#mo- is reflexive

[bookwyrminspiration]

could even one of these words be in the dictionary. or the second dictionary. or the internet as a whole. i am begging

[nebulations]

[ID: A fake tweet exchange between MDZS characters.

Yiling Patriarch @/WeiWuxian: me and lan zhan are dating!!! :D

Zidian Master @/Jiang Cheng: we've known for ages

Wei Wuxian: ?? (two question marks) we started dating two days ago

Jiang Cheng: tf were you doing before that then. End ID]

[verstappen-cult]

PRAISE, M. VERSTAPPEN.

✶ SUMMARY. Max knows he’s good at his job, he was raised to be the best driver, the perfect son, and knows he’s talented. The bad thing is that he has to listen to people complimenting him almost everyday. He really thinks he’s good at hiding how shy and uncomfortable it makes him, and it’s just that Max can’t seem to take compliments from anyone but you.

content warnings ✶ disclaimers. fem!reader. lots of fluff. my favorite kind of max: flustered max. P in V. sub/dom dynamics. praise kink. unprotected sex, wrap it before you tap it kiddos. breeding kink. redbull racing slander because we are tired of them not doing their job. english is not my first language.

GWEN RAMBLES — i started writing this after the awful events of sunday, and finished it today! this was requested a while ago and to the person who asked for it – i’m sorry it took me so long! hope y’all like it. comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

Max gets uncomfortable when people compliment him. He knows he's good at what he does, knows he’s talented. And when people call him handsome? Compliment his hair? His arms? He has a hard time trying not to show how affected he actually is.

However, you know him in ways the rest of the world doesn't.

Max likes it when you compliment his cooking. It's not deserving of a five star Michelin rating, but good enough to eat and perfect the dish.

"How did you came up with this?" You ask, raising a spoonful of vegetables with a sweet and sour sauce.

Max can't keep his eyes off of you, waiting for your reaction patiently and anxiously. "I saw it in a video. But it was my idea to add the sauce to give it a little spin." He shrugs, his cheeks gaining a pretty pink color the second you make eye contact with him.

"It's delicious," You whisper, licking the rests of sauce from the spoon. Max's eyes glaze over and he forces himself to look away if he actually wants to make it through dinner. "You're such a good cook, Max. If you weren't a racing driver, I'm sure you would've had a restaurant."

Now, Max blushes furiously, the spoon falling from his fingers and on the plate. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes to mind, and you bite your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing at his flustered state.

Max likes it when you jump into his open arms after a good qualifying session or podium celebrations, all happy and giddy as he still tries to shake off the adrenaline.

"You did such a good job!" He wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground. He's still pretty much on cloud nine and with you in his arms it can't get any more perfect. "You were flying out there!"

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” You are not looking at his precious face, but you know he’s blushing for the way his voice falters. Once he puts you down, Max hides his face away by busying himself with getting rid of his champagne-soaked race suit.

His reluctance to accept your compliment doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, he always brushes them off. You thought he didn't like it at first, it was really awkward when you started dating and he would ignore you, but as time went on you learned that he just doesn't know how to react to them. His PR training has helped him a lot for when the press and the public in general praise him for his excellent driving and fast reflexes almost every day of his life, but Max still gets flustered when you are the one complimenting him. You love to tease him about it.

Max likes it when you praise him during sex.

Especially when he surrenders himself to you.

"Look at you," You coo at him, the back of your hand caressing his cheek ever so slightly. "being so good for me." Max draws in a sharp breath, your touch burning in the most delicious way even if you're barely doing it.

You press a kiss on his naked shoulder, his smooth and warm skin shining with sweat.

“I’m always good.” He rasps, leaning his head to the side and presenting his neck to you.

You laugh softly, moving away to look into the depths of his ocean blue eyes. “Of course you are.” The smile he gives you makes your heart hammer in your ears.

Max opens his mouth to speak but falls silent as you continue to kiss along his collarbones, running your tongue and creating a path down over his chest, your soft lips making contact with his nipples.

He arches his back when you capture a nub between your teeth, hands grabbing the sheets because he knows he can’t touch you unless you allow him to. And he’s good. He wants to be good.

Max bites his bottom lip as you pinch his other nipple with your fingers. He’s having a hard time trying to stay still, his whole body shivers at your ministration.

“Always so sensitive.” You say, swiping your thumb over the pebbled flesh. Max only nods, his blushed face twisted in pleasure. “Such a good boy, uh?”

You lift your skirt up to straddle his hips, sitting just above his hard cock, still tucked away in his trousers.

“You did such a good job today.” You say, rocking your hips and planting your hands on his stomach. Max groans, shaking his head. “What was that?”

“It was,” He sighs, closing his eyes to try and regain some control over his body, but he’s sensitive and can feel your slick dripping over his clothed cock. “It was awful today.”

You tsk, nodding your approval. “It was.” His face falls for a moment, expression somber. “They don’t deserve you, not at all.” His eyes shine again, just like that. “You’re practically doing everything by yourself, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes.” His knuckles are white from gripping the sheets trying to follow your earlier instructions, so you take pity on him. Your touch is soft as you take his hands and place them on your waist, and Max doesn’t waste a second on gripping you so hard you know you’ll have bruises the size of his hands tomorrow. The mere thought of walking around with his bruises makes you clench around nothing.

“No one is doing it like you, Max.” You purr his name, and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

Max lets out a low groan, hips thrusting up with force. He needs release. He needs you.

“Please.” He whispers, and you lower yourself to be at the same level, lips grazing his.

“What do you need?”

“Please,” He says again, almost whining. “Please.”

“You need to use your words. I don’t know what your please means, Max.” You pinch his nipple and he gasps, tilting his head.

His pupils are blown wide when he opens his eyes to look directly into yours. “I want – please I want you to ride me.” His voice breaks in a moan.

“See?” You cup his jaw, thumb caressing his bottom lip. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Max’s mind is blank except for thoughts of you. You on top of him. You taking care of him. You fucking him. You, you, you.

You use his chest for support as you help him get rid of his trousers and your skirt. Now, both of you are completely naked and Max can’t fight the moan that slips from his lips when he feels the heat of your cunt against his hard and leaking cock. It’s painful.

Max gazes down and his mouth waters. The thought of laying you down and claiming his favorite spot between your legs to taste you is almost enough to send him over the edge.

You trail your hand down his chest, not breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss any of his reactions. Like the way his entire face twist in pleasure, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth hanging open, when you wrap your hand around his cock.

Max still has a little of self control but it’s exhausting, he doesn’t know how much he can actually take before reaching his limit and spilling his seed. And he doesn’t want to waste it. He wants to come inside of you, wants to fill you up and stay there. So he says it.

And you shudder in response. You’re soaking wet, so it’s enough to not need prep, even though Max is big and he loves to prep you for it; you want it to hurt today, you want to be sore and feel him all day.

You guide his cock with trembling hands, feeling the tip fighting its way into your cunt.

You place both hands on his chest as he grips your hips as his life depends on it. You sink down on him, adjusting and pressing down slowly. It is torture for Max, you see it in the way his jaw tenses and sweat coats in his forehead. But he doesn’t protest, he takes everything you give him in silence.

“You feel,” You gasp at the sensation of finally having him deep inside of you. Max tosses his head back when he feels you clench around him. “so,” He moans louder, bucking his hips into you as you start riding him, fingernails scrapping his skin. “good.”

You take him deeper every time you raise your hips, letting yourself fall down hard, your clit grinding against his skin and making you moan loudly.

Max is mesmerized by the view.

And Max really doesn’t know where to look. If your contorted face and mouth open, moans and praises falling from your lips mixing with the squelching sounds of your cunt. Or your breast bouncing with every move. Or the connection between your bodies, how his cock disappears inside of you over and over again, driving him closer to the edge.

“Fucking me so good,” You start babbling, and Max knows you’re close to your orgasm.

He pulls you down against him and starts thrusting into you with urgency. You tuck your head against his neck and sink your teeth into his skin, marking him. Claiming him.

His cock digs deep inside, the tip rubbing against that sensitive spot that makes you tremble and see stars behind your eyelids.

Max reaches his climax with loud moans and calls of your name. He fills you up and continues to fuck his seed into you until your whole body goes still and the whole world cease to exist except for you and him.

Max doesn’t pull out until he’s certain you’ve taken every last drop. It is only when it gets cold and you want to cuddle under the blankets that you move off him, his pout at not having your weight on top of him making you giggle.

“Did so good.” You whisper, not recognising your own broken voice. “My sweet boy.”

do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own. | © verstappen-cult, 2024.

[bluelockmaniac]

༉‧₊˚. "𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐀𝐓?"

★ ft. itoshi sae x gn!reader synopsis. you catch your boyfriend staring at your ass , shocker !

notes. sae canonically has a butt fetish so i thought this would be fun to make, lol . also, established relationship (!!) and suggestive, ig (?) ps. new theme !!

you stood at the kitchen counter, preparing your morning coffee in your favourite mug as you vented passionately about the latest gossip from work to sae. "—and then, he had the audacity to put the blame on my friend! can you believe this man?!"

your boyfriend, who had just recently roused, leaned against the opposite marble counter behind you, stifling a yawn as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. he nodded from time to time, an occasional soft hum escaping his lips as he listened to the silly frustration that laced your words.

little did you know, however, that your words were falling on deaf ears. his mind wandered, and the absent nods of his head were more reflexive than attentive. sae’s drowsy gaze was more drawn to the hypnotic sway of your hips as you added yet another spoonful of ground coffee into your mug. 

soon, what was left of his attention perished as he let out a barely audible, unresponsive grunt. your sounds were thus unregistered and quickly drowned into the back of his preoccupied mind, slipping in one ear and vanishing out the other.

"—anyway, do you want me to make you a cup of coffee?" you ask after finishing your rant, setting down the spoon with a clink as you reach up to fetch another mug from the cupboard above. after no response came, you repeated, "sae, do you want me to make you a cup of coffee?" you quirk a brow, glancing at him over your shoulder. "earth to sae...?"

sae abruptly snaps out of his trance, halting his observation of your round backside. he blinks a few times, lagging, before he speaks in a raspy voice, "ah, your friend...?"

you turn around to face him completely, furrowing your brows. "what?"

"what?" he repeats, caught off guard. you look at him knowingly, sighing softly as you pinch the bridge of your nose to maintain your nonchalant demeanor. "itoshi sae." his body tenses at your usage of his full name, and his fingers stop their rhythmic tapping against the marble surface.

"how many kitty paws are imprinted on my pajama, from the back?" you question, your hands finding their place on your hips as you shoot him a feigned glare.

his half-lidded eyes flick down to your hands resting on your hips once more, lingering a moment longer than necessary, briefly noting how your pants hugged your figure perfectly. quickly, he lifts his gaze to meet your narrowed eyes. "like, twel— ... shit," his voice is cut off awkwardly, his elbows hitting the counter with a thud as he leans forward, burying his [hardly] guilty face in the curve of his hands.

"pftt, you're so indiscreet," you laugh, adding cream and sugar to his coffee, the spoon clinking against the mug as you stirred. "seriously, are you dating me or are you dating my ass?" you quip playfully.

he groans quietly, pushing himself off the counter as he approaches you. his larger hands find your hips, then swiftly move until they settle on your rear, rubbing small, gentle circles on the fleshy round globes. leaning in close, he whispers in your ear in a teasing tone, "can’t i appreciate how beautiful it looks?” his breath fans over behind your ear. “okay, sorry, it was hard to resist.”

“you’re adorable– ah,” a soft sigh leaves your mouth as his lips suddenly latch onto your exposed neck, trailing down sloppy kisses, teeth gently grazing the sensitive skin. you shudder, fluttering your eyes shut at the feeling of him grinning against your nape. a small whimper caught in your throat as his arm snaked around, delivering a firm smack to your bottom.

"s-sae, you're such an ass..." you pouted, hands slightly pushing against his chest in an attempt to distance and control yourself. he cocks an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting over his lips as he moved towards the counter, holding onto his mug. he brought it to his lips, glancing at you over the rim as he sipped the warm coffee, his voice hoarse.

"hm, ironic."

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

[wroteclassicaly]

Daddy Steve

(Steve Harrington x Female Reader)

Summary: Steve finds out you’re pregnant.

Warnings: Language, hurt/comfort, best-friends to lovers, Daddy!Steve, mentions loss of virginity, alludes to smut, nausea, throwing up, and pregnancy stuff.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

A/N: Ever since that Daddy Steve comment in season three, my brain can’t get a breeding kink addicted Steve outta my filthy ass head! And thus, I bring you more trash that you didn’t ask for, lol!! I might do a part two with smut?? Enjoy! - Kristen <3

“C’mon, you love this stuff, honey,” Steve mumbles around a mouthful of buttery popcorn.

You’re smashed between him and your shared best-friend, Robin Buckley—on the sofa, watching some newly released horror film that went straight to video, and right into Steve’s VCR. You have to fight everything inside of you not to gag on the smell of popped kernels, urges to inhale, an automatic reflex that only serves to make your predicament worse. Robin wrinkles her nose in distaste, reaching across you and shoving his wrist away.

“Because having greasy ass butter on your chin is really encouraging her to try it out, Harrington.”

“Mhm,” You say, a half whimper slipping out. Your stomach rolls, making you automatically grip onto your baggy denim over shirt, the small swelling of your tummy a comfort.

Fuck the morning sickness… when did this start happening?

Robin’s eyes glance at you with a pitying worry, raising a brow in silent communication. You shake your head, giving her an ‘I’m fine’ signal, dodging Steve’s last classic film snack advance. When you catch sight of his tongue working to clean off his mouth’s corner, that ache teeters between your thighs, a rush of words tumbling off your lips.

“I have to go pee.” You scramble from the couch, nearly tripping over worn converse in the process.

And, as it turns out, your excuse is an even more idiotic thing to say. Steve’s voice halts you in your footfalls.

“Again? That’s like, the fifth time in an hour. And unless you’re chugging from some secret flask, I haven’t seen you drink much of anything, either.”

“I…”

“Dude, do not ever question a woman again about her bathroom habits, okay?” Robin interjects, giving him the Robin look.

“If she’s on her period she can just tell us that. You think I give a crap? We’re all friends here.” Steve shrugs a shoulder, tossing the empty popcorn bag down and ducking his salty fingers into his mouth with a delectable ‘pop’.

You’re momentarily lost within the realm of your raging hormones. Your doctor had told you to expect fluctuating moods, surprising shifts in your appetite; sexually, emotionally, physically, and nutrition wise. That explains why you’re always stealing Dustin’s sour candy and eating spoonfuls of peanut butter at 3:00 AM, crying at reruns of Cheers, and currently ogling your best-friend like he’s always been yours, and isn’t currently pining for someone else. Steve isn’t yours, despite what he’s put inside of you after one needy night together. His dark irises suddenly find you gawking, leaving him confused.

The way his nose is shaped, his jawline structure, that delicious neck he permitted you to mark at one point, that gorgeously soft hair you spent all night pulling, to that sinfully beautiful mouth—you’re speechless and very overwhelmed.

I need him…

He starts to move, but you hold up a hand. That would be sensory overload. “I should definitely go home after. I’ve got an early shift at the store tomorrow.” You lie.

“After what? Peeing?” Steve laughs.

Another ever changing hormone snaps your irritation, causing you to roll your eyes, desire lightly dissipating. “Obviously. That cool with you, King Harrington? Or do you need to further bore me with your pathetic excuse for a movie pick?”

Robin starts to edge back from Steve, his own anger at your snapping at him seeping through, coming off him in dangerous waves.

“Okay, what is with this goddamned attitude? We always watch bullshit movies and you’ve never complained about it before!”

“Mr. Former Prom King isn’t keen on attitudes now? Sounds like a problem that’s not mine.” You push, unable to stop yourself. After all, it’s better than feeling like garbage listening to him go on and on about Nancy, not even knowing he took your virginity and got you pregnant in one go.

If Steve could tuck his eyebrows into his hairline then they’d be there. His hands pinch his hips, lips pursed as he’s clenching his teeth.

“You know what, you should leave. Between your bitching, constant bathroom breaks, and acting too stuck up to watch a movie and eat some popcorn with your friends, you’re not much fun to be around anyways.”

“Steve!” Robin scolds.

“What? Princess is allowed to act like she’s too good to hang out lately and we can’t be upset about it?” Steve motions to you with a tipped hand.

There’s a burning brimming your eyes before you can stop it. You’d prefer the anger. Steve’s hands tighten at his sides, jaw twitching, a biting question, battling his urges to comfort you and apologize for upsetting you. “Why are you even crying right now?”

“Let’s all just calm down and breathe, okay?” Robin stands now, tiptoeing to meet in the middle of you.

“I was calm. I think you need to talk to her about all this. As a matter of fact, call her tomorrow after I call her a cab and she leaves, because I know she’s not working in the morning, and she just lied to our faces.” Steve adds.

Your face flushes, stomach tightening. That sickness is overpowering you, taking control. You can’t stop that watering in your eyes, blurring your vision, making your two best-friends blobs in the distance. They start arguing back and forth, Steve’s evident confusion at Robin defending your behavior, and Robin pleading with him to give you a break. You don’t say anything, but turn on your heel and make the walk down the hallway, barricading yourself in the bathroom and taking care of your pressing bladder, head in your hands as you silently cry.

Being a simple band geek that harbored a crush on Steve for years, turning into his best-friend too when you and Robin began working at the mall with him, to leaning on each other when Starcourt fell into shambles and monsters became very real to you, finalizing one shared night three months ago—it all happened so fast. Steve never said anything more after, just thanked you for being there for him and checked in on you with phone calls and a work chat. You couldn’t bear staying with him that night, either, so you had left, leaving your virginity and your scent behind on Steve’s sheets. You wanted to, you needed him as much as he had to have you, but you weren’t sure how to feel about it, and Robin had picked it up right away—scolding you, before asking how it was and if you were alright. She’s been there for you through it all, and you’re double on the guilt at dragging her into this mess.

“Honey?” A heavy rasping of knuckles and a deep voice, a softer tone is sighing out on the other side.

You imagine him in that Steve Harrington lean, his ankle crossed over the other, palm on the framework, posture leaning into the doorway. Heaving out a breath you shouldn’t have held, you finish and wash your hands, throat constricting around a painful gulp as you unlatch the lock and pull open the door.

You’re right.

His lips making that familiar motion, dark eyes saddened, worried, guilt ridden. You don’t even let him speak, locking your arms around his striped clad waist, arms sliding down, wrists brushing his leather belt. You inhale his laundry detergent, cologne spritzed scent, sniffling your apologies in quiet words. He lets you go on, pulling away a minute later to grip your shoulders, squeezing. “If you are on your period… or you’re upset about something, or I pissed you off, will you please talk to me?”

Your heartbeat gallops full speed ahead, thrumming sporadically against your throat. “I’m not on my period, Steve.” The words feel dry, your lips too chapped to even speak.

“Then what is it, and why can you tell Robin but not me?” He sounds hurt. Really hurt.

You find yourself at a loss, tongue stumbling to scrape up scraps of words. Nothing comes.

“She hasn’t told me shit, but I know that she knows what’s going on?”

You escape his words, chickening out. “My cab ride will probably be here soon, I better go.”

“I never called a cab.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest now. “And I wasn’t going to, you just pissed me off.”

“Yeah, well… ditto.” You snark, not meaning to.

“Okay, care to share why? Because I do everything I can to make sure you’re safe and you’re smiling. It makes me feel like shit when you feel like shit.”

Every scenario you imagined telling Steve about carrying his baby in, you never thought it would be him hovering over your blubbering, nauseated, hot mess form. But as you look into those eyes of his—glittering with undiluted concern, pulse vibrating off your lungs, ping ponging off your jugular, the words come on their own.

“I’m pregnant.”

That very popular symptom of sickness overtakes you, having you abandoning Steve in the doorway with your confession, your knees hitting the floor, head over the toilet bowl as it all comes out. And you sob. Over exerted from physical exhaustion, mentally tired over a guilty conscious, and ready to go to sleep—you pathetically cling to the Harrington’s guest toilet, panting, mouth wet, trembling hand reaching for your hair, only to be swept away. When you look up your heart takes a painful blow, stuttering in your chest. Steve’s eyes are watering, teeth gnawing on his lower lip.

He looks wounded, defeated. Like you kicked him into a gutter and left him there. Alone.

Still, he helps you lean back, stretching his long arm to flush the toilet and reach for a decorative hand towel, using the bathtub faucet behind him to wet it and press it along your forehead, edging down your neck, finally cleaning your mouth. He’s so gentle, so delicate in his touches, aside from his own emotions. You grip his wrist, seeing the dried tears matting his gorgeous lashes, holding his hand in yours. “I’m sorry.”

“How long have you known?” Is all he can croak, voice shaky and damp. He settles back against the wall, you following suit, still holding his hand in yours.

“Two months.”

“We had sex three months ago.” He reminds you, as if maybe he’s unsure how to approach it.

He remembers?

“I found out when I was already four weeks. Besides, it can’t be anyone else’s when I’ve only slept with you.”

“But we were just together for one night.” He looks confused, scrubbing a hand over his face, sniffing.

“Yeah, Steve, we were.” You hope to god that he gets the message without you having to say it.

It takes him moments, which feel like eternity. And then you are very aware of his pointed stare. “Are you telling me I’ve been the only guy to ever take you to bed?”

“Looks like it. Congrats.” You mutter, lifting your knees, an indulging stance your little swollen bump won’t let you complete. You grab over it, an instinctive reaction. Steve’s directing a watchful eye over your bulky denim, swallowing, his words coming out meek, gently. “Can I see?”

You look like a deer caught in headlights, moving to drop his hand, but he holds on, fingertips drawing circles over the back of your palm. “It’s okay.”

It relaxes you enough to agree, using your right hand to lift the denim, your simple lavender top stretched over the small swell that’s nestled at your navel, expanding towards your hips. You feel Steve move your joined hands over the fabric, scraping, scratching, dipping down underneath the bottom, hovering. “It won’t hurt it if I feel, right?”

This makes you laugh softly, shaking your head. “You didn’t pay attention in health class at all, did you?” At his exasperated dumbfounded look, you continue. “S’ okay, Steve. Just please don’t push on anything, because I can’t promise you the front of your shirt won’t look like the Exorcist after.”

“That bad, huh?” He questions, sincerity dripping through his words.

“You have no idea.” You help him raise your tee beneath your breasts, that cute and developing bump in all its glory. Your skin, already getting a couple more stretch marks, shines in the low light of the bathroom, your breathing and Steve’s all that is audible.

Times like this you wish you had your Polaroid to take his absolutely fascinated stare in. His big hand closes over it, pressing feather light, his watch showing 10:01 PM. It feels so damned good to have him know, to have someone touching you like this. And oddly… it’s as if this is how it should always be.

Steve is on the precipice of unknown, a possessive derailment wiggling its way into his normally calm exterior. His baby. Parts of him that fused with parts of you, growing an entire human being. And the sheer fact that you’re swollen with his child? He has to fight every way that pummels a fire into the pit of his stomach.

“I took your virginity when we made this?” He is marveling.

You clear your throat, embarrassed. “You did.”

He sniffles once more, then he’s palming circles across your stomach, before respectfully tugging your shirt down and adjusting it. He makes a move to halt you from shaking the denim back down. “You don’t have to hide it anymore. Please, don’t.”

You give a watery look of incredulous admiration, grateful he’s still the Steve Harrington you have come to know.

And love…

But he doesn’t have to be privy to that part.

“They said I should be able to hear its heartbeat next week.” A lightened load off your chest has you audibly relaxing against Steve’s shoulder—unintentional, but natural—his arm resting around your shoulders, kneading out mounts of week long tension.

“How big is it? I mean… can they tell?” His fascinating questionnaires have you giddy.

Ever the inquiring man.

You move your neck from side to side, attempting to fixate on the knots, trying to get some squeeze off your muscles. Steve takes notice immediately, his fingers tucking beneath your shirt collar, pinching your flesh and rolling it under his easy grip. “Don’t worry, I got you. How’s that?”

“Mhm, s’ good, Stevie.” His nickname tumbles free, making him squeeze you affectionately. “A plum, by the way.”

He does rear back this time, bewildered, a ‘huh’ pressed into the line between his brows.

You laugh, his ministrations on your neck’s nape continuing. “The baby. It’s the size of a plum, is the way they described it to me. Or whatever I wanna think of that is that size.”

“Can I come?” When you frown, he’s quick to continue, his voice a raspy whisper, still tear-dampened. “To the appointment, I mean.”

You won’t deny how your heart is racing, how his wanting to be involved is both scary and welcomed, but you’re also on the defense, walls up. You can only imagine what his parents will think, what everyone will think. And Nancy… You don’t want to ruin anyone’s future from one one sided night of meaningless sex.

Steve can see the wheels turning in your head, your muscles tensing beneath his touch. It’s a bit frightening.

“Honey—“

“I didn’t need anyone’s permission in deciding to have or keep this baby, Steve. I don’t expect any help, I don’t want any pity support. I’ll be fine on my own.”

The familiarity of descending guilt slaps you in the face, Steve’s shocked look peppering his features. “You think I don’t want to help with my own baby? You think I’m that much of a fucking douchebag?!” He stands now, hands on his hips in that stern way.

You too attempt to stand, gripping the empty towel rack to keep steady. “I didn’t know if that’s what you’d want, Steve. We’re both still so young. It’s my body, so the decision to carry our child was up to me. If I wasn’t going to, I still would’ve told you. As for helping? Like I said, we’re both young and you’re attached… elsewhere.” You try, carefully avoiding her name. “S’ not like I was excited to be the Midwest mom that traps the former heartthrob.”

“Then that would make me the Midwest dad that should’ve worn a condom and taken care of you more. If we’re sharing blame here, let’s even it out.”

You’re very aware he meant something else, but it brings you right back to being beneath him, your legs wide open, thighs trembling, hands holding purchase, unsure, going with him, letting Steve lead. That burning loss of feeling Steve Harrington between your thighs is enough to cause you to squeeze your legs, drawing his attention. And whatever this fresh feeling is, he seems to be feeling it too.

Steve lets his arm shift, fingers combing your hair back behind your ear. “You thinkin’ about it?”

You’re pitifully admitting, hands cupping his back as you slink into his embrace. It’s warm, it’s safe, it’s Steve Harrington. There will be a time for talking, but now isn’t it, now is soaking each other in, being together, with your baby boy or girl.

“I’m thinking a lot of things.” Is your answer, but it’s enough for him to remember how you felt that night, the way you gave yourself to him and stayed right there with him.

There’s a soft air around you both, seemingly helping ward off your aching insides, letting the nausea vanish. Your hand wraps itself over the swell, Steve watching in admiration, hand lowering onto your own. It’s back and forth grins, and you’re pulling away as you remember Robin is still in the living room. Stepping forward and out of Steve’s too warm for your hormones to handle embrace, you turn on the bathroom faucet to wash your hands and cup some water into them, drinking and swishing the nasty taste out. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off you, even as you both find your shared best-friend in living room, brow raised in concern and amusement.

Your bump is on full display and she is shaking her short mane, eyeing Steve’s doe eyed gaze, the color on his cheeks. “Aww, congrats, Daddy Dingus.”

You burst into laughter, full on.

[wwccol]

The Signal: Gotham’s Daylight Guardian

The Batfamily is trying to unravel Duke's "daytime crime-busting secret" only to discover that it's literally just Duke being Duke—and looking like a terrifying eldritch being—it’s brilliant.

Tim: "Okay, I’ve been running the stats. Crime in Gotham during the day has dropped by, like, 40%. That’s not normal. Something’s going on."

Jason: "I say Duke’s been moonlighting as a Jedi or something. There’s no other explanation."

Duke: "I swear, I’m just... out there, doing my thing. Nothing fancy!"

Dick: "Right. Which is why we’re all suiting up and following you tomorrow. For science."

The next day, the Batfamily gathers on a rooftop near Wayne Tower, decked out in their suits, ready to tail Duke as discreetly as possible.

Jason: "Alright, Narrows, go do your thing. We’ll stay out of sight."

Duke (rolling his eyes): "You guys are making this way weirder than it needs to be. I’m just... patrolling."

Dick: "That’s exactly what makes it suspicious. Go on."

Duke sighs, mutters something about how everyone’s being dramatic, and leaps off the rooftop.

The rest of the Batfamily follows at a safe distance, blending into shadows and keeping tabs via comms. At first, everything seems normal. Duke stops a mugging with a quick intervention and moves on. But as he continues, they start noticing patterns .

Witnessing The Signal in Action

A small group of teenagers loitering in an alley suddenly stiffen as Duke lands silently on a nearby fire escape. He doesn’t even say anything—just crouches there, watching.

Teen 1 (terrified whisper): "Did you see that? Oh my god, it’s looking at us!"

Teen 2: "What is that thing?!"

The group scatters like frightened birds.

On another street, a man about to break into a car looks up and sees Duke silhouetted against the sunlight. The golden glow of Duke’s eyes intensifies, and shadows seem to curl unnaturally around his frame.

Car Thief: "Nope. Nope. Not today. I’m going back to Metropolis."

He drops his crowbar and sprints away.

From a nearby rooftop, the Batfamily watches everything unfold.

Tim: "Okay, I don’t get it. He didn’t even do anything that time."

Barbara (from the comms): "I checked the cameras. He just landed on a fire escape and... stared. Is this his whole strategy?"

Steph: "Wait, is this some kind of Jedi mind trick? Duke, are you secretly psychic?"

Duke (on comms): "No! I’m not psychic. I don’t know why they’re freaking out!"

Jason: "I’ll tell you why—they think you’re a demon, dude. You’ve got the whole Lovecraft vibe going on. Look at you! You’re like a glowing shadow monster on top of a building."

Dick: "He’s not wrong. You’re giving off serious 'guardian of the apocalypse' energy."

Duke: "You guys are exaggerating. I just look... cool. Right?"

The Batfamily decides to test the hypothesis. Jason volunteers to get closer for a better look, pretending to be a random pedestrian.

He casually strolls down the street, glances up at Duke on the rooftop, and immediately freezes. Even Jason—who routinely faces death and chaos—is struck by the sheer wrongness of Duke’s appearance. It’s not that Duke’s doing anything malicious. It’s just... unsettling.

Jason (into comms): "Okay, yeah. It’s definitely the eldritch horror thing. My fight-or-flight reflex just kicked in, and I know it’s him ."

Duke: "I still don’t see it!"

Barbara: "Hold on. I’m recording this. I’ll pull up the feed so you can see what Gotham sees."

Back in the Batcave, Barbara plays the daytime surveillance footage on the main screen. The Batfamily watches in stunned silence as the video shows Duke leaping across rooftops. In the broad daylight, his glowing golden aura seems magnified. His shadow stretches unnaturally, flickering like it has a mind of its own. His eyes gleam with an unearthly intensity, and he moves with a predator-like grace that’s both mesmerizing and terrifying.

Dick: "Wow. You’re like Batman’s scarier, solar-powered cousin."

Steph: "Or the protagonist of a found-footage horror movie."

Tim: "Oh my god. Duke... you look like the final boss of a cosmic horror video game."

Jason: "No wonder Gotham’s criminals are freaked out. You look like you’re about to drag their souls into the void."

Duke (finally seeing it): "...Oh. Oh no."

Duke leans against the console, burying his head in his hands.

Duke: "I thought people were just scared of, like... the idea of a Bat vigilante. Not me personally. "

Tim: "I mean, technically, it’s still the idea of a bat vigilante. You’re just the daytime version. And the daytime version is... apparently an eldritch sentinel."

Bruce (stepping in): "This works to our advantage. Fear is a powerful deterrent."

Duke (sarcastically): "Great. My entire crime-fighting persona is an eldrich nightmare… That’s not weird at all."

Later

The Batfamily decides to lean into Duke’s unique abilities. They even brainstorm ways to amplify the effect subtly (glowing lenses for his mask, playing up the shadow distortion) while ensuring Duke feels supported.

Bruce: "You’ve turned daylight into an ally in a way no one else has. Use it."

Duke: "Yeah, but... can we not make me look like the end boss of Gotham?"

Jason: "Too late, man. It’s perfect."

As they laugh and tease Duke, he starts to accept his role as Gotham’s daytime terror—a protector like no other. Though, deep down, he secretly enjoys how effective it is.

Extra

Scenario 1: The Hallway Horror

It’s late at night, and the Batfamily is scattered throughout Wayne Manor. Jason is heading to the kitchen for a midnight snack when he senses movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns to see Duke standing at the end of the dimly lit hallway, perfectly still.

Duke’s golden eyes are glowing faintly in the dark, his shadow stretching unnaturally along the walls. Jason freezes.

Jason (startled): "Jesus Christ, Duke! What are you doing?!"

Duke: "I was heading to my room."

Jason (still on edge): "Well, don’t stand there like a damn ghost! You scared the crap out of me!"

Duke raises an eyebrow.

Duke: "You’re literally a guy who sneaks up on criminals for a living. How did I scare you? "

Jason grumbles as he stalks off to the kitchen. Later, he tells everyone at breakfast that Duke’s "eldritch hallway act" nearly gave him a heart attack.

Scenario 2: The Living Room Light Show

The family is hanging out in the Wayne Manor living room after a patrol. The lights are dimmed, and everyone’s winding down. Duke is lounging on the couch, half-asleep, when Tim notices something strange.

Tim: "Uh... Duke? You’re glowing."

Everyone turns to look at Duke, who blinks in confusion. Sure enough, his golden aura has started to flicker faintly in the dim room. Shadows from the furniture stretch and bend toward him like they’re being pulled into a vortex.

Dick: "Okay, that’s... unsettling."

Steph (grinning): "Is this your way of telling us you’re secretly a nightlight?"

Duke, now fully awake, tries to suppress the glow. But the more he panics, the brighter his eyes get, until Jason hurls a throw pillow at him.

Jason: "Turn it off! You’re gonna summon Cthulhu in the middle of movie night!"

Bruce walks in, sees the chaos, and just sighs.

Bruce: "No eldritch summoning in the living room. Take it to the cave."

Scenario 3: Shadow in the Batcave

Tim is working late in the Batcave, surrounded by monitors and gadgets. He hears footsteps behind him and assumes it’s Bruce.

Tim (without looking): "Hey, can you hand me the—"

He turns around to see Duke standing there silently, his glowing eyes piercing through the shadows of the cave. Tim yelps and nearly falls out of his chair.

Duke (startled): "Whoa! Tim, it’s just me!"

Tim (catching his breath): "Don’t sneak up on people like that! You’re like a freaking cryptid in here!"

Duke smirks, but when he steps closer, the shadows behind him flicker unnaturally.

Tim: "Nope! Nope! Back up! You’re officially banned from the Batcave after dark."

Scenario 4: Bedside Terror

Damian wakes up in the middle of the night and spots a tall, shadowy figure standing silently by his bed. He grabs his katana instinctively and swings—only to realize it’s Duke, glowing faintly.

Damian: "Thomas! What are you doing?"

Duke (guiltily): "I, uh... thought I saw a shadow move in your room. Turns out it was just me."

Damian groans and flops back onto his bed.

Damian: "Next time, announce your presence before you scare someone into an early grave."

Scenario 5: The Kitchen Incident

Steph and Damian are in the kitchen arguing over the last cookie Alfred made.

Damian: "It’s mine. I called dibs."

Steph: "You can’t call dibs on dessert, Demon Spawn!"

As the argument escalates, the lights flicker, and a low hum fills the air. Both turn to see Duke standing in the doorway, his eyes glowing faintly. The refrigerator light casts long, exaggerated shadows across the floor, making Duke look ten feet tall.

Duke (deadpan): "Why is it always the cookies?"

Steph and Damian scream simultaneously.

Damian (recovering, annoyed): "Tt. That was unnecessary."

Steph: "Duke, I swear, one of these days you’re gonna give me a heart attack."

Scenario 6: Midnight Training Gone Wrong

Dick decides to train late in the Batcave, running through an obstacle course. He doesn’t realize Duke is also there, watching from the shadows. As Dick flips off a beam, he catches sight of Duke perched on a ledge, his glowing eyes tracking him like a predator.

Dick slips mid-flip and lands on the mat with a thud.

Dick: "DUKE! Why are you lurking like that?!"

Duke hops down gracefully.

Duke: "I wasn’t lurking. I was observing."

Dick: "You were lurking. Your shadows were doing the creepy tentacle thing again!"

Duke glances at his shadow, which does seem to be moving independently, and shrugs.

Duke: "I can’t control that all the time. Besides, you’re supposed to have situational awareness."

Dick: "Not for you ! You’re worse than Bruce!"

:D!!! lol posting here but I also posted on AO3

[aizawaz]

Soap being a munch 🗣️

Had a vivid vision of this, so……and it’s also my birthday so this is a present to myself LOL

Warnings: cunnilingus so fem!reader , slight praise , spitting , Soap’s a messy eater

! NSFW under the cut !

A near animalistic noise rips through Soap’s throat as you gush into his mouth, your syrupy essence coating his tongue and nearly sending him straight to the grave. Your whines and pleas for Johnny to have mercy on your swollen cunt fall upon deaf ears. He’s so entranced by you; the way you smell, the way you taste. He could spend hours between your legs just slurping and drinking in your sweet taste, and he’s halfway there already.

You’re certain Johnny hasn’t taken a breath in five minutes by the way groaning into your pussy, tongue prodding at your drooling hole. He’s been able to pull two orgasms out of you with his mouth alone, and very close to making it three. Your brain is mush from the unending and overwhelming pleasure, eyes dazedly staring down at him as he suckles on your clit. It pulls a deep moan from your chest, finally catching the attention of Soap.

You’re gone as soon as he looks up at you. Those baby blues darkened with hunger, cheeks a dusty rose, pupils blown so wide with furrowed brows that are just begging you to flood his mouth with your cum again. You can only hold eye contact for a few seconds before the coil in your stomach snaps, the warmth that was building now erupting and spreading through your veins like lightning. Johnny doesn’t look away, though. He’s watching every little reaction from you, gruffly murmuring into your slick folds. “Yes, cum in m’fuckin’ mouth. Tastes so goddamn good, mo ghràdh.”

And he doesn’t stop lapping at you until he can feel you begin to squirm away, weak hands pushing at his head and shoulders while mewling broken cries of “Please, Johnny…can’t.” and he just finds you so cute that he can’t help but grin and give your throbbing clit a gentle kiss. Then Soap’s lifting his face from your sex, the entire lower half of his face coated with your arousal, and you think that he’s finally going to give you a chance to breathe. That is, until his hands hook beneath your knees and pushes them up towards your chest before lowering his head back down to nestle between your trembling thighs once more.

A whimper is all you can do to protest, body too limp and head too hazy to stop him. “Shh, baby,” Soap coos, smiling at the dumbstruck look on your face. You look the prettiest like this, he thinks. All doe-eyed and drunk on lust, thinking of nothing but how good he’s making you feel. “You’re doing so good, makin’ me so proud.” The praise would be sweet, if it weren’t for the way he’s now staring at you with a renewed and growing desire.

“If you’re good for a li’l longer,” he appeals, punctuating his remark by spitting on your pussy, the glob of saliva dribbling between your folds and towards your awaiting entrance. You clench in reflex, your hips jerking up towards Johnny’s shiny face and earning a pleased hum from the man. “The next thing you can cum on is my cock. How’s tha’ sound?”

———————————————

A/N: I kinda rushed through this one so I’m sorry for any grammatical/spelling mistakes, and I hope that I got the Scottish right but lmk if I didn’t🙏🏻

© aizawaz on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[adozowa]

LITTLE ONE

:: Headcanons on how joestars would react to finding out they have an older sibling. ( You are the older sibling. )

:: This features how they would react to this information, meet you, and how they would treat you. Jonathan, Joseph, Jotaro

( I won't be able to probably write all the Joestars in one sitting, so there will be parts. )

I made an edit because I accidentally used a m pronoun, whoopsie reflex🤧!!!!

:: GN! READER

! VIOLENT THEMES, SWEARING

Dividers by: @cafekitsune ! They have TONSSS

The way you can tell who's my fav..

(Young jonathan)

- It all started when random things in the house started... Looking off in it's place.

-I know it's a damn big house but Jonathan is very observant tryst me

-Like... The vases are moving?? Pens??? Papers?? And there's this one empty room that seems clean every time

-Dio thinks Jonathan is becoming schizophrenic lmao

-until one night..

-you came in from the window as you scavenged your room for something, little did you know young Jonathan is right behind you in shock

-when he saw you he tried to stab you lmao

-you explain ...

-apparently you're just a forager coming day and night at random times, so that explains why at random times of day there is a sequencing of items moving- Jonathan how the fuck did you discover a SEQUENCE??

-he's ecstatic, but also a bit sad that his dad never introduced you before.

-introduces you to Dio hesitantly, like he's gripping your arm as you tower over both the children.

-he's kinda jealous that you treat Dio as you would normally treat a younger sibling, that bitch is NOT NORMALL

-he's overprotective of you and doesn't hide it, he doesn't trust Dio at ALL

-literally you talking to young Dio while Jonathan is CLAWING at your arm.

-if he sees Dio being "nice" to you after a while he would stop the overprotectiveness but still keeps an eye

-it's like having a small over protective puppy by you're side it's so cute

-okay older Jonathan

-ohhhh this bitch is TOO protective, after father got sick from a certain piss haired shit he's on the GUARD

-since he's older, you're older too. And he doesn't want you to end up sick like dad.

-Dio is becoming more riskier with his tactics around you, testing your boundaries and seeing what he can do.

-Jonathan prevents that.

-after what happened with the stone mask, oh goodie goodness

-expect for Jonathan to be clinging onto you the whole time. He doesn't want you to fall for dio's tactics, die, or anything else.

EXTRA:

-he introduced you to Erina, shed a tear when they got married, and shed more tears when Jonathan died.

-At first he spotted Lisa Lisa with a strange hooded figure who was quite tall....(sorry short readers)

-runs up, no sprints.

"YOOOO" what a great first impression! To a stranger!!

-Lisa Lisa introduces you

-he gasps

-he's excited

-ruffles your hair even though you're older than him

-takes you on bizarre adventures

-you helped him defeat the pillar men, they had no beef with you but joseph? Bros a natural opp atp

-really clingy and eager to explore new things with you, I mean an older sibling. COOOLLL

-literally homies for life, you both are an unstoppable duo. Very annoying and loud lmao

-if ur taller than him, now that's a problem.

-WILL grumble about your height differences

-but if you're more of a jotaro personality, he's teasing you left and right like that one time with Santana

-you're 😐 while he's 🥰😁😝🤪🤯🤓🥱🥸

Okay now old joseph

-introduces you to his daughter, holy kujo. You and his daughter bonded quite easily!!!

-your probably all crippled but he's now wondering how the fuq you're still standing at like idk.... 3827w928 years old.?.

"JoJo I'm not that old.."

-he WILL introduce you to the stardust crusaders, since you're older. You laid back some more and now your chill ig

-jotaro likes you since you're more tolerable than joseph

-you and avdol are best buddies

-kakyoin are buddies

-polnareff and you get into trouble a lot (good grief..)

-He visited his mom once, and felt an eerie presence in the house upon entering. Like he's IMMEDIATELY suspicious.

-"who's in here."

-insert gif of you popping up from the side randomly and waving hello

-Holy explains to jotaro so he wouldn't attack you and he's quite confused? When did he get an older sibling? Why are you only here now? Who are you??

-he's interrogating you and your sweating bullets because how can your lil bro be this intimidating, last time u saw him he was all sunshine and rainbows as a kid

-he eventually softens up a bit, only to you. And we all know he's a big softie on the inside... And if you're a stand user..

-oh goodness star platinum is ALL over you

-giving you gifts, clinging to you, playing, you name it! He reminds ya of young jotaro and you shed a tear at that (yare yare.. Stop crying..)

-he's embarrassed at how star platinum is at you, since he's basically his soul. It's presenting things that he can't do he's a bit glad

After stardust crusaders

-after Egypt he really needed a shoulder to lean and cry on, imagine how traumatized he was. And he was only a teenager at that time, it guilted you how tensed up he was now.

-he sometimes tells you about the stardust crusaders and in those moments, sometimes he cries.

-he just needs a big hug from a big sibling (you)

-you wished you met the other stardust crusaders apart from joseph, since you kind of see him a lot anyways.

Okay OLDER JOTARO

-introduces you to jolyne

- "MY LITTLE BROTHER HAS A DAUGHTER?? "

- "yare yare... "

-when you met her, you're basically the coolest.. Erm.. How do you say this,, dad's sibling?? Dadib??? Dad-sib... Yeah. Coolest dad-sib..

-you and jolyne are best buddies now actually, literally unstoppable.

-you already accepted anasui lol which had jotaro fuming

The next part will feature part 4, 5, and 6 JoJos. I might even make a jobro version!

[barcapix]

Can I request a Marc Bernal fic where reader is classmates and friends with his friend and he keeps annoying him to give him her number and be his wingman and eventually he does set them up together?

Make it sassy, teasing (his friends teasing him) with a sprinkle of humour maybe a lil suggestive??

Wtv you want pookie <33

✮ Teenage Romance - Marc Bernal

marc bernal x fem!reader

sy: marc can only admire you from afar. he doesn’t carry the confidence that his friend possesses—he can use that to his advantage by grabbing your attention.

a/n: i hope it’s okay that i didn’t to the exchange numbers part because i found it really difficult to write. and for the sake of this, lamine is a windup. i hope it did it justice thank u! <33

warnings: kisses, but nah?

there it goes. another paper airplane. 

as it had previously done, it shoots its way onto your desk, skimming the wooden surface right when your professor turns his attention to you. 

mid sentence, a question on the tip of his tongue, was he rudely interrupted at the crafted paper on your desk. 

his expression flattens. “y/n. how many times?”

the classroom falls silent; you feel the pierce of your fellow classmates eyes on you, as if watching a slow-mo distant unfold. 

you bloom red, throat dry. “i—uh, sorry.”

this was the third, if not fourth, time he’d caught a paper figurine on your desk in the past fifteen minutes. his patience was running thin. 

the man sighs, approaching you and scrunching it into a meaningless ball. “if that happens again ms, i’m afraid ill have you removed.”

the words sink like a stone into your stomach. the innocent and never-misbehaved-in-my-life student, now caught in the ‘act’ of misbehaving. 

“is that clear?” he demands.

you gulp thickly; you can practically feel the heat radiating from your skin at this point. “yeah—yes. that’s clear.”

behind you, a familiar chorus of snickering erupts and without even sparing a glance, you know who it is. as you like to think: your school nemesis. 

“d’you have some sorta fetish for planes? paper even?” lamine whispers over to you, laughing. even if the classroom is so deadly quiet, that won’t stop him. 

“real funny lamine. so mature of you,” you mock laugh, lowly. 

your professor resumes drawing onto the chalkboard, lecturing about some godforsaken mathematical formulas. that’s when you turn to face him. 

“shame. i actually had a message for you in that one,” he leans in close. “probably would of liked it too.”

you grimace, retorting flatly. “can’t you just tell me—using your voice? you know, like a normal human being.”

“well where’s the fun in that, aguafiestas,” a fun nickname he uses for you all the time. “you’re always so scared of stepping outside the box. relax. a little warning wont kill you.”

”no but i’m going to kill you,” you half-jokingly threaten. although, for a second it doesn’t seem like the worst idea. you’re so distracted in getting caught up with the feud, you don’t even realise what he’s doing. 

lamine smirks, hovering a hand over his mouth as he whistles. “sure you will. but besides, can you catch this one?”

a fifth airplane takes flight, predictably, it flies right onto your table—like this exact situation hasnt played out before—as your professor turns to face the class.

again. 

though this time, your repetitive reflexes claim dominance when you shove it under the desk, before he notices. as quietly as you could, you unfold the paper and peer at the scrawled message in red ink.

labelled: “marc has a crush on you. what do you think?”

you’ve never twisted your head around so fast. “what? who’s that?”

lamine, who’s barely keeping his nonchalant act intact, points over to a guy sitting two desks infront of him. a guy you had—terribly—never acknowledged before. 

messy dark curls, sharp jawline and tanned skin, a somber ring on his finger that he keeps spinning idly. he’s resting his chin on his hand, seemingly unbothered by the whole ordeal. 

you’re so focused on him, so endeared by the way he seemed much unlike the revolting boys in the rest of the class, that you don’t even notice how everybody is packing up as the bell rings. 

“see you later, aguafiesta,” lamine teases, swinging his bag over your head, hitting you, as pretending to put it on his shoulder. 

outside, you spot your besfriend, willow, waiting for you. “hey y/n! how was class?” she says enthusiastically.

you stuff your hands into your pockets. “not that great.”

her mouth gapes open, genuinely shocked. it had to be a lie—you loved each class you attended with not once, a negative thought. 

“am i hearing correctly or did you just say not that great,” willow almost hollers, pushing the canteen door wide. 

“oh you heard me just fine,” you grumble as you join the queue for lunch. “i got threatened to be removed. and in other words, a warning.”

her face drops in disappointment. “what? that’s it? you had me thinking it was something serious.”

you bite back, “it is serious!”

“god don’t fret y/n,” she declares. “everyone has a first time.”

”yeah, well…” you shuffle your shoes and cross your arms. “its my first time. and i was hoping i wouldn’t be included in the abbreviation of ‘everyone’.”

“okay but how did it even happen?” she asks, stepping forward when the queue shortens. 

“lamine.” you biasly deadpan. even his name makes your blood run cold. he’s not, and never will be, a friend of yours, but just an annoyingly brash teammate who made it is his daily mission to break your innocence streak. 

willow suppresses a laugh, biting her tongue. 

“i’m being serious willow!” you flail your arms in the air and break into an outburst, that turns a few heads. “he’s been doing this for years and im tired of it!”

“lets not make a scene,” she drops her voice into a whisper, grabbing you by the arm. “what did he do to make you receive that?”

“blaming me for the paper airplanes he kept shooting my way,” you calm down a little, but still huff agitatingly. “with insignificant messages i’m sure he wrote himself.”

“i know lamine is low but he’s not that low,” willow subsides, grabbing a tray from the rack. “but a message? what did it say?”

you take a portion of pineapple from the selection, placing it on your tray. “that apparently some guy has a crush on me.”

the way you were so incredibly unbothered by this made her head snap around so fast you feared she’d get whiplash. 

“you’re kidding!” she playfully swats your arm—though it actually scorns. “who? what guy?!”

“some guy called.. marc bernal?”

ACROSS THE CAFETERIA.. marc is sat round a table with his friends, and a presumably, now, a cold and untouched meal infront of him. though his focus is elsewhere, its on you. 

“hello?” pau, the dorky of the group, waves a hand in his face. “earth to marc?”

”hm?” marc quirks his head around. the three other guys sitting with him have their eyes wide, almost as if he’s just confessed to a murder. 

it takes him a second to realise, but once he does—he’s all innocent. “why are you all looking at me like that for?”

hector is the first to call him out. “so are we going to ignore how you’ve zoned us all out? for the past… ten minutes?”

”you can’t help yourself can you,” lamine pats his back. “even with so many other chicks around you. your staring looking at her.”

”i wasn’t staring,” he defends. “i was observing. there’s a—”

”there’s a difference.” they all laugh, mimicking air quotes. “yeah yeah. we know. ‘there’s a difference’”

hector leans back on his chair, grinning. “but observing? there’s no man on earth that observes for that long. so just admit and say you were practically undressing her with your eyes.”

marc’s face instantly flushes red, and though he’s about to cut in and try fend himself, the three guys can’t help themselves. 

“i have to say.. if i was bettin’ man,” lamine adds with a sly smirk. “id say you were visually planning on how to accidentally bump into her on the way out of here.”

”or better yet,” pau chimes in. “he’s planning on how to make himself look like an even bigger douche by coming up with a plan to get you to get her attention. do it yourself hermano.”

marc scoffs, shaking his head. “you guys are utterly ridiculous.”

“so is that a yes?” hector boasts, stretching his arms behind his head. 

they all quirk their heads in union, poking him in the sides and shaking him by the arms. if anything, they could all singlehandedly out-shout the entire cafeteria. 

“alright, alright i get it,” marc tries to wave them off. “you don’t have to keep making fun of me.”

pau shuffles closer to him, wrapping an arms around his broad shoulders. “aw c’mon you guys. i think it’s adorable actually.”

”you do?” marc turns to him with a genuine plead of hope.

”sure,” he nods. “adorably pedophilloic.”

the table bursts into fits of laughter, struggling to keep their mysterious personas at bay. marc reels his hoodie up to his face, to try to mask on how red he’s gotten. 

ITS LATE.. past curfews, and your stood infront of your shared bathroom mirror by brushing your teeth. however, willow’s trying to discard you out of the way, in attempt to put her earrings in. 

“hows it possible that you manage to use the entire mirror?” she mocks, reaching on her tiptoes for a height advantage. 

you shrug, spitting the leftover toothpaste into the sink. then you swill your mouth out with water, taking a towel over your lips. 

“so, who are you going out with again?” you ask. “you never really told me.”

”oh just a few friends from out of town,” she replies sweetly, now practising her poker face in the mirror. 

”willow, this is super dangerous,” you try to reason, but she already shut you down the last time you said this. “what if you get caught?”

she rests her hand on your shoulder, trying to reassure you that everything was going to be fine. “y’know, after all this years, i’ve never once got caught.”

”this could be the first,” you seriously suggest.

she has nothing to say but laugh—shaking her head because you never gave up. “y/n, now i’m being serious. i’m not going to get caught.”

willow flashes you a smile, giving her hair one final fluff in the mirror before grabbing her coat from the back of the door.

you’re still frowning, arms folded as you watch her slip a bag over her shoulder like she isn’t just about to commit a major rule violation. 

“don’t wait up for me,” she singsongs, reaching for the door handle. 

you fake laugh. “don’t worry i won’t.”

she presses a friendly kiss onto your cheek, before slipping past the door into the dimly lit hallway. her footsteps echo out, and you can no longer hear her within two seconds. 

her ability to sneak out thrice a week without repercussions was admirable, but never, would you dare to go that far. sometimes rules were safety precautions.

with a heavy sigh, you shake your head and move to perch on the end of your bed. you weren’t tired enough to be consumed by your mattress, because once you lay down it was over. 

you’d never get back up.

you reach for your phone, ready to scroll yourself into distraction until there’s an unexpected knock at your door. 

figuring it was just willow being unorganised, maybe leaving the key on accident—you padded along the floor to the door. 

though, once you see who’s there, its not willow. 

it’s marc. the guy who hadn’t left your mind for hours, and the same airplane—which had his confessions spilled—was still crammed into your back pocket, of the same jeans you were wearing then and now.

hes even more handsome than what you saw earlier, even if his expression was pulled into a confused pout. yet, nobody moves and your both frozen. 

the air between you is stoic, tense and still. to say the least, you were both shocked, and maybe a little awkward as neither of you expected to greet eachother so soon. 

marc’s gaze flickers to you and the room behind you, as if he’s making sure hes in the right place. 

his adam’s apple bob when he swallows. “uh.. i—”

you do the same, and your head suddenly begins to throb. but someone had to say something. “marc is it? what are you doing here?”

his lips part, but no words come out at first. the spaniard swallows again, then says, “lamine told me.. me to meet him here.”

“here?” you blink, confused. 

marc nods, looking more uncomfortable by the second. his hands have found a way to tug onto the thick material of his hoodie—pulling at a loose thread. 

though the realisation hits you like a freight train. 

why didn’t you see it sooner? willow goes missing, lamine has set his own bestfriend up and oh, you and marc happen to interact for the first time ever, now. 

you sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “marc. hes lied to you.”

he frowns. “what?”

“lamine isn’t here,” you explain. “he—well—hes out somewhere.” you don’t add that hes with willow, because your still trying to wrap your head around it too. 

marc runs a hand through his hair deliberately slow, and whispers underneath his breath,“of course he is.”

he looks so defeated, that you almost feel bad. i mean, you can’t just wave him goodbye and that’s that. 

“you can come in if you want.” the words leave your lips before you can stop them. “if you do actually want to.”

you step aside, seeing if he wants to be welcomed in. hes hesitant at first, but it doesn’t take long before he caves in. 

you shut the door behind him and he lingers in the centre of the room, like he isn’t really sure what to do with himself. 

you take a seat atop your vanity, licking your lips. “so.. did lamine tell you why he wanted to meet you here?”

marc ushers a breathy laugh, but it lacks conviction. “no. i should of knew it was a setup really.” he then pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “sorry for showing up.. unannounced.”

“it’s not your fault,” you reassure, offering a small smile. “he’s like that y’know. always pulling these cruel jokes.”

”i guess,” he awkwardly chuckles, and his usual tensed physic drops in comfort.

theres a beat of silence. it’s not exactly uncomfortable, just expectant. but that’s normal—especially after having a setup so naively planned in a bid to get you to talk to one another. 

marc clears his throat, making your eyes lock on him. “look i—i should probably apologise,” he exhales. “about the whole airplane thing… i didn’t actually tell him to do that.”

you tilt your head. “no?”

he shakes his head. “no i mean—i did mention that i thought you were… cute. and then lamine seized that as an opportunity to y’know, mess with me.”

then his lips press together, his voice quieter. “and you.”

you beam up at him, trying to absorb all what he just said. “cute?”

”mhm,” he admits, visibly cringing at how awkward that makes it sound out loud. it sounded better in his head though. 

his eyes flicker up to meet yours for the first time, his cheeks flushed and as though he wants the ground to swallow him whole. but that one, singular, brief eye contact was all it took. 

you aren’t sure who moves first. 

maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you. but all you know is the limited space between you closes and his body is pressed up against yours. 

your lips mould together, almost desperately, like a plea he’s silently been wishing for. it’s urgent yet possessive, like he’s wanted this forever but never had the courage to ask.

his fingers grip your waist, digging into your flesh as if he couldn’t bare anymore distance. the kiss is tentative, his lips featherlight as they blend into yours. a wave of his minty, yet warm breath fans across your face as his nose bumps yours.

when your hands crawl up to fist his hoodie, he smiles against your mouth, and that’s all the permission he needs to deepen the kiss. his lips part against yours, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip.

your hands move up to claw his hair, and he makes a sound at the touch—half sigh, half groan like he’s completely surrending at your touch.

then, just as quickly, he pulls back.

“mierda,” he breathes, his forehead still so close that it nearly brushes against yours. your hands slowly retreat from his hair, as he forces himself to stumble back.

the tips of his ears burn red, and he clears his throat, looking anywhere but you. “i’m um—sorry. i—didn’t mean to just—”

he stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. then he sighs. “i should probably go. before lamine somehow finds out and never lets me live this down.”

you push yourself upright, where you previously crashed against the mirror, swinging your legs on the edge of the desk like you were taunting him. 

was he really going to leave after abruptly kissing you? and then what would happen. admittedly, although you wouldn’t say it out loud, you wanted him to pick up where he left off. “if that’s really what you want.”

marc sees right through you, almost on the verge of breaking into a shy laugh. “dont look at me like that.”

”like what?” your smile grows, faking innocence. 

he inhales sharply, like hes debating whether to fight this losing battle. yet, the smirk on his lips betrays him. 

“you don’t make this very easy for me,” he mutters, bouncing between your eyes and your lips.

but if you wanted to, hey, he’d give it to you. 

then, as if gravity made its decision, he draws back to you like he never wanted to leave in the first place. 

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb

[plaidconvers]

Slow Mornings~ C. Telford

Chibs Telford x fem!reader

Summary: Chibs wakes up in your bed, allowing for soft moments and vulnerability.

CW: Mentions of pain and injury, mild language, brief description of injury, tbh maybe some spelling mistakes lol, let me know if I left anything out!

A/N: Here's part 2 of Bleedin' Heart!! Maybe I'll make this into a series, but who knows? I'm so happy you've all liked it thus far. I love this mannnnnnnnn! Anywho, requests are open, hope you enjoy blah blah blah MWAH 🥰

You wake before him.

It's still early— barely enough light creeping through the blinds to paint the edges of the room in silver. The rains stopped, but the world outside is still wet and quiet, like it knows not to disturb what's inside.

Chibs is asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist, breathing slow and steady. The scar on his cheek catches the light, and for once, he doesn't look like a man carrying hell behind his eyes.

You watch him for a moment. Just... let yourself look. He never lets his guard down like this. And even now, there's a furrow in his brow, like his body doesn't know how to fully rest— even when it's safe.

Eventually, he shifts. Breath catches. A faint groan slips out as he stretches.

"Mm. Fuck me," he mutters, voice rough with sleep. "Feel like I got hit by a fuckin' truck."

You smirk. "You kinda did."

His eyes finally crack open, bleary and bloodshot, but they find you immediately. And then he does that thing— softens catching in the corners, just for you.

"Morning, mo gràidh," he rasps, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. "You still here, then? Thought maybe I dreamt the whole bloody thing."

"It's my house," you say with a playful smile.

You roll onto your side, elbow tucked up under your head. "But not a dream. You passed out mid-sentence after calling me a saint and askin' where I keep the whiskey."

He groans again, this time with more feeling. "Christ. Romantic bastard, aren't I?"

You grin. "A real poet."

He stretches once more, then he sits up slowly, wincing. "Shite... ribs're bruised to hell. Can feel every breath like it owes me money."

"Let me check 'em."

"I'm grand," he says on reflex.

You raise a brow. "Try again."

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head fondly. "Y'know, yer a right pain in the arse."

"And you still came back."

He doesn't answer right away. Just watches you, eyes a little too honest for the first thing in the morning.

"Aye,' he finally says. "I did."

You sit up beside him, fingers brushing over the bruise blooming along his side. He flinches slightly but doesn't pull away.

"Why?" You ask. "Why me?"

He looks down for a second, picking at a thread in your blanket. Then, without looking up: "Because I walk into a lotta rooms feelin' like a ghost. But when I walk into yours? I feel like I'm still... me."

You blink. It's not a big speech. Not a grand declaration. But coming from him, it might as well be a sonnet.

You rest your hand over his.

"I don't want you to be a ghost, Filip. I want you here. Present. Breathing."

He finally looks at you, eyes glassy but steady. "Then I'll try. I can't promise I'll be good at it— but for you? I'll try."

A pause. Then he adds, quieter:

"Fuck, you make it hard not to love you."

You don't say anything. Just lean in, press your lips gently to his temple, and let your forehead rest there.

In that little moment— warm skin, shared breath, silence broken only by the rain gutters outside— it feels like maybe, just maybe, the war can wait a little longer.

[m0llygunn]

i wish i had met you earlier (eddie munson x reader)

cw: depressing pillow talk and comfort idk, reader was sad and lonely an: a nod to the only boy ive ever loved who coincidentally became the only man ive ever loved. we grew up together and i still wish i had met him earlier. wc: 1k

“I wish I had met you earlier,” you whisper.

“Earlier?” he smiles, nose scrunching at the silliness, not knowing the depth of your sentiment. 

“Yeah,” you smile back. It’s hard not to do— to smile, when his eyes are so soft, and his lips are that plump, just kissed colour, and your body still hums from the evening behind you. His lashes flutter the slightest bit, blinking away your flattery with a bashful roll of his eyes. 

“You’d be sick of me already if we met earlier,” he lightly huffs, cheek squishing further into the softness of your shared pillow, crooking his smile. 

If the lights were on, you’re sure you’d see a flush suffuse across his face. It would highlight the curvature of his cheeks that accompany his boyish simper, and it would emphasize the winsome rounded tip of his nose. When he blushes like that, your heart always adds an extra beat into its rhythm, one that lives for him. You can picture it so clearly, your heart flutters all the same— that’s not the point of this though. 

“I wouldn't be sick of you,” you promise.

“No?”

“I'll never get sick of you.” 

Tactile as always, he draws his affection over your features, trusting his touch to communicate what he feels. His fingertips dance over your cheek bone, daring to grace close enough to your eye to feel the very tips of each silken lash, flittering with every reflexive blink. He feels the fan, every feathery gust of air, and it affects him in magnitudinous ways— feeling any part of you is like that, a full-hearted reminder that you are here. You are here and you are his. 

His palm settles to your cheek, fingers curving just below your ear, cradling the edge of your face. His own version of a promise, he shares his warmth and oath-taken heart through his touch.

“When would you have wanted to meet?” he asks curiously, blinking his own thick lashes at you as his gaze meets yours. 

“Just before high school.”

He smiles widely, “you answered that quickly,” he says, thumb tracing once over the hill of your cheek and back down.

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” you smile back. You lean into his touch and he draws his thumb across again. You close your eyes for a moment and he does it another time. 

“Why?” 

The softness inside you hardens momentarily at the question. Swallowing thickly, you also know the answer, but it doesn’t come out as quickly. It gets stuck to the roof of your mouth, stuck to the tip of your tongue. His eyes encourage your honesty, and on the sole notion of knowing him and knowing his heart, you trust him with this part of you.

“Maybe if I met you then, I wouldn’t have been so lonely.”

His thumb glides across your cheek and you watch as his eyes give way to his realization that it wasn’t a light hearted question for you. It wasn’t just pillow talk like it was supposed to be.

“Maybe if I met you then, I wouldn’t have been so sad,” you continue, trying to smile.

“You were sad?” His brows turn up, worry lines settling in. It’s a sorrowful look he gives you, not pity, but a softness, a grief, a regret. 

For a split moment, you think that maybe you should lie— make it all go away. Maybe you should lie, but you couldn’t, not with him. Not when his hand is so graciously connected to you, and the warmth of his bare chest radiates into yours, and your shared pillow smells like your shared shampoo, and the sheets smell like the laundry soap you picked out together, with hints of your lotion and his body wash scattered throughout like every kiss you’ve ever shared here. Maybe you should lie, but you couldn’t— especially not when you love him and he loves you. 

“I was so sad, Eddie.” 

You muster a smile, but it betrays you, trembling just under your lower lip. The corners of your mouth remain pointed high, but it’s not a smile, not with the way your lips purse tightly, holding back what your eyes cannot. Your lash line fills, but less than a few side fallen tears survive the heavy blinks that draw them back inwards.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, thumb tracing under your eye this time. He pulls you forward with the lightest touch, a gentle encouragement, and a purposeful reminder that he’s here. He's here and he’s yours. 

One day you’d like to explain it all, but it’s a hard feeling to understand. You’re not sure if it’s wholly a feeling to begin with— it’s more like a ghost. A haunting of all the feelings that used to exist. It washes over you in fast moving gray clouds, settling into your chest like heavy smoke in your lungs, lingering only long enough to remind you of how it was. Just enough to make you sputter, but not enough to hold the bleak weight of it all once again.

Breath coming out heaving and choked, Eddie’s palm glides to the back of your neck. His thumb presses soothingly into the tensed and taut muscles, and as soft as air he breathes a whispered apology against your lips— a simple ‘sorry,’ but it translates to so much more when he holds you like he does. 

Sorry for bringing it up. 

Sorry for the ghosts in your lungs. 

Sorry for the years of you that died all alone with nobody to mourn them. 

Sorry that no matter how many flowers you bring to their grave, they still come back, just like this, to haunt you.

Sorry— breathed against your lips and into your lungs, filling you with the gift of a life with him in it. 

“It’s not your fault,” you answer.

“I know,” he replies.

“I’m still glad I met you when I did,” you say. 

He looks into your eyes, steady gaze sincere with a tender adornment. Entirely loving, but his usually gladness is hindered by the gravity of the moment. He moves in closer to you again, lips just barely brushing yours as he speaks. 

“I wish I had met you earlier,” he whispers.

———

ty! <3

[shawtylex09]

Random MHA headcanons bc I said so.

Characters included;

Ashido M. • Kaminari D. • Iida T. • Aizawa S. • Midoriya I. • Sero H.

Masterlist.

✮˚.⋆

☆ Mina Ashido

Half black, half Japanese (mom is black, dad Japanese)

Mainly listens to pop, but also likes hip hop.

I’ve also always Hc’d her to make this group chat with all of girls, and if anyone needs or wants anything that’s like, period related, she sends one of the girls out to help the girl in need out.

Gives off Bi leaning towards women vibes.

✮˚.⋆

☆ Denki Kaminari

I’m sorry, but Denki’s back is covered in lightning looking scars from growing up with his quirk.

Dealt with bad acne as a middle schooler

Has braces

Sweetest guy you’ll ever meet, and is actually really considerate of little things like his friends’ favorite colors, foods, etc.

Is very very very good at gift giving

Allergic to cats (only mild allergy tho)

Has a hamster in his dorm named Hamper

Loves spicy food even though he has like, no tolerance for it.

Has lightning fast reflexes because he loves rhythm games (get it? Lololol)

Smokes weed with Sero and actually kinda has a bit of a tragic back story

Used to be picked on a bit when he was in elementary school, kids would purposefully scare him and make him fry his brain to make him stupid.

When he gets excited or surprised, little bits of electricity shoot out through the ends of his hair.

✮˚.⋆

☆ Tenya Iida

I stand by the fact Tenya has a full skin and hair care routine, and he regularly does self care days with Izuku and Ochaco.

Tenya actually functions best on 5ish hours of sleep, any more or less and he’s basically a zombie.

He LOVES Pokémon, and his favorite Pokémon is Absol, his favorite starter is Tepig.

Totally pretends to hate being called Sonic, but actually loves it

He can only fall asleep if there’s some form of background noise

Wears cologne that smells kinda citrusy

✮˚.⋆

☆ Shota Aizawa

Has a vinyl collection, and regularly listens to them while he cleans, grades, or does really anything.

Let’s Eri braid and play with his hair pretty much whenever she asks.

He loves those hard caramel candies that come in the gold wrappers.

Has a small pin of a cat that Oboro gave him for his 16th birthday, and keeps it pinned up on his favorite jacket.

Can throw knives…scarily well.

Really good at poker for no reason

Was 5’5 until he hit 18, where he had a growth spurt.

He tans really easily, but the lucky bastard really doesn’t ever get sunburns.

Has matching tattoos that he got with Hizashi and Bo. The tattoos were a sun on Hizashi’s wrist, a star on Oboro’s, and a moon on Shota’s

Always paints his nails, and lets Eri paint them and put those little nail decals on them.

Has a heart shaped birthmark on his right shoulder blade.

✮˚.⋆

☆ Izuku Midoriya

Listens to cavetown regularly, and is a diehard fan of their music.

Is actually really good at art, idk I just feel like he’s better at art than he’s depicted in the anime/manga.

Loves banana flavored candy, along with coconut and grape flavors.

Can play the flute and violin.

Learning piano thanks to Momo’s lessons

Started smoking cigarettes his second year at UA

Izuku loves Just Dance. He just does

He had long hair in middle school, before someone stuck gum in his hair, rhem he had to cut it.

✮˚.⋆

☆ Hanta Sero

Obv I hc him to be at least half Hispanic, his mom being Japanese and his dad Hispanic.

He always smells so good, and wears different mixes of colognes and perfumes

Sero loves Spider-Man (fitting eh?) and has a few Spider-Man posters on his walls in his dorm

Stoner, obv

He loves to bake with Sato in the kitchen, he just does okay?

Whenever he’s super tired, he’ll end up speaking in Spanish, cause that’s his first language

Loves to cook, and he and Bakugou often cook together

Plays guitar and saxophone

Took dance lessons as a kid

Drinks a little, but not a lot tbh

Makes the best edibles ANYONE has ever had ever.

Here are the headcannons!! I’ll definitely make more with more characters at some point, but I’m super sleepy, I just got back from celebrating my birthday at a restaurant with my family so I’m kinda tired. I’ll try to get the Bakugou x Ch!Fm!reader out tonight, but idk if I’m going to be able to.

Mentions; @candiiee @cvnt4him @anzs-stuff @d4rlinxs

[realcube]

dilf december

day eight ⭑ tetsuro kuroo ⭑ sugar daddy x reader

tw: age gap & slight angst/conflict

midnight. he must think you're a joke.

lately, you and kuroo have had issues pertaining to him coming home from work far too late. he is supposed to finish at 5PM but most days he comes home around one or even two in the morning. which is a major issue considering it means you never get to spend any time with him, as he falls asleep as soon as he gets home then wakes up again at 8AM sharp and heads straight to work. he won't even entertain the idea of sitting down to have breakfast with you, he's always in a hurry to leave.

thus, you had to put your foot down and say that if he didn't start coming home at a reasonable time, you'd send him packing. at first he thought you were being unreasonable but you explained that you understood that he had overtime to do and sometimes he wants to socialise with his colleagues after hours, so that is why you gave him until 11PM to do so. six extra hours after his scheduled hours conclude should be plenty.

he still thought you were being a bit overbearing but he eventually conceded, not liking to see you upset for too long. he agreed that he would start coming home at 11PM sharp so the two of you could spend more time together during the week.

however, you were standing by the door at 11.30PM and from peering out the front window you could see his car had yet to pull up into the driveway. naturally, by midnight, you had packed the majority of his clothes and essential personal belongings into suitcases, and had hauled them into the foyer.

it was around 1AM when he finally arrived, and you were alerted by the jangling of his keys in the front door as to his presence. when he entered, you were already waiting patiently in your crimson evening gown, standing with your arms crossed in front of all his shit.

"hi, my angel." he cooed, immediately trying to diffuse the piping hot tension in the air.

but to no avail, as you quickly hiss back, "here's all your stuff. take it and go."

he approached you with his arms extended for a hug, or to pull you in for a kiss, saying "c'mon, baby, what's all this for? y'know i—" but you jerk away on reflex.

"take it and get out." you remain firm in your stance, standing behind one of the particularly large suitcases and using it as a barrier between the two of you.

"get out of my own house, huh?" he replies, quirking a brow.

"it's not your house anymore." you state bluntly.

he nods, clicking his tongue, "right. do you want to tell me why i'm being kicked out of my house?" his temper is calm and witty, despite everything, which almost pissed you off even more.

"you know exactly why! because i asked you to be home by eleven, but here you are at one in the morning. and you didn't even text or call me to say you were going to be late; it's like you don't even care that i'm at home thinking about you." your voice trails off as you notice kuroo's wavering, "are you even listening to me?!"

now he fixes it and meets your eye, "of course, princess. i just think you look so beautiful in that red dress. d'ya want me to get it for you in blue as well?"

your eyes widen, as you clutch the fabric of the gown, which finishes at your mid-thigh, "or how about an emerald green? i think it would be very flattering if it was mo—" your excited look drops into a harrowing glare as it dawns on you what scheme he is trying to employ, "you can't distract me by talking about clothes."

he frowns and puts his hand over his heart solemnly, bowing his head, "i apologise, i shouldn't do that." he states, then glances up at you with his head still lowered, and adds, "but how about an emerald necklace to match your new dress? we can go to the jeweller next week if you l—"

"kuroo!" you roar, and he instantly straightens himself out, as you point him to the exit, "go!"

since bribery hasn't worked, now he'll have to resort to begging. "c'mon, (y/n), you can't kick me out! how's an old guy like me going to survive on the streets?" he plead, though the shit-eatting grin on his face really reduced the believability of his performace.

"you'll have to make it work, i guess." you huff while shrugging. "maybe you can find shelter in a brothel."

he sighs, realising how persistent you are about this, "i'm sorry, (y/n). i really am, i just get so caught up in work, y'know. and i want to do the best job i can so i can afford to get you nice things. who is going to be paying for your ¥2,000,000 handbags and purses?" his tone his half-serious and half-joking, and that's how he always finds a way to make you giggle even during conflict.

"well, if it means getting to see you more often, i guess i could go without buying anymore handbags for a while." you sheepishly press your lips into a line, while kuroo gazes up at you with a faux-mystified expression, eyes filled with wonder and admiration.

"really? you would do that? how selfless."

you roll your eyes and he just laughs, finally able to throw an arm around your shoulders and pull you in for a tight embrace. "what a sweetheart you are, making sacrifices for us. and i'll try to avoid scheduling meetings for the afternoon so i can get all my work done before 5PM, that way i can get home on time to see my girl. how does that sound?"

"good." you mumble against his chest, being muffled by his pressed shift that smells strongly of musky designer perfume. "and you need to text me when you're running late."

"done." he says confidently, finally allowing you escape him firm hold, "so, can i unpack my bags?"

"hmm," you stroke your chin with your thumb, pondering until you reach a suitable verdict, "you can take the bags up to our room, but i need to see if you stay true to your word for the rest of the week before you unpack."

he nods, flashing you his signature charming smile, "that sounds fair."

[gingerteafairy]

say more (kit walker x reader)

Why the most gorgeous guys show up when you’re in idgaf outfits?

tags n warnings: fluff, grocery!au, suggestive, language, flirty kit. word count: 1.8k

It was 5 p.m. when you opened the window and saw that the weather forecast might actually be right—the rain was on its way. Rainy days were perfect for baking a cake and sipping on something warm, especially while the cold raindrops watered the earth outside. Humming softly, you made your way to the kitchen, opening the cupboard only to be hit with a problem.

No flour.

“Damn it…” you murmured under your breath, closing the cupboard and remembering how you’d forgotten to grab it during your last grocery run. Your favorite supermarket was a bit too far for such a small errand to feel worth it. Then it hit you—there was a little corner store just a block away. That’d do the trick.

“I’m heading to the corner store!” you shouted to your roommate before throwing on a jacket. You didn’t bother with your hair or an outfit worth bragging about. It was just a quick trip to the corner store—not a visit to the mall. With that thought, you lazily opened the door and walked the short distance to the shop.

The little bell above the door jingled as you stepped inside, your eyes scanning the neat but limited shelves. To your surprise, some of the items were pretty good and cheap. Mental note: start coming here more often. Grabbing a bag of flour, you made your way to the counter.

“Afternoon,” a low, male voice greeted.

You looked up and instantly regretted your choice of outfit. Why is it that the most gorgeous guys show up when you’re in your idgaf outfit?

“Uh… yeah, afternoon,” you muttered, fumbling slightly as you handed him the cash. The man in front of you had striking features, his lips curling into an amused smile as he bagged the flour.

“Say more,” he teased lightly, his tone playful.

“Nah, that’s it. Thanks,” you replied, ducking your head to avoid staring too much at the ridiculously handsome guy behind the counter. You grabbed your bag, silently swearing to shop here more often. Who needs the big grocery store when this place has such… great service?

A week later, while heading back from an outing, you decided to stop by the corner store again. This time, you were craving something sweet. And there he was, again. Same guy, same smile—and, once more, you weren’t exactly dressed to impress.

He noticed you instantly, grinning around a lollipop in his mouth. You grabbed the same kind of lollipop, slid a coin across the counter, and tried to keep your cool.

“Say more,” he said again, clearly enjoying himself.

You let out a soft laugh, whispering. “You said that last time.”

“And I’ll say it again next time too,” he shot back, his eyes twinkling as you left with your treat embarrassed for him listening to your whisper.

Your trips to the small corner store had become more frequent—you were practically there every week, buying random items just to have an excuse to see the handsome “Say more” guy. Honestly, was that the only phrase he knew? And to make matters worse, every time you walked by the store, he’d wave at you with that cheeky little smile, and, without fail, you’d wave back like some reflex you couldn’t control.

One evening, all you wanted was a cold drink to go with the popcorn for your movie night. You hesitated.

“Hey, can you run to the store for me?” you asked your roommate.

“Why? Afraid of your little ‘say more’ crush? I thought you liked him.” She didn’t even glance up from her phone, grinning like she was texting someone she was clearly into.

“That’s not it… it’s just… ugh, he’s too good-looking,” you whined, flopping down next to her. “Every time he says ‘say more,’ I try not to laugh, but it just comes out anyway. He probably thinks I’m ridiculous… or weird. And, God, I always run into him looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“You’re overthinking it,” she said with a laugh, finally putting her phone down.

“Every time he says ‘say more,’ I want to reply with ‘I want you,’ but then I freeze.”

“Honestly? Not a bad idea,” she teased, smirking as you flipped her off. “Next time he says it, take off your jeans as an answer.”

“Never.”

“Fine, I’ll go,” she said finally, “but you’re coming with me.”

At least you wouldn’t have to face him alone. And this time, you could wear something nicer and actually fix your hair. The two of you marched down the street to the little store, and as soon as you stepped in, there he was, stacking boxes. When he saw you, he headed straight for the counter, like he was expecting you.

You froze, turning to your roommate in a panic. “Shit, what are we even buying?”

“I don’t know!” she whispered back, glancing at the guy, who was now helping another customer. She grabbed something random from the fridge. Sausage. “Let’s make hot dogs.”

“Hot dogs? He’s going to think I’m a total weirdo,” you muttered, running your hands through your hair in exasperation. “Look at this sausage. It's huge, looks like a freaking tower…oh God…”

“Why? Does he look like someone who hates hot dogs? He literally works in a shop full of snacks. Now go pay for it.”

“No.”

“Yes, and grab a Coke for me while you’re at it.”

“Please, just do it for me,” you begged, but she shoved the items into your hands and left, laughing as she walked out the door.

With no other choice, you shuffled up to the counter, placing the cheap extra big Sausage and soda in front of him. His playful smile appeared instantly as he rang them up.

“Woah, that's a big one.” He chuckled and you did the same with your face redder than the sausage artificial coloring.

“Yeah, it's huge, extra large. I really like them large you know.” You stammered, almost punching yourself for saying such a stupid thing.

“No doubt about it.” he smirked, just like he always did. “Say more,”

This time, you couldn’t hold back a small laugh. Come on, idiot. Ask for his name, you thought to yourself.

He seemed to notice your hesitation, his smile softening as he handed you your change.

“No, uh… thanks. That’s all,” you mumbled, kicking yourself as you walked out, still clutching the bag.

A few more days passed, and this time, you actually needed to buy groceries for dinner. As you approached the little corner store, you spotted him—the guy—stepping out, crossing the street toward another shop with a small tobacconist inside.

“Shit,” you muttered, your pace quickening as you entered the store, determined to grab what you needed as fast as possible. You paid, pocketing the change, and had a spur-of-the-moment idea. Could you create a totally “accidental” coincidence? Maybe.

Balancing your grocery bags, you crossed the street and entered the tobacconist. The smoky scent hit you immediately, tickling your nose in an unpleasant way. Glancing around, your eyes landed on a freezer stocked with popsicles. Perfect. Your leftover change would cover it.

It was cold outside, but honestly, who cared? You crouched down, reaching for the cheapest popsicle buried in the back of the freezer. Halfway through, you froze, suddenly realizing how much that skirt might be revealing. Great. Another completely inappropriate outfit choice.

When you stood and turned, your heart nearly stopped. There he was, standing a few feet away with a cigarette in hand, smirking at you through a slow drag. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and he let out a soft, low chuckle.

You gave him an awkward little wave. His smirk only widened as he winked at you. Panicking, you chose the only viable option: laugh nervously and shuffle over to the cashier without saying a word.

“Say more,” his familiar voice drawled, now much closer than expected.

You turned to see him standing beside you, that teasing smile on full display. “That’s what makes you laugh every time you see me, isn’t it?”

“No… well, yes,” you admitted, laughing softly, feeling your cheeks burn.

“Kit Walker,” he said, holding out a hand.

Noticing you struggling to manage your bags, he didn’t wait for permission—he simply grabbed them, effortlessly holding everything and heading toward the door. Anyone else might’ve seemed sketchy for doing that, but Kit Walker? He was far too charming to be suspicious. Or maybe he was one of those annoyingly attractive criminals you only read about in the news.

By the time your building came into view, he was still carrying your bags, his face much closer than it had ever been before. Without the barrier of a cash register, he somehow looked even better.

“Safe and sound,” he said, stopping at your door and handing you the bags. His smile was infectious, and you couldn’t help but grin back.

“Say more,” you dared, teasing him for once.

He tilted his head, eyes locking with yours. “How about your number? I already know where you live. I could deliver your groceries when the bags get too heavy.”

You laughed, trying to think of a clever response. “Sure, I’ll swing by to grab some more of that huge sausages to make hot dogs.” Hot dogs? Really? What is wrong with you?

“Oh, yeah,” he teased, laughing as he shook his head. “I’ll make sure to deliver all the huge sausages to your place.” He paused, his grin softening slightly at the brief dirty joke. “And I kinda know what color you wear under your skirt, so we've passed a lot of phases.”

“Oh, God. Please, forget it. Erase it from your mind before i dig my body in this building.” You cried out and he giggled, enjoying your little embarrassing moment.

“No, I'm kidding.” No, he wasn't. He knew your blue striped panties, but he didn't want you to feel more shy than you felt right now. “Hey, you know what? I’m off today. What do you say we… I don’t know, eat some hot dogs together?”

“I make a killer sauce,” you said with a playful smile, but then you froze, smacking your forehead. “Oh, damnit…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to buy the ingredients.” You couldn’t help but laugh at your own mistake.

He raised an eyebrow, already taking a step back. “Where are you going?”

“To tell my boss I need some sauce. And maybe a bottle of wine to go with the hot dogs,” he quipped, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, giving you a wink before strolling down the street toward the store.

He returned quickly, carrying everything you needed—including the fanciest wine from the shop, which, apparently, was “on the house.” That evening turned out to be worth the questionable pairing of wine and hot dogs—though it did come with a bit of regret when both of you wound up with stomachaches.

Still, the strange, shared moment brought you closer in the oddest way. As you rummaged through your bathroom for antacids, Kit leaned against the doorway, grinning.

“Good thing you’re stocked up. I might be the corner store,” he began, his voice soft and warm, “but you’re the sweetest pharmacy for my heart.”

Giggling with the corny flirt, the only possible reply was the classic. "Say more."

[ghostlysoaps]

Misfortune is no lonesome creature

[part 1]

A series of rapid knocks startles him from his work-induced concentration. He blinks at the door for a moment in sluggish incomprehension before he reaches for the handle. The people who know the unmarked slab of wood is anything but a forgotten supply cupboard can be counted on one hand and, sure enough, when the door swings open Gaz is the one to greet him with a smile.

“Garrick.”

“Ghost.”

He steps aside to let him pass. Gaz nods his thanks, hand coming to rest on Ghost’s bicep for a fleeting moment, and then he’s zeroing in on the huddled figure in the corner, smile dropping in a heartbeat.

“Tav, you fucking whore,” Kyle hisses and Ghost turns to stone, mouth inching open in preparation to defend Johnny and, by extension, himself. There’s nothing to it, regarding Johnny’s flushed cheeks and the sheets twisted below him or how he’s bare-legged in a bed not his own. That he’s burrowed into Ghost’s hoodie like he wants to drown in it. Realises that maybe he won’t have to when Johnny’s face splits into an exuberant grin, smiling at Gaz as if it’d kill him not to, eyes half-lidded and hands rising to entice Gaz forward with a deliberate flutter of fingers. Clutching at air like a child reaching for the spinning stars above.

“Mo ghràdh,” Johnny croons in a tone as rich as the scent of freshly ground coffee, husky from the lingering effects of his cold.

“Don’t be sweet with me when I’m mad at you,” Kyle says, falling into Johnny’s open arms with a series of sneezes muffled into Ghost’s bed.

Ghost has to look away. 

They’d been subtle about it to the point where even Ghost is impressed by their discretion. Well… subtle might not be the correct choice of words. The two sergeants played up their friendship the way two closeted frat boys would, with touches and jokes bordering on the obscene before skittering away, laughing the interaction off as a joke. Kisses planted on cheeks, hands grappling flesh, sweet endearments thrown around casually with batted eyelashes to boot. The beauty of it meant they’d been hiding in plain sight.

In here though, neither of them had seen a reason to keep the charade up. Their touches linger in eternity. The terms of affection are sincere and saccharine – each and every one sending another ugly, dark tendril of emotion to tear at the base of Ghost’s larynx, urging him to spit abhorrent words until they pull apart to look at him.

The truth, no matter how he loathes to admit it, is that he’d never had a claim on Johnny in the first place.

He glances up at the sound of rattling coughs and frowns when he realises their origin is not Soap, sorta wishes he hadn’t when he sees Kyle sprawled chest-to-chest with Johnny, laying between his spread legs with nails scratching across his scalp and at the receiving end of sweet nothings being murmured into his ear. Doesn’t know whether he’s jealous of Kyle, or of Johnny. The thought, unexpected and unwelcome, doesn’t stop his body from moving on autopilot.

“Turn your head a bit,” he says quietly and Johnny guides Kyle until Ghost has unobstructed access to his ear. He delicately introduces the digital thermometer, holding the button down until it clicks. The numbers on the screen flashes and he frowns behind his mask. “Other side too.”

The process repeats itself and Gaz looks up at him with his warm, brown eyes. Lighter in shade than his own. Prettier too.

“What’s the word then, doc?”

“You’ll be dead by nightfall,” Ghost deadpans reflexively, and gets twin snorts for his efforts.

“Well, fuck,” Kyle mutters, the expletive rolled on his tongue as if he’s tasting whiskey. Ghost tamps down a shiver at it, busying himself with watching another smile form around the edges of Kyle’s lips. “Guess I’ll have to make the best of the time I have left.” His gaze drops to where Ghost’s mouth is, darting back up a split second later. It’s a joke, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from considering the proposition for a moment too long. Soap must realise it too because he’s staring at Ghost with an unreadable expression on his face, head tilted in question and chin leaning on the top of Kyle’s skull.

Ghost steps back too quickly to be anything other than an admission of guilt.

“Don’t fuck in my bed,” he says.

Then he turns tail and runs.

-

Whilst mechanically preparing tea for the three of them, the good stuff he has hidden in one of the smaller kitchens on base, Ghost barely resists the urge to bang his head against the overhead cupboards. Not too long ago he’d come to a realisation; that he cared for Soap in a way unbefitting their difference in rank. Knew he’d burn buildings to the ground or botch assignments if it meant Soap would live to see another day. Drag him through hellfire kicking, cursing and screaming if that’s what it took to keep his heart beating for both of them.

Ghost fell for him fast, caught up in his whirlwind antics, easy laughter and barely contained violence. Found himself wishing to trace the scars on his skin with his lips. Ached at the thought of those hands being the first to cradle him gently. Wanted to hold him, keep him close for as long as Johnny would have him.

Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t seen it until now. Soap had a way of shining brighter than the sun, of eclipsing anyone who dared stray too close. Ghost enjoys the safety of his shadow, revels in the added anonymity it brings, how no one thinks to look twice at him if he stays a step behind.

Now he feels as though he’d blinked the afterimages from his eyes to learn that Gaz had been there too. At his side, enamoured with the same brilliant being, and occupying an equally large part of Ghost’s thawing heart.

He thinks he might have loved Kyle long before he knew himself capable of tender emotion.

-

Ghost slinks back into the room and plays nurse to the best of his abilities. Rolls his eyes when Soap jeers and wheedles him about wearing the proper attire while playing dumb as to what that would entail. Plies Gaz with fluids, food, medication, never once allowing his hands to linger on fever-warm skin. Takes on the bulk of their duties, delegating the rest to whomever is capable of doing a decent enough job of it. Returns to his room to find more things have appeared to breathe life into the dreary space.

Additional toothbrushes on the sink. Products for curly hair on the shelf in his shower – the expensive stuff he can’t be bothered to buy for himself, preferring instead to shave it all off when the strands grow limp, frizzled or dry. Graphite pencils. Sketchbooks. A tablet with Gaz’s initials scratched into it filled with reading apps and romantic novels. Clothing thrown haphazardly over the back of his desk chair and tossed in alongside his dirty clothes in the hamper.

His eyes sting whenever he thinks of his sergeants returning to full health since they’ll take it all back with them, leaving him to rot in his concrete coffin with only the echoes of them to cling to.

Whoever said it is better to have loved and lost must never have felt love like this, alternatively hollow and all-encompassing, tinged with bitter regret – having lost without ever knowing what could have been.

[miorrtae]

NEWS FLASH ᥫ᭡ TAEYEON SMAU

NF 24

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The mirrors in the practice room were fogged slightly with condensation from hours of movement, layered breath, and unresolved tension. The music cut off abruptly mid-beat with the choreographer’s sharp command.

“Stop.”

Everyone froze.

Y/N exhaled, chest heaving as sweat rolled down her neck. Her knees ached, her shoulders tight. She didn’t need to look up to know the bridge section was the problem again.

It always was.

The choreographer sighed, folding her arms. “The movement is there. Technically, it’s clean. But this isn’t about steps. This is about presence. Connection. And whatever this is”—she gestured vaguely between Y/N and Taeyeon—“it’s not working.”

Y/N didn’t look at Taeyeon. She hadn’t in days, not really. Just enough to pass through the choreography. Just enough to pretend they were okay.

But the pretense was fraying.

As the group broke off to grab water and stretch, Taeyeon remained near center, arms crossed, her expression tight. From the corner of her eye, Y/N saw the way her jaw clenched. Stress. Pressure. That ever-present expectation Taeyeon always carried like armor.

Y/N turned away before she let herself look too long.

She headed to the corner near the mirrors, pretending to dig for her phone in her purse. Instead, her fingers brushed against something else. Small. Familiar. Something she hadn’t meant to bring back when she returned from her hiatus, but somehow, it had slipped into the pocket of her bag like muscle memory.

Her weed pen.

She blinked at it for a moment, her thumb resting along the side. The hum of the room dulled behind her, the sound of muted footsteps and soft chatter fading into background noise.

It would just take the edge off. Just enough to quiet the nerves. Just enough to breathe.

She slipped it into her hoodie pocket, heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the temptation. She hadn’t touched it since she came back. Since she promised herself she’d be sharper, better, unbothered.

But now?

Now, everything inside her felt like it was cracking again.

Karina slid beside her suddenly, brushing Y/N’s arm with a nudge. “You okay?” she asked, eyes sharp despite her tone being casual.

Y/N looked up, startled.

Karina doesn’t know.

Her question had been a reflex, the same kind of offhand check-in they always did between rounds of banter and sweat-soaked rehearsals. But now, with Y/N’s pulse hammering in her ears and the weight of the weed pen sitting heavy in her pocket, the words hit differently.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied too quickly, her voice rough. “Just tired.”

Karina raised a brow but didn’t press. “You? Tired? What, did someone finally beat you in a dance-off in your dreams?”

Y/N gave her a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Must’ve been you. I’m still recovering from the trauma.”

Karina scoffed, bumping her shoulder against Y/N’s before reaching for her water bottle. “Don’t be dramatic. We all know I carried you through that last chorus.”

“You wish.”

But the banter didn’t land like it usually did. Y/N’s laughter felt thin in her throat, and her fingers kept brushing her pocket, the familiar shape of the pen pulsing like a secret.

She looked back toward the others. Taeyeon hadn’t moved. She was watching again—openly this time—arms still folded, expression unreadable but intense. That quiet scrutiny Taeyeon had always worn when something wasn’t sitting right. When something—or someone—was slipping.

Y/N looked away.

She hated that it still affected her.

Hated that after everything, after the silence and the betrayal and the aching months of distance, she could still feel Taeyeon’s stare like a bruise just beneath the surface.

Karina slumped down beside her, stretching her legs out in front of her and sighing dramatically. “They’re gonna keep us in here all night if you and that one don’t get it together.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Because she knew Karina was right.

And what scared her more than staying late, more than another round of emotionless dance repetitions, more than the choreographer’s mounting frustration… was the part of her that wanted to get it together.

Not just for the performance.

But for Taeyeon.

She reached into her pocket one last time, fingers brushing the pen—

Then she shoved it deeper into her bag and zipped it shut.

She decided to just get it over with.

What was the point in holding back anymore? The connection—they’d had it once. Muscle memory, like the pen she’d almost let ruin her night. If nothing else, she could fake it. Pull from the echoes of what used to be and make it work onstage. That was the job, wasn’t it? Sell the emotion. Manufacture the chemistry. Breathe life into choreography even when your chest felt hollow.

It couldn’t be that bad.

There was nothing left between them anyway. Not really. Taeyeon had made her choice, and it wasn’t Y/N. It was someone else—someone safer, maybe, someone easier. Someone Taeyeon could look at without flinching.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, stood, and rolled out her shoulders. Her reflection in the mirror stared back, tired but defiant. She wasn’t going to give the choreographer another excuse to single her out. She wasn’t going to give Taeyeon that power anymore.

When the group reassembled and the music restarted, Y/N didn’t hesitate. She stepped into place beside Taeyeon like they hadn’t spent months apart. Like her heart hadn’t been gutted and rearranged by the silence Taeyeon left behind.

She didn’t look at her.

But when the bridge section hit—and their bodies were forced into each other’s space, hands grazing, breath shared in too-close proximity—Y/N didn’t retreat.

She leaned in.

Not emotionally. Not with anything soft or forgiving. But with precision. Intention. She called on every rehearsal, every stage they’d ever shared, every second of closeness before it all fell apart.

And for a moment—just a blink of time in the middle of the bridge—Taeyeon responded.

Not with words. Not with warmth. But with that same sharp pull of energy. That same heat.

Like neither of them had ever forgotten what it felt like.

Then it passed.

The music faded. The choreographer clapped her hands. “Better,” she said, still unsatisfied, but less exasperated. “Getting there.”

Y/N stepped back, chest heaving, heart thundering for all the wrong reasons.

She didn’t look at Taeyeon. Couldn’t.

Because the performance was over. And when the lights cut, when the music stopped, she was still stuck.

Still standing in the ruins.

Still exactly where Taeyeon had left her.

——————-

Taeyeon didn’t know when watching Y/N had become this painful.

The music restarted. The others shuffled into place, still catching their breath. Taeyeon barely moved, spine rigid, heartbeat refusing to slow. She didn’t expect Y/N to return to her mark. Not this soon. Not without a look. Not without the bite of sarcasm she used as armor now.

But Y/N stepped back into position like nothing had happened.

Like they hadn’t been tearing each other apart in silence for months.

Taeyeon’s pulse stuttered. She didn’t let it show. Not in her face. Not in her body. She couldn’t afford to. The boundary she’d built between them was already paper-thin.

Then the bridge hit.

The section that always broke them.

Y/N moved first—clean, deliberate, razor-sharp like she had something to prove. And maybe she did. Maybe she was finally done waiting for an apology that would never come. Done letting Taeyeon’s silence weigh heavier than her own healing.

And Taeyeon should’ve been relieved.

Instead, she felt breathless.

Y/N’s hand brushed against hers. A quick, choreographed pass—one they’d done a thousand times before. But this time it burned. Not because of touch. Because of restraint.

Because Taeyeon wanted to reach back.

She almost did.

Every muscle in her body screamed at her to lean into the moment—to breathe in the heat of Y/N’s proximity, to fall into the rhythm that used to mean something. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t allowed to. She had made sure of that.

For Y/N’s sake.

For their careers.

For survival in an industry that didn’t allow people like them to be them.

So instead, she matched the intensity. She danced like it was just choreography. Like her heart wasn’t ripping out of her chest one count at a time.

For a heartbeat, they moved like they used to. Unstoppable. Seamless. Together.

And then it ended.

The final beat cut. The tension snapped. The spell broke.

“Better,” the choreographer said.

Taeyeon stayed still. Didn’t glance sideways. Didn’t let her breath hitch even as Y/N stepped away like she couldn’t get far enough fast enough.

She didn’t look back.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Because Taeyeon wanted her to. She wanted Y/N to break the silence, even if it was to yell. To say her name, even if it was laced with anger. Something.

But she didn’t.

Because Y/N had finally stopped waiting.

And Taeyeon… she had no one to blame but herself.

She’d chosen to protect her.

And in doing so, she’d lost her anyway.

____

The studio had emptied slowly.

One by one, bodies shuffled out, weighed down by exhaustion, still buzzing from adrenaline and the low thrum of friction that had colored the final run. The air was thick with the remnants of heat, the scent of sweat and worn rubber, and something else—unresolved tension that clung to the mirrors like fingerprints.

Y/N stayed behind.

She moved like she was packing up, half-hearted and distracted—tying a hoodie around her waist, dragging her tote closed. But it was all delay. She’d waited until the shuffle of bags and shoes and tired jokes disappeared down the hallway. Waited until the overhead lights dimmed slightly and the silence stretched thin.

Then, with a quiet breath, she slipped the weed pen from her bag.

She sat low against the mirror wall, knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves pulled over her palms like she could hide the guilt if she tried hard enough. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from withdrawal, not even from the desire—but from the hollow place in her chest that the dance hadn’t managed to fill tonight. Not like it used to. Not like when they were okay.

She stared at the pen for a moment longer.

Then she brought it to her lips and took a slow, shallow pull.

The vapor curled through her lungs like a balm, slow and immediate, a soft buzz in her skull. The world didn’t stop, didn’t shift. But something inside her eased.

She closed her eyes.

That’s when the voice came.

“You’re kidding me.”

Y/N’s head snapped up so fast it knocked lightly against the mirror behind her.

Taeyeon.

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