have someone like this sighhhh

[thedemoninme141]

Insecurities (an anon request)

Parings: Wednesday X Female Reader. Wordcount: 10k-ish.

Summary: Wednesday's frustration made her say something irreversible.

Theme: Angst! Heavy Angst! Like idk heartbreaking heavy angst?

Warnings: Body dysmorphic disorder.

Wednesday’s patience had never been infinite, but today, it was being tested beyond measure. She should have simply put her foot down, denied you both, and spent the afternoon in solitude as she had originally planned. Instead, she was here, in this infernal store, surrounded by the nauseating scent of perfume, the artificial warmth of overhead lights, and the endless cycle of you and Enid dragging her from one corner of the boutique to another.

“This one’s so me!” Enid exclaimed, holding up a shimmering gold dress that looked more like a disco ball than formalwear.

“You’ll blind everyone,” Wednesday deadpanned.

“Exactly!” Enid beamed, twirling with the dress before skipping off to try it on.

Meanwhile, you pulled out a black dress with lace detailing, holding it up tentatively. “What about this one?”

Wednesday’s dark eyes flicked over the garment. “It’s acceptable.”

Your shoulders slumped slightly. Acceptable. Not exactly a glowing endorsement.

Still, you tried it on, stepping out of the changing room to model it for Wednesday. Enid, still deliberating over shoes, didn’t even notice.

“Well?” you asked nervously, smoothing the fabric.

“It fits,” Wednesday replied, her tone flat.

Your lips pressed together. You turned back into the dressing room, emerging moments later with another option—a deep red gown with a flowing skirt.

This time, Wednesday didn’t even bother with a full glance. “You’re wasting time.”

You hesitated but said nothing, retreating once again.

It had been hours.

Enid had already found her dress—a shimmering, ice-blue monstrosity that she twirled in with boundless excitement. Enid had never needed her approval. You, however, were another matter entirely.

You were taking far too long.

You had asked Wednesday to come under the pretense that you needed her opinion, that it mattered to you whether she liked what you wore to the dance. Wednesday had seen no reason to deny you.

But she hadn't anticipated this.

Try on a dress. Step out. Spin. Ask her what she thought.

“It’s fine,” she would say.

Then you would disappear again, unsatisfied, only to repeat the process moments later.

She was growing tired of saying it. It was fine. They were all fine. What more did you want from her?

Enid was equally enraptured, offering her own thoughts, exclaiming how each one suited you, or how it brought out your eyes, or how it matched your personality. It was nauseating. Wednesday could barely suppress the irritation clawing up her throat.

And yet, you weren’t buying anything.

Now you were in the dressing room again as Wednesday stood stiffly outside, arms folded, her fingers pressing into her own arms in an effort to restrain herself from storming out entirely. Enid stood beside her, checking her reflection in a nearby mirror.

Wednesday exhaled sharply, “This is insufferable,” she muttered.

Enid gave her a sideways glance before rolling her eyes. “Come on, Wednesday. It’s yours and Y/N’s first Raven as a couple. It’s special for her.”

Wednesday’s fingers twitched. “That does not mean she needs to try on the entire inventory of the store.”

Enid shot her a look, pursing her lips. “She just wants to look good for you.”

“She already looks fine,” Wednesday snapped.

“Then tell her that instead of acting like she’s wasting your time.”

Wednesday didn't reply. She just pressed her lips into a thin line, forcing herself to remain still as her irritation simmered beneath her skin.

It wasn’t just the wasted time, or the absurdity of all of this. Why did it matter what you wore? You were already hers. The dress would not change that.

She had never been one for compliments, nor did she see the point in them. You had asked for her opinion, and she had given it. She saw no use in anything beyond that.

You had been talking about this dance for weeks now, making sure everything was perfect. As if it mattered. Wednesday had agreed to go, hadn’t she? That alone should have been enough to make you happy.

But no, you needed a perfect dress. A dress that you would wear for a single night. A dress that would be forgotten about the second the Raven ended.

Wednesday sighed, staring at the dressing room door you had disappeared behind.

This was taking too long.

And yet, she didn’t leave.

Then, finally, you emerged again.

This time, something was different.

You hesitated just outside the curtain, fingers gripping the fabric nervously before stepping into the light.

And Wednesday...

She stared.

Dark purple. The color was rich, deep, a shade that clung to your form in a way that actually—suited you. Perfectly.

Your shoulders were bare, the dress hugging your figure before flowing down to the floor in an elegant sweep. You looked...

Wednesday swallowed.

You looked beautiful.

And that realization—how much she cared about something as trivial as a dress—sent a wave of irritation curling through her.

How ridiculous.

It was just fabric. Just thread and silk. And yet, you were looking at it—at yourself—like this was the most important moment in the world.

"Well?" You asked, voice uncertain, eyes searching hers desperately for approval.

Wednesday hated that. Hated the way you seemed to need her validation for something so insignificant.

Something twisted inside her.

She hated that dress.

Hated the way you were looking at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric as if it held the key to your happiness.

She folded her arms. "You’ve been trying on dresses for hours, and now you want me to shower this one with praise?"

Your smile faltered. "I just... I thought this one was better than the others."

It was.

But Wednesday didn’t say that.

Instead, her own irritation twisted her words into something sharp, something cruel before she even realized it.

“It makes you look bigger, if that’s what you were going for, then congratulations.”

The words fell from her lips like a blade, sharp and final.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Your face froze, your expression unreadable as silence stretched between you.

Enid inhaled sharply. "Wednesday!"

But you... you didn’t argue.

You didn’t scoff or roll your eyes or throw some sarcastic remark back at her like you usually would.

You just blinked once. Then, slowly, a small, forced smile curled at your lips.

"Oh... okay."

And then you turned and disappeared back into the dressing room.

Wednesday watched as the curtain closed behind you, an unfamiliar tightness settling in her chest.

She didn’t understand it.

Why did it suddenly feel like she had done something wrong?

Wednesday frowned. "I told the truth."

Enid looked like she wanted to strangle her. “What is wrong with you?”

Wednesday exhaled slowly, keeping her expression impassive. “It was an honest observation.”

“No, it was you being a total jackass,” Enid snapped. “Do you even realize how hard this is for her? She already struggles with this stuff, and you—” She groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Why would you say that?”

Because she had been frustrated. Because she had been irritated. Because something about the way you cared so much about that stupid dress had made her feel…

Jealous.

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it.

But that didn’t change the fact that she had said it.

And you had believed her.

The dressing room was quiet. Too quiet.

She could imagine you inside, standing in front of the mirror, looking at yourself in that dress, picking apart every little flaw.

Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it, suddenly unsure of what she was supposed to say.

The curtain rustled, and then you stepped out again—back in your usual clothes. Your face was carefully neutral, but your eyes...

Your eyes looked dull.

"I’m not feeling great," you said softly, voice almost too quiet. "I think I’ll head back to the dorm."

"Y/N—" Enid started, but you shook your head, forcing another smile.

"It’s fine," you said. "I’ll come back and get the dress later. Alone."

And then, without another word, you turned and walked away.

Wednesday watched you go, her fingers twitching at her sides, that strange, unfamiliar feeling pressing against her ribs again.

She had gotten what she wanted. The endless dress shopping had finally come to an end.

Wednesday didn’t have to look to know that Enid was furious with her. The werewolf hadn’t said a single word since they left the store, not even when Wednesday had slowed her pace slightly, allowing Enid to walk beside her.

It wasn’t as if Wednesday wasn’t used to people being mad at her. It happened often. She knew she had a sharp tongue and an even sharper indifference to how others reacted to her words.

And yet, there was an unpleasant weight in her chest now, something she didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.

She was supposed to be relieved that the torturous shopping trip was over, but she wasn’t. It didn’t feel like a victory. If anything, it felt like she had lost something without even realizing it. The moment she had seen you walk away, that cold weight had settled deep inside her, and no matter how much she tried to shake it, it wouldn’t leave.

They were halfway back to their dorm when Enid finally snapped. "Are you just gonna pretend like nothing happened?"

Wednesday didn’t slow her pace. "That would be preferable."

Enid let out a frustrated noise as she turned to face Wednesday fully, forcing her to stop. "God, you are unbelievable! Do you even care that you hurt her?"

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. "It was not my intention to—"

"Oh, don’t give me that crap, Wednesday. You knew exactly what you were saying." Enid’s eyes were blazing, her normally bright and warm demeanor replaced with pure frustration. "She was so happy in that dress. Did you even see the way she looked at you? She just wanted you to like it. And what did you do? You insulted her. You made her feel like shit. You—"

"I am aware," Wednesday cut in, her voice quieter but no less firm.

Enid shook her head, exhaling harshly. "Then why aren’t you doing anything about it?"

Wednesday didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that made sense. Because the truth was, she didn’t know what to do. She had spent years—her entire life—keeping people at arm’s length, avoiding emotional entanglements with a precision most would consider cruel. And yet, she had let you in. Not entirely, not in the way you probably wanted, but enough that your absence felt… noticeable. Unsettling.

It irritated her. The power you had over her. The way one misplaced word from her could send you walking away, head down, shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear. She hated that image. It had been playing in her mind on a loop, and it was making her stomach churn.

Enid was still staring at her, waiting. Expecting.

"I…" Wednesday started, then frowned. "I will… rectify the situation."

"How?" Enid challenged.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "I will apologize."

Enid’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? You, Wednesday Addams, are gonna apologize? I’d love to see that."

Wednesday crossed her arms. "I am capable of admitting when I have made an error."

Enid scoffed. "Oh yeah? When’s the last time you apologized to anyone?"

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Enid sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Look, Wednesday, I know you don’t do the whole emotions thing, but this isn’t just about being wrong. It’s about her. She’s already insecure about this kind of stuff, and you just confirmed every single bad thought she’s ever had about herself."

Wednesday’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. That was the part she couldn’t stop thinking about. She knew what insecurities could do to a person. She knew how words could burrow into someone’s mind and fester. And she knew you. Knew the way you already hesitated before speaking sometimes, as if bracing for rejection.

She had never considered her words carefully before. She never needed to. But this time, she wished she had.

"You need to fix this," Enid said, softer now, her anger tempered by concern. "Like… actually fix it. Because if you don’t, I don’t think she’s just gonna forgive you and pretend it never happened."

Wednesday hated that Enid was right. Without another word, she turned on her heel and started walking.

"Where are you going?" Enid called after her.

"To fix it," Wednesday said simply.

She didn’t look back.

She had meant it when she told Enid she would fix it, but even as she approached your dorm, she wasn’t entirely sure how. Apologies were foreign to her. She had never needed to offer them before.

But the thought of leaving this unspoken, of letting you sit alone in your room, stewing in whatever thoughts she had planted in your mind, made something unbearable twist inside her.

She wasn’t the kind of person who hesitated, who second-guessed herself. And yet, there was something uneasy settling beneath her skin, something that made her movements feel unnatural.

It was you.

Or rather, it was the memory of you. The way you had stood in front of her in that dress, nervous, hopeful, looking at her like she had the power to decide if it was enough. As if her opinion was the final verdict on whether you looked beautiful or not. Wednesday hated that. She hated that you gave her that kind of power, because she had never known what to do with it. And she had wasted it. She had crushed it beneath her heel without thinking.

She knew how her words could cut. She had always known, and she had wielded them like a weapon before—against people who deserved it, against people who irritated her, against people who bored her. But she had never thought of you as someone she needed to use them against. Because that was never how it had been between you.

It had been impulse, irritation spilling over before she could filter it into something sharp but playful. She was used to throwing her sharp words at you, a quip here, a remark there. You never took her harsh words seriously. You always rolled your eyes, shoved her shoulder, smirked at her like you knew her better than she knew herself. She would say something cold, and you would call her out on it, grinning like it was all some sort of game. It frustrated her to no end, but she never minded the way you pushed back. The way you challenged her in ways others never dared.

But this time, you hadn’t pushed back. You hadn’t laughed, hadn’t rolled your eyes or playfully shoved her away. You had just… shut down. You had retreated.

Wednesday sighed, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides. She hated this feeling. This gnawing, uncomfortable thing pressing against her ribs. Guilt. It was almost laughable. The Wednesday Addams, feeling guilt over a single comment? It was ridiculous. But then why did it feel so unbearable?

And worse, why had she even said it?

Because she had been irritated. Because the shopping trip had dragged on for too long. Because you and Enid had been laughing and chattering, taking turns trying things on, wasting time on something as insignificant as clothing. She had wanted to leave.

But that wasn’t the full truth.

The truth was something uglier. Something she didn’t want to name.

When you had walked out in that dress, looking at her with expectation in your eyes, waiting—hoping—for her approval, she had felt something she wasn’t used to. Something tight, clawing at her throat, making her stomach churn.

She almost scoffed at herself. How absurd. Envious of a piece of fabric. But that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? That stupid dress had held your attention, had made you light up in a way that she never had. And for a brief, infuriating moment, she had resented it.

She had wanted to remind you that it was nothing more than fabric, that she was the one standing there, she was the one who mattered, not some lifeless garment.

But she hadn’t done that. Instead, she had said something cruel.

And she had watched as all that light, all that excitement, drained from your face.

Wednesday let out a slow breath, flexing her fingers at her sides. She was nearing your dorm now, the familiar door just ahead. She had walked this path countless times, had stood before that door before. But tonight, there was a hesitation in her step.

You had looked so uncertain when you asked her to the Raven, as if you expected her to say no. She hadn’t. She had said yes, because there was no logical reason to say no. If she had to endure a night of forced socialization and dreadful music, she would rather suffer through it with you than with anyone else.

And yet, when it came to something as simple as saying I did not mean it like that, she found herself hesitating.

Apologies were not in her nature. She did not like them, did not give them, did not see their purpose. But this wasn’t just about words.

This was about you.

She sighed.

Then, finally, she reached your door.

And she lifted her hand to knock.

The sound of her knuckles against your door was softer than she intended, but still firm. Final. There was no turning back now. Not that she would have turned back even if she could.

Perhaps you would refuse to open the door. Perhaps you would open it only to slam it in her face. Perhaps you would demand to know why she was here, why she even cared enough to show up.

She had prepared for that. She had prepared for your anger.

What she had not prepared for was the sound of the door creaking open, slow and hesitant, revealing you on the other side.

You looked surprised to see her.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out, your eyes scanning her face as if trying to make sense of her presence. She could see the exhaustion in you, the heaviness in your posture, the way your fingers curled slightly around the edge of the door, like you needed something to hold onto.

You looked… small. Smaller than she had ever seen you before. And she hated it.

Wednesday forced herself to speak, keeping her voice steady, neutral. "May I come in?"

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, stepping aside to let her pass.

She entered without a word, her gaze flickering over the room as you closed the door behind her. It was dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows along the walls. A half-empty glass of water sat on your desk, untouched. Your bed was unmade, the covers slightly rumpled as if you had been lying there only moments before she knocked.

Wednesday turned to face you.

You were watching her carefully, as if bracing yourself for whatever she was about to say.

She exhaled slowly, clasping her hands behind her back as she met your gaze. "I…" She hesitated, forcing herself to ignore the way her throat tightened. "I have come to apologize."

You blinked, clearly caught off guard.

"I should not have said what I did," she continued, voice controlled, measured. "It was cruel. And inaccurate." She paused, searching your face for any sign of a reaction, but you gave her none. "It was not my intent to—"

"It's okay," you murmured.

Something about the way you said it made her uneasy.

The words were quiet, soft, but they stopped her mid-sentence.

You offered a small shrug, looking away. "You just told me the truth."

Wednesday's stomach twisted.

"I wasn’t really paying attention to my weight for the last few weeks," you continued, tone eerily neutral, as if you were discussing the weather. "I must’ve gained some."

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

She hadn’t known what kind of response to expect from you, but it had not been this. Not this quiet acceptance. Not this casual confirmation of something that wasn’t even true.

"I know it might look bad for your reputation," you said, the ghost of a smile appearing on your lips, but it was empty. "But I promise I’ll lose the extra pounds."

The words hit Wednesday like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

Her reputation? That was what you thought this was about?

Her breathing hitched, sharp and unexpected, like something had reached into her chest and squeezed. You had said it so simply, so casually, as if it were a fact. As if you truly believed it.

As if you believed she believed it.

“Stop.” The word came out harsher than intended, cutting through the air like a blade.

You blinked, looking back at her with faint confusion.

Wednesday took a step closer, fingers twitching at her sides. “Do not say that.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Say what?”

“That I care about that,” she hissed, voice sharper now, edged with something she didn’t fully understand. “That my concern is my reputation. That you—” She inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing the words to slow, to steady. “You are not—”

She stopped, frustration building in her chest, strangling the words before she could force them out properly.

You frowned, shifting on your feet, clearly not understanding. “Wednesday, it’s fine—”

“It is not fine.”

The sharpness of her voice startled you a bit, "Then why—"

"I do not know," Wednesday admitted, frustration creeping into her tone. It was the truth, and she hated it. "I was… irritated. It was taking too long. Enid was unbearable. And then you—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "It was never about you. It was the dress. It was the fact that you were treating it as if it mattered more than—"

She stopped herself before she could finish that sentence.

More than me.

You stared at her, your confusion evident. "The dress?"

Wednesday clenched her jaw. "Yes. The dress."

A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, but there was no real amusement behind it. "So, you were mad at the dress."

Wednesday said nothing.

You shook your head, looking down. "It doesn’t matter, Wednesday. I get it. I just—I won’t embarrass you. I promise."

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "You are not an embarrassment."

You let out a quiet sigh, rubbing your temples. "I appreciate you coming here to say this, but it’s fine. Really. You don’t have to—"

"I do," Wednesday cut in, voice suddenly urgent. "You do not believe me."

You hesitated.

Because you really didn’t.

She could see it in you, could see the way her words had already settled into your mind like an undeniable truth. You had already convinced yourself that she meant it, that she had only come here out of guilt, not because she hadn’t wanted to hurt you in the first place.

And that realization—that was what made panic curl around her lungs like a vice.

She had thought she could fix this with words. She had thought that if she came here, if she admitted her mistake, if she corrected what she had said, then you would understand. That you would believe her.

But you didn’t.

You wouldn’t.

And Wednesday didn’t know how to undo that.

How had this happened? How had she allowed this to happen? She had meant to insult the dress, not you. And yet, somehow, her words had twisted into something worse. Something irreversible.

She took another step forward, " You do not need to lose anything. You—" She inhaled sharply, hating the way her voice almost wavered. "I never meant it. I— "

“I think I just need to sleep,” you said, voice soft.

A dismissal.

It sent another unwanted pang through her chest.

Your eyes met hers, something unreadable lingering in them. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It was a question, not a certainty. And that was the part that bothered her the most.

Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it. For a moment, she thought about what to say, she wanted to fight more, tell you that whatever you are thinking isn't true.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice colder than she intended. She hated how distant it sounded, but she didn’t know how else to be. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

The word felt bitter on her tongue.

You gave her another small, tired smile before stepping back, waiting for her to leave.

She hesitated for just a moment longer, searching your face for something—anything—that would tell her that you didn’t believe what you had just said, that you weren’t truly convinced of those ridiculous, wrong thoughts about yourself.

But there was nothing. Just quiet acceptance.

Wednesday felt helpless.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the weight of her own mistake pressing down on her shoulders like a curse.

Wednesday’s gaze never left you.

You sat directly across from her at breakfast, your usual spot beside Enid, as though nothing had changed. As though last night’s conversation had not cracked something in the foundation of whatever this was between you. But Wednesday saw everything. She always did. And what she saw now made the pit in her stomach twist, tighten, coil into something unpleasant.

Your plate was barely touched.

A few bites of fruit. Two nibbles of toast. Nothing else.

You pushed the eggs around with your fork absently, as if by simply moving them you could trick everyone into believing you had eaten them. But Wednesday was not so easily deceived.

Her fingers curled around the handle of her coffee cup. She didn’t drink. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

She knew you. Knew the way you usually ate, the small patterns of your habits, the way you would sometimes offer her the parts of your meal you didn’t want, knew that you were never one to finish quickly, but never like this.

“You’re not eating.” She finally said.

Your hand stilled for a fraction of a second before you picked up your toast, taking a deliberately small bite. “I am eating.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “That is an insultingly weak attempt at deception.”

Enid’s gaze flickered between the two of you, sensing the tension, but she didn’t interject. Not yet.

You sighed, setting the toast back down. “I’m just not that hungry.”

Wednesday didn’t believe you.

“You ate nothing but a few scraps.”

“I had a late snack last night after you left.” you added, waving your hand dismissively. “Guess I’m just full from that.”

Wednesday could see the way your fingers twitched slightly when you set your fork down, could hear the way your voice was just a little too casual, too light. You were lying, and you were bad at it.

But before she could say anything more, you abruptly pushed back your chair, “I should head to class early,” you said, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “I need to talk to the professor about something.”

Another lie.

Wednesday clenched her jaw.

Normally, you and she would have walked to class together. Normally, you would have waited, loitering by the table as she finished her coffee, teasing her about how her caffeine addiction was going to kill her one day. Normally, she would have rolled her eyes, insulted you for your lack of intelligence, and you would have laughed.

But today, you left without her.

The realization sat heavy in her chest.

A sigh came from beside her. “That went well,” Enid muttered, pushing the last bit of her pancake into her mouth before setting her fork down.

Wednesday turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the werewolf. Enid was watching her now, arms crossed, lips pursed.

“You did apologize, right?”

“Yes.”

Enid raised an eyebrow. “Really? Cause I see no effect from that.”

Wednesday clenched her jaw. “Because she dismissed it.”

Enid’s face twisted slightly. “Dismissed it?”

“She said it was fine.” Wednesday forced herself to swallow the distaste in her throat. “That it wasn’t a big deal.”

Enid let out a sharp breath, leaning back against her chair. “Well, that was a lie.”

Wednesday didn’t respond. Instead, she reached for her coffee, taking a slow sip, trying to ground herself in the bitter taste. But it didn’t help. Not when her mind was still filled with the image of you walking away from her.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Wednesday saw you in class, but you avoided her gaze. When the lesson ended, you were out the door before she even had the chance to speak. It happened again in the next period, and the next. You weren’t ignoring her outright, but you weren’t engaging, either. It was subtle. Quiet.

But Wednesday noticed everything.

By the time lunch arrived, the weight in her chest had only grown heavier.

She entered the cafeteria, eyes immediately searching for you. You were already at a table, sitting in the same seat as before, but your tray—

Wednesday’s fingers twitched.

There was even less food than this morning.

A small cup of soup. A glass of water. Nothing else.

Her teeth clenched, irritation and frustration mixing with something deeper, something she didn’t want to name. She watched as you lifted the spoon, took a single sip of the broth, and then set it back down.

Not eating. Again.

Her feet carried her forward before she could stop them.

“Seriously?”

The words came from Enid, not Wednesday.

You looked up, blinking as the blonde dropped her tray onto the table before sitting down beside you.

Enid gestured toward your barely-touched meal. “That’s it? That’s all you’re eating?”

You frowned slightly. “I’m not that hungry.”

Wednesday felt something snap.

“This is the second meal you have barely touched today,” she said, voice edged with frustration. “You are lying.”

You sighed, setting your spoon down. “Guys, I don’t need you both hovering over my food. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Enid argued. “You love the chocolate mousse they have today. It’s literally your favorite, and you didn’t even grab one.”

Your jaw tightened. “I just don’t feel like eating dessert.”

Enid stared at you for a moment before glancing at Wednesday.

Wednesday met her gaze, already knowing exactly what she was thinking.

This was not normal.

You barely hesitated before shaking your head, too quickly, too dismissively. “No. It’s fine, Wednesday. Really.”

It was the same thing you had said last night. And just like last night, she didn’t believe you.

She wanted to push, to force you to say the truth, to make you understand how wrong you were for thinking the way you did. But Enid shot her a look that said- Let her eat at least this or she will leave unfinished again, and for once, Wednesday held her tongue.

The rest of lunch was quiet.

You barely ate.

And then, just like breakfast, you left early.

“This is ridiculous,” Wednesday muttered.

Enid scoffed. “Yeah? Well, welcome to feelings, Wednesday.”

“I have to fix this,” Wednesday said, more to herself than to Enid.

Enid studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Well, you’d better hurry. Because if she keeps going like this…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

Neither did Wednesday.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I will fix it.”

The first time she tried to fix it, it was simple. Direct. She waited until the two of you were alone after class, cornering you before you could make your usual excuse to leave.

“You need to eat.”

You barely blinked at her, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I do eat.”

“Not enough.”

A flicker of something passed through your expression—annoyance, maybe, or discomfort—but it was gone before she could decipher it. You sighed.

“Wednesday, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

She stared at you, unblinking. “No, you’re not.”

A small, dry laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. “You’re being dramatic. I told you, I’ve just been feeling off lately.”

“I don’t care what excuse you come up with. You’re not eating, and I know exactly why." Wednesday snapped.

For a moment, something flickered in your gaze—hesitation, uncertainty. Then, your lips pressed into a thin line, and you took a step back. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

And just like that, you were gone.

The second time, she came prepared. If words alone wouldn’t reach you, she would try something else.

She didn’t need Enid’s help to know what your favorite foods were. She had memorized them over time, despite never meaning to, despite never understanding why she remembered insignificant details about you so easily. But now, she put that knowledge to use.

She found them, each one, and placed them in front of you at lunch, setting them down with deliberate precision. You blinked at the sight, your brows furrowing as you looked at her.

“What’s this?”

“You’ve been avoiding food. If you refuse to eat the meals given to you, then I will find ones that you cannot resist.”

For a second, just a second, she thought she had succeeded. Your fingers brushed against the edge of the plate, your expression unreadable. But then, your hand withdrew, and you gave her a small, forced smile.

“That’s sweet of you, Wednesday, but I just had an apple and I’m not that hungry right now.”

The irritation inside her flared. “You’re never hungry anymore.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I told you, I—”

“Are you truly incapable of coming up with a better excuse?” Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. “Every time, it’s the same thing. ‘I’m not hungry,’ ‘I’m just feeling off,’ ‘I’ll eat later.’ It’s all meaningless. You are wasting away in front of me, and you expect me to do nothing?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, your eyes darting away, and for the first time, Wednesday saw it—guilt.

But it wasn’t guilt toward yourself. It wasn’t guilt for what you were doing to your own body. It was guilt toward her.

Like you believed that you were an inconvenience.

The realization hit her like a knife to the ribs.

You weren’t punishing yourself because you wanted to. You were punishing yourself because of her.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” you said softly, eyes still cast downward. “But I’m okay. Really.”

And then you stood up, tray untouched, leaving her there with nothing but her own frustration and a meal that you would never eat.

It was the fifth day now, and your avoidance had only gotten worse. Every meal was an excuse, every moment together felt like walking on glass. Even Enid had started pressing you more, but it didn’t matter—nothing seemed to reach you.

Wednesday found you in the courtyard, sitting on one of the stone benches, your gaze distant as you absentmindedly flipped through a book in your lap. She didn’t bother with a greeting. She simply sat down beside you, close enough that you couldn’t ignore her presence.

You sighed before even looking up. “Wednesday.”

“How long do you intend to keep this up?” She asked straight up.

You frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She clenched her fists. “Yes, you do.”

For a moment, there was silence. You stared at your book, but your eyes weren’t moving across the pages. Then, finally, you exhaled and looked at her.

“Why do you care so much?”

The words shouldn’t have hurt. But they did.

Wednesday’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she could do nothing but stare. Then, her fingers twitched, her voice tightening. “Because you are—”

She stopped herself before the words could slip out.

Because you are important to me.

Because you are mine.

Because the thought of you hurting yourself because of me is unbearable.

Because I lo—

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Because I don’t like seeing you like this.”

You looked at her for a long time, studying her, as if searching for something in her expression. Then, your lips curled into another weak smile, and you shook your head.

“I’ll be fine, Wednesday.”

You said it so gently, so kindly, as if you were trying to comfort her.

And then you left.

Again.

Wednesday sat there, alone. She had lost count of how many times she had watched you walk away now.

And she had no idea how to make you stay.

Wednesday had never been one for hope. It was a fragile, useless thing, prone to shattering at the slightest misstep. But as she walked beside you toward breakfast, she allowed herself the smallest sliver of it, the thinnest thread of belief that today would be different.

Today, she would fix this.

Her plan was simple—ruthlessly so. She would sit beside you, not across. She would place your plate in front of you and refuse to let you leave until you finished everything on it.

If you so much as tried to make an excuse, she would shut it down before the words could even leave your mouth. It was harsh, perhaps. But so was the alternative. So was standing by and watching you slip further away from her, your body weakening, your presence growing more distant by the day.

She refused to let that happen.

She glanced at you, noticing how you walked a bit slower... to slow. “Are you alright?”

Your lips parted at the question, like you were thinking of an answer. Then, after a second too long, you nodded. “Yeah. Just tired—”

Wednesday barely had time to process the shift before your body suddenly gave out.

She caught you before you could hit the ground.

Her arms wrapped around your body instinctively as she lowered you to the ground. For a heartbeat, she thought—hoped—that you were just dizzy, that you would blink up at her, disoriented but awake, that you would make some flippant joke about losing your balance.

But you didn’t.

Your body was limp against her own, your breathing shallow, your skin cold.

You weren’t waking up.

Something inside Wednesday snapped.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She just moved.

Her grip tightened around you as she pulled you closer, her heart hammering violently against her ribs, her pulse a brutal, erratic drumbeat in her ears. The usual sharp, methodical clarity she carried in dire situations was gone, replaced instead with something raw and all-consuming.

Fear.

She had never felt fear like this before.

Never—not in the face of monsters, not when staring death in the eye, not even in the moments where her own life had been at stake. But this? This was different. This was something she couldn’t fight, couldn’t outthink, couldn’t control.

This was you.

She barely registered the way the students around her froze in shock, barely heard Enid’s sharp gasp as she ran forward, her voice high and panicked. Everything blurred at the edges, her focus narrowing to the unconscious weight in her arms.

She had failed.

She had failed, and now you were—

No. No, you were still breathing. Faint, but there. You were still here.

She had to move.

She didn’t say a word as she hoisted you up, as she carried you with a grip that was both impossibly firm and terrifyingly desperate. Enid scrambled beside her, speaking—yelling—something, but Wednesday couldn’t hear her. The blood rushing in her ears was too loud.

All she could do was walk. Move forward.

She didn’t stop. Not until she reached the infirmary. Not until she had laid you down. Not until the nurse had taken you from her arms, pushing her back, ushering her out.

And then—she was waiting.

Sitting outside the infirmary doors. Hands curled into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms.She stared at the floor, her jaw clenched so hard it ached, but she didn’t care. She barely felt it. All she felt was the weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating, inescapable.

Her fault.

Her fault.

Her fault.

Every second stretched unbearably, the minutes dragging into something endless, torturous. She had never been patient, had never liked the sensation of waiting. But this wasn’t just waiting.

This was punishment.

A well-earned one.

Then—the door opened.

Wednesday shot to her feet immediately, her body moving before her mind could catch up. The nurse barely had time to look at her before Wednesday demanded, “What happened?”

The words were sharper than intended, edged with something she didn’t want to name. The nurse exhaled, crossing her arms.

“She collapsed due to malnutrition. Her glucose levels had dropped to a dangerously low level—hence, the loss of consciousness. I started her on an IV to stabilize her, but she’s severely lacking in proper nutrients. This didn’t happen overnight.”

Wednesday knew that. Of course she knew that.

“She’ll be okay,” the nurse added after a pause, her tone softening slightly. “But this isn’t just a passing issue. If this continues, it could become significantly more serious.”

She didn’t need to hear if this continues because of you. She didn’t need to. The words echoed loud enough inside Wednesday’s own skull.

She barely nodded. The nurse lingered for a moment, as if contemplating saying something else, but then she sighed and stepped away, leaving Wednesday alone once again.

No.

Not alone.

Enid was there now.

The blonde had been quiet until now, watching, waiting. But as soon as the nurse disappeared, she moved forward, her expression unreadable.

“You’re blaming yourself.”

It wasn’t a question.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

Enid sighed, “Wednesday…”

“I am to blame,” she said simply, her voice flat, empty. “There is no need to sugarcoat the truth. This started because of me.”

Enid frowned. “I’m not saying what you said didn’t have an impact. But you didn’t make her stop eating. You didn’t force her to do this.”

Wednesday’s fingers twitched at her sides. “I didn’t have to. My words were enough.”

Enid sighed again, quieter this time. She hesitated, then carefully sat beside her. She didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch her, and Wednesday was grateful for that. She wouldn’t have been able to tolerate it.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Enid murmured, voice softer than before.

Wednesday swallowed, staring straight ahead. “She shouldn’t have to be okay. She shouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.”

Enid exhaled, shaking her head. “You love making yourself the villain, huh?”

Wednesday’s jaw tensed. “I don’t—”

“Look, I get it. You feel like you caused this. And maybe, yeah, what you said did affect her. But, Wednesday, this is not just on you. That’s something in her mind that we need to help her with. You don’t fix this by beating yourself up.”

Wednesday didn’t respond.

Because she didn’t believe that.

Because she knew the truth.

This was her fault.

And she had no idea how to make it right.

Wednesday hadn’t moved from her spot.

She sat there, her spine straight as ever, hands folded rigidly in her lap, her eyes fixed on your face. She had watched every slight movement—every twitch of your fingers, every shallow rise and fall of your chest, every slow inhale that never seemed quite deep enough.

She didn’t move, but inside, she was crumbling.

She didn’t allow herself to blink as your eyelids fluttered. She didn’t exhale as your breathing shifted, as your fingers curled slightly against the thin sheet draped over you. Then, finally, finally, your lashes lifted, and the moment your gaze met hers, something in her cracked.

Relief hit her first. A sharp, overwhelming thing that seized her chest, nearly stole her breath. She had prepared herself for worse—prepared for another stretch of waiting, for something deeper than sleep. But you were awake.

You were still here.

But the relief barely had time to settle before guilt surged up to choke it out.

You looked exhausted. The shadows under your eyes were more pronounced than ever, and your skin, normally warm with life, still held a pallor that made her stomach twist.

“…What happened?” Your voice was hoarse, quieter than usual.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched. “You collapsed.”

Your brows furrowed slightly at her words, as if you hadn’t quite processed them.

“Oh.” Your voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t think it would be that bad…”

Something inside Wednesday snapped.

She had spent the last week watching you waste away in front of her, agonizing over every missed meal, every bite you left untouched. She had spent every waking moment searching for ways to fix it, to reverse the damage, to bring you back before you slipped too far.

And now, here you were—lying in a hospital bed, looking as fragile as she had ever seen you—and you had the audacity to act like this wasn’t serious.

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to scold you, to demand how you could let this happen to yourself, how you could do something so reckless and still dismiss it as if it were nothing.

But how could she, when she was the one who had pushed you over the edge in the first place?

Her fingers twitched in her lap. The words burned in her throat, sharp and bitter.

And then you exhaled, turning your gaze downward. “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble…”

Wednesday inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No.” The word left her lips before she could stop it, firm and unwavering. “No, you do not get to apologize for this.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, but before you could protest, she continued.

“You collapsed,” she said, her voice steady, controlled—but underneath, there was something else. Something fragile. “You were starving yourself. And you still think you should be apologizing to me?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Wednesday leaned forward ever so slightly. “You are not a burden to me.” Her voice didn’t waver, but she felt something tighten in her chest. “Nothing I said was ever meant to make you doubt that.”

Your eyes flickered to hers. There was something unreadable in them, something distant.

She swallowed.

“I never meant it.” Her voice softened, but there was an urgency beneath it, a desperation she couldn’t quite mask. “Not once. Not in a million lifetimes.”

You didn’t say anything.

She had spent so long trying to find the right words, and now that she had them, she didn’t know if they were enough.

She just wanted you to believe her.

She just wanted you to be okay.

“…I’ll try to balance things a bit more.”

It was barely a whisper, a quiet, reluctant offering, but it struck Wednesday like a blow to the chest.

You weren’t supposed to balance things. You weren’t supposed to change. You weren’t supposed to let her words sink their claws into you so deeply that you felt the need to shrink yourself into something smaller, something less.

But before she could argue, before she could say anything, you turned your face away. You turned your head away from her, your face shifting out of her view.

“I’m feeling sleepy.” Your voice was soft. Detached. “I think I’ll rest for a bit.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Wednesday sat there, staring at you. She wanted to keep talking. Wanted to shake you awake, keep you with her just a little longer, find the right words to make you understand.

But she didn’t.

And this time, as you drifted away, she knew—this wasn’t just sleep.

This was something deeper. Something worse.

Wednesday watched, That was all she could do now—watch, observe, analyze every shift in your expression, every movement, every breath, hoping, praying, that she was wrong.

She wasn’t.

The day you left the infirmary, you sat at the breakfast table with your tray in front of you, and for a brief moment, Wednesday felt something almost like relief. There was food on your plate. Not enough, but more than there had been before. A single bite of toast, a small portion of fruit. She waited, staring, barely touching her own food as she watched to see if you would eat.

You did. A small bite. Then another.

But it wasn’t the same.

The way you chewed was hesitant, methodical, like you were forcing yourself. There was no absentminded conversation, no playful remarks, no soft laughter as you nudged Enid when she told a ridiculous story.

It was quiet. Stiff. Empty.

Enid tried to make up for it, talking twice as much to fill the silence, but it was all wrong. Because this silence—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t natural.

It was a void, stretching further and further, swallowing you whole.

Wednesday’s stomach churned as she watched you pick up a spoon and push your food around your plate.

You thought she didn’t notice when you stopped after three bites. When you placed your utensils down too early and excused yourself.

But she did.

She noticed everything.

And still, she said nothing.

What could she say? She had already broken you. If she pushed too hard, you would only retreat further. But if she didn’t push at all…

She wasn’t sure which was worse.

And now, Wednesday sat at her desk,staring at the blank pages of her notebook, her mind spiraling.

You weren’t getting better. You were only pretending to. For her.

And that was worse.

She could feel it, the weight of it, pressing in on her lungs. You had already decided. You believed, wholeheartedly, that you had to change. That she wanted you to change.

She had never intended for her words to hurt you. She never thought—never even imagined—that you would take them so deeply, let them fester inside of you until they ate you alive.

But you had.

Because she had let them.

Because she had been the one to plant them in the first place.

You were fading.

The way you moved, slower than before, as if some invisible force was dragging you down. The way you laughed, short and muted, never quite reaching your eyes. The way you smiled at her—not the way you used to, not the soft, effortless warmth that had once made her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t understand, but something practiced. Forced.

She knew that you thought you were a burden to her. She saw it in the way you spoke to her now, careful and measured, as if testing the weight of every word before you allowed it to leave your mouth. She saw it in the way you responded to her attempts to fix things—never annoyed, never upset, only guilty.

And worst of all, she saw it in your eyes.

You had always looked at her. Always.

She had never acknowledged how much she had relied on it until it was gone.

Before, you had looked at her like she was something more than just Wednesday Addams. Not an untouchable force, not a figure to be feared, but simply her. You had looked at her with fondness, with exasperation, with an affection that she hadn’t fully known what to do with.

Now, you barely met her gaze. And when you did, all she saw was uncertainty.

You had once been so full of life. So sweet. You had come into her world with laughter and warmth, with a stubbornness that rivaled her own, and an unwavering certainty that you wanted her, that you had chosen her.

And she had ruined you.

Wednesday sat at the foot of her bed that evening, hands curled into fists against her knees, staring at the wall as the realization settled deep into her bones, cold and unshakable.

She had ruined you.

She had taken the light in your eyes and twisted it into something fragile, something easily broken.

She had done this.

She should have known better.

She should have known better.

Wednesday prided herself on being meticulous, on never making mistakes, on calculating every possible outcome before making a move.

But with you? She had let herself act on impulse, let herself give in to the worst parts of herself, and now she had to watch as the consequences slowly unraveled right in front of her.

And she couldn’t let it continue.

Wednesday inhaled slowly, , forcing herself to think, forcing herself to act.

You would never stop punishing yourself for her as long as she was here. As long as she was standing at your side, you would keep believing that you had to change for her, that you had to mold yourself into something smaller, something less.

So she had to leave first.

You needed to be mad at her. Mad enough to stop punishing yourself for her. And if that was the only thing she could do to fix this, then she would do it. Even if it destroyed her. Even if it meant you hating her.

Because at least then, you would be okay.

You would move on.

And Wednesday?

She would live with it.

Her footsteps felt heavier than ever as she made her way toward your room, each step slower than the last, as if her body was resisting what she was about to do. Her stomach churned, her breath uneven, her mind screaming at her to stop.

She hesitated in front of your door, her fingers hovering over the handle.

This was it.

Her final mistake.

But one that would save you.

"Wends?" you murmured, and the name was a blade to her throat.

She felt it—felt the way you said it, the love behind it, the warmth, the trust. She didn’t deserve any of it.

Wednesday forced herself to take you in one last time. She memorized every detail, every delicate curve of your face, the way your eyes softened just for her, the way your lips parted as if to say more. She knew this was the last time she would be able to look at you like this, the last time you would ever look at her this way—without fear, without doubt, without the weight of betrayal hanging between you.

Her chest ached with something unbearable, something foreign, something she wanted to cut out of herself before it ruined her resolve.

But this had to be done.

She swallowed the hesitation, the pain, forced it all down into the pit of her stomach, where it twisted and festered but could not touch the surface. She willed herself to become stone, to become something cold and untouchable, something that could not be reached, could not be reasoned with.

And then, she killed the thing she loved most.

"I am ending our relationship."

The words fell like an executioner’s axe. Cold. Final.

She watched the way your body froze, the way your breath hitched ever so slightly, the way your hands tensed where they rested against your lap. Your lips parted, then closed again, confusion clouding your eyes.

At first, you just blinked at her, as if trying to process the sentence, as if your brain refused to put the words together in a way that made sense. "What?" you finally breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

Wednesday did not move. Did not flinch. She forced herself to remain perfectly still, like a statue, like a corpse.

She had to make you believe this.

She had to make you hate her.

"I’m not feeling anything anymore," she said, the lie thick on her tongue, thick in her throat. Her voice was flat. Detached. Something dead and distant.

You recoiled like you had been slapped.

And then—just like that—the dam broke.

"What—what are you talking about?" Your voice was raw, uneven. You stood up, stepping toward her, reaching, desperate to close the distance, desperate to fix whatever this was. "Wednesday, what are you saying?"

She should have stepped back. She should have let the distance grow, should have put more space between you so that you couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t make this harder than it already was.

But she didn’t move. She let you get close—close enough that she could feel the heat of your body, close enough that she could see the unshed tears shining in your eyes.

"I don’t love you anymore," she said, forcing every word to sound empty, forcing herself to become the monster you needed her to be.

And there it was.

The breaking point.

“Wednesday, what are you talking about?” Your voice wavered, tears coming out of your eyes. “You don’t—this isn’t—just talk to me—”

Wednesday kept herself still, perfectly composed, even as her entire world was falling apart right in front of her.

“Talk to you?” she repeated, her voice as cold as she could make it. “What is there to talk about? It’s simple. I don’t want this anymore.”

"Tell me the truth," you begged, desperate now, searching her eyes for something—anything—that would tell you this wasn’t real. "Tell me what’s really going on, because this—this doesn’t make any sense."

She clenched her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms, the only thing keeping herself grounded, the only thing keeping herself from breaking.

"I don’t owe you an explanation," she said, and she hated herself for the way your face crumpled, the way your breathing grew uneven, the way you looked at her like she was a stranger, like you didn’t recognize her anymore.

"Was it all a lie?"

The question came so softly that, for a moment, she almost believed she had imagined it.

But then she met your gaze, and she saw the devastation there, saw the way you were holding onto the last thread of hope with trembling fingers.

And she had to cut it.

She nodded.

Another blade through your heart.

She turned away. She could not let you see. Could not let you catch the crack in her mask, could not let you see the way her own vision had started to blur, how her own hands had started to shake.

She moved toward the door, her steps measured, steady, controlled.

But before she could leave, before she could escape this nightmare she had willingly walked into, you spoke again.

"I would have done anything for you," you whispered, and it was not a plea, not a desperate attempt to make her stay. It was just a fact. Just the truth.

And that—that—was what destroyed her.

She gripped the door handle so tightly her knuckles went white.

And then she walked out.

She did not let herself turn back.

She did not let herself hesitate.

She left.

And she did not stop walking. Not when her breath started coming out uneven, not when her throat felt tight, not when her own nails bit into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

She walked and walked, until she was no longer sure where she was going, until she found herself outside her own dorm, until she found herself stepping onto the small balcony, alone beneath the night sky.

She thought about all the things she had stolen from you.

And she thought about how you would be better off without her.

She clenched her jaw.

This was for the best.

You would heal. You would move on. You would live.

That was all that mattered.

The door behind her slammed open, and Wednesday didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

“Why Wednesday!” Enid demanded, “Why the hell would you do that?”

Wednesday exhaled slowly.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Because it was carved into her heart.

It would always be carved into her heart.

You deserved better.

[Author's note: To all my readers who think they aren't perfect, "Perfect" isn’t about how you look—it’s about the way the right eyes find something irreplaceable in you. Beauty isn’t measured by numbers or mirrors chief, it’s in laughter, in kindness, in the way you exist just as you are. You don’t have to shrink yourself to be loved. You are already enough, exactly as you are.]

And so, yeah, that's it... The Angst! I was actually planning on writing this as an origin story for my "You deserved better." one-shot...

BUT I might not do that and maybe idk write a part 2 depending on what you guys want in the comments.

COMMENT IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED IN PART 2 BECAUSE IT IS GONNA TAKE SOME TIME.

Taglist:@rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk@mally-ka@protozoario@machyishere@freakshow2501@101rizzlrr @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @blue-because-no-yellow @thyhooligans @britishblueberrybiscuits @jizzuo308 @maydaymaiiarts @lillyaepetals @fernomenal @ilurvyouuuu @kdt124 @rereadlibrary @cityofnightmares

[jngsuoonrzs]

oh you weren’t kidding when you said this was heavy angst I’m sobbing rn but I love this 🥹

[thedemoninme141]

Don't cry chief..... save your tears for part 2 muehehehhehehe

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

Oh this hurt bad

[dilflovingmisandrist]

when someone asks what your type is but you don't want to say "40 year old+ men tasked with taking care of a child in the apocalypse" so you just say brunettes...

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

[pencil-n-pen]

PLUSH

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masterlist | kofi

alexandria! rick grimes x fem! reader

summary: after settling in alexandria, you’ve put on a few pounds. you’ve never really been all that skinny, but rick is quick to set you straight on just how he feels about your tummy.

cw: reader isn’t like the biggest fan of her weight (rick is in FULL and INTENSE favor of the tummy!) but reader is otherwise not described

a/n: hey i don’t rlly know what happened to me while writing this little blurb. i just feel like rick is one of those guys who goes crazy over a woman’s pouch n stomach fat ESPECIALLY in the apocalypse

brought to you by the weight i’ve gained while recovering from knee surgery

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۫ ꣑ৎ

Alexandria is nice. Comfortable. Safe.

You might not feel safe all the time, but well. Does anyone, with the constant, looming threat of the undead? Alexandria has walls- good ones, but still.

Though it seems your comfortability has gone directly to one place.

It’s the end of the day, and you’ve taken off your usual outerwear and now stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom, the tank top you usually wear under your clothes a little tighter than usual.

You turn to the side, eyes ever critical as you trace the new curves you’re sporting.

Back and forth, side to side, sucking it in, raising your arms above your head, squishing it with your hands. Pulling your tank top off your body a little bit. Now, you have always been on the squishier side, having retained some of it even when food was especially scarce, but now you look more like you did before the world went to hell.

Funny how that works. How there’s hordes of undead not too far away, how society has collapsed, and you’re still staring at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you should try to lose some weight.

Someone clears their throat behind you, and you drop the plush flesh in your hands.

Rick’s leaning against the bathroom doorframe, eyeing you up and down with a certain heat in his eyes.

You haven’t been together for very long. Not long enough for you to know how he’ll react to the sight of the roll of flesh hanging over the edge of your pajama bottoms.

You’re not entirely sure how you managed to capture his attention in the first place, let alone move in together once you reached Alexandria. You were just a loner the group had picked up not too far from the safe zone, desperate for protection and safety in numbers.

And well. Who can look at Rick and not want his arms around you in every conceivable way?

“What d’ya have there?” He asks, pushing off the doorframe and making his way over to you.

You avoid his gaze (it still makes you nervous) and turn back to the mirror.

“Nothing. I guess I’ve been eating better since getting here.”

“Mm,” He hums, deep and throaty. “I like it.”

You frown. “You don’t have to—“

He comes up behind you, chin hooking over your shoulder and hands coming around the squeeze and roll the fat between his hands.

“You don’t like it?”

You make a non-committal noise.. “I think most girls don’t, really. Well, maybe not. I can’t speak for all women. But,”

You shrug. “I’ve never really been skinny, so. I don’t know.”

Rick’s hands are warm and hot where they hold and squeeze your tummy.

“Do you not like it when I do this?” He murmurs, lips against your neck.

It’s a conflicting feeling. On one hand, Rick is ridiculously attractive, and his hands feel amazing on your body.

On the other hand, the squeezing and rolling accentuates and draws attention to the fat there.

“I don’t know,” You decide to answer honestly. He hasn’t responded negatively so far. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the weight I lost when I was alone. Kind of a fucked up thing to think, I know.”

You sigh. “I appreciate what my body does for me.”

Rick just hums, arms around your waist. “You look healthy. Makes me happy to know my woman,” He mouths at your neck, “Is provided for. I’m a man, sweetheart. The only thing I want to do with this here,”

He rolls the fat in his hands for emphasis. “Is bury my fuckin’ face in it.”

Your skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and you squirm in place at the attention.

He holds you in place. “You know what it means? Means my woman is taken care of. Means I’m doing my job. What kind of man would I be if you were all skin and bone? Couldn’t call myself a man.”

You huff, leaning back into his chest a little. “I thought flat stomachs were the beauty standard.”

“Sweetheart,” He groans, “I don’t fuckin’ care what the standard is. You think the Greeks were carving women with flat stomachs?”

“No, but—“

“No, nothing. You look sexy as hell. ‘Sides. It’s protecting an organ I happen to like very much.”

You smack his arm. “You’re terrible.”

He kisses your cheek. “No I’m not. Come on. It’s too late for you to be worrying about anything.”

He turns off the lights while you get comfortable, then quickly settles in bed with you, arms circling your waist and pulling you flush to his chest, hands sliding under your tank and immediately resuming their ministrations.

“Rick.” You say warningly.

“What?” He murmurs, voice already rumbly and slow. “M’ just getting comfortable.”

“You’re such a tease.”

“Is it a crime to love on my woman? All of her?”

“It is when we’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Fine, fine,” He grumbles, burying his face in your neck, hands stilling but remaining where they are.

“Can’t believe you don’t like it. S’ so soft. So nice to hold. One of my favorite things.”

“Oh really?”

“Mmm,” He gives it one last squeeze. “Yeah.”

Well. In the face of dedication like that, who could deny the man?

You let out a long exhale, relaxing into his hold and allowing him the comfort he so clearly desires. Rick makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and rubs your stomach a few times before well and truly settling into sleep.

With his warm hands held fast around you, you follow soon after.

۫ ꣑ৎ

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

Need me a man like Rick 

[the-kr8tor]

hiii pookie dookie 🙂‍↕️🩷

here's a request from a very sick friend (me 😓)

ekko x reader but reader isn't really in their best shape because of the flu and a sore throat, taking the day off to get better. ekko comes back to take care of his partner only to be greeted by a hand on his face, stopping him from getting any closer. reader just don't want to get him sick! but he doesn't really care as he melts down in a puddle of drama because he didn't get his lil kisses 😓 poor boy

Im long overdue for an ekko sick fic so this is perfect!! Get well soon bleaky pookie ❤️❤️ I hope this will miraculously cure you ❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, descriptions of illness, lovestruck! Ekko, no s2 spoiler but it's set after that, cw food mentions, fluff!

Navigation

Ekko did not want to go on patrol for today. It wasn't one of those days where he just wanted to disappear in the covers for the whole day with you by his side. But it's one of those sick days that he doesn't look forward to, especially when you're the one that's ill.

No matter how much you persuaded him to go out and leave you, lest Zaun suddenly burst into flames without him, he couldn't find it in himself to get on his hoverboard and leave. Your sickly cough and fever made him stop in his tracks and consider— truly consider giving the reigns to Scar just for one day. After a lot of reassurance, telling him that you'll be fine and that you have everything you'll ever need in the treehouse, he finally got on his board but without sparing you another worried glance before shooing him away with a strained cough.

The minute his patrol ended, he flew back home immediately to you. Ekko stopped by the canteen for a bit and got you some warm soup and biscuits since that's all you could stomach for today. His worry grew every minute he was out there and you were all alone at home nursing a headache and a fever. But that all ebbed away when he landed by the door, scraping the soles of his boots on the doormat before entering inside.

The air runs warm and stale inside, and he hears your sniffles before he could even make out your shape under the covers.

“Hey, I'm home.” He says with a concerned tone, moving closer to the pile on the bed as you slightly shift. “How do you feel? Did Vi check in on you just like she said?”

You groan in response, and as Ekko sits beside you, bed dipping slightly, he can feel just how warm you are under the blanket. “Shit, you're burning up.” Gently moving away the covers to feel your forehead, he sees your half lidded eyes blink above the hem. “She didn't come by?”

“She did.” You croak out, sniffing relentlessly. “Got me some meds and…” heaving, Ekko grimaces at the poor state that you're in. “Refilled my water.”

“Did you take the meds?”

Inhaling, breath sounding crackly, you weakly take his palm and place it over your cheek. His hand is colder against your skin since he just rushed home, he gives you reprieve from the heat under your eyes. Through the haze of sickness, you try to make out if you did take the meds and not just stare at it and fall asleep before Vi left.

“I don't remember.”

“Really?” He winces, more concerned than disappointed. “I should've gotten Cait to do it instead. She would've made sure you drank it.”

“You still hate her guts.” A smile manages to creep over to your lips.

“I do, maybe asking her to take care of you might make her think that we're good now.” With a brow raised, he smiles smugly.

“You're sneaky.” Poking his stomach, he chuckles.

“You need a sponge bath. Get rid of your fever before it fries your brain.” He begins to stand up, grabbing the bowl of lukewarm water with a small towel inside that Vi probably refilled before.

“But I don't wanna.” Pouting, you try to yank him back on the bed.

“D’you want to get better, angel?”

“‘Angel,’ oh you only call me that when I'm being a brat.” You turn away from him like a petulant child, back sticky with sweat. He couldn't help but smile at you.

Sighing, fully endeared, he sits back down, hand gently caressing your bicep. Goosebumps appear on your skin with every touch. “Come on, I need you to get better.” Chin right atop your bicep, his tone grows softer. “I promise to be gentle.”

Twisting in place, you flash your puppy dog eyes at him. “You're always gentle.”

“See? It won't be as bad.”

“It'll be cold.”

“I'll cover you up immediately after.” Ekko pecks you right under your elbow, adding to his persuasion.

The cogs in your head turn, and you finally nod after weighing your options. “Okay, do I get chicken soup after?”

“It's already waiting for you.” His palm wipes away the sweat off your brow.

“Really?”

“Now you're just trying to delay.” Chuckling, he gently pinches your nose.

“Is it working?” You ask smugly.

“Kind of,” shrugging, he stands up again, taking the basin along with him. “The covers better be off you when I get back.”

“My clothes too?” With a wink that looked more like a pained grimace, you try to flirt even in your sick fogged up mind.

“Maybe when you're better.” Ekko wins though, especially after the proper wink he sent your way over his shoulder that made your knees weak. Or maybe that's the flu that's talking.

—

With the windows open, a fresh breeze filling inside the treehouse, your fever has gone down significantly thanks to Ekko. You're wearing new clothes after the chilling sponge bath that you yelped at with every scrub, and with the meds finally in your stomach, you practically feel brand new.

He's been feeding you soup to help fill your hunger. Now without the haze of fever, you keep noticing the way his eyes glance over to your lips every so often. At first you thought that he was making sure that you don't spill a single drop of it on the fresh linen that he just changed for you, but even after the last spoonful of soup and he's still flicking his eyes over to your lips, you have a feeling why.

“Do I have something on my lips?” You ask casually so as to not arouse any suspicion while he places the empty bowl on the bedside table.

“No, why?” Glancing your way, an arm over your waist as he cages you in on the bed. His brown eyes challenge you, platinum twists falling over his eye.

“Because you keep staring at it like it owes you money.”

“You do owe me a few coins.”

You slap his chest playfully whilst he mirrors your smile. “I think I know exactly why.”

Ekko scooches closer, hip to hip while his hands anchor him beside you. You're still warm, but his gaze on you is warmer. “Yeah? Why do you think that is?” His eyes flick down to your lips again.

“There it is again.” You say like you've caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Ekko leans closer until you could see your reflection in his sweetened gaze. “I think you're looking for something. Something that I couldn't give you this morning and when you came home.”

“And?” He teases with his nose nudging your own.

You move back, palms atop his chest. “You want your usual kiss.”

“Maybe.” Leaning forward some more, his lips barely brushed atop yours before you pulled away, head hitting the bed’s headboard lightly. “Careful.” He chuckles, palm sliding behind your head.

“You can't kiss me, you'll get sick too.” You say with a slight frown. “As much as I want a kiss too, I don't want to give you the flu.”

“What if I say please?” Raising a brow, he smiles. And you continue to look at him through your lashes. “Please?”

“Ekko,” you warn with your palm right on his face which he just chuckles atop of it before gently taking your wrist and laying it over your stomach. “You said that you can't afford to get sick.”

“When did I say that, hm?”

“Yesterday when I said that my throat felt scratchy.”

Head lolling back, he groans. “You can't even remember what we ate last night.” He faces you once again, this time it's his turn to give you a pleading look. “Just one?”

“You survived until now without my kisses, you can handle a few more hours.” Poking his cheek, he dramatically falls forward on top of your chest. Legs kicking briefly in the air before he falls limp with a fake pained groan. You can't help but laugh as you hug him. “Come on, don't be a baby, you'll get your kisses once I'm better.”

Head propping up atop your clavicle, his eyes glint playfully. “Do you think if you chug all the medicine—”

“That's not how it works, babe.” He answers with his head thumping carefully back on your chest.

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

I can ALWAYS rely on the-kr8tor for a good ekko fic 😍

[the-kr8tor]

Ekko's Birthday

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Synopsis: You decide to surprise Ekko for his birthday.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, reader has nicknames, reader has unnamed family members, noxian! Reader, established relationship, set in my series ink and bedrock, s2 spoilers, cw food mentions, one suggestive joke, lovestruck! Ekko, fluff!

A/N: this is a few days late but happy birthday to the boy saviour! 🎂🎉 Special thanks to @pleaktale

Ekko Masterlist

Navigation

“Ekko.”

He stirs in his sleep, feeling a warm palm gently tracing his jawline. The touch is as light as a feather, pinky running along his skin like summer raindrops raining down upon him.

“Ekko, come on, firefly, wake up.” Your voice whispers in his ear, breath fanning along his cheek. “Please? This is the only time today that I’ll have you all to myself. Ekko.” You say with a lilt, singing his name like it's a ballad.

Turning towards you, bed dipping down slightly, he nudges his way onto your lap, head resting comfortably atop your thighs and face flushed against your stomach as if he's attuned to your warmth. He feels your hand carefully move away strands of his platinum twists, then you slither towards his scruff, kneading along the back of his head. He could get used to this, perhaps he already has when you keep spoiling him rotten. He always wakes up to your soft voice and even softer touch, to him that's paradise.

Humming against you, face pressed into the plush of your stomach, he wraps an arm around you, clinging onto you in his half asleep state.

“How long have you been awake?” He tiredly asks, fighting a yawn.

“A while.” Chuckling, you place an affectionate kiss right atop his temple even though you might get a knot on the small of your back from the twisted position. “Did you forget what day it is today?”

Ekko inhales the morning air, body clock telling him that you let him oversleep. The fact that he could even afford to sleep more when no explosions wrack him awake, or alarms in his head that are constantly going off— It's pure bliss for him. He can do that now, rest, now that the undercity is doing a lot better than three years ago. Even the air smells crisp and fresher, unlike before when he would take a deep inhale, he gets a lung full of smoke and gunpowder. Zaun and its people are better, there’s still a lot more work to be done, but it’s beginning to look and feel like the Zaun he saw once upon a lifetime ago.

And then there’s you, patient and kind towards his people. You who have made a name for yourself with just your pen and gentle words. Even managed to change the two cities for the better with your work. In their eyes, you're no longer the volatile Noxian they thought you were. You could still be explosive, yes, but you never act without thinking twice, without thinking how it would impact the people around you, and your new found home. You've managed to slink your way into his stone clad heart, chiseled your way inside, and he let you stay there, made a home for yourself in there, painted the walls for you, made furniture for you to rest on— and he wouldn't have it any other way.

All those years of surviving is worth it to see the day that he could just… live.

“Is it…” Ekko croaks out, throat heavy with sleep as he bunches your blouse in his grip. “...Is it soup day in the canteen?”

“Soup day?” Leaning down and giggling, you kiss every inch of the side of his face, making sure that there’s no skin left unkissed. “No,” you tamp down your bout of giggles as you kiss the corner of his sleep ridden eye. “Even better.”

Ekko cracks one eye open, honeyed brown eyes staring half lidded at you. It’s as if the prospect of the day not being about soup intrigued him. “I give up, what day is it?”

Your fond smile slowly stretches into a grin. “It's your birthday.”

He's taken aback, leaning slightly away from you as his eyes narrow suspiciously. “How'd you know that?”

You clearly find him adorable when you nudge your nose atop his own. “I asked…around.”

“Scar told you, didn't he?”

“Maybeee.” Your giggles waft over him.

“And you bribed him for it?” His eyes shine with amusement whilst you try to act innocent by rubbing off the crust gathered in the corner of his eye.

“He may or may not have a whole box of cookies all to himself.” You beam down at Ekko, hand kneading at his skin fondly, trying to flatten the knots in his tired muscles. He looks at you so sweetly that it could rival any type of sweets you made as a bargaining chip. “Happy birthday, Ekko.”

For the first time in a long time, he really thinks that the occasion is a happy one. And not something he feels guilty from, guilty that he got to live and they didn't, guilty that he's older than them now. The reason isn't solely because of you and your love for him, but it’s because the world around him feels brighter now, lighter, that it doesn't weigh over his shoulder like a boulder. His firelights are happier, some even deciding to settle down because of how better the world has become for them, something that they only dreamed of that they can now give their children— A future, Ekko looks forward to the future rather than trying to escape from it, delay it and sometimes even fear it. Now he looks forward to it, wanting to see what his city would look like, desiring to see where you and him would be in the future. The mystery of it all excites him rather than something to be feared. It's no longer bleak in his warm eyes. All he knows is that waking up to you every morning is guaranteed in the future. And he can't wait for the rest.

“Thank you,” hand reaching up to cup your cheek, he tugs you down for a quick yet loving kiss. “Does this mean I get something?”

Scrunching your nose, you pretend to think. “Hm, you tell me.”

Ekko knows you enough that this is one of your teasing games. He decides to play along, but this time, he doesn't flirt back to get you flustered enough that you soon admit defeat, no, he’ll play his cards right, and in his hand is the birthday card that he knows you'll fall for immediately.

“But it’s my birthday...” His tone turns small, broken, as if you punched his precious hoverboard and threw it into the river. To add salt to your wound, Ekko frowns, eyes downturned.

“Ekko…” you coo, mirroring his frown, but in your case, it’s real. “I do have something for you.” You say the words like you're trying to placate him by giving him a consolation prize. “I'm sorry, I did prepare something for you.” Kissing his cheek, you feel his growing grin under your puckered lips. As you move away, he smiles victoriously. “You little shit!”

“You can't call me that, it's my birthday.”

“Birthday or not, you still played me.” Poking his chest, he chuckles and grabs your finger before taking your palm in his and sewing his hand around your own lovingly. “You’re trying to be sweet on me.” It’s your turn to look at him suspiciously.

“Is it working?” Bringing the intertwined hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles, pecking gently whilst he gazes at you through half lidded eyes.

You know that he's always been a charmer, under the leader side he always shows, and the almost permanent frown on his lips, his sweetness goes beyond anyone you could compare it to. Not even you managed to fight it whenever he gives you his best smile or when he touches the small of your back whenever he passes by you with his firelights, leaving you frozen in place even if it's such a simple action. But it's enough to have you, a tough Noxian, to melt into a puddle.

Shaking your head, you tug at the hem of his shirt. “Don’t test me, Ekko.” Despite your words, the way you gaze at him defeats the purpose of your so-called threat.

“So it's working then?” He raises a brow, palm splayed on the small of your back, thumb drawing circles around where your shirt lifted up slightly.

“Do you want your present or not?”

“I don't see a box anywhere, red, are you the present?” His lips curl into a knowing smirk, eyes glinting with mirth.

Biting your lip with a tamped down flustered chuckle, you pinch his side lightly. “Maybe for later, but for now…” taking the box you've hidden beneath the bed, you finally show it to him with hidden shyness. “For you, firefly.”

Ekko sits up, his hand never leaving the expanse of your skin as he eyes the neatly wrapped gift. The box is in deep forest green, all wrapped together with a crimson ribbon. The symbolism isn't lost to him, it makes his heart sing for a moment.

“Shit, I was just joking, you know?” He only reaches for the gift, and it takes for you to place it in his hand rather than wait for him to take it. The box is small, it fits right in his palm perfectly.

“It's your birthday, of course I got you something.”

“You shouldn't have, you being here is enough.”

Grinning, the warmth from your smile is enough to rival the morning sun. “Well you should've told me that before I went out of my way to get you that.” Joking, you tap the gift nervously as he chuckles. “Please open it before I burst a vein.”

“Can I guess?” He delays the moment so that he could savour your rare bout of bashfulness.

“It’s not food.”

“I wasn't going to guess that.” As he gently unties the ribbon, you watch with a wobbly grin.

“Yes, you were.” Your words fade out as he unboxes the gift, revealing the present you've been preparing for weeks.

His eyes blink at the metal work, it's a clockface intended for his stop watch. The circular metal is laid upon a piece of silky cloth, and its intricate etching of a map of Zaun faces him. He's too afraid to touch it, as if it'll crumble in his hand.

“Shit, you don't like it.” You take his silence as something negative. “I knew I should've gotten you a—” His lips silences you, kissing along the curve of your mouth, nose nudging together, and a hand cupping your chin.

His lips part just a smidge, and you take his invitation, kissing deeper and deeper until you're tugged atop his lap, head tilted so he could kiss you properly. If not for your need for air, you'd kiss him for hours.

As you reluctantly pull away, you look into his brown eyes, and briefly glance down at his kiss bitten lips. “I don't think you got your point across, Ekko. Tell me more about how much you like it.”

Chuckling, he runs his thumb across your lips to wipe away the sheen left by him. “I could, but maybe later.” Teasing to keep you on your toes, you roll your eyes and drop your head atop his shoulder like you're disappointed so you could hide your obvious giddyness. “Stop being a baby, I love your gift.”

“I know.” You peck the side of his neck briefly before returning to face him. “But that's just half of it though.”

Ekko gazes at you through tender eyes that's slightly glazed over by a fog of deep affection for you. “There's more?”

“Mm-hmm, flip it over.”

He does what you've instructed him to do, with his free hand on the small of your back, keeping you in place and the other gingerly flipping the gift over, he sees a small yet intricate carving of a portrait of you and him smiling together. If that's not enough to have his heart squeezing in place, the small message above it would.

“‘I’m always just four seconds away from you, firefly.’” He reads, each word uttered fills his whole body with warmth. He's loved, he knows that, but not up to this degree. You revere him, love him through and through, and the thought of you being by his side— thinking of him, even when you're miles away from him, has tears almost falling from his eyes.

“It clips right on top of your watch, to protect it.” You whisper, hand resting on his nape. “I love you, happy birthday.”

Ekko falls right atop your chest, inhaling deeply, arms wrapped around you as his cheek presses on your clavicle. He utters the same three words with softness and with so much love that you could feel it through your skin and under your bones.

With your eyes closed, you start to sing him a Noxian birthday song in an unknown language to him. All the while you cradle him in place, gently swaying to your song. To you, the song fills you with comfort, it reminds you of peace back home and of your childhood.

To him, it reminds him of you. The hauntingly beautiful song will forever be etched in his mind as yours.

As you finish the quick song, you smile against his temple, and you feel him softly smile back.

“What was that?” Ekko asks, eyes shining as he peers through his lashes to gaze at you.

“A song from my country, my mother used to sing that to me and my brother during our birthdays.” You smile fondly at the memory. “It's basically just a happy birthday song.”

“It's beautiful.” He sighs out, thumb running across your cheek.

Smiling, your cheeks run warmer at his compliment. “And here I thought a big cake would be enough.” You mumble as he mindlessly runs his index across your clavicle, tracing small circles around your skin.

“You got me cake?” He asks, hand still grasping the watch cover as he smiles at the tiny portrait.

“Of course, what am I, an idiot?”

“Only sometimes.” He jokingly says as you snort.

“I'll let that slide since it's your birthday.” Leaning away, hands cupping his cheek, you gaze at his blissful face. “Do you want to put that on your watch now?” You gesture towards the gift that's safely tucked in his hand.

“Yeah,” nodding, you take his stopwatch from the bedside table. Ekko tinkers with them for a minute, until there's a metallic click as the present secures in place. The map of Zaun faces him, but when he opens the watch, it's you and him that greets him along with the ticking watch. “It's perfect.”

“Yeah?” You sigh in relief, and he nods again, this time with a grin. “That’s good.” Chuckling with unshed tears in your eyes, you peck his jaw. “There's more to this though.”

“I'm guessing that's the cake?”

“Yes, but you have to get dressed for it.”

His nose scrunches. “But that's the opposite of what you usually ask for?”

A loud guffaw echoes around the room. “Not always! You make me sound like I'm a fiend!” Ekko tilts his head and raises a brow. “...fine, I am but not today! Please, I promised them that you'll be down in a minute. And it's been…” you glance at the clock. “...More than a minute.”

“Who's them?”

—

“Surprise!”

The firelights and members of the commune yell out simultaneously the moment Ekko steps off his hoverboard. They throw colourful confetti at him, pieces of paper sticking to his hair as they smile happily at them.

He can't help but match their expressions.

“Happy birthday, boss.” Scar says, giving him a curt nod as he clasps his shoulder.

“Yeah, happy birthday, boss!” Scar’s kid echoes his father's words, trying to clasp him on his shoulder with his shorter arm while he's in his father's arms.

“Thank you.” Ekko's heart swells at the sight. There are streamers hanging above the string lights, it flutters with the wind and the fallen gingko leaves.

The crowd parts for him, and the sun shines on a long table spread out with tons of food, most of them are sweets, probably a courtesy of you. And there are benches all around it, waiting for him and the firelights.

Eyes shining under the sun, he looks for you behind him. He didn't know the day could get any better than this, but it has when you're carrying the biggest cake he has ever seen. He's more entranced by the one holding it though, but the cake is a bonus.

“Come on and make a wish.”

Stepping closer, hands holding on top of yours, the two of you hold the cake as a single lit candle is placed right in the middle of the fluffy light viridescent cake.

“I already have my wish right here.” He whispers only to you before blowing out his candle.

The round of applause and ecstatic cheers echo around the clearing. If he could turn back time further, he would tell his younger self that it's worth it, that one day all the fighting and surviving would be worth it. Just for this moment, his family are finally happy, and the air smells sweet but the smile on his love is even sweeter.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

Okay so…who’s doing that for my birthday 😆

No but seriously Ekko literally deserves this love

[the-kr8tor]

Ekko would do that for your bday!!!

Yeah he does 🥹🥹

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

If only Ekko was real 😢💔

He deserves so much I wish we got to see more from him and jinx 😢

[the-kr8tor]

Ekko's Birthday

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Synopsis: You decide to surprise Ekko for his birthday.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, reader has nicknames, reader has unnamed family members, noxian! Reader, established relationship, set in my series ink and bedrock, s2 spoilers, cw food mentions, one suggestive joke, lovestruck! Ekko, fluff!

A/N: this is a few days late but happy birthday to the boy saviour! 🎂🎉 Special thanks to @pleaktale

Ekko Masterlist

Navigation

“Ekko.”

He stirs in his sleep, feeling a warm palm gently tracing his jawline. The touch is as light as a feather, pinky running along his skin like summer raindrops raining down upon him.

“Ekko, come on, firefly, wake up.” Your voice whispers in his ear, breath fanning along his cheek. “Please? This is the only time today that I’ll have you all to myself. Ekko.” You say with a lilt, singing his name like it's a ballad.

Turning towards you, bed dipping down slightly, he nudges his way onto your lap, head resting comfortably atop your thighs and face flushed against your stomach as if he's attuned to your warmth. He feels your hand carefully move away strands of his platinum twists, then you slither towards his scruff, kneading along the back of his head. He could get used to this, perhaps he already has when you keep spoiling him rotten. He always wakes up to your soft voice and even softer touch, to him that's paradise.

Humming against you, face pressed into the plush of your stomach, he wraps an arm around you, clinging onto you in his half asleep state.

“How long have you been awake?” He tiredly asks, fighting a yawn.

“A while.” Chuckling, you place an affectionate kiss right atop his temple even though you might get a knot on the small of your back from the twisted position. “Did you forget what day it is today?”

Ekko inhales the morning air, body clock telling him that you let him oversleep. The fact that he could even afford to sleep more when no explosions wrack him awake, or alarms in his head that are constantly going off— It's pure bliss for him. He can do that now, rest, now that the undercity is doing a lot better than three years ago. Even the air smells crisp and fresher, unlike before when he would take a deep inhale, he gets a lung full of smoke and gunpowder. Zaun and its people are better, there’s still a lot more work to be done, but it’s beginning to look and feel like the Zaun he saw once upon a lifetime ago.

And then there’s you, patient and kind towards his people. You who have made a name for yourself with just your pen and gentle words. Even managed to change the two cities for the better with your work. In their eyes, you're no longer the volatile Noxian they thought you were. You could still be explosive, yes, but you never act without thinking twice, without thinking how it would impact the people around you, and your new found home. You've managed to slink your way into his stone clad heart, chiseled your way inside, and he let you stay there, made a home for yourself in there, painted the walls for you, made furniture for you to rest on— and he wouldn't have it any other way.

All those years of surviving is worth it to see the day that he could just… live.

“Is it…” Ekko croaks out, throat heavy with sleep as he bunches your blouse in his grip. “...Is it soup day in the canteen?”

“Soup day?” Leaning down and giggling, you kiss every inch of the side of his face, making sure that there’s no skin left unkissed. “No,” you tamp down your bout of giggles as you kiss the corner of his sleep ridden eye. “Even better.”

Ekko cracks one eye open, honeyed brown eyes staring half lidded at you. It’s as if the prospect of the day not being about soup intrigued him. “I give up, what day is it?”

Your fond smile slowly stretches into a grin. “It's your birthday.”

He's taken aback, leaning slightly away from you as his eyes narrow suspiciously. “How'd you know that?”

You clearly find him adorable when you nudge your nose atop his own. “I asked…around.”

“Scar told you, didn't he?”

“Maybeee.” Your giggles waft over him.

“And you bribed him for it?” His eyes shine with amusement whilst you try to act innocent by rubbing off the crust gathered in the corner of his eye.

“He may or may not have a whole box of cookies all to himself.” You beam down at Ekko, hand kneading at his skin fondly, trying to flatten the knots in his tired muscles. He looks at you so sweetly that it could rival any type of sweets you made as a bargaining chip. “Happy birthday, Ekko.”

For the first time in a long time, he really thinks that the occasion is a happy one. And not something he feels guilty from, guilty that he got to live and they didn't, guilty that he's older than them now. The reason isn't solely because of you and your love for him, but it’s because the world around him feels brighter now, lighter, that it doesn't weigh over his shoulder like a boulder. His firelights are happier, some even deciding to settle down because of how better the world has become for them, something that they only dreamed of that they can now give their children— A future, Ekko looks forward to the future rather than trying to escape from it, delay it and sometimes even fear it. Now he looks forward to it, wanting to see what his city would look like, desiring to see where you and him would be in the future. The mystery of it all excites him rather than something to be feared. It's no longer bleak in his warm eyes. All he knows is that waking up to you every morning is guaranteed in the future. And he can't wait for the rest.

“Thank you,” hand reaching up to cup your cheek, he tugs you down for a quick yet loving kiss. “Does this mean I get something?”

Scrunching your nose, you pretend to think. “Hm, you tell me.”

Ekko knows you enough that this is one of your teasing games. He decides to play along, but this time, he doesn't flirt back to get you flustered enough that you soon admit defeat, no, he’ll play his cards right, and in his hand is the birthday card that he knows you'll fall for immediately.

“But it’s my birthday...” His tone turns small, broken, as if you punched his precious hoverboard and threw it into the river. To add salt to your wound, Ekko frowns, eyes downturned.

“Ekko…” you coo, mirroring his frown, but in your case, it’s real. “I do have something for you.” You say the words like you're trying to placate him by giving him a consolation prize. “I'm sorry, I did prepare something for you.” Kissing his cheek, you feel his growing grin under your puckered lips. As you move away, he smiles victoriously. “You little shit!”

“You can't call me that, it's my birthday.”

“Birthday or not, you still played me.” Poking his chest, he chuckles and grabs your finger before taking your palm in his and sewing his hand around your own lovingly. “You’re trying to be sweet on me.” It’s your turn to look at him suspiciously.

“Is it working?” Bringing the intertwined hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles, pecking gently whilst he gazes at you through half lidded eyes.

You know that he's always been a charmer, under the leader side he always shows, and the almost permanent frown on his lips, his sweetness goes beyond anyone you could compare it to. Not even you managed to fight it whenever he gives you his best smile or when he touches the small of your back whenever he passes by you with his firelights, leaving you frozen in place even if it's such a simple action. But it's enough to have you, a tough Noxian, to melt into a puddle.

Shaking your head, you tug at the hem of his shirt. “Don’t test me, Ekko.” Despite your words, the way you gaze at him defeats the purpose of your so-called threat.

“So it's working then?” He raises a brow, palm splayed on the small of your back, thumb drawing circles around where your shirt lifted up slightly.

“Do you want your present or not?”

“I don't see a box anywhere, red, are you the present?” His lips curl into a knowing smirk, eyes glinting with mirth.

Biting your lip with a tamped down flustered chuckle, you pinch his side lightly. “Maybe for later, but for now…” taking the box you've hidden beneath the bed, you finally show it to him with hidden shyness. “For you, firefly.”

Ekko sits up, his hand never leaving the expanse of your skin as he eyes the neatly wrapped gift. The box is in deep forest green, all wrapped together with a crimson ribbon. The symbolism isn't lost to him, it makes his heart sing for a moment.

“Shit, I was just joking, you know?” He only reaches for the gift, and it takes for you to place it in his hand rather than wait for him to take it. The box is small, it fits right in his palm perfectly.

“It's your birthday, of course I got you something.”

“You shouldn't have, you being here is enough.”

Grinning, the warmth from your smile is enough to rival the morning sun. “Well you should've told me that before I went out of my way to get you that.” Joking, you tap the gift nervously as he chuckles. “Please open it before I burst a vein.”

“Can I guess?” He delays the moment so that he could savour your rare bout of bashfulness.

“It’s not food.”

“I wasn't going to guess that.” As he gently unties the ribbon, you watch with a wobbly grin.

“Yes, you were.” Your words fade out as he unboxes the gift, revealing the present you've been preparing for weeks.

His eyes blink at the metal work, it's a clockface intended for his stop watch. The circular metal is laid upon a piece of silky cloth, and its intricate etching of a map of Zaun faces him. He's too afraid to touch it, as if it'll crumble in his hand.

“Shit, you don't like it.” You take his silence as something negative. “I knew I should've gotten you a—” His lips silences you, kissing along the curve of your mouth, nose nudging together, and a hand cupping your chin.

His lips part just a smidge, and you take his invitation, kissing deeper and deeper until you're tugged atop his lap, head tilted so he could kiss you properly. If not for your need for air, you'd kiss him for hours.

As you reluctantly pull away, you look into his brown eyes, and briefly glance down at his kiss bitten lips. “I don't think you got your point across, Ekko. Tell me more about how much you like it.”

Chuckling, he runs his thumb across your lips to wipe away the sheen left by him. “I could, but maybe later.” Teasing to keep you on your toes, you roll your eyes and drop your head atop his shoulder like you're disappointed so you could hide your obvious giddyness. “Stop being a baby, I love your gift.”

“I know.” You peck the side of his neck briefly before returning to face him. “But that's just half of it though.”

Ekko gazes at you through tender eyes that's slightly glazed over by a fog of deep affection for you. “There's more?”

“Mm-hmm, flip it over.”

He does what you've instructed him to do, with his free hand on the small of your back, keeping you in place and the other gingerly flipping the gift over, he sees a small yet intricate carving of a portrait of you and him smiling together. If that's not enough to have his heart squeezing in place, the small message above it would.

“‘I’m always just four seconds away from you, firefly.’” He reads, each word uttered fills his whole body with warmth. He's loved, he knows that, but not up to this degree. You revere him, love him through and through, and the thought of you being by his side— thinking of him, even when you're miles away from him, has tears almost falling from his eyes.

“It clips right on top of your watch, to protect it.” You whisper, hand resting on his nape. “I love you, happy birthday.”

Ekko falls right atop your chest, inhaling deeply, arms wrapped around you as his cheek presses on your clavicle. He utters the same three words with softness and with so much love that you could feel it through your skin and under your bones.

With your eyes closed, you start to sing him a Noxian birthday song in an unknown language to him. All the while you cradle him in place, gently swaying to your song. To you, the song fills you with comfort, it reminds you of peace back home and of your childhood.

To him, it reminds him of you. The hauntingly beautiful song will forever be etched in his mind as yours.

As you finish the quick song, you smile against his temple, and you feel him softly smile back.

“What was that?” Ekko asks, eyes shining as he peers through his lashes to gaze at you.

“A song from my country, my mother used to sing that to me and my brother during our birthdays.” You smile fondly at the memory. “It's basically just a happy birthday song.”

“It's beautiful.” He sighs out, thumb running across your cheek.

Smiling, your cheeks run warmer at his compliment. “And here I thought a big cake would be enough.” You mumble as he mindlessly runs his index across your clavicle, tracing small circles around your skin.

“You got me cake?” He asks, hand still grasping the watch cover as he smiles at the tiny portrait.

“Of course, what am I, an idiot?”

“Only sometimes.” He jokingly says as you snort.

“I'll let that slide since it's your birthday.” Leaning away, hands cupping his cheek, you gaze at his blissful face. “Do you want to put that on your watch now?” You gesture towards the gift that's safely tucked in his hand.

“Yeah,” nodding, you take his stopwatch from the bedside table. Ekko tinkers with them for a minute, until there's a metallic click as the present secures in place. The map of Zaun faces him, but when he opens the watch, it's you and him that greets him along with the ticking watch. “It's perfect.”

“Yeah?” You sigh in relief, and he nods again, this time with a grin. “That’s good.” Chuckling with unshed tears in your eyes, you peck his jaw. “There's more to this though.”

“I'm guessing that's the cake?”

“Yes, but you have to get dressed for it.”

His nose scrunches. “But that's the opposite of what you usually ask for?”

A loud guffaw echoes around the room. “Not always! You make me sound like I'm a fiend!” Ekko tilts his head and raises a brow. “...fine, I am but not today! Please, I promised them that you'll be down in a minute. And it's been…” you glance at the clock. “...More than a minute.”

“Who's them?”

—

“Surprise!”

The firelights and members of the commune yell out simultaneously the moment Ekko steps off his hoverboard. They throw colourful confetti at him, pieces of paper sticking to his hair as they smile happily at them.

He can't help but match their expressions.

“Happy birthday, boss.” Scar says, giving him a curt nod as he clasps his shoulder.

“Yeah, happy birthday, boss!” Scar’s kid echoes his father's words, trying to clasp him on his shoulder with his shorter arm while he's in his father's arms.

“Thank you.” Ekko's heart swells at the sight. There are streamers hanging above the string lights, it flutters with the wind and the fallen gingko leaves.

The crowd parts for him, and the sun shines on a long table spread out with tons of food, most of them are sweets, probably a courtesy of you. And there are benches all around it, waiting for him and the firelights.

Eyes shining under the sun, he looks for you behind him. He didn't know the day could get any better than this, but it has when you're carrying the biggest cake he has ever seen. He's more entranced by the one holding it though, but the cake is a bonus.

“Come on and make a wish.”

Stepping closer, hands holding on top of yours, the two of you hold the cake as a single lit candle is placed right in the middle of the fluffy light viridescent cake.

“I already have my wish right here.” He whispers only to you before blowing out his candle.

The round of applause and ecstatic cheers echo around the clearing. If he could turn back time further, he would tell his younger self that it's worth it, that one day all the fighting and surviving would be worth it. Just for this moment, his family are finally happy, and the air smells sweet but the smile on his love is even sweeter.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

Okay so…who’s doing that for my birthday 😆

No but seriously Ekko literally deserves this love

[puppyfenn]

I kinda want a bf but what if he isn’t like Ekko 😔‼️

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

sighhhh sad reality 😢

[fandomology]

my shayla

[eyelessfaces]

[voidreynolds]

i love you, i’m sorry | bellamy blake

summary: the most important person in the world gets ripped from kane’s daughter in a desperate attempt to stay with his sister. *likely part 1/2

kane’s daughter x bellamy blake, because i’m not *that* original.

intentional lowercase because i must be going through something…

not really any warnings other than suggestive comments and slight allusions… not completely cannon with the show’s timing ??

she screamed when he pulled the trigger. she had begged him not to do it— to find any other way. but bellamy was too determined to go with his sister- to assure her safety. this was a guaranteed way.

she clung to his waist as they dragged him away, not letting go even as her father screamed her name and protested, or a guard grabbed hold of her middle. “i need you to let go-“ she focused on Bellamy’s voice over the chaos and yelling. “no.” she kicked at the guard that held her, fighting even bellamy as he tried to pull away from her grip.

“i will be okay, you need to let me go.”

“i can’t.”

she ripped out of even her father’s grasp, ignoring his pleads and attempts to calm her down. “give them a moment.” her father’s usual calm voice sounded desperate. the guards hesitated. bellamy grunted slightly as the girl threw her entire body weight against him in a hug.

“sir, he just shot the chancellor.”

“i know what he did. give them a moment.”

bellamy’s arms finally wrapped around her, squeezing tightly. he said nothing as she shook with sobs, or as his shirt began to soak through with her tears. “look at me,” he gently tilted her chin up towards him. “there’s my girl.” this only made her cry more, though she had tried holding it back.

“i love you.”

Bellamy smiled sadly as his thumb traced her jaw, “i’m sorry.”

bellamy pulled away from her grip and ran so quickly that she stumbled and collapsed onto the floor. “let him go.” councilman kane spoke up before the guards went after him. bellamy was gone before she could stand to her feet. another gunshot. several yells. a door sliding closed.

“he won’t be floated. he’s going to earth with the others.” her breath caught as she lifted her head. He wasn’t guaranteed to die just yet.

but she still may never see him again.

she grabbed one of the guards legs closest to her and pulled. He cursed as he lost his footing. when he hit the ground she was already running. more shouts followed as she rounded the corner of the ark. she punched the guard blocking the door without thinking or caring about consequences. she had to be on that ship.

she had to—

she watched as the drop-ship launched. she collapsed, just as she felt her heart may do the same. he was gone. getting further from her as the ship grew further away through the window.

the guard with the bleeding nose had gotten back to his feet, just as the other guards and her father rounded the corner. she was hauled to her feet, head hanging low to hide the cursed tears.

“let her go.”

her father’s voice broke through her miserable thoughts. the guard holding her tightened her hold, forcing her to stand straight. what would they do with her now? let her sit in a cell? “let her go.” the guard released her unwillingly, pushing her slightly with an irritated grunt. she sent the man a glare, forcing her tears to stop, flaring her nostrils against the tears and stinging in her eyes.

“i will take it from here.”

she ignored her father as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her away from the guards.

“did you really think that would work?” marcus pushed her against the wall so she looked at him, slightly harder than he normally would have. “you would throw a tantrum, attack a few guards and be off with him on a ship to earth?” she looked at the floor, ignoring him, not wanting to hear a lecture. “that boy shot chancellor jaha. be thankful he didn’t get floated.”

she scoffed, pushing past him.

“i am not done talking.”

“i’m done listening.”

marcus didn’t follow her; finally giving her the space she was always demanding from him, now that she was completely alone.

she had tuned out the walk back to her quarters, only realizing she had reached it when she nearly walked passed the door. she climbed the ladder to her bed and curled up in a ball, tuning the world out and letting the tears take hold again. she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself it hadn’t been real. when she opened her eyes, her blurred vision was facing a navy t-shirt. bellamy’s. he had left it here the last time they…- she pulled it against her chest and hugged it. the familiar smell only made the tears and pain grow, and the t-shirt was nothing like holding him. the crying and screaming wore her out. her throat was raw, her head was throbbing, and eventually she fell asleep.

she dreamed of bellamy.

———————

bellamy smirked as he caught her looking him over in his new cadet jacket. “that bad, huh?” she smirked back, folding her arms, “it certainly beats the janitor uniform. that took much too long to get off.” his smirk deepened as he stepped towards her, hand wrapping around her waist to pull her against him. the door opened and the pair jumped apart as councilman kane made his way into the quarters. his eyes narrowed, eyebrows raised towards bellamy. councilman kane to bellamy, dad to the girl he had just been holding. “what’s going on in here?” she straightened her shoulders and reached for a book just over bellamy’s shoulder, “nothing.” “just making sure she is staying out of trouble, sir.” for bellamy, it was a pathetic lie. it was clear that he was the trouble. though he was good at getting adults to trust him, it wasn’t so easy with a girlfriend’s dad- especially if he happened to be a councilman. kane looked doubtful as his eyes shifted between the two of them, “i think it would be beneficial for you to return to whatever you were doing.” she smirked and pulled a horrified bellamy in for a much too passionate kiss. “before you two found your ways in here!” kane’s voice rose to a tone he used to instruct the guards as he looked to bellamy murderously. she smirked slightly, relishing in the embarrassment and horror on bellamy’s face. “my mistake, dad. you weren’t clear.”

kane watched as bellamy briskly headed for the door, looking both guilty and slightly aroused. he turned his attention back to his daughter, arms crossed. “how often does that happen?” he had said ‘that’ like he was speaking of the oxygen crisis or a deadly epidemic. she bit back her smirk, savoring that even in space she could find ways to make her feel like a good, old fashioned rebellious teenager. “bellamy is a good guy. you know him….” she caught her father’s eye, “nothing was going to happen.” there had been one and a half lies. her father did know bellamy. he knew he was always respectful towards his superiors but had also seen how he looked at his daughter. “i’m going to make sure he is scheduled to be on guard any time you have free time.” his voice was flat and final, though there was a the tiniest hint of amusement behind his eyes.

“why can’t you invite any other friends over, when you know i’m in a meeting?”

“my other friends are all working, or in cells.”

“then perhaps i should find you a job…” kane muttered it as he turned back to the door. he had come back for a folder, tucking it under his arm as he turned back to the door. “no more boys while i’m gone. especially that boy.” she smirked slightly as she watched her father leave. she counted exactly sixty seconds before bellamy had returned through the door, a shy, innocent smile on his lips.

————————

she woke to raven kneeling at the foot of her bed. “shit,” she sat up so quickly she hit her head. even in her shock– and now pain, her first thought was to admire how well bellamy maneuvered without ever hitting his head. “what, raven?” she hadn’t meant to snap at her, but as she rubbed her head she felt more irritated. “what would you do to get him back?” she stopped rubbing her head and took in her best friend. she must have been there for finn and seen everything go down. she hadn’t even noticed her. raven’s bloodshot eyes and puffy face mirrored her own. raven wasn’t supposed to know about the delinquents being sent to earth, but being the best friend of the daughter of a councilman had the tendency to come with a lot of secrets. “anything.” she had said it before she could even think. bellamy had been there through the death of her mom; after her father had shut down in grief and buried himself fully in work. the late nights crying and cursing the universe for letting her mom be the one to get sick, bellamy would stay and hold her. while marcus was absent and finding his own way to cope with it, accidentally shut his daughter out.

“i would do anything.”

raven’s expression darkened, nodding once.

“give me two weeks.” raven wiped at her eyes, giving away the fact that she was thinking about finn. she climbed down from the bed in a swift motion. she closed the door behind her and she hadn’t said another word. no pity, or fake comfort. that was why raven was her best friend. she was real. there was no false hope or comforting lies.

she didn’t leave her bed at all, just stayed curled up, holding bellamy’s shirt like it was all she had left. marcus had made pancakes that morning; something that was frowned upon but not quite enough to get him in trouble. you were to eat what you were rationed and absolutely nothing extra was to be made. he had practically dragged her from her bed and sat her at the table without a word. the pancakes were an apology, but all they did was remind her of bellamy. she had made him pancakes that first morning, after chaos and meetings had kept her father away all night. she remembered feeling like she was floating then, as if the gravity had been turned off in the ark. her mom had always made her pancakes on her birthday, something kane tried to mimic, though they were never as good. now they just sat on her plate, soaking up the syrup, growing cold, reminding her of yet another person she had lost.

fourteen days, raven had promised. but could a promise of seeing him again really be trusted? there was no way to earth. that had been four days ago she had said that. there was no way to know if he was still alive, or if they would survive going down there. did she care? did she want to survive without him? the door opened and she heard her father breathe a sigh of relief. “raven. it’s good to see you.” she glanced up briefly from her brooding at the plate, expression softening only slightly. “maybe you can convince your friend of the importance of not starving yourself over a boy.” raven smiled slightly, likely holding back a smart comment. she slid up to the small table as kane left the room, “if you don’t eat it, i will.” she shrugged and slid the plate to raven, who didn’t hesitate to dig in. “you’ve got to keep your strength up you know. for your passionate reunion with bellamy.” she eyed her friend with a suggestive grin but dropped it at her friends doubtful expression. raven sighed, “i told you. i have a way down.” raven sighed in exasperation and set her fork down, “come with me.” she grabbed her friends wrist and dragged her up from the table not being at all gentle. “ouch-“ she hissed at raven, which had been the first thing said in over twelve hours. “you’ll live.” raven was skilled with the tough love, but this time it hurt slightly more than usual, “bellamy would not want you moping around and starving yourself over him.” she had nothing to say to this, because bellamy blake was the only person better at tough love. he would not stand for her not taking care of herself, but he was not here. and it was all because of him.

raven stopped outside the restricted control room. she pounded on the door twice, “abby!” she looked at her friend incredulously, “we can’t be in there-“ she was cut off by the door opening and two glaring guards greeting them. “it’s alright.” abby left the guards at ease as she squeezed past them, “raven.” abby griffin, councilwoman studied the two girls sharply. “come in.” “councilwoman griffin, i-“ she remembered her manners enough to force away her brooding. “oh, there’s no need for that.” she closed the door behind them and returned to a wall of screens. vital signs blinked on the screens, each attached to a number and a name. her heart lept slightly as she scanned the screens for his name. blake, bellamy. he was okay. his heart rate rose up and down steadily, slightly faster than resting rate. she wondered what he was doing. abby watched her eyes, focusing on bellamy’s monitor. “there have been no signs of pain, or struggle. they all seem to be doing fine.” she felt her shoulders relax, a deep breath leaving her lungs in relief. he was fine. her eyes darted to the red monitors, where there were no vital signs. panic rose again, as her heart rate leaped.

“what happened to them?” four boys had no signal. raven nudged her arm to pull her from the panic, “they died during the landing.” she only felt slightly better. abby gauged her anxiety and put a light hand on her wrist, “bellamy has shown no signs of injury, or any sort of distress. he is just fine. his heart rate is steady. It is a little high, but it is healthy. he is having fun. they all are. they-“ A high pitched beep cut her off. six monitors turned red. disconnected from vital signs, they showed a flat line where there had just been a heartbeat.

“no-”

bellamy’s monitor had gone red.

she felt the room growing fuzzy. raven had grabbed her before she hit the ground, saying something with wide eyes. “-mistake-“ abby was yelling orders; the room had turned to chaos in seconds. her chest felt like it was collapsing, air was not getting to her lungs. raven was yelling, shaking her, trying to get to her. Someone was screaming. it was hysterical and desperate and broken by sobs. it was the sound of complete heartbreak. it was her. it was his name…

raven was yelling now, but there was no point. Bellamy was gone. his heart had stopped right before her eyes. she tasted blood as the screams tore her throat raw. the room was shrinking, the metal walls becoming blurs as tears drowned her vision. her dad was there then. kneeling in front of her with wide eyes. He was shaking her. She couldn’t breathe. she was gasping for air, choking on sobs, only repeating one name.

bellamy…

a sharp pain tugged her briefly from the waves of heartbreak. a needle had been stuck in her neck. the choking stopped, her breathing eased just slightly. his name was still on her lips, desperate and broken. her voice was getting further away, and with it, his name. just like him, it was fading away… she closed her eyes and the world went black.

[yawnzzzzzzzz]

Love me some Kane!daughter x Bellamy