#quiet affection

ּ֯ . ❥ ּ֯ ┆꒰ “𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐔𝐏 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍?” .ᐟ ꒱ » 𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑵! 𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑰𝑵 𝑿 𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑵! 𝑭𝑬𝑴 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹

꒰ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⋮ 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑺 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ⸝⸝ sorta canon enjin, soft fluff, enjin’s childhood trauma mentioned, sorta feelings of abandonment and loneliness, reader being his emotional safe place, quiet affection, short drabble, childhood friends, — masterlist ୨୧

“so what do you wanna be when you grow up?”

your question caught him off guard. the two of you were sitting together in your usual hiding spot, a place where neither of you had to pretend you were normal or act like the world had been kind to you. it was quiet, comfortable, and one of the few places enjin could actually let his guard down. he stared ahead for a moment, thinking harder than he expected to.

“what kind of question is that?” he asked, trying to brush it off with a small frown. you immediately noticed it. he always did that whenever a topic made him uncomfortable. he would joke, complain, or change the subject before anyone could see what was really going on inside his head.

“a normal question,” you answered. “everyone has something they wanna be.”

he let out a quiet laugh, but there was no happiness behind it. “do they?” he murmured. “i think some people are too busy trying to survive to think about stuff like that.” his words made you fall silent because you understood exactly what he meant. kids like you two were never really given the chance to dream about a future.

after a long moment, he finally admitted the truth. “i don’t know.” he said. i mean— he never really imagined himself growing up, having a job, having a home, or having people waiting for him at the end of the day. the future always felt like something made for other people, not someone like him.

you looked at him carefully before smiling. “well, i know something you’re good at.”

he glanced over suspiciously. “you better not insult me.”

you laughed. “you collect strays.”

his face twisted with annoyance. “that sounds like you’re calling me a garbage picker.”

“no,” you corrected. “i’m saying you always find people nobody else notices. the lonely ones, the angry ones, the ones everyone gave up on. somehow, you always make space for them.” referring those times at the orphanage.

for once, enjin had nothing to say back. because you were right. maybe it was because he understood what it felt like to be forgotten. or maybe it was because he knew how painful it was to have nobody reaching out a hand for you.

“if i had to choose,” he said quietly, his voice softer than before, “i wanna be someone people can come to when they have nowhere else to go. someone who can connect people who have been left behind and make them feel like they belong somewhere.”

you smiled at him because, for the first time that entire conversation, he looked like he actually believed in a future for himself. he didn’t have a dream about becoming someone famous or important. he just wanted to become a person who could keep others from feeling the same loneliness he once did.

“that sounds like you,” you whispered.

he looked away immediately, embarrassed by your sincerity. “don’t make it weird.”

“you’re blushing.”

“shut up.”

you laughed, and he complained the whole time, but he stayed sitting beside you.

years later, when he became someone who gathered lost people around him and gave them a place to call home, he would remember this moment and realize that his purpose had always been there. he was always meant to be someone who connected others.

He might have a crush on you. Gender neutral reader.

Kusuo sits at his desk as Shun drones on about the ‘Dark reunion’ and their plan to take over the world. Shun gestures animatedly as he narrates a fight sequence, his red eyes blazing with excitement. he’s like a preschooler sometimes, getting caught up in his imaginary worlds Saiki looks around the classroom, the thoughts of all the others students coming into his mind. Some were worrying about an assignment that was due, and someone was thinking about the way a person they liked looked at them during lunch. Typical Until he hears your voice among the thoughts floating in his head. His brain focuses on you voice like he was switching to his favourite radio station. You were debating about buying the rich, chocolate flavoured milk or the, sweet Strawberry flavoured milk from the vending machine downstairs. Personally, both of them were too sweet to his liking, but he found your indecision entertaining and dare he admit, cute.

Hcs for pv dating reader who is kinda like mystic flour in a sense? Quiet, likes to meditate, and shows tons of affection through actions (bringing him tea and fruit in the morning, doing paperwork for him,etc..)

“Actions Speak Louder Than Words”

Tags: Pure Vanilla Cookie x Reader, Soft/Wholesome Romance, Slow-Burn, Quiet Affection, Fluff, Healing/Comfort, Domestic, Slice-of-Life, Established Relationship.

Warnings: Minor Emotional Intensity (References to Past Trauma, Self-Doubt), May Trigger Reflection on Social Anxiety or Low Verbal Expression.

You start the day quietly, preparing a gentle breakfast or tea for him. Pure Vanilla Cookie notices even the smallest details—how you slice the fruit perfectly or brew the tea just the way he likes it.

| call of duty masterlist | tf141 masterlist | main masterlist | navigation |

gary “roach” sanderson x male!reader

summary: you're late to a mission briefing. not by much—but enough to make ghost glance up. and across the room, you spot him: roach. dirt still on his gloves, balaclava pulled tight, not taking notes. just signing quietly to himself like the words live better in his hands. so you sign first. and it begins there.

setting: a cramped, sweltering mission briefing room deep in the heart of a tf141 base. folding chairs scrape against dusty concrete, the air thick with worn gear, old coffee, and recycled sweat. overhead lights flicker with that faint electric hum. half the squad’s nodding off or whispering. the projector’s too loud. maps are half-unreadable. it’s hot, close, heavy. warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, soft-flirting, background ghost annoyance, subtle mutual interest, sign language as connection, roach doesn’t speak, beginnings of something

word count: 0.7k

note: this one means a lot to me. i really wanted to write a quiet kind of beginning—not loud or dramatic, just something warm that slips in under the noise. i think roach deserves soft moments like this, where someone sees him before they hear him. and maybe it’s nothing yet. maybe it’s just the start. but something about that unspoken spark between them—yeah. that’s the good stuff.

also: ghost definitely clocked all of it. he’s just choosing peace. for now.

my inbox is always open ♡♡

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

you’re late.

not by much—just a few minutes past the start—but it’s enough to turn ghost’s head mid-sentence. he doesn’t stop the briefing, doesn’t call you out, but his gaze lingers for a moment too long. one eyebrow lifts under the brim of his cap, and you can practically hear the unspoken you’re lucky i like you behind his mask.

you nod in apology and slide into the nearest empty seat near the back, clutching a thin stack of mission papers against your chest. the room’s already packed, boots scuffing against concrete, pens scratching along the margins of printouts.

a few low murmurs ripple between squads. the air is thick with heat and the smell of worn gear and old coffee, like every other too-small room on base.

and that’s when you see him.

across from you, seated straight-backed at the edge of the long table, posture almost too still to be relaxed. his uniform’s still dusted with dirt and ash, a few darker stains dried into the seams of his vest. gloves on. helmet secure. face hidden behind a balaclava that only leaves his eyes visible—dark, sharp, and unnervingly alert.

you’ve seen him before, at a distance. roach. one of the task force’s ghosts, in a sense. not the masked lieutenant, but something just as quiet, just as deadly. the kind of soldier who doesn’t need words to leave an impression.

and he’s not taking notes.

you notice his hands first—gloved fingers twitching slightly beneath the table, forming quick shapes in a fluid, practiced rhythm. at first, you think it might be a nervous tic. but no—there’s intention behind it. structure. familiarity.

he’s signing. not to anyone. just quietly to himself, like a second layer of thought.

your chest pulls tight for a moment. it’s small, almost silly, but that flicker of recognition twists something inside you. most people wouldn’t notice. hell, most people don’t.

but you do.

you’re not sure when you started leaning forward. not far—just enough to make sure your movement wouldn’t be threatening. your voice stays quiet, low enough to not interrupt ghost’s rundown of the perimeter plan. you catch roach’s attention gently with a slight movement of your hand, then sign:

“you caught all that, or need a quick translation?”

for a second, he just stares at you. eyes unreadable behind the layer of tactical gear and shadow. like he’s not sure if you’re messing with him. then his head tilts slightly, and he signs back:

“you sign?”

you nod once, lips twitching upward. “my little brother’s deaf. been signing since i was nine. got good at it fast. had to—he’d drag me into every fight with my mum so i could translate his sass.”

his shoulders shift—the barest laugh, maybe. his eyes crease at the corners, and though his mouth is still hidden beneath the mask, you know he’s smiling.

then he signs something quick. too fast to catch every word, but you definitely recognize 'ghost' and 'pain in the ass' somewhere in the blur. your hand comes up instinctively to smother a laugh, but it still breaks through—loud enough that ghost falters mid-sentence and throws a brief glare in your direction.

you shake your head and wave him on. it’s nothing, your gesture says. keep going.

roach nudges your boot under the table a second later. not hard. just enough to get your attention again. when you glance back over, he’s already flipped open a small, spiral-bound notebook from one of his vest pouches. it’s old—edges soft and curling, half-filled with shorthand, map sketches, and notes written in cramped handwriting. he scribbles in the corner of a blank page, then turns it toward you.

“you’re the only one here who’s ever signed first.” “i like you already.”

you blink. caught off-guard. the words are simple, but something about them hits deeper than expected. you look up from the page, then back to him.

his gaze doesn’t waver.

you tap the notebook gently with your knuckle, then sign slowly—clearly this time, making sure he doesn’t miss it:

“good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere.”

and he doesn’t just smile.

he beams.

eyes crinkling, breath catching ever so slightly behind the fabric of his mask. not a sound leaves him, but the room feels warmer anyway. like something quiet just cracked open between you both.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

Summary: On a quiet night in Jinzhou, you find Jiyan where he always is—keeping watch over the city from his balcony. He doesn’t speak much, but he doesn’t need to. In the hush between words, in the way his hand finds yours, in the subtle shifts of his stance when you draw near, something deeper takes shape. A love not declared aloud, but written in silence.

Characters: Jiyan x Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: No major warnings

Words: 729

The city was quiet, the lanterns casting soft, muted light across Jinzhou’s rooftops. The walls of the Rangers’ headquarters stood like silent guardians, and on the balcony above them, you spotted Jiyan.

He was standing perfectly still, robes snug across his broad shoulders, the dark fabric falling in neat folds. Every line of him radiated strength—the subtle tension in his elbows, the careful flexing of his fingers against the railing, the slight rotation of his torso as he shifted weight from one foot to the other. His gaze remained fixed over the rooftops, sharp and vigilant, shadowed with fatigue, scanning the city with measured precision.

You stepped onto the balcony. “You’ve been here since the patrols returned,” you said softly.

He didn’t turn immediately. “Their reports were thorough. No activity beyond the eastern ridge,” he said, voice level, measured—the tone of a commander assessing the safety of his city. Then, softer: “For tonight, Jinzhou rests.”

He adjusted the fold of his robe at the waist, smoothing a crease that wasn’t there, a small habitual movement masking the strain he carried. You moved closer, letting your sleeve brush his. He didn’t step away. Instead, the tiniest lean of his torso toward you, the subtle tilt of his shoulders, brought him fractionally closer, a gesture almost invisible to anyone else.

“You should rest too,” you murmured.

His gaze stayed on the horizon. “Rest will come later. I can’t ignore what waits beyond the walls.” Still, his stance shifted slightly toward you—a slight adjustment of weight, a faint tilt of his head, a careful alignment of his body—bringing him subtly nearer.

Your hand found the railing near his, and after a moment, his fingers shifted—calloused, precise—until they overlapped yours. The gesture wasn’t grand, wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else, but it was steady. Anchoring.

A faint breeze stirred the balcony, rustling his hair and robes. He shifted subtly, tilting his torso to shield the space between you and the cold. Fingers still entwined, a subtle lift of his hand reinforced the connection, unspoken but deliberate.

You stepped along the balcony, letting your gaze wander to the distant torchlight along the gates. He followed your motion in almost imperceptible ways: a gentle rotation of his shoulders, a fraction of a lean forward, a shift of his weight to keep pace with you. When you brushed lightly against the railing or adjusted your stance, his fingers flexed, subtly tightening around yours without drawing attention.

“Everything alright?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned fractionally closer, shoulders aligning ever so slightly with yours, a tilt of his head catching the corner of your gaze, eyes briefly meeting yours. The faint lift of his brow, the measured pressure of his hand, and the even rhythm of his breathing spoke everything his words did not.

A gust of wind swirled, tugging at robes and hair. He shifted, smoothing a fold of his sleeve across his wrist, adjusting stance and balance, keeping you sheltered without needing to draw attention to it. Every gesture—subtle, deliberate—spoke of care, attention, and strength.

You paused near the edge of the balcony. His torso followed, aligning with yours without breaking form, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The slight squeeze of his hand, the careful adjustment of his stance, the minute tilts and turns of his body—they communicated closeness, intimacy, and quiet trust.

You moved closer again, and he subtly mirrored the motion, a tilt of his shoulders, a gentle shift of weight, the slightest rotation of his wrist. His presence radiated calm vigilance and strength, yet every shift acknowledged your nearness, your shared space.

Time stretched. The night held you both in a quiet rhythm: your movements, his small adjustments, the touch of hands, the alignment of shoulders, the subtle exchange of glances. Words were unnecessary. Every fraction of motion—the lean, the touch, the gaze, the steady grip of his hand—built a slow-burn intimacy that belonged only to this balcony, this quiet night, this space between you.

“No Need to Pick the Sun Over the Moon”

Summary: When tensions rise aboard the Astral Express, Dan Heng and Sunday—both lovers to you—find themselves grappling with jealousy. A simple question turns heavy: who is your favorite? Caught between their quiet rivalry and their vulnerable truths, you’re forced to confront the heart of your polyamorous bond and remind them that love isn’t a competition—it’s a constellation.

Tags: Dan Heng x GN!Reader x Sunday, Polyamory, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Vulnerability, Soft Angst, Love Triangle (Resolved), Introspective Reader, Romantic Tension, Gentle Resolution, Quiet Affection.

Warnings: Light emotional angst, Jealousy/conflict between partners, Brief mentions of loss/insecurity.

The Astral Express had been calm lately—too calm.

Between the Lanterns and Us

Summary: During a festival on your homeworld, March and the Trailblazer conspire to set you and Dan Heng up for a quiet evening together. Though initially caught off guard, the two of you end up spending the night exploring the festivities, growing closer through shared moments of understanding and quiet companionship. Unspoken feelings linger in the air, and while neither of you voice them just yet, the night marks a step toward something more.

Tags: Dan Heng x Female!Reader (can be ready as GN), Mutual Pining, Fluff, Slow Burn, Quiet Affection, Subtle Romance.

The city was alight with lanterns, their soft glow illuminating the winding streets as laughter and music filled the air. Tonight was a night of celebration, a festival unique to your homeworld, and for the first time in a long while, the Astral Express crew was taking a well-deserved break.

Can we maybe get a tiny short little thing where Reader hugs Dan Heng? No reason at all, they’re just craving Dan Heng cuddles—

The hum of the Astral Express was a familiar lull, the rhythmic vibrations underfoot a quiet comfort. You found Dan Heng in his usual spot—the archive room, nose buried in a datapad, his expression unreadable as always.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, arms wrapping around him from behind. He tensed, his entire body going rigid, but he didn’t pull away.

“…What are you doing?” His voice was level, though you could hear the slight confusion in it.

“Just… hugging you,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “No reason. Just felt like it.”

Dan Heng was silent for a moment, long enough that you started wondering if you’d overstepped. Then, with a quiet sigh, he relaxed. One of his hands—uncertain, hesitant—came to rest over yours.

“…I see.” A pause. “You should have told me sooner if you needed this.”

You smiled against his back. “Would you have said yes?”

“…Perhaps.”

A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.