#second night in a row. how cool! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilyinmysoul · 4 months ago

Text

When The Night Ends

DarkJackson!Joel x F Reader

WC: 2k

Warnings: Smut, unprotected piv, somno (sorry not sorry), dubcon, dark Joel like I said, Joel is dominant, breeding kink, kinda forced breeding but she's into it, Joel palming himself

Note: This is based on a request I got, reblogs help so much. If you like it, tell me, so I can write more. If it's not your thing, shoot me a request so I know what is.

Joel isn’t sure how Jackson has so much damn alcohol, or where it all comes from, really. That hardly matters, though—all that matters is that it’s there, and he will drink it.

Regretfully, he couldn’t overdo it. He had patrols to go on, responsibilities to attend to—but nearly every Friday, without fail, he would take to the Tipsy Bison. Whether it be alone, with his brother, or the occasional patrol partner, he would be there.

You are, of course, aware of this. And even if you did have a say in the matter, it wouldn’t bother you much. There was a complete absence of a label regarding yours and Joel’s relationship; maybe it was because you both knew that he wasn’t cut out for such a role, or possibly how you knew that to bring it up would be to run the risk of disturbing a very concise system—his temper. Really, it appeared that you took what he gave you, and it seemed to be enough.

In any case, it is yet another Friday night. The double doors of the Tipsy Bison swing open, and the cool air on his skin mixes with the alcohol’s hazy embrace of his conscience, and Joel wants to see you. The winds are rough, hence why he is nearly the only man in the streets (paired with the time—it’s the dead of night). His brow furrows a bit harder when a man passes by with his son, and he begins his trek back to… wherever he finds himself. He’s too inebriated to make much sense of it.

It had been too long, it appeared, since he’d seen you. You had noticed this too, and frankly, it seemed to be the nature of involving yourself with Joel Miller. As of late, he had increasingly withdrawn himself from your company; but tonight, he seemed emboldened in his sense of longing for you.

Although it is cold, the winter snow has since cleared, leaving only the occasional melting puddle of slush under his feet. Those same feet lead Joel all across town. He passes rows of closed up shops and blocks full of houses. Warm houses, he assumes. Houses occupied by families, maybe. Husbands, wives, children… alcohol makes him sentimental. Angry, even. He continues to trudge.

What’s interesting is that drinks seem to both aid and worsen the hole in Joel’s chest. They deliver some sort of tranquility, and also, a comparable and equally as intense sense of abhorrence. This isn’t something he contemplates as he nears his house, and when he sees it, he doesn’t slow. He continues to walk. After all, there isn’t much for him there; and so, his home is going, going, gone to a sea of other, almost identical ones. Ones with more to offer than a few half-built and boring guitars.

And when he arrives on your doorstep, it’s like second nature. He’s been here enough to know where you keep your spare key, but never long enough to find the one that opens the back door. Tiredly, he kneels and his hip pops as he reaches underneath the flower pot (he believes he gave this to you, but he really can’t remember) and slides from under it the key.

He turns the knob—not slowly or carefully, but rushedly—and it twists and opens. You had left it unlocked—God, he hates when you do that.

The door creaks open and gives way to Joel’s figure—you weren’t around to notice; it couldn’t be any earlier than midnight, and you had long since gone to bed. He fishes around on the wall in the pitch blackness for the light switch. It takes him a moment, but he flicks it on. The kitchen is illuminated by a few twenty-year-old lightbulbs and cluttered by everything you couldn’t bother to put away. Each item thrown upon your table was a fragment of your life—not enough of which included him, which fueled his irritation.

His shoes don’t come off, and instead he climbs the stairs, his heavy boots leaving wet footprints on each step and 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 on the wood but not loud enough to wake you. His every pace is slightly swayed, his balance influenced by many glasses of whiskey, downed alone in a corner of the bar.

Your door is slightly askew, and its hinges squeal as he pushes it open. Joel’s eyes fall upon your sleeping figure, your limbs lost among the sea of blankets tossed atop your bed. Your work clothes had been haphazardly strewn across the floor, and you wore only a bra and panties. This was a spectacle of your everyday life, he realized; one that he didn’t know much about. Another pang of displeasure gnaws at his heart—he isn’t sure of its origin, but he knows that it’s disturbing him.

The way he kicks off his boots is slightly more hostile; a loud, dull noise that rings through the room. The old, hollow walls reverberate the sound, and you stir—but don’t wake. Once his old and beaten shoes rest against the wall, his feet carry him to the edge of your bed. As he takes in your sleeping face, your head resting in your hands and legs stretched wildly on the mattress, he feels almost proprietorial of you.

Only you know that Joel’s vexation often turns to arousal in your presence, and the two often blend. There is something about your still and sleeping face, the plush curves of your body made visible by your clothing (or, lack thereof)—or, it may simply be the fact that Joel is frustrated and he needs it taken care of. As he stands above you, his hand—as if on its own—snakes down to the bulge protruding from his worn jeans. His fingers rub and squeeze, his eyes running over you as you twitch and stir unconsciously. You seem to mesmerize him momentarily as he stands, his roving eyes concluding that they want more.

Soon enough, his drunkenly clumsy fingers are fumbling with his belt, pulling at its leather and clanking its buckle, pulling open the suddenly complex contraption. Next, the silver button of his jeans is popped and the zipper undone as your firm mattress dips under his weight when he sits. For a few moments, he looks at you. And with an almost uncharacteristic gentleness, his fingers reach out to touch you. The graze is tender as it glides along your side, your stomach, your chest—though maybe only an effort to adjourn your waking.

His calloused fingers reach the band of your underwear—a faded blue pair from however long ago. They roam over the soft fabric, cruising over its front and halting when they skim over the spot you like so much—it makes you tense; but your eyes don’t open. Two of Joel’s fingers trace circles for a moment. He watches your still face and glances down when your thighs squeeze. With a few more circlings, his patience has run dry and his captivation with you has turned to necessity.

He does as he can to be gradual with his movements as he lays over you on the bed, his hair tousled and his jeans halfway down. An elbow props him up, his face adjacent to yours as his glazed eyes search your closed ones. His free hand hastily frees himself from the confines of his boxers and rubs fumblingly over the damp fabric of your panties again before pushing aside its material.

His mind is slightly empty from the alcohol, and his head a bit achey, but he knows what he is doing. For no more than a split second, he looks down, aligning himself with you. He pumps his cock a few times before finally notching himself in—a hiss leaves his mouth, and as his hips begin pushing into yours, he looks back up. Your eyes are open.

Your eyes widen, surprised as sleepiness refuses you any sense of understanding.

“Shh,” Joel insists. “Baby, it’s me.” His voice tapers off when he says this, his head slouching to rest on your shoulder.

“Joel…” when his voice registers with you, familiar and low, your muscles relax a bit. “What… are you doing here?” You ask, and as soon as the question leaves your mouth, you understand its stupidity. His hips are moving now, in and out… ‘Why else would he be here?’ and you’re half asleep.

“This okay…?” he asks, but it doesn’t seem like he cares greatly about your answer; he is very much out of it. You smell it on him. On his skin, on his breath. Everywhere.

“Um, I…” His eyes are glassy and focused on yours, and his hips are getting faster. The room is black, and you’re not sure what to think, but you’re glad that he’s finally here again. The only sounds in your ears are the old radiator and the wet sound of skin on skin. “Yeah.”

His head dips to your neck, nipping and biting in a way that’s a little too primal. You wrap an arm around him, your hand resting on his back and when Joel begins to grunt, you let sounds escape your mouth, too.

“Shit…” his voice wavers, and he might be even more drunk than you thought he was. But as sloppy as his movements are, they are persistent.

“Joel.” His name passes your lips. As a question, or as a statement, you aren’t sure. You don't get an answer. The moon outside is the only thing allowing you to see him, the accentuated lines across his face and the greys littering his hair. Your legs wrap around his hips now, seeking some sort of comfort, or reassurance.

He wasn’t ever particularly chatty during sex, but he is even quieter now. His energy, it seems, has been dedicated to pushing his hips as firmly and deeply into you as possible. He looks almost focused, determined. Or maybe distracted.

Joel is clearly working himself up. His movements rougher, his voice louder, and he’s close. You always know, with the way he tenses, the way he speaks. This is the only fact that registers in your mind; everything else is lost on you. So, when he says; “I’m not stoppin’,” you blink.

“What?”

“I’m gonna cum,” a thrust. “And I’m not pullin’ out, I’m not stoppin’.”

“Wh…” you start. A groan on both of your ends sounds when he hits a particularly good spot. You yourself are getting close now, your back arching slightly off the bed, your mind still cloudy as you try to make sense of Joel’s words.

A few of his fingers come down to rub your clit, circling onto you your own wetness before coming to rest on your stomach. His hand caresses the skin on your tummy. “Imagine that…” he mutters in an almost slurred tone. “Just imagine that.”

You look down at his hand, and then back up again. You meet his eyes, and you understand very clearly what he means. You don’t have the will to fight it–at least, you don’t think you do–so, you hold him tighter and closer, letting each thought fade from your mind as he continues to bliss you out. How he holds you so possessively, how he looks at you so rapaciously… you don’t mind at all.

A few more erratic thrusts, and you’re coming. A few more, and Joel is, too.

You hear it—a low grunt and a groan from Joel—and then you feel it; a deep, warm sensation— a release and movement of liquid that you’ve never felt before. He’s never done that. You can’t help but, in all your weariness, think about the weight of what has just taken place.

To claim you had never mulled over the thought of a child—Joel’s child—would be a lie. The thought was welcoming, sweet… but Joel was not. He was neither. What he had just made was either some kind of commitment, or a grave mistake.

“You’re mine, y’know.” He grumbles into your hair.

“Am I?” You ask.

“Y’are.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Thanks for reading! Lmk if you like

1K notes · View notes

sugarwarachan · 5 months ago

Text

summary: A city-wide blackout leads to some questionable decisions on Eraserhead's part: for four nights in a row now, Aizawa Shouta has been watching you get yourself off. Is tonight the night he joins in? pairing: aizawa shouta x reader wc: 1.7k content warnings: SMUT mdni, dark content, stalker!aizawa, stalking, voyeurism, dubcon, power imbalance (pro hero/civilian, ya know) voice kink, dirty talk, aizawa's big dick, truly don't know if his quirk helps him see in the dark but i don't care

The watching starts before Aizawa knows how to stop it.

One minute, he’s on patrol during the worst blackout the city’s ever seen; the next, he’s looking into your room and watching you get undressed.

You stopped him dead in his tracks, all plush curves and soft skin, almost otherworldly in the cool blue dark. Maybe that’s why he stayed that first time, frozen on the ledge of a neighboring building, watching you writhe and whimper on a purple dildo.

He has no excuse for why he returns the second and the third night, only that he's hungry for more, that the cover of dark in a still imperiled city is making it easier for him to accept the dark desire churning in his veins that he needs to know exactly what you sound like when you stuff yourself full.

He takes a shaky breath, cold air stinging his cheeks. Darkness blankets the city as thoroughly as gauze, a hazy film that puts anyone with eyes that aren’t his at a disadvantage.

He can see you perfectly, surrounded in your bedroom by candles and wearing those sleep shorts that hug the meat of your ass so well he has to palm his dick roughly through his pants, grunting into his fist.

You can’t see him.

Aizawa pulls out a burner phone before he can stop himself and punches in your number. Your face scrunches adorably at the unfamiliar caller, but you answer all the same.

“Hello?”

Fuck. You’ve got a voice like heaven, soft and low and sweet.

“Hi,” is all he can think to say, and he sucks in a breath when your nipples pebble under your thin cami.

You like his voice already. That’s good. He can work with that.

“Who is this?”

You’d be lying if you didn’t already have a suspicion. Just because you don’t have a quirk doesn’t mean you don’t have senses; you clocked him the first night he watched you out in that expansive dark, the gleam of something like goggles shining in the dark.

You don’t know why you kept touching yourself, why his gaze on you made your heart race instead of reach for the phone to call the cops.

Not much good they’d do anyway. They’d just send Mr. Pro Hero outside, or someone like him.

“Does it matter who I am?”

His voice is everything you like. Deep and rumbling, a little rasp raking over the syllables and zipping up your spine.

“Guess not.” You shrug one shoulder; the strap of your cami slides down. On cue, you hear the faintest inhale of air. Dude must have fucking super vision. “Why did you keep coming back?”

You almost roll your eyes at how off-route your priorities are. There’s been a man watching you fuck yourself, and you’re hung up on specifics?

“You’re beautiful,” he says, simply, like he’s rattling off stock prices, but it makes your heart stop all the same. “Why is it you’re alone?”

You can't help but laugh. “You’re not pulling the ‘you’re too pretty to be alone’ card, are you?”

He laughs, too, a soft rumble that crackles the phone with static. “So what if I am? The only action I’ve seen you get the past few days is when that toy of yours disappears between your legs.”

Arousal knocks the wind out of you. Heat flushes up your hairline.

Another low chuckle on his end. “Embarrassed, pretty girl?”

You walk up to the window, peer out into the dark night. You can’t make anything out other than shadows.

“How many times have you watched me now?”

“You don’t know? Seemed like you were putting on a show.”

His teasing tone makes your cunt clench.

“Four days now, sweetheart,” like he’s counting down your anniversary, not how often he’s spied on you masturbating. “What were you thinking about last night that had you shuddering and gasping like that? Knew I had to get your number just so I could hear you fall apart.”

This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong is blaring on repeat in your head, but that’s increasingly falling to the wayside with every word that falls out of this stranger’s mouth. Your sleep shorts slide between your folds. Blood rushes in your ears as your heart beats in your throat. You feel so turned on it’s like every cell is alight, responding to the chemical reaction that is the man on the other side of the window.

It’s cold tonight. The window sticks just like it always does when you open it up, the cool night air a balm for your arousal-drenched skin.

You don’t address him; you’re not really sure why, but you like not knowing where he is, a figure in the dark hell bent on nothing more than watching you cum.

You settle back down on your bed, crossing your legs and groaning a little. You’re damp and sticky and so turned on it’s already starting to hurt.

“I was thinking about you,” you answer honestly. "I like your voice.” Your own shakes, with a mixture of lust and fear and excitement. “Can you talk to me?”

“Of course I can talk to you.” His voice drops another octave, takes on an even more gravelly tone. Your whole body erupts in goosebumps. “What’s my pretty girl wanna hear?”

“Anything,” you say, and you mean it. This man could probably read you the directions to a microwave meal and get you off. “You can see me, right?”

“Mmhmm,” he intones.

“Then tell me how to touch myself. Like if you were here.”

Aizawa crushes the phone in his grip so tightly he hears it crack.

You’re already squirming on your bed, sitting on your fucking hands like you’re waiting for permission. His heart kicks up against his ribs, his cock jumping violently against his uniform.

“I can do that, sweetheart.”

You smile, tuck your chin into your chest like his attention is all of a sudden making you shy. He wonders if you’re doing it to tease him, or if he’s bringing it out of you. It doesn't matter either way; he's harder than he's been in his entire life.

“Lay back down on the bed for me, yeah?” You comply instantly. “Make sure I can see that gorgeous cunt, baby, don’t be hiding from me.”

Your breath hitches. You scoot forward just enough, and the flickering candlelight plays over your skin like water. His mouth dries up at the sight.

“Spread yourself open, use those pretty hands of yours.”

You part your folds, the pad of your middle finger gathering up the arousal pooling between your legs. “Jesus—fuck—look at you, gorgeous. All that just for me?”

He sees you nod.

“You gotta talk to me too, sweetheart. Use that cute mouth of yours.”

You choke out a little whine that blacks out his vision.

“S-sorry. I don’t understand how it feels so fucking good already.”

Your hips move in little circles, chasing your release.

“How many toys do you have there with you?”

“A few. Why?”

“Which is the biggest?”

You huff out a disbelieving giggle. “You’re not doing that thing where you lie about your endowments, are you?”

The grin that crosses his mouth is wild, hungry. He wasn’t planning on touching himself tonight; only wanted to tease you in the dark until he splattered the front of his pants like a teenager. But your tone is making him ignore his earlier impulses as he tugs out his cock and snaps a photo of it, hard and heavy and leaking in his palm.

He sends it.

You’re silent for a moment. He sees your legs press together before he hears—

“Fuck,” you whimper, so desperately it’s like he can see your mouth water. “I don’t—I don’t have anything as big as you.”

His cock literally jumps in his hand. Pre-cum oozes from the tip; he stuffs it back into his briefs before he can change his mind.

“You can’t tell me things like that. Makes me want to climb through your window and stuff you full with what you really need.” The muscles in his stomach bunch as he fights for composure. “Take out that purple toy of yours. It’ll be enough for now, ‘kay princesss? Don’t whine for things you can’t have.”

It’s an admonishment to himself, too.

“Don’t turn it on just yet. Get it all nice and wet, pretty girl, I know you’re fucking dripping.”

You follow instructions in a way that soothes the miasma of thoughts in his head. Here the world makes sense again. Here he can do good.

“Can I know your name?” You pant. He watches you trace small caresses across your belly, the soft undersides of your tits.

God, he wants his teeth on you, devouring you whole.

Against his better judgement, he tells you. “Sho is fine.”

“Okay. Sho,” you breathe it out in an overdrawn sexy drawl, but fuck, even his shortened name is enough to make that low-belly punch of arousal spike.

“Inch that toy in nice and slow, honey, go on now, stop being a tease.” He watches the tip start to part you open, your ragged gasp harsh in his ear. “If I was there, we’d be stretching out your little cunt for hours, make sure you’re ready for me. I could probably sit you on just the tip of my dick and make you cum. Isn't that right, sweetheart? You're fucking shaking and I haven't even touched you—”

“Sho,” you’re pleading, and it’s making his head fucking spin. “Can I turn it on, please? Let me turn it on—”

“Of course you can, baby, that’s it, look at you.” Your legs are spread obscenely, arousal dripping from your hole, glistening on your thighs and core. “Show me you how you like it, sweet girl, show me how you want me to fuck you next time, yeah?”

Aizawa feels each shuddering gasp and keening moan like you’re there beside him. Your orgasm overtakes you, back bowing off the bed, his name like a prayer on your lips. His hips jerk as he watches you, one hand tight on the phone, the other pressing against the pulsing-hot ache of his cock as he ruts into his palm.

His phone pings a moment later as he's catching his breath, a too-dark picture of the mess between your thighs and a text:

[y/n]: Come back tomorrow <3

a/n: actively launching myself into outer space!!! part two!

#sugarwarachanwrites #aizawa shouta #aizawa shouta smut #aizawa shota x reader #aizawa x reader #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #mha x reader #aizawa smut #aizawa shōta #mha aizawa #boku no hero academia #bnha fic

1K notes · View notes

dooberific · 6 months ago

Text

❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

#zenless zone zero #zzz harumasa #harumasa x reader #asaba harumasa #harumasa zzz #zzz x reader #zzz

2K notes · View notes

smutmind · 28 days ago

Note

can you make a twice mina, when it doesn't fit 🙏

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Mina

Mina X BBC

Something about Mina was different.

She didn’t wear anything new. No louder colors, no extra styling. But when she appeared live for the first time in months, fans noticed instantly.

“Why does she look hotter doing nothing?” “She moves like she’s got secrets.” “Mina post-hiatus is dangerous…”

She barely smiled. Her tone was as soft as ever. But her gaze—her presence—lingered. Like every movement had weight. Like she knew people were watching and wanted them to stay there.

Even the way she sat had changed. She didn’t fidget. She reclined—one leg crossed, back just slightly arched, lips parted like she’d just tasted something sweet and didn’t want to share.

The change wasn’t loud. It was felt.

And no one could figure out why.

Paris had wrapped her in velvet and sin.

It started with a surprise invite—an exclusive brand debut, front row, private fittings, and whispered praise from stylists who only touched royalty.

“You have the right bones,” one had said. “But more importantly, you have the mystery.”

She walked every room like she didn’t quite belong—and yet every eye found her.

But what happened that changed her didn’t happen on the runway.

It happened on the third night. After dinner. In private.

The brand called it a “market test.”

One of the execs pulled her aside, voice cool and smooth. “We’d like to get a sense of your full appeal. What kind of effect you really have.”

She blinked. “You mean a shoot?”

“Something… less conventional,” he said. “Elijah will handle it. He’s worked with models before.”

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to. Because when they mentioned his name, her stomach twisted—not with fear, but something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Elijah opened the penthouse door shirtless. Towering. Dark. Shoulders wide enough to block the light. His voice low and amused.

“You’re braver than I expected.”

Mina stepped inside. Her throat felt tight. “This is… still about the brand?”

“In a way,” he said. “They want to see how you respond. Not just in photos. In sensation. In surrender.”

She swallowed hard.

He stepped closer. “Take off your coat.”

She obeyed. Beneath it, silk clung to her skin—a sleek black slip that barely covered her thighs.

He didn’t compliment her. He didn’t touch her yet.

He just said, “Get on the bed.”

Mina's hands shook as she crawled onto the bed, her bare skin flushed from nerves and the bite of Paris air through the open balcony.

Elijah stood behind her, pants undone, thick cock already in his grip. When she glanced back, her breath caught.

It was big—too big. Dark, veined, heavy.

She swallowed hard. “There’s no way that’s gonna fit.”

He smirked. “You’ll take it.”

His hands gripped her ass, spreading her wide. “You’re wet enough already. Don’t pretend you’re not ready for it.”

“I’m not pretending,” she breathed. “I’m fucking scared.”

“Good,” he growled. “That means it’s real.”

He lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against her entrance.

“Relax.”

She tried—but the second he pushed in, her body tensed on instinct.

“Fuck—” she gasped. “It’s too much.”

Elijah didn’t stop. He gripped her hips, dragged her back onto him slowly—inch by thick inch until her pussy was forced to open wide around him.

Her hands clawed at the sheets.

“Oh my god,” she moaned, face buried in the mattress. “You’re splitting me open—”

He leaned over her, one hand sliding beneath to grip her tits, squeezing them tight, using her chest as leverage as he started to move.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Let me hear it.”

His cock pounded into her now—deep, brutal, stretching her out with every thrust. Her tits bounced under his hands, moans spilling from her lips loud, broken, raw.

“Shit—Elijah—fuck!” she cried, voice cracking. “It’s too deep—I can’t—”

“You can.” He slammed into her harder. “You’re taking all this cock like a good girl.”

She sobbed and moaned all at once, legs shaking, cunt soaked and stretched wide.

“You feel that?” he hissed in her ear. “That’s what you’ve been needing.”

Her orgasm hit without warning—ripping through her hard, clenching around him, making her legs give out.

He didn’t stop.

His pace turned savage—balls slapping against her with each thrust, cock slamming deep, filling her to the edge. Using her tits for grip. Her soaked pussy for heat.

Mina’s body writhed under him, overstimulated, slick, stretched.

“F-fuck, Elijah—wait—” she gasped. “It hurts—too deep—”

He didn’t stop immediately, but his grip shifted—less brute force, more control. He leaned over her, voice rough in her ear.

“You want me to stop?”

She shook her head, breath trembling. “No, just… slow.”

He did. Just a little. But enough.

And even as she whimpered from the burn, her pussy still clenched around him—wet, greedy, traitorous.

“God, why does it still feel so good,” she whispered, half crying, half moaning.

“Because you’re made for this,” he growled.

His rhythm picked back up, and she could feel him thicken—cock twitching with the build.

Her eyes flew open. “Don’t cum inside,” she panted. “Please. Not inside.”

He didn’t answer.

Just grunted, low and guttural.

“Elijah—”

With a final thrust, he pulled out, hand stroking the length of his shaft fast, hard—until thick ropes spilled hot across her lower back, her ass, her thighs. Heat painted her skin as she gasped at the mess of it.

He exhaled like he’d been holding back a storm.

Then collapsed beside her.

She lay there—legs shaking, cunt soaked, body trembling between pain and pleasure, her skin sticky with him.

Elijah was wrecked—flat on his back, chest rising in shaky pulls, cock softening against his thigh, glistening with spit and sex.

Mina straddled his chest, looking down at him like a queen surveying her prey.

Her voice dropped to a growl. “You think we’re done?”

He barely managed a breath. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t get to decide,” she snapped. “Sharon decides.”

She slid down between his legs, grabbing his cock in both hands—still thick, too damn big, twitching under her touch. Her fingers barely fit around it.

“Still fat,” she muttered. “Still mine.”

She spit on the head, watched it drip down the shaft, then took him into her mouth with intent. Her jaw ached instantly. He stretched her wide, made her gag halfway down—but she didn’t stop.

She moaned around him, loud and raw. Sloppy. Her spit soaked them both. He groaned, trying to lift his hips, but she pinned him down, bobbing harder, faster, letting his cock brutalize her throat.

“Shit, Sharon—fuck—fuck!” he gasped, knuckles white as he gripped the sheets.

She pulled off with a wet pop, saliva smeared on her chin, and slapped his cock against her tongue.

“You’re gonna stay hard,” she growled. “You’re gonna give me one more.”

Before he could answer, she climbed back on top of him—lining that massive cock up with her dripping, stretched pussy.

“Barely fit me the first time,” she muttered. “But I’m gonna fuckin’ take it.”

She dropped down in one brutal grind, burying him inch by inch until he was balls-deep inside her again. Her moan was ragged, half pain, half triumph.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re splitting me open.”

She rode him hard—hips snapping, tits bouncing, cunt sucking him in greedily even as she winced from the stretch.

He was shaking beneath her.

“Sharon, I—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” she barked. “You’ll come when I say.”

Her pussy clenched down, dripping around his cock, milking him for more. Her rhythm got rougher. She used him, chased her own high, growled in his face.

“Look at you,” she panted. “Fucked dumb. Cock drained. Still giving me more.”

He groaned, helpless, his balls tightening again.

“Inside me,” she whispered darkly. “Now.”

He came hard—twitching, choking, cock pumping hot cum deep into her sore, soaked cunt.

She rode it out with a broken moan, grinding down until the last spasm passed.

And when she finally stilled, thighs trembling, chest heaving, she leaned down to his ear.

“That’s two loads in me. And your cock’s still hard.”

Then she smirked.

“Next time? You better bring friends.”

#asks #mina #minasmut #girl group smut #smut #kpop smut #female idol smut #male reader smut #kpop idol smut #male reader #idol x bbc #twice smut

494 notes · View notes

cheapshrimpysheep · 2 months ago

Text

In the Backstage

SUMMARY: He invites you to watch the inter-school Battle of the Bands where the Pop Music Club will represent Night Raven College and compete with other schools, one of them being Royal Sword Academy. But unfortunately, they come in second place. He also gave you a VIP pass to visit him backstage after the competition.

CHARACTERS: Pop Music Club 🎼 (Cater Diamond / Kalim Al-Asim / Lilia Vanrouge)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Flirting; Kiss; Comfort

WORD COUNT: An average of 1.330 words per character.

COMMENTS: The Pop Music Club was the first club with the cards released and the first one I wrote something about. But nowadays, and compared to what I've written for other clubs, I thought it was worth writing something new and better. Especially for Cater, Kalim and/or Lilia fans.

I hope you enjoy it. 😉

OTHER CLUBS:

But… We Lost… - Basketball Club (Ace / Floyd / Jamil)

Romantic Experiment - Science Club (Trey / Rook)

For a Quarter of a Second - Track and Field Club (Deuce / Jack)

Unlucky Overtime - Spelldrive Club (Leona / Ruggie / Epel)

A Rainy Walk - Mountain Lover Club (Jade) / Gargoyle Studies Club (Malleus)

You are at another Unbirthday Party in Heartslabyul when Cater announces that there will be an interschool battle of the bands. The Pop Music Club will represent Night Raven College and compete with other schools including Royal Sword Academy.

The other Heartslabyul students didn't seem very confident that Cater and the others would win.

“Aww, come on...” Cater says disappointedly. “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”

“Well... some of us have already seen the few concerts you've given...” Trey says with that polite smile. “That and...” He smirks “We also know how much effort you guys really put into your club.”

“Auch, you are such meanies.” Cater says sadly. “Do you really have no hope in us?”

“I wouldn't say we have no hope. I do hope you win.” Trey simply says smiling.

“We all want Night Raven College to win, that's not even in question.” Riddle says. “But Trey is right. The three of you have already let it slip that you spend your meetings eating snacks and talking instead of practicing. And I've also seen one of your concerts.” He says with that disappointed face that looks like he's about to sigh. “If you truly want to win against Royal Sword Academy you will have to put in some real effort!”

“I should have known the conversation would go this way." Cater sighs as he plays with a strand of hair. “But you're right, Housewarden. I promise we'll do our best. Anyway, I wanted to invite you all. Ta-da!”

Cater takes five tickets out of his coat pocket and gives them to Trey, Riddle, Ace, Deuce and finally you. “Front row! The best seats!”

“Hey! What about me?!” Grim complains.

“You both count as one student, so you only need one ticket. Isn't that cool?” Cater explains.

Both Ace and Deuce say they believe in Cater and the others to win. Ace because he's a bootlicker and Deuce because he's just that naive. As Grim begins to focus more on the food than on you, Cater gets closer.

“Hey, (Y/N)-chan~” He whispers to you. “You're going to root for me, aren't you~? I got you a special ticket.” He discreetly passes you another paper that said ‘VIP pass’. “You can meet me backstage after the concert if you want. You will make Cay-kun very happy if you do~” he winks.

Cater was really happy to see you in the audience, in the seat he arranged for you, along with the other Heartslabyul students. During the NRC song he looked at you many times.

To your surprise and that of all the other students who had seen them perform before, this time, they were actually taking it seriously. They were having fun as always, but you could tell they had been practicing and were trying hard to win. Lilia didn't even try to do his scream vocals or throw himself into the audience. Okay, he pretended he was going to do it, but just to startle the people at the front of the stage, he didn't actually do it.

The performance really went well, their best concert so far. But... unfortunately... Royal Sword Academy was better. At least for the jury who gave them first place, while Night Raven College got second... as always.

There was a buffet for the guests after the competition and both Trey and Riddle told you that you could leave Grim with them while you went to check on Cater. They could tell that he had worked hard and might be a little down from losing to RSA. They also agreed that you would be the best person to cheer him up if needed.

Using your VIP pass, you entered backstage and passed Kalim and Lilia in the hallways. Kalim was happy to have made it this far to the point of being ranked second among so many other schools with talented students and so was Lilia. But Lilia whispered to you that perhaps Cater would be more cheer up if you went to see him in their dressing room.

You do so and Lilia and Kalim head outside to meet up with the others. When you arrive in front of the door that Lilia indicated to you, you knock on it and tell Cater it's you. He casually asks you to wait just a second, and only then does he open the door for you.

“Hey, (Y/N)-chan~” Cater greets you with his signature smile. “I'm glad to see you using the VIP pass I gave you. I hope you enjoyed our show.”

You tell him you loved it and how it was the best they've ever done, at least compared to what you've seen.

“Aw, you’re so sweet~. We really tried hard this time. It was difficult to convince Kalim and Lilia to take this a little more seriously, but they did it for the school. Ha ha... It's just a shame we didn't win.”

“But you did won.” You say. “Second place at least.”

“Yeah... Second place... You’re right! We won one of the best places and I'm really happy about that. All our training was worth it!” He says with a big smile. “We should go celebrate with the others.”

But you don't move out of his way so he can go through the open door. You knew that was his happy mask and you wanted to talk to him alone, to try to get him to be honest with you.

“Before that, I liked to see your dressing room. I never saw what one actually looked like in real life.” You tell him.

“Oh, it's a little small for three people, but it's actually pretty cool. Come in, I'll show you.”

You walk in and close the door behind you, which Cater doesn't find strange. He shows you the dressing tables that they used to put on their makeup, the instruments that still needed to be stored in the boxes, the cart where their clothes were, etc.

“Cater...” You say almost interrupting him. He looks at you. “I know you're not doing so well. Lilia knows you're not doing so well. Riddle and Trey knew you might be a little sad after all your effort. You can be honest with me.”

“You're all so sweet to worry about Cay-kun so much. But I'm fine, I promise.” He smiles and winks at you.

“Okay. Then give me a hug.” You say, opening your arms.

He's taken a little aback and says that you're really cute, but that he's actually fine. However, you don't low your arms and say that you want to give him a hug to congratulate him on his performance. He sighs and ends up accepting.

He starts by giving you a hug like he always does. But then, the hug becomes a little tighter and more sincere.

“I’m sorry...” He whispers, close to your ear and with difficulty. “...I did my best...” His words were almost inaudible.

You hug him tighter and tell him that you know, that everyone knows, and that it's okay to be sad about not winning first place. You also tell him he can stay there with you as long as he wants until he feels better. Actually better.

This makes him hug you tighter.

“I don't want to waste your time.” He whispers again, as if at the same time that he wants to say it, he doesn't want you to hear it.

“You're not.” You whisper back to him. “You're never.”

He asks again if you really thought he acted well and you are sincere in saying yes and that he can ask whoever he wants, everyone will say it was their best performance. After some time, he breaks the hug and discreetly wipes away a little tear that you hadn't even realized that he had shed.

“Ha ha. This isn't very cute, is it?” He says.

“You are always very cute.” You reply, cupping his face.

“You too.” He smiles and places his hands over yours that you placed on his face. “Do you know what would really make me feel a lot better?”

You smile, showing that you probably know. You move closer to him and he moves closer to you in response, until you kiss. You feel his smile on your lips and then his hands on your back to bring you closer.

“(Y/N)!!!” You hear Kalim's voice shout, approaching, running behind you.

You were in the hallway, in the break between classes with Grim, Ace and Deuce. You turn around and Kalim stops in front of you, tired but with his huge sunny smile on. As he catches his breath, you see Jamil running towards you with that stressed look on his face. Kalim probably started running all of a sudden when he saw you.

“(Y/N)! There's going to be an interschool battle of the bands!” Kalim tells you. “And we're going to compete. You have to come see us!”

“The Pop Music Club will compete for Night Raven College.” Jamil explains. “And the members can invite any students they want to the front rows of the audience.” He took three tickets out of his hoodie pocket and gives one to Ace, one to Deuce and one to you.

“Hey! What about me?!” Grim complains.

“Since you and (Y/N) are counted as one student, you only need one ticket to be able to go together.” Jamil explains.

“I'm so excited! Especially to see you in the audience.” Kalim tells you. “I’ll do my best to give you the best show ever!”

After all the classes, when you were already in Ramshackle Dorm, you hear someone knocking on the door. When you open it, you see Kalim and Jamil.

“Hey! I wanted to give you something else, but Jamil said it was better to do it when you were alone.” Kalim takes a ticket from his pants pocket, a different color from the others, and gives it to you. “It's a VIP pass. I would love it if you could come see us backstage after the competition.”

“If we had given you this ticket in front of the others,” Jamil says with that annoyed expression. “I can easily see Ace and Grim trying to convince Kalim to give them a VIP pass as well. Even though each member only has one VIP pass each to give to someone”

Kalim was so happy to see you in the front row, in the seat he had arranged for you, that he got distracted before they start playing, waving and smiling at you. Cater was the one who called his attention to come back to the drums.

To your surprise and that of all the other students who had seen them perform before, this time they were actually taking it seriously. They were having fun as always, but you could tell they had been practicing and were trying hard to win. Lilia didn't even try to do his scream vocals or throw himself into the audience. Okay, he pretended he was going to do it, but just to startle the people at the front of the stage, he didn't actually do it.

There was a buffet for the guests after the competition and you took advantage of Grim being busy with the food to use your VIP pass to go see Kalim, Cater and Lilia backstage.

You found them in the hallway. The three of them were smiling and talking excitedly, and when Kalim saw you, his smile grew even bigger and he ran to you.

“(Y/N)! What did you think of our show? Did you enjoy it?”

He was as happy as if he had won first place. You should know by now that winning or not is not what's important to him. As you told them how much you enjoyed their music and how it was probably their best concert yet, Cater noticed something.

“Hey, Kalim, didn't you have a ring on each hand?”

Kalim looks at his right hand, which had a ring on the index finger. Then he looks at his left and sees that there is no ring. Kalim searches through his pockets until he remembers that he had taken off his rings to wash his hands and must have only remembered to put one back on. Cater tells him and you to go back to the bathroom or the dressing room to see if you can find it while he and Lilia go meet the others at the after-party.

On the way to the bathroom, the two of you started talking, about the music, the performance, the competition in general, other things that had nothing to do with anything...

In the bathroom Kalim looks for the ring, but came out saying that he couldn't find it anywhere, so maybe you should look in the dressing room. In the dressing room you look for the ring on the floor, since Kalim said he had sat on the floor packing some things. You find the ring under one of the dressing tables they used to put on makeup, give it to him and he puts it back on his finger. When he does this, you can see his nails better.

“Ooh, you noticed my nails! Yeah, they're gold with a tiger-stripe pattern. Cool, huh? I can help you do your nails like this too. It would be fun if we matched. OH! Speaking of which.”

He walks over to a large cardboard box that was in the corner of the room, opens it, and takes out a white t-shirt.

“Our matching T-shirts are custom-made, you know. We ordered more to sell as merch.” When he unfolds it and shows you the front, it's a t-shirt exactly like his. “Which is how we blew through what little budget we had.”

He walks back to you and hands you the t-shirt. It's a little bigger than the size you normally wear.

“Sorry, we only made one size. I think it was because it was cheaper. He he. It's the same size as ours.”

You thank him and say you're excited to trying it on, so Kalim turns around so you can swap shirts. As soon as you tell him you're ready, he turns around and smiles when he sees you wearing the same t-shirt as him.

“It looks so good on you!” Kalim looks at his hand which has the ring with a red stone. “Hey, try this too.” He takes off the ring from his index finger, comes closer to you and holds out his hand. “Can I?” he asks with a cute smile.

You place your left hand on his right hand and he instinctively puts the ring on your ring finger.

“Another gift for you. For being my best friend and best fan, Heh heh heh. I tried really hard today because I really wanted to make you proud. We didn't get first place, but second is also really cool, isn't it? I won for the school and for you.”

In the midst of so much joy, you end up hugging him to thank him for the gifts and to say that you agree that second place is incredible too. He hugs you back so happily that he even spins you around, making you lift your feet off the ground.

You knew that even if Kalim really liked you, he wouldn't just give you a kiss out of the blue. So you're the one who does it and kisses him on the cheek. He's surprised for a second, but then he kisses your cheek back.

“Even though this day is already amazing.” He says, still hugging you and his face is so close to yours that your noses are almost touching. “The best part is still celebrating with you.” He ends by saying in a lower, more affectionate tone. His eyes inviting you to kiss him again.

You do it, but this time on his lips. You feel his enthusiasm and love not only by the intensity of his kiss but by the way he hugs you tighter.

You were coming back from Mr. S's Mystery Shop, while Grim had stayed at Ramshackle Dorm out of laziness, when you comment to yourself something about the shopping bags being a little heavy.

“You should not be shy about asking a trusted colleague for assistance then.” Lilia says, suddenly appearing upside down.

You get startled and almost drop one of the two bags you were carrying, but Lilia catches it in time.

“You are carrying all these purchases alone? Allow me to be your cute little helper until arriving at Ramshackle Dorm.”

He puts his feet on the ground and walks with you. You ask him if there was any reason for him to be around.

“Do you mean any other than a simple, pleasant walk? Ku fu fu. Well, yes. I was looking for students to invite to the interschool Battle of the Bands. The Pop Music Club will compete for Night Raven College against other arcana academies. One of our enemies being Royal Sword Academy.” He says with that smug smile. “I have a special ticket for you and Grim in the front row, along with Malleus, Silver, and Sebek.”

Lilia makes a ticket appear in his hand and gives it to you. He also explains that since you and Grim are counted as one student, you only need one ticket to go together.

“However,” Lilia smirks. “I have in my possession another type of ticket, an even more special and exclusive one, that I intend to gift to you and only you. Have I piqued your curiosity?”

Of course you are.

“Khee hee hee, that is the spirit! Here.” He makes another ticket appear, different from the first one he gave you. “It is a VIP pass. You can visit us in the trenches after the battle. Or as they call it, backstage.” His smug smile returns. “It would be a great pleasure to celebrate our victory with you.”

Lilia spotted you first. When you saw him he was already looking at you smiling. But during the performance he gave as much attention to you as he did to his Diasomnia boys. If you want to be Lilia's biggest cheerleader, you'll have to compete with Sebek, or simply join him.

There was a buffet for the guests after the competition and you took advantage of Grim being busy with the food to use your VIP pass to go see Lilia, Kalim and Cater backstage.

You found them in the hallway. They were smiling and chatting excitedly when they saw you. All three of them really wanted to know what you thought of their performance and you said that it was the best show of theirs that you had ever seen.

While the four of you are talking, Lilia has the feeling of having forgotten something. And then he realizes that he was missing one of the necklaces. He must have forgotten it in the dressing room and suggests that Kalim and Cater go meet the others in the after-party while asking you to go with him to help him look for the necklace.

The two of you go to the dressing room that was provided for the three of them and start looking for the necklace. You ask him if he remembers when he took the necklace off his neck, but... he doesn't. You see him making that sulky face. His biggest pet peeve was missing things and then looking for them, and remember this makes you giggle.

“Are you laughing at my misfortune?” Lilia messes with you. “I lose such an important item and the person I trusted to help me makes fun of my memory loss. How mean. You are so cruel. *snif*” He fake whines.

You know he's just messing with you and tell him that you just thought it was funny because you remembered that it was his pet peeve.

“Do you know what kind of necklace I am searching for?” He asks with a smirk. “It is a long chain with a tag, all made of stainless steel. It's called Dog Tag, or more precisely: Military Dog Tag. Nowadays, many young people use it for style, especially cool band members such as yours truly. But its origins date back a few decades, during a battle between humans, as a way to identify soldiers who were wounded or killed on the battlefield. That is why these tags usually have the names, ranks and even the blood type of the respective soldiers engraved on them. Quite interesting, don't you think?” He smiles casually.

You agree, but ask why he decided to tell you that at that moment.

“Fu fu.” He smiles smugly again, the raspberry red of his eyes piercing you. “You are able to understand why this necklace suits me, correct? Should you not be more careful when laughing at me?”

In response, you smile at him relaxedly and tell him that you trust him.

“Khee hee hee, I'm actually glad to hear that.” Lilia smiles sweetly at you and suddenly seems to remember something that made him bursts out laughing.

You ask what he was laughing at. What had he remembered?

“HA HA HA HA! My memory really is not what it used to be. After our song, I accidentally broke my chain. But Kalim said he knew someone who could fix it and make it look like new. I told him ‘I'm actually glad to hear that’ and he put it in his trouser pocket. Ha ha ha ha!”

So you were looking for something that wasn't even there. And neither Lilia, Kalim nor Cater remembered that. You laugh with Lilia.

“Oh well, at least this little mistake served to spend a pleasant time alone with you.” He smiles seductively, abruptly switching the mood. “You know, second place is as noble a position as first place, but...” he makes puppy eyes at you. “I am quite sad to have dishonored our school by losing again Royal Sword Academy. *snif* Oh, if a loving soul could soothe my sorrows.” He closes his eyes sadly, but opens one to look at you with a sly smile at the corner of his lips.

You chuckle and ask if a hug would help. He says yes and hugs you before you can change your mind.

“At least it was fun.” He says close to your ear. “And it was a good sight to see you rooting for me. You are such a cute fan~” He pulled his head away, but didn't break the hug and pressed his nose against yours, looking at you provocatively. “But I wonder what kind of fan you would like to be. Cater told us some... captivating stories. Fu fu~”

Your noses were touching, but he wouldn't move any further than that. He expected you to take the initiative from there. If you do, and kiss him, you will feel his smile on your lips and the type of his hug gradually changing.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

#Twisted Wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst fluff #Twisted Wonderland Fluff #Cater Diamond #Cater Diamond x Reader #Cater x Reader #Kalim Al-Asim #Kalim Al-Asim x Reader #Kalim x Reader #Lilia Vanrouge #Lilia Vanrouge x Reader #Lilia x Reader

499 notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 15 days ago

Text

Some Kind Of Love

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Pregnant!Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You and Bob find out that you’re expecting, and things get extremely complicated when you realize that the good news comes with its own set of interesting side effects.

Warnings: Fluff, Discussions surrounding pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms, Exploration of fear surrounding pregnancy, Scenes involving medical checkups, There are some supernatural elements to this

Author’s Note: This was a request by a cool ass anon, and it’s a two parter! I really enjoyed writing this first part and exploring the ideas that were brought up in the request itself, I really took the idea and literally dashed off with it screaming. Absolutely loved it! Thank you so much for the neat request and I hope I did it justice <3 (so far at least lol)

Word Count: 6,198

Four little pink plus signs greeted you that fateful morning.

They all sat in a neat, trembling row across the marble lip of the bathroom sink–each with a soft pink plastic cap, each window displaying the same quiet verdict in unwavering lines. The morning light slanted through the frosted glass window, shining down on them like a hand reaching out to caress it, as if even the sun understood the gravity of what was resting there.

You were only supposed to take one.

One test. One answer. One more gentle disappointment that you would tuck away like the others–stacked quietly in your memory alongside months of calendar calculations and hopeful silences. But the moment the positive result came up–faint but immediate–you froze in your spot. You weren’t relieved, or joyful, you were in pure disbelief.

Then, almost without thinking, your body moved quickly–muscle memory taking over your actions completely. You grabbed another box from the cabinet under the sink, ripping it open with shaking hands before opening up the plastic that the test was surrounded in. Your heart was hammering inside your ribs like it was trying to escape from the confines of your body–or like it was trying to wake you up from this dream. When the same result came back, you took a third test, doing the exact same thing.

By the fourth test, your hands were shaking with pure relief and excitement. You couldn’t stop staring at the results, as if it might somehow change if you closed your eyes for too long.

You needed to be sure that this was real.

Because after eleven long months of trying, hoping, and hurting together–you didn’t know how to trust good news anymore.

You and Bob had started the journey together with optimism. The kind that sits high in your chest and makes you whisper things like ‘this could be the month’ after every kiss, and every breathless evening tangled together in bed, sweaty and laughing and full of quiet wanting. He had taken the liberty to mark the dates in a small notebook, it was chalked full of ovulation windows, fertility reminders, and soft little smiley faces in the margins beside your initials.

It had been romantic, even magical at first.

Until it wasn’t.

By the seventh month, the intimacy had begun to feel clinical, timed, and mechanical. The warmth that once bloomed between your bodies–those breathless nights laced with quiet laughter and whispered I-love-you’s–began to thin under the weight of expectation. Sex became a checkbox, with each wave of hope that came crashing down with another let down. You’d lie tangled in the sheets afterward in a haze of silence, with Bob’s thumb stroking the back of your hand absentmindedly, while neither of you said what hung between you.

The tension settled into your bone like a second skin. You started visiting the med bay together after returning from missions, but it wasn’t just for bruises or being patched up–it was for answers. The techs ran every test they could think of. Hormone panels, sperm counts, uterine scans…Everything under the sun. You sat side-by-side on sterile white exam tables with your hands clasped tightly together while polite professionals told you the same thing, over and over again:

”Everything looks normal.”

But normal didn’t help, because no matter how normal everything looked, nothing was happening.

And that was the part that began to hurt the most.

Bob tried to hide it, but you saw the guilt spreading inside him like a quiet rot.

One night, after a particularly long debrief, you came into the bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. The lamp on his side was still on, casting soft golden light across the sheets, but he wasn’t moving. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands twisted into his thick light brown hair, like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

You stepped toward him, wordlessly, and wrapped your arms gently around his shoulders. At first, he didn’t move. He just let out a quiet, shaking breath–one that you felt creep down your spine. Then his hands found you, pulling you closer to him, arms curling tight around your waist like he needed you as close as possible. His head dropped forward until his ear was resting against your stomach, and you slid your fingers into his ruffled locks of hair, smoothing them down as you always did when he was unraveling.

It took him a long time to speak, and when he did, it was barely a hushed breath.

”M-Maybe it’s me…” You froze in your spot, “Maybe it’s the…The Sentry s-serum. It wasn’t properly tested…I–I don’t even know what it did to my body. To my cells…” His voice cracked, low and raw and ashamed, “Maybe i-it broke something inside me…Maybe it’s my fault.” Your heart shattered. You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your free hand coming up to the curve of his jaw to tilt his head up. You brushed your thumb across the soft skin beneath his eye–where tears began to well up in the corners–watching his lashes flutter at the touch. His face was flushed in the amber glow, lips parted like he was struggling to breath through the thoughts that plagued his mind.

”Don’t say that Bob…” You said gently. He swallowed hard, his lashes dampening.

”Everything came back fine for you. But for me…T-They don’t even have a panel that goes into d-depth enough. That’s probably w-why we don’t have answers.” You shook your head slowly, pressing your forehead to his.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not mine either. It’s just…” You paused, barely able to say it. “It’s just happening the way it’s happening. And I know that hurts. I know.” He curled his arms tighter around you, before burying his face into your soft stomach again. You could feel how hard he was holding himself back from breaking further. It was like being loved by someone standing at the edge of an earthquake, afraid to fall in too deep in case he took you with him.

Then some nights, Sentry would surface.

In the quiet moments between sleeping, and turning over to reposition yourself, when you were both too exhausted to pretend you weren’t hurting, his golden eyes would flicker and overtake the ocean expanse of Bob’s. He would lay behind you, with one arm slung protectively over your waist, palm pressed flat over your womb, like he could feel a future there, and he never stuttered or hesitated when he made his claims.

“I will make it happen, my love,” He whispered, voice like honey and heat curling against the shell of your ear, “Even if I must pull the stars from the sky and set the world ablaze to do it…You were made to bear my light…And I won’t stop believing that.” He kissed the back of your neck, his hand stroking along the softness of your stomach.

”I can already picture them…I can feel them in the ether…Yours and mine.” And for the briefest second–you believed him.

There were other nights like that. Quiet ones, where you woke to find Sentry’s arms curled around you like a shield, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering promises you didn’t know how to hold.

By the ninth month of trying, the emotional weight had started to wear thin. You’d stopped tracking your cycle. Stopped buying ovulation strips. You even started pulling away a little when Bob reached for you–not out of rejection, but exhaustion.

The joy was gone, and that magic and closeness ceased to exist.

One night, you lay on the couch together after dinner, half-draped over his chest, your fingers curled loosely in the hem of his shirt. You could hear his heartbeat in your ear–steady and strong–and it made you ache with love for him in ways you didn’t have words for.

So you finally said it.

“…Let’s stop trying.”

Bob went still beneath you. His arm around your shoulder froze mid-stroke, the fingertips that had been tracing idle patterns against your skin stilling in surprise.

“What?” he asked softly.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy but calm. “Let’s stop tracking it. Stop planning it. It’s making us miserable.”

He stared down at you, concerned. “But–what–if?”

You shook your head slowly.

“If it happens, it happens,” You whispered. “And if it doesn’t…Maybe we weren’t supposed to be parents.”

His face crumpled like you’d reached in and crushed something inside him.

But then he pulled you in tighter.

And replied, “O-Okay. I just…I don’t want you to think it’s your fault. Ever.”

“I don’t,” You lied softly. “Not anymore.”

You nestled against him and didn’t speak again. You didn’t have to. Because in that moment, the two of you silently agreed to step back, to take your hands off the wheel and let the universe drive–even if neither of you liked where it might go.

And now…Here you were two months later, with four positive pregnancy tests in front of you, beaming the news that you had been wanting to see since the beginning.

“Just one more…” You whispered to yourself, like it might bring even firmer proof that this was real, that you weren’t dreaming still. That the aching quiet of the last year had finally given way to something more.

But before you could tear open the packaging to one more test, you heard a gentle knock.

“Y/N…Is e-everything okay?” Bob’s voice asked, soft as a breath through the wood. You froze, your fingers tightening around the unopened test. Your heart thudded, and you glanced back down at the row of pink plus signs. Your throat tightened as you stepped toward the door, swallowing against the wave of emotion building behind your sternum. You cracked it open just a sliver, and the moment you did, your eyes found him.

He was already staring at you.

Messy hair from restless sleep, light brown strands sticking out like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His grey sweatpants clung to his hips from where he’d thrown them back on half-asleep, and his chest was bare–warm and flushed from the heat of the sheets, freckled skin rising and falling with each nervous breath. His eyes scanned over your face, and you saw the way his brow pulled–worried, tender, and afraid.

”…Y/N…What’s w-wrong?” He asked gently. That was the moment you realized you were crying. Silent tears rolled down your cheeks without fanfare, without permission–carved straight from disbelief and joy and exhaustion. You lifted your hand quickly, wiping at your face with the back of your wrist like it might erase what he saw.

“C-Can I come in?” You gave a shaky little sniffle and nodded, stepping back just enough to open the door wider. He didn’t hesitate. The moment there was enough room, Bob stepped in and reached for you like he couldn’t stand a second more of distance. His hands came up to your face instantly, gentle but urgent, tilting your chin so he could see you properly in the light. His thumbs swept across your cheeks, brushing away the tears that continued to fall.

“Why are you c-crying?” he asked, searching your expression like he was bracing for heartbreak. “Did you…D-Did you get your period?”

You shook your head immediately, the denial spilling from your lips in a breathless rush. “No. No, I didn’t.”

His hands stilled on your face, and you felt him pause–completely, fully still like he was afraid to breathe.

“That’s…That’s why I took the test,” You whispered. “I’m three weeks late. And my body’s been…” You faltered, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to explain. “It’s like I’ve been feeling these little…Pins and needles? All over. Especially in my stomach. I didn’t really think much of it until–until you said it.”

Bob blinked. “S-Said what?”

Your voice was nearly a whisper.

“That maybe it was happening.”

You saw the way his expression shifted then. How that sentence came back to him like a ghost. He had said it so gently, with that hesitant hope he always laced through his worry, like he didn’t want to jinx anything but couldn’t stop believing in you anyway. He had stood beside you in the kitchen just last week, watching you rub your stomach absentmindedly–trying to ease the discomfort you were feeling–and said it so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

Now, with his hands still holding your face and your eyes glistening beneath the bathroom light, spilling tears, he looked terrified.

“I–I didn’t mean to get your hopes up,” He said quickly, stammering over the words. “I–I just…I thought maybe, maybe it was finally–God, Y/N, if I made you think–” You shook your head again, cutting off his spiral before it could build into something heavier.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You were right.”

His eyes widened slightly, lips parting as if the air had suddenly gotten too thin.

”W-What?” Your hands found his wrists gently, fingers curling around them as you guided him across the bathroom, his socked feet shuffling quietly across the tile behind you. The sunlight had shifted again, now casting a warm halo over the sink–and over the four test sticks aligned like sacred relics, their soft pink caps and double lines shining beneath the golden hue.

Bob followed your movement, as you stopped and tilted your head toward them, wordlessly telling him to see for himself.

He looked down.

And everything about him seemed to slow.

He hunched forward slightly, blinking hard like he didn’t trust his eyes, his hands still hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them. His brows furrowed, mouth falling open slightly as he looked closer–at each plus sign, one after the other, as if he needed to study every single one before the truth could bloom fully in his chest.

“…Holy…” His voice cracked. “Holy shit.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“Y-You’re pregnant?”

You let out the softest breath, almost a laugh but caught halfway by tears, and nodded.

“I’m pregnant,” You whispered, your voice breaking mid-syllable.

And just like that, he crumpled into you.

He let out a laugh–a huff of disbelief, breathless and wild–and then wrapped you in his arms so tightly you felt like the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His face buried itself into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears as his arms closed around your back, curling in like he wanted to disappear into the moment and stay there forever.

You held him just as tightly, your fingers sliding through the soft mess of his hair, your chin resting on his shoulder.

He breathed against your skin.

“You’re pregnant…You’re really… Oh my God.”

You nodded into his shoulder, laughing gently through the tears. “We’re gonna have a baby, Bob.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes glassy, lips parted like he still couldn’t catch his breath. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips—soft, slow, and full of wonder. The kind of kiss people write about. The kind that tastes like the end of grief and the beginning of something holy.

When he pulled back, he was smiling.

Then he laughed–really laughed–and looked down again at the row of tests before glancing back up at you with wide, teary eyes.

“W-Who takes four pregnancy tests,” He said, breathless with awe and amusement, “When the first two should be perfect confirmation that it’s happening?”

You let out a small laugh and swatted playfully at his chest. “I was in shock!”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, then pressed it to his cheek like he couldn’t bear to let go of you.

“I’m only joking…I-I probably would’ve done the same…” Bob’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, soft and breathless, the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep and warm. He leaned forward again, unable to resist the gravitational pull of your joy, your eyes, your mouth–and kissed your cheek. Then your nose. Then another to your brow.

And another.

You giggled, trying to wriggle away from the onslaught, but he held you fast with both arms, kissing across your face like he was tracing the constellation of his entire future.

He pulled back just an inch, golden warmth shining through the tears in his eyes. “S-Sentry is g-going to flip his lid.” You snorted, forehead resting lightly against his, your smile tugging at the corners of your lips like it had been waiting to return for months.

“I’m glad I got to have this moment with you first,” You whispered, voice softer now. “I feel like…Now that this is really happening, he’s going to be even more protective of me.” Bob brough his hand up to his chest, eyes wide in playful mock offence.

”A-And I’m not as protective as h-him? Is that what y-you’re saying?” You gave him a teasing smile, poking your fingers against the muscles that lined his stomach, leaning your weight towards him.

”You’re just the right amount of protective,” You said sweetly, “But…Unlike you, he would destroy the entire planet if something were to happen to me…So…” The corner of Bob’s mouth twitched up into that crooked little grin you loved.

”T-This is true…” He murmured, nose brushing yours. “Won’t fault you for w-wanting him to be a bit calmer…M-Maybe I can talk to him about that.”

You raised your brows. “You think he’ll listen?”

His arms slid tighter around your waist. “He listens to you m-more than he listens to m-me.” His voice was quieter now, like the truth of it was something he didn’t quite know how to say louder. “A-Always has.”

Your eyes flickered over his face, studying the curve of his mouth, the warm flush in his cheeks, the awe still settled in the crinkle of his brow like he hadn’t fully come down from the miracle of it all.

“Are you flipping your lid too?” You asked.

Bob let out a low laugh and leaned into you again, burying his face against your neck, his voice muffled but full of that same breathless wonder. “I-I already did, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the hollow of your throat. “L-Lid’s long gone.” You laughed, tears slipping freely again, and you reached for him–both arms looping around his neck as you pulled him into a real embrace. No more shock. No more waiting. Just you and him, wrapped in the truth you both thought you might never hold.

He squeezed you so tight you could feel his heartbeat pressed against your chest.

“We’re gonna be okay,” He whispered, almost to himself.

You nodded, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” You breathed. “We really are.”

———————

About five and a half months later the couch had practically grown to match the shape of your body. It groaned beneath you like an old friend as you shifted, the fabric warm from hours of lingering and the soft cream blanket wrapped around your legs knotted somewhere at your knees. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ceiling vent and the occasional scrape of Bob’s pen scratching against a mission log from down the hall. Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in lazy streaks, painting everything in muted golds, the kind of light that made the world feel soft-edged and far away.

Your eyelids were heavy. Not just from the long day–but from everything. The weight of your limbs, the steady ache in your lower back, the constant fluttering exhaustion that had been clinging to your bones like static for weeks now. The med bay techs said it was normal. “Just your body working overtime,” They’d chirped. “Perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about.”

Still, it didn’t feel normal. It felt cosmic. Like something else was siphoning your energy on purpose.

Your hand slid across your belly, fingers tracing the curve that had blossomed so quickly over the past two months. The baby had started kicking last week–gentle taps at first, like your stomach was tapping back whenever you pressed your hand there. But now, the little one responded to everything. A shift in temperature. Bob’s voice. And most of all, cravings. The second one popped into your mind, you immediately felt the odd sensations of taps against your stomach, like the baby was telling you to get up and get it–and right now was one of those times.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, palm warm on the swell of your bump, rubbing gently.

“…Just give me five more minutes, kiddo,” You whispered, voice hoarse and affectionate. “Mommy just needs to rest a bit longer…”

As your eyes slipped shut, the room dimmed–but not from your eyelids.

You cracked one eye open again just in time to see the lamp beside the couch begin to flicker. Not a casual bulb hiccup. A slow, pulsing flicker. Like something breathing. Or responding. Your brows pinched faintly, heart skipping a beat.

”Sentry,” You called out, eyes locking in on the lamp, “Can you stop please?” There was no response–only another pulse of light. Then another. Then the faintest hum, low and glassy, vibrating somewhere behind your ears like a tuning fork deep in your skull.

Footsteps padded out from the hallway, and Bob appeared in the common room, damp hair curling slightly from the heat of the shower he had taken about two hours ago before he started working on the mission report, with a towel slung around his neck to keep his hair from dripping onto his shirt.

“H-Huh?” He questioned, surprised at the sight of you sitting upright on the couch. You turned your head slowly toward him and motions toward the flickering lamp.

”Stop flickering the light.” Bob glanced over to where you were gesturing, then brought his gaze back to yours.

”D-Do you see Sentry h-here right now?” He joked, pointing at his eyes, which were shimmering their normal deep blue. Your brows furrowed, your fingers still splayed protectively over the gentle curve of your belly as the lamp pulsed again–once, twice, slow and drawn out, like the rhythm of a second heartbeat.

“Then…What’s happening–” You began, but you didn’t get to finish the thought. Because just as the question began to leave your lips, a soft, undeniable movement rolled beneath your palm. A shift. A stretch. A little thump against your palm.

The light flickered again.

Your lips parted, eyes widening just a little as your heart stuttered in your chest. You looked down, then back at the lamp. And that’s when your pulse spiked with something other than fatigue.

“…Bob?” You said slowly, not taking your eyes off the softly pulsing bulb. He stepped toward you, towel now loose around his neck, one brow arched slightly in concern.

“Y-Yeah?”

You swallowed and turned toward him fully.

“Can you…Go grab me some chocolate ice cream?” You asked. “And crush up some potato chips onto it?”

He blinked. “R-Right now?”

You nodded, voice even and quiet, eyes drifting back to the lamp again. “Yeah. I need to try something.”

Bob didn’t question you further–just gave a soft little hum of acknowledgement, a small smile, and padded into the kitchen, leaving you with the low, steady flicker of the lamp and the strange thumping in your belly that had synced to its rhythm like a song only the two of you could hear.

The hum in your ears didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened the longer you sat still.

He returned quickly, careful hands cradling the bowl like it was precious cargo. The clink of the spoon against ceramic echoed through the quiet room.

“Crushed the chips in nice and good,” He said softly, still clearly trying to read your face. “L-Like you like it.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed together in something between gratitude and concentration as you took the bowl, your gaze never leaving the flickering lamp. You dipped the spoon into the ice cream, scooping up a messy, jagged mound where crushed chips poked out like salt-dusted glass. You brought it to your mouth and took a bite–cold, crunchy, sweet and savory all at once–and chewed slowly, watching.

Bob sat gently on the edge of the couch beside you, towel still draped across his shoulders, eyes shifting between your face and the lamp.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, fingers brushing your knee through the blanket.

You nodded again, slowly swallowing. Another bite. Another crunch.

Then the light stopped flickering.

Everything went still.

You paused mid-motion, the spoon still hovering near your mouth as you stared across the room.

No hum.

No pulse.

Just silence.

Your tongue flicked absently over your bottom lip, catching a bit of melted ice cream. Then you slowly dragged the back of the cold spoon across your mouth, down to your chin, and turned your head toward Bob.

“…I think we may need to go to the med bay.”

His whole body tensed. His hand stiffened against your knee. “W-Why?” he asked immediately, voice rising an octave. “Is everything okay? Are you n-not feeling good?”

Your eyes searched his, calm but certain. “I’m fine,” you said gently. “I just… I have to ask them something.”

Bob’s brow pinched, his free hand gripping the towel now like he was bracing for bad news. “O-Okay. What…What do you think it is?”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushed your stomach again–this time slower–as the tiniest tap fluttered beneath your skin. Then you looked at the lamp, still quiet and dim. The air around it no longer vibrated and it was no longer looking like it was flickering Morse code at you.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“…I think the baby was doing that.”

Bob blinked. “The…The lights?”

You nodded slowly. “It stopped when I gave in and ate what I was craving. Right after I told them to wait.” He stared at you, eyes wide, and you could see the gears turning in his mind–sifting through possibilities, logic, science, the unknown. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. You could see the flicker of gold rising just faintly behind his pupils.

“S-So…Our kid…Might h-have Sentry’s abilities?” He said, stunned.

You looked down at your belly, brushing your fingertips gently over the fabric of your shirt.

“I think they already do.” You replied.

————————

The med bay was unusually quiet for midday.

The sterile hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly above, softened only by the muffled whir of machines in the background and the occasional tap of booted footsteps down the hall. You sat perched on the edge of one of the exam room chairs, an old grey hoodie stretched over your bump, the sleeves pushed up as you spooned another mouthful of half-melted ice cream and chips into your mouth.

It was more soup than sundae at this point–cool and salty-sweet–but you didn’t care. The moment it hit your tongue, the baby gave one tiny, satisfied kick. You exhaled, easing back slightly, your eyes drifting across the room to where Bob sat hunched on the edge of the medical table.

He was picking nervously at the bandage on the inside of his elbow–the cotton ball barely hanging on beneath the crinkled tape where the lab techs had drawn a fresh round of blood.They’d also asked for a sperm sample, just in case.

“I-I didn’t think it could p-pass on like that,” He murmured now, eyes still fixed on the loose edge of his bandage, his voice soft with guilt. “The Sentry stuff. I mean…” You sighed quietly, resting the bowl of ice cream on the counter beside you.

“We don’t even know for sure yet,” You said gently, licking a bit of salt from your thumb. “Let’s just wait for the results.”

Bob gave a slow nod but didn’t look up.

“I-I’m sorry,” He said quietly.

Your hand stilled, and you looked over at him. “Bob, I’m not mad at you.”

His head lifted slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I-It seems like you are.”

You groaned under your breath, pushing up from your seat. “I’m not.”

Crossing the room, you moved to stand between his legs, resting your hands on his knees first, then sliding them up to gently take his hands. He resisted for a second–unsure, sheepish–but let you guide them forward. You brought them to your stomach, pressing his large palms against the gentle curve of your bump. The baby shifted almost immediately, a subtle little roll beneath your skin like they were saying hello.

Bob’s lips immediately turned up into a smile, as his fingers twitched against the spot that had flinched beneath his touch just moments ago.

Then you reached up, fingers curling softly against his jaw as you tilted his head up

“I’m not mad, Bob,” You said again, quieter this time. “Look at me.”

His eyes finally met yours.

Soft and heavy-lidded, lined with something old and aching–guilt, maybe, or worry dressed in too many layers of silence. You could see the shimmer of doubt flickering behind the blue, the way he was already bracing for worst-case outcomes before anyone had said a word. The way he always did when it came to you.

“All I want to do,” You said gently, voice low and even, “is make sure I don’t have to be doing something extra to keep both of us happy and healthy, okay? That’s all this is.”

Your thumbs stroked along the curve of his cheek, slow and patient.

“This isn’t about blame. It’s not about anything other than making sure we’re safe. All three of us.”

Bob let out a short breath, his jaw shifting slightly beneath your touch. “Y-Yeah, but… what if this makes it harder for you?” He murmured, his voice cracking just a little. “W-What if this causes problems further d-down the line? If Sentry is u-unhinged with me sometimes…I-I can’t imagine what a baby could do…E-Especially when it’s relying on you…” You let out a quiet huff, somewhere between a breath and a laugh, and your hand slid up to the soft mess of his hair.

“Well, that’s exactly why we’re here, isn’t it?” you said, arching a brow playfully. “We update the techs, and they figure out a plan. That’s kind of their whole job.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but stopped when you leaned in a bit closer.

“Bob,” You whispered softly, your fingers tracing just beneath his eye, brushing over the faint circles that had deepened in the past weeks. “We’re a team. Me, you, Sentry…” Your lips tugged up slightly, “…Even the Void, when he’s behaving.” That earned a barely-there smile from him. But it was real. You felt it twitch beneath your palm.

“We’ve gotten through worse. We’re managing all of this together just fine,” You continued. “And we’ll manage this too. Whatever it ends up being…We’ll figure it out.”

He swallowed hard, but nodded–once, then again, a little more firmly this time.

“…Okay,” He said, the word soft but full of trust. “O-Okay.”

You leaned in and gave him a kiss.

It was gentle, slow, and unspoken–the kind that didn’t need to ask for anything. The kind that just reminded him he was still yours. Still enough. Still good.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and his hands remained where they were, settled protectively over the curve of your belly like he was guarding something sacred.

The baby stirred again beneath his touch.

And this time, neither of you flinched.

Just sat there in the quiet, holding each other–wrapped in warmth and soft light and the simple truth of your bond, waiting together for whatever came next.

The quiet knock came like a break in static.

You and Bob both looked up, heads lifting at the same time as the door creaked open and the med tech stepped inside with a tablet pressed against their chest. Their expression was professional, but there was a distinct glimmer of curiosity behind their eyes–the kind of barely-restrained intrigue that only showed up when science started tipping toward the supernatural.

“Hey,” The tech greeted, voice gentle but brisk as they closed the door behind them. “Sorry for the wait. We wanted to run everything twice just to be sure.”

Bob straightened on the edge of the exam table. You could feel the shift in his body beside you–shoulders rising, grip instinctively tightening over your hand as if to brace for something he couldn’t stop.

You stayed still, your thumb tracing over the back of his knuckles as the tech swiped through the tablet, pulled up a screen, and angled it slightly toward the two of you.

“So, we compared the blood sample we pulled from you,” The tech said, gesturing toward you, “With the fetal cell-free DNA that circulates in maternal blood during pregnancy.”

Then they paused, looking directly at Bob.

“And we compared both directly with your sample and a read of your original Sentry serum signature on file.”

Your breath caught quietly. Bob’s leg bounced once, then stilled.

The tech continued, eyes flicking back to the screen. “There are definitive traces of the serum’s presence in the fetus. Not the exact structure, but markers–identifiers–that mirror your serum signature almost exactly, including some of the same regenerative protein indicators we’ve flagged in your biology before.”They glanced up at you now, more focused.

“Which likely means that yes, the serum has been passed on in some form. And based on the movement patterns and the report you gave earlier about the lamp responding to emotional states or cravings…” They paused, lips pressing into a tight but impressed line. “…Your baby may already be exhibiting early-stage sensory projection or electrokinetic response. We’ve seen something similar in third trimester post-enhanced cases–but this… This is a bit earlier than we’d expect.”

You blinked, slowly. “So they’re…Already developing powers?” you asked softly, though it didn’t really feel like a question anymore. Just a breath. A confirmation.

The tech gave a small nod. “Looks like it.”

You felt the lump begin to rise in your throat–slow, thick, humming beneath the surface.

“So…They’re only going to get stronger?” you asked, your voice hoarse and tight. The tech offered a small smile, like they were trying to be as reassuring as possible.

“Well, yes. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” They glanced down at the readout again. “As long as you keep satisfying your cravings and listening to your body, the fetus will likely stay balanced. Think of it like…Emotional regulation but you’re doing it from within the womb.” You choked out a laugh at that despite yourself, and Bob exhaled a tense breath beside you, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You just want to be able to keep them under control,” The tech went on. “Y’know what I mean? Stable inputs. Satisfied cravings. No high emotional spikes or power surges. As long as you do that, you and your baby should be completely fine.”

You and Bob both nodded.

His hand tightened slowly around yours again, anchoring you–his thumb curling along the side of your wrist, as if grounding himself through your pulse.

You looked up at him, then smiled faintly as you murmured, “Well, Sentry is going to be buzzing about this for the rest of the time I’m pregnant.”

Bob let out a soft, defeated groan and dropped his forehead briefly to your shoulder.

“P-Probably for the rest of our lives…” He muttered, half-laughing, half-dreading.

You felt his hand slide gently over the swell of your stomach again–warm and gentle–and you knew he was trying not to panic. Not to think too far ahead. But his touch lingered like a prayer all the same. The baby gave a little thump beneath his palm in response.

“Jesus,” He whispered under his breath, bringing his other hand to his temple, massaging it slowly, before adding, “He’s d-definitely buzzing already.”

You snorted and leaned your head against his, your smile widening just a little as the tech chuckled lightly and excused themselves, giving you space.

You didn’t say anything for a few moments after the door clicked shut.

Just breathed.

Together.

And let the truth settle around you like gravity–sacred, strange, and somehow just right.

902 notes · View notes

heirofshadowsingers · 9 months ago

Text

Wanna be yours

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: When you fall alseep on his shoulder, Azriel does not know what to do, and everyone are being so damn loud

word count: 2.2K

warnings: this is pure fluff and azzie being utterly smitten and fussing shadows

a/n: hiii! this is the first fanfic i've written for acotar, i've fallen down the rabbit hole lately and made this blog. and i just had this idea and had to write it, thought i might as well post it. hopefully someone will enjoy it<3

Azriel thought he had learned how to master his cool mask. Beyond everything he had experienced as The Night Court’s spymaster, nothing had tested him more than his family – a bunch of busybodies who drove him insane most of the time. He had played the role of chaperone between Cassian and Nesta, had been the one to drag Cassian’s ass out of The Summer Court when he wrecked that building and, for the third year in a row now, he had to re-decorate after Cassian and Feyre decorated the living room drunk.

Actually, the more Azriel thought about it, Cassian was usually the one who tested his control and threatened to ruin his cool composure.

And yet, despite years of practice, he forgot how to breathe when your head fell onto his shoulder. He had to force himself to remain nonchalant as your luscious scent overtook his senses. The river house was still loud and full of life, and the rowdy Winter Solstice party had not yet reached its peak. It was long past midnight and his family showed no signs of slowing down. The faelights above cast a golden light over their drunk faces as Mor continued to pour wine into all their glasses, declaring, “No one is allowed to go to bed until dawn!”

Which was why, an hour ago, Azriel had found himself slipping away to the couch in the corner of the room. Varian had joined him shortly after, the two of them chatting quietly while watching everyone else continue their quest to get as drunk as possible. Azriel didn’t know if it had been wishful thinking, or just pure naivety, that had made him believe Winter Solstice would be calmer after Nyx was born, but he had been wrong. After Feyre and Rhys had put him to bed earlier -- Rhys had been the one to pull out the fancy bottles.

While it warmed him to know that nothing had really changed, that his family was still the same after everything they had been through, Azriel was also the same; he still preferred to wake up the next day and remember what had happened the night before.

Although, he doubted he would ever be able to forget anything that involved you. You had joined him and Varian in the corner a while ago, stumbling and falling next to him on the couch in a drunken mess. His shadows danced around you as you giggled to yourself, and Azriel thought that the sound of your laughter was the best Solstice gift he had ever received.

The knitted gloves you had made and given to him earlier were a close second.

“So your hands won’t get so dry from the cold,” you had told him shyly, your cheeks flushed, and his heart had nearly burst out of his chest. Two days prior you had spotted him coating his hands in a thick layer of the salve Madja made for him, his scarred skin tended to get tight and uncomfortable, and even worse so when the temperatures dropped and the air became crisp and dry.

He most likely would not get the chance to wear them very often, the soft silky yarn was not made to withstand any fighting or training, and he could not bear the thought of ever losing or ruining them.

But it had still not stopped him from blushing as he opened the gift -- Cauldron, he blushed just thinking about them. The image of you rushing home and knitting him a pair of gloves after he told you how dry his hands became during winter... yeah, Azriel would never forget anything when it came to you.

And when you sat so close, your body pressing tightly up against his, warm and inviting, there was just no way to overlook the emotions that sparked in his chest. Your words were slurred as you talked about an elderly female you had met at the market earlier that day.

Though, it did not matter that the story you were drunkenly telling him was so ridiculously incoherent, your soft voice still enthralled him. Because if you wanted to talk to him, well, he would listen to whatever you had to say. Always.

But when your voice had faltered and your head fell to his shoulder, Azriel did not know what to do.

Varian was quick to join the others again when he noticed you leaning on him, leaving him alone with you in the corner. Despite Cassian’s and Rhys’s loud voices booming through the room, arguing about something that had happened during the snowball fight that morning, you had fallen asleep right there on his shoulder. Your lips set in a small pout and your dark lashes resting delicately against your cheeks.

Azriel could not move, could still not breathe, in fear of waking you. A single shadow brushed against your cheek, soothing and gentle, and you let out a content sigh. It took everything not to wrap his arms and wings around you and winnow away; the urge to tuck you in under a heap of blankets and hold your body close overwhelmed him.

And you were not even doing anything more than leaning on his shoulder. But it was all it took for Azriel to lose his cool completely.

‘So beautiful’ his shadows whispered around him. It had been a year since you had first walked into the training ring, into his life, and the shadows had not stopped whispering about your beauty since.

As you had introduced yourself as the new healer, employed specifically to help Madja with the Valkyries and their injuries from training, Azriel had struggled to restrain the shadows. He had never felt them be so curious before, swirling eagerly around him before darting off toward you. He had managed to call them back just before they reached you, but they had still caught your attention, and when he tried to apologize -- you had ignored him.

Instead, you had focused on the fresh wound on his chest and scolded him for not having it looked at. He had been too stunned to say or do anything else.

But the shadows had not lied; you were the most beautiful female he had ever seen. Your hair flowed around you in effortless waves, eyes shining with compassion, and you had not looked at him in fear or reluctance like most did. No, you had reprimanded him and forced him to sit down while you tended to his wound.

You had owned his heart from that very first day, even if he had not told you that yet.

“Feyre, look!” Cassian’s voice made him snap back into reality. “There’s your new painting!” Azriel glanced up only to discover that his family had turned their attention to the corner, looking at him and you with knowing smirks.

“Ohh yeah, I can see it,” Nesta mused and bit the inside of her cheek to stop the grin on her face from growing. “'The love-sick Spymaster and his dreamy Angel.'”

Feyre could not stop her giggles even as she tried to end his suffering, “C’mon guys, don’t tease him. I think it’s sweet. They are taking things slow and at their own pace, leave them alone.”

Azriel's face grew hotter, and yet, he remained as still as possible, afraid that any sudden movement would make you stir and wake up.

Though, he would have to agree; you were an angel. The kindest, most loving, and charmingly stubborn angel to exist in the world. In any world.

“Sweet?” Amren rolled her eyes. “You need to grow a pair and tell her already, boy. We are all sick of watching you two dance around the fact that both of you want to devour each other whole. It’s nauseating.”

Cassian let a loud howl thunder through the room but quickly smacked a hand over his mouth to stifle it as Azriel sent a icy glare in his direction.

“Shut up,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low. He let his gaze fall to you again, hoping the annoying chatter had not disturbed you. “You are going to wake her.”

“I think you just proved our point, Azzie,” Cassian sniggered and shared a mischievous look with Rhysand, no doubt contriving more ways to get under his skin.

And the only response Azriel could think of was, “Shut up.”

Thankfully, they seemed to take some pity on him as they returned to whatever conversation had kept them busy earlier.

Or perhaps, they noticed how his shadows had moved across the room, swirling along the walls in annoyance, ready to strike at any moment if anyone disturbed you. Azriel released a heavy sigh of exasperation, reminding himself that they were just a bunch of idiots and that he loved them dearly.

“You know, your voice is far more comfortable to listen to than theirs,” you murmured suddenly, your voice full of sleep and still slightly slurred. Azriel couldn’t stop the shiver running down his spine, his shadows quickly drew themselves back and danced across your smooth skin, checking to see if you had been bothered or needed any assistance.

When he looked down your eyes were still closed, but a playful smile flickered across your face.

Azriel’s mouth ran dry, “I’m sorry-- I tried to tell them.”

“I know,” you told him and opened one eye to peek up at him, clearly amused. “I heard you.” You made no attempt to move away from him, and, for that reason, he did not attempt to move either. When you closed your eyes again he could’ve sworn you pressed yourself into his side a little bit closer and, Gods, had it always been so difficult to breathe? Azriel wasn’t sure anyone's presence had ever made him feel so utterly captivated.

And, he just really, really, fucking adored you.

Before he could think of a proper reply though, you spoke again, “We should do this more often. You make a good pillow.”

When your lips twitched into a small smirk, Azriel knew you could hear how fast and hard his heart was beating, and his ears burned from his own awkwardness. So all he said was, “I think it’s time to get you to a real bed.” He shifted his body to get up, lifting his arm to wrap around you. “C’mon, I’ve got you,” he kept his voice low; only for you to hear. Your slender hand stopped him, pressing into his thigh dangerously high, forcing him to remain on the couch.

“Noo,” you pouted. “Please don’t make me move yet... can’t we stay here like this for a couple more minutes?” It did not help his poor racing heart slow down. “...Or maybe even an hour?”

And how could he deny you that when you looked at him with those beautiful eyes? How could he ever deny you anything?

“Fine... here,” he mumbled and reached for an actual pillow, placing it in his lap. “At least lay down so you won’t strain your neck.”

The smile that broke out over your face; it needed to be Feyre’s new painting. Perhaps he would have to let her into his head, let his High Lady see your joyful eyes and glowing face, to make sure your smile could be captured forever for everyone to see.

As you settled down, your head now resting in his lap, Azriel could not help himself. He let his hand fall to your head, threading his fingers through your soft hair. His shadows settled on his shoulders, peering down at you as well, and he could not focus on anything else. The world could be on fire and he would not have been able to tear his eyes away from you.

“Azzie, stop looking like that.”

You glanced up at him again, brows knitted together in a small frown, and Azriel couldn’t stop himself from laughing, “Stop looking like what?”

There was a moment of silence, the hollering of his family a distant background noise, as your eyes met his. The sparkle in his chest became more intense, impossible to control, and even as you tried to look annoyed with him, the smile twitching at the corner of your mouth gave you away.

Eventually you huffed and curled into him a little more, “... you’re lucky you're so beautiful.”

And as you pulled his hand away from your hair and laced your smaller fingers through his, Azriel knew there was no turning back -- knew that there was no one else.

He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it before whispering, “You are beautiful.”

Azriel thought he had learned how to master his cool mask, but when a golden thread weaved itself between his soul and yours, Azriel realized he was more than willing to let his mask slip for you.

ps, english is not my native language, so if there was any spelling or grammar issues; sorry! Thank you for reading <3

#acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger

1K notes · View notes

dee-writes-anime · 17 days ago

Note

OH MY GOSH,

Imagine Aizawa dating a younger girl, whos a super model!!!

For an example, he’s on patrol right. And he visits her at a meet amd greet! Cameras are flashing as reader gives him a big smooch!!! How eould 1A, other teachers/pro heros and other students react😭

Randomly came to me after listening to turn heads by dem franchize boyz

Smeared Lipstick and Flashing Lights

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY Aizawa's life erupts into chaos when you decide to kiss him in front of hundreds of cameras.

CONTENT WARNINGS pure fluff guys, class 1-A being children, pure chaos, descriptions of kissing, some good old teasing between friends

AUTHORS NOTE THIS IS AN EPIC IDEA MONTY!!! I love it so much and this was such a joy to write!

Tokyo Midtown Plaza shimmered with polished marble floors and the cool hum of upscale air conditioning. Velvet ropes stretched across the gleaming lobby, separating rows of cameras and screaming fans from the raised platform where you stood beneath a cascade of LED lights and branded banners.

You’d done a hundred of these meet-and-greets, but tonight—tonight you had a feeling. Something beneath your skin itched with electricity.

You signed a glossy photograph with a flourish, smiled into the flash of an iPhone, and handed it back to a starstruck girl who could barely form words. You whispered a quiet thank-you to her and turned slightly, posing with your signature look—chin tilted, eyes soft, a touch of a smirk.

Then you saw him.

Half-hidden behind a marble column near the back of the venue, head tilted low and posture slouched like he belonged in the shadows. To anyone else, he was just a tired man in black—another body in the chaos.

But to you? He was gravity.

Aizawa stood with his hands in his pockets, capture scarf bundled neatly at his hip, dust smudged along the sleeve of his hero coat. His half-up hair framed his face in messy strands, one brow raised slightly as he watched you work.

You beamed.

No hesitation. You ducked under the velvet rope, ignoring the flurry of movement from the security guards, and stalked toward him with long, graceful strides that only made the cameras turn faster.

“Miss—wait, please—” someone called after you.

He didn’t even flinch. Just blinked once. Slowly.

The moment you reached him, you grabbed his collar, leaned up on your toes, and kissed him.

Not a polite peck. Not something demure or for show. This was shameless, deliberate. The kind of kiss that says, I know exactly what I’m doing.

The crowd exploded behind you.

You smiled against his lips as the burst of camera flashes lit up the marble floor like fireworks. Someone in the press screamed. Another person cheered. The whole venue turned into a wall of voices, rising into a euphoric frenzy.

He didn’t kiss you back at first. He just stood there, stunned—probably calculating just how badly this would go over. But then, he exhaled through his nose, a sound like a sigh and a laugh, and his hand slid up to rest gently at your waist.

“You know,” he said, barely above the noise, voice gravel-thick, “I was just here to check in.”

“And now you’re here to be adored,” you replied with a wink.

His eyes softened for just a heartbeat before flattening back into their usual half-lidded look of apathy. But you knew better. You could feel the subtle tension in his hand where it gripped your waist a second longer than necessary.

“Cameras,” he said.

“Let them look.”

He groaned quietly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely. Only you would’ve noticed.

That was enough.

The dorm was quiet. Suspiciously so.

Most of Class 1-A had retreated to the common area for snacks and late-night studying—though the "studying" part had long since given way to Kaminari and Sero attempting to balance textbooks on Mineta's head while he napped.

Mina sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through channels in boredom until she landed on a newscast with the caption in bold white font:

"BREAKING: ERASERHEAD CAUGHT KISSING FASHION ICON LIVE AT MIDTOWN PLAZA."

She blinked.

Paused.

Then screamed.

“KIRISHIMA!!! DENKI!!! TODOROKI!!! LITERALLY EVERYONE!!! GET IN HERE—NOW!”

The boys crashed into the room like a herd of startled cattle, Kirishima wiping crumbs off his chin and Denki tripping over a power cord.

“WHAT? WHAT IS IT? IS IT A VILLAIN ATTACK?” Kirishima shouted.

“No, it’s worse—it’s—LOOK!”

She jabbed a finger at the screen, rewinding the footage.

And there he was.

Eraserhead. Grumpy, broody, nap-loving homeroom teacher Aizawa Shouta—standing in full hero gear at a public venue, stiff as a board while a beautiful, radiant woman in a black satin dress yanked him down and kissed him senseless. And not just any woman.

“Wait—isn’t that—?” “It is!” “That’s the supermodel from the Sekai spread! The one that broke the internet—” “The one who made that sheer mesh catsuit look good!” “I HAVE THAT CATSUIT SAVED TO MY CAMERA ROLL!”

Kirishima collapsed to the floor with a groan. “Bro. BRO. He pulled a woman like that?! That’s so—so manly, I don’t even have words—”

Todoroki watched with a blank stare. “He said relationships were a ‘distraction.’ I guess he meant our relationships.”

Kaminari’s mouth was wide open. “Did you see the way she grabbed him? Like—like she owned him?! That was insane! I need someone to kiss me like that!”

“You need someone to tolerate you first,” Jirou muttered, deadpan.

Uraraka was red as a tomato. “I didn’t even know Mr. Aizawa smiled. Did you see the way he looked at her after?!”

On screen, the camera zoomed in. A faint curl of his lips. A glimmer of affection behind sleep-heavy eyes.

“Mr. Aizawa is hot,” Tsuyu said matter-of-factly, sipping her tea. “We all just didn’t want to admit it.”

Midoriya’s hands shook as he scribbled furiously in his notebook.

“Notable change in public persona… possibly quirk synergy in shared lifestyle? Domestic compatibility? Hero-student boundaries?? What does this mean—?!”

“Yo, we gotta show this to Bakugo,” Sero grinned.

As if summoned by sheer will, Bakugo stomped into the room seconds later, glaring. “The hell are you losers screaming about this time?!”

The TV lit up with the moment. The kiss. The crowd. The lipstick smudge on Aizawa’s stubble.

Bakugo stopped dead.

There was a long silence.

“…That old bastard is pulling?” he muttered.

The world tilted slightly.

“I’m done,” Bakugo said, turning on his heel.

The breakroom at U.A. smelled like burnt coffee grounds and the faint tang of disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow over the mismatched mugs, half-eaten rice balls, and teacher-grade exhaustion that clung to every surface.

Aizawa sat in the corner, hood up, eyes closed behind his capture scarf like he could will himself into a coma. His coffee sat untouched. He had already regretted waking up today—and he’d only been conscious for ten minutes.

He didn’t look up when Hizashi burst into the room like a man on a mission.

“SHOUTA. Shouta. SHOUTA. Dude.”

Aizawa cracked one eye open. Slowly. Like a tired cat contemplating murder.

“What,” he muttered.

Yamada slammed his phone down onto the breakroom table, screen up, the brightness blinding in the otherwise dull space. A still image of the kiss—Aizawa’s gloved hand on your waist, your lips pressed to his with the kind of audacity the internet had only dreamed of—burned across the display.

“YOU’RE A VIRAL SENSATION, BABY!” Hizashi howled, flinging his arms out. “How the hell did you not tell me you were dating her?!”

Aizawa closed his eye again. “It’s not a secret.”

“Not a secret?! Half of Japan’s on fire. You made national news during a patrol route!”

“Wasn’t my fault.”

“You kissed a supermodel—in front of cameras—during a public event.”

“She kissed me.”

Hizashi made a strangled noise. “Ohhhhhh my god you’re impossible.”

Across the room, Midnight—lounging against the countertop in leather pants and a smirk—sipped from her coffee like it was wine. “I always knew you had taste,” she purred. “Didn’t think you had game, though.”

“I don’t,” Aizawa said flatly.

“Sure,” she hummed. “That’s why you’re all over the entertainment blogs this morning. Scandalous mystery hero revealed as fashion queen’s secret boyfriend!” She tossed her phone on the table, showing the article. “They’re calling you ‘Japan’s Grumpy Zaddy.’”

“I’m going to burn the internet.”

“Too late,” came Cementoss’s low, amused voice as he entered, arms crossed and half a rice cracker hanging out of his mouth. “My daughter texted me asking if we serve caviar now that Aizawa’s dating royalty.”

“I don’t even know what caviar tastes like.”

“She said you’re her new favorite hero. She used to like Best Jeanist.”

Aizawa stared blankly at his coffee.

Then, with painful timing, All Might entered, beaming as if this was the most wholesome turn of events in modern history. “Aizawa! What a lovely surprise to see you trending for something positive!”

“I was trending?” Aizawa asked grimly.

“Oh yes!” Toshinori fumbled for his reading glasses, squinting at his phone. “There’s a fan account already! They’ve posted over twenty edits. The music choices are a little intense though. Very… sensual.”

“Please stop talking.”

“OH! OH! Is this the one where you’re like—grrr, and she’s all—mmwah?” Yamada mimed both parts dramatically, complete with flailing arms and kissy noises.

“I will end you.”

The breakroom door opened again.

This time it was Nezu, rolling in with an espresso in his paws and a suspicious twinkle in his beady little eyes.

“Well well well,” he said, voice chipper as ever. “Our dear Eraserhead. A viral sweetheart. A romantic lead. Dare I say… a public figure?”

“I’m not a public figure.”

“You are now.”

“I’ll quit.”

“No you won’t,” Nezu said, sipping serenely. “Because she makes you smile.”

A beat of silence.

Everyone turned.

Yamada’s mouth dropped open. “You SMILED?!”

“I did not smile.”

“You so smiled.”

“I was grimacing.”

“Your eyes were smiling,” Midnight said helpfully.

“God, just—stop talking. All of you.”

“You know, the students are in shambles,” said Cementoss. “Mina nearly passed out. Midoriya’s having a hero notebook crisis. I think Todoroki thinks love is a government conspiracy now.”

Aizawa groaned and finally buried his face in his arms on the table. His coffee sat cold. His life was ruined. And the worst part?

He could still feel the faint smudge of your lipstick against the corner of his mouth.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my hero acedamia #my hero academy fanfiction #dee's asks #mha #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta #bnha shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa #bnha aizawa #aizawa x reader #yamada #present mic #eraserhead #yamada hizashi

411 notes · View notes

ldydeath · 26 days ago

Text

Bullshit | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Jiyong gets jealous of your friendship with Jackson Wang after seeing some texts. Word Count: 1888 Warnings: Jealousy, Jiyong being a big dumb in a cute way, fluff, slight nsfw? Like very light hand stuff but no actual smut. Author’s Note: this idea came to me after joining Jackson’s broadcast channel. Its just a silly little thing to get me back into writing. I’ve never written for Jackson before so be gentle. And of course the word count is 1888. Ji is in my head I swear.

Jiyong wasn’t the type to get jealous. At least that’s what he’d thought until he’d met you. It wasn’t that he was insecure or doubted your relationship, he knew what you had was solid. He just didn’t like to share. So when you’d met Jackson at his concert in Korea and become friends he hadn’t cared at first.

He still liked to pretend he didn’t care. He knew you’d been a fan of his music, knew he was a good person, a good friend. But it drove him crazy anytime he saw Jackson around you. Especially now that he’d seen that stupid notification.

He hadn’t meant to see it. Hadn’t been spying. You were showing him a funny fan edit when the notification bar had dropped down.

In hotel. Currently.

Why the fuck was he telling you he was in his hotel? Jiyong wasn’t having that. He’d spent the rest of the night trying to hide his pout. This was supposed to be a good week. His best friend was back out in the world, in the same city as the festival he was set to perform at no less. The three of you had been having fun all week sneaking around behind cameras to go to dinners and art museums around Los Angeles and then Jackson had showed up.

As the two of you arrived at sound check, there he was. Talking to one of the producers. Why was he even there? His stuff was on Sunday. Jiyong glared as you let go of his hand and made your way to him.

“Jackson!” You grinned, pulling your friend in for a hug. Completely unaware of Jiyong’s seething.

“Hey!” He hugged you back, his eyes finding Jiyong who nodded. “How are you?”

“Great! Tired. Jet lag is a bitch. I honestly don’t know how you guys do this all the time.”

Jackson laughed and Jiyong’s head whipped around. He’d turned for a second to get his equipment ready when he heard the laugh. This wasn’t going to work. He rolled his shoulders and made his way over to you, his arm wrapping loosely around you.

“Hi Jiyong.” Jackson bowed respectfully. Jiyong didn’t return the bow, just nodded his head.

“You scooping out the acts or something?” There was a slight edge to Jiyong’s voice.

“No, I knew you two were here today and wanted to show my support.”

“Oh. Well, I’d invite you to hang out after but we’ll be busy. If you catch my drift.” Your eyes shot up towards Jiyong who was now smirking.

“Oh yeah, that’s cool.” Jackson shrugged, his brows raising in confusion.

“Well. I better get up there.” He waved to Jackson before leaning in to kiss you.

After soundcheck you’d met Jiyong backstage and headed back to the hotel. You spent the rest of the evening resting in the hotel, watch live streams of Seunghyun killing his return to the spotlight. Jiyong sending him encouraging texts while you showed him all the fan edits of the two of them.

It was fun watching the fans freak out because Gtop was in the same city, as if they didn’t live down the street from each other back home. Jiyong was laughing at the newest reel when another message from Jackson popped up about going to bed. He saw red. He’d remind you tomorrow just how silly it was for you to be talking like this with Jackson.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

Jiyong rolled his eyes as the name popped back into his head. He needed to focus. He went on in an hour and all he could think about was how you’d be watching from the front row with him.

“You ok?” Your voice broke him from his thoughts and he cleared his throat as he popped his knuckles.

“Peachy.” He mumbled, a small smile finding its way to his face.

“Okay. Come on, let’s color your tips”

It had become tradition at this point to spray his tips before every show. Something you enjoyed doing for him. He didn’t trust a lot of people with his hair but this was something easy, to test the waters, and you were happy to do it.

“Nah. I’m going full pink.” He smirked and leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek.

You put the bottle down and watched him make his way to the sink. Thirty minutes later his beautiful white locks that you’d barely gotten to appreciate because two months wasn’t long enough, were now pink. He stood in front of you with a smirk.

“What do you think?”

“The fangirls are going to go crazy tonight.” You grinned as you looked at the finished product.

His hair now fully styled for the night. You leaned up to fix the collar on his blue jacket. It was much different from the rose suit he usually wore out on stage, but this look was doing it for you.

“Go, there’s a VIP section up front for you, Jaeho will take you. I’ll see you after.”

“Ok. Love you.”

Just as you were about to leave, he grabbed your arm and spun you around, his infamous smirk on his lips. Before you could ask what he was doing, his lips were on yours. His hand roaming down to your ass and he gave it a gentle squeeze. You gasped, which he took advantage of by slipping his tongue into your mouth. His hand moving from your ass to slip under your skirt, rubbing the thin material of your panties. Just enough to tease you.

“See you after.” He smirked as he pulled away. You glared at him as you made your way out of the trailer.

You made your way to the front row, with Jaeho leading the way and were surprised to find Jackson as well as a few other artists there.

“Hey!” You waved as you pulled your day-g out of your pocket.

“Hey. Is he good?” Jackson’s head nodded to the stage and your brows furrowed.

“Yeah? Why?”

“He just seemed kind of off yesterday.”

“Oh.” You waved your hand, as if blowing off his behavior. “He gets weird before shows sometimes, he’s fine. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

The music started and you cheered as the DJs intro set came out. It lasted longer than you would’ve liked, but once the intro to Power started you no longer felt like Jiyong’s girlfriend. You felt like a fan.

When he didn’t come out right away you led the crowd in a Kwon Jiyong chant, knowing he’d eat it up. When he finally emerged he was oozing in confidence. He’d slowly been getting G-Dragon back week after week, but tonight was different.

He didn’t have to hype himself up to do his swag check chant it finally just came naturally. His movements were smooth, sure, like the stage was made for him. Seeing him this way was hot.

“Good job, Jiyong!” You yelled. His eyes roaming around loooking for you.

“Who said that?” He peered out into the crowd, eyes finally landing on you. “Was it you?” You nodded and he crouched down, pointing at you with a smirk. “Thank you.” He sassed, a playful smirk on his lips as he stood back up to finish the song.

He hadn’t missed the fact that you were standing with Jackson and as much as he wanted to step off the stage and punch him, he couldn’t. So he put his energy into making sure he gave you the best performance he could muster today.

He tried to mix things up a bit, doing a remix of Drama, the DJ adding the air horn effect wasn’t doing it for you or him. You could see him trying not to laugh every time it went off. You and Jackson had started counting down to it at this point. It was definitely going to be something you laughed at for years to come.

When it was time for the Too Bad dance break, you cheered the loudest. This was always your favorite part. So when he started singing We’re up all night to get lucky and his eyes found yours, you blushed. This song was one of the ones you two sang to each other as a joke and now he was singing it to you in front of the largest crowd you’d seen. He winked at you before finishing the song.

And just like that, the night was over. Jackson walked you back to the artist only area since Jaeho was busy doing his job. Jiyong spotted you coming and walked over to you both, the smirk still on his face.

“Thanks for bringing my girl back safely, Magic Mike.” He smirked, shaking Jackson’s hand.

“Yeah? No problem?” Jackson scratched the back of his head before walking over to talk to Chaerin.

“You were amazing!” You gushed leaning up to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Better than Jackson?” He whined.

“Ji, what?” You weren’t sure what Jackson had to do with this.

“I saw the messages. On instagram.” You blinked at him and he sighed. “At the hotel? At the gym? Going to bed.” He rolled his eyes and you let out a snort.

“Are you serious?” He nodded. “One. You’re an idiot. I’m not sneaking around with Jackson. Two. It’s his broadcast channel.”

“His what?” He cut you off, confusion on his face.

“His broadcast channel. To connect with fans. He just overshares more than everyone else and I’ve been meaning to mute the chat altogether but keep forgetting.” You pulled out your phone, handing it to Jiyong to investigate.

After a few minutes of scrolling, Jiyong’s face flushed, clearly embarrassed for thinking the worst of you both.

“Oh.” You nodded, taking your phone back.

“Oh indeed.” You grinned. “You’re so lucky I love your dumb ass. “Jackson!” You turned finding your friend who made his way back over to you guys. “I believe Ji has something he’d like to say to you.”

Jiyong rolled his eyes before turning to Jackson, “I didn’t know what a broadcast channel was and thought you were trying to move in on my girl. So I’m sorry for acting weird.”

“Hey, can’t blame you. She’s a catch anyone with eyes can see that. But we all respect you a little too much to try and ruin your life, Hyung.” He paused. “How are you chronically online and don’t know what a broadcast channel is? You old, man.”

“Go away.” Jiyong laughed. Jackson bowed and walked off.

“Come on.” You grabbed Jiyong’s hand and basically yanked him to start moving towards the exit.

“Where are we going?” He ran to keep up with you.

“To finish what you started before your set.”

“I haven’t even changed yet!” He tried to yank his arm free. “You gotta let up your grip, you’re hurting me.”

“You’re not changing.” You turned to face him, your grip not loosening. “You look fucking hot and we gotta go now.”

Jiyong smirked and shook his head as he followed you out. It may have been a misunderstanding but he was glad to know you still only had eyes for him after all this time. That was the only confidence boost he’d ever really need. He was lucky to have you and be loved by you.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @ttturnitup @flymetothexmoon @mashtatosworld @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @sherrayyyyy @bettelaboure @allthoughtsmindfull @soragojo

#g dragon x reader #kwon jiyong x reader #jackson wang x reader #gdragon x reader #kwon ji yong x reader #bigbang x reader #g dragon #kwon jiyong #jackson wang #gdragon #kwon ji yong #my fics #bs

408 notes · View notes

uncuredturkeybacon · 2 months ago

Text

𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which paige embraces being a wag

You always knew Paige Bueckers had the heart of a champion. But what you didn’t expect—what still knocks the breath out of you every time you look up into the stands and see her there, blonde hair tucked under a cap, jersey swapped for a soft hoodie and that signature lopsided smile—was that she’d choose to be your champion, too.

Every match.

Every single one.

No matter the city. No matter the time zone. No matter how brutal her own schedule gets with practices, team meetings, and flights back to Dallas—she’s there.

You spot her before the match today, just like always. She’s sitting in the third row, front and center, in the VIP section of the clay court in Madrid. Her phone’s already out, filming your warm-ups with a proud grin that makes your chest swell.

She catches your eye, points to her shirt, and mouths, “I wore your name today.”

Sure enough, she’s in one of your sponsor-branded hoodies. Custom-made. “(Y/L/N)” stretched across the back in clean lettering, a small tennis racket stitched into the sleeve.

You shake your head with a laugh, failing to hide the way your heart lifts at the sight of her. Paige Bueckers, WNBA star and America’s basketball sweetheart, acting like you’re the one to be starstruck over.

She’s your biggest fan. By far. And she doesn’t try to hide it.

The match is tight. Long rallies, tense points, sun beating down as you slide across the baseline, lungs burning. But every time you look over, Paige is on her feet. Applauding. Cheering. Shouting “LET’S GOOOOO, BABY!” loud enough that even the commentator mics catch it.

Sometimes you worry she’ll get kicked out for being too supportive.

Between sets, while you towel off and sip from your water bottle, your gaze flicks to her again. She holds up a little sign she must’ve made while you weren’t looking. In big bold letters:

“YOU SERVE, I SIMP.”

You choke on your water.

She winks.

You end up winning in a three-set grind that leaves your legs jelly and your chest tight with disbelief. The crowd erupts. But it’s her face you find first—radiant, thrilled, like she’s the one who just made it through match point.

The moment the final ball is called out and you collapse onto the bench, Paige is already weaving through the crowd, flashing her player pass like it’s a VIP badge to your heart.

She doesn’t care about the cameras. Doesn’t care about the reporters lining up for post-match interviews. She ducks under the rope and wraps her arms around you from behind, burying her face in your sweaty neck.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, voice thick. “You were amazing out there. That backhand in the second set? Babe. Literal art.”

You laugh into her shoulder, body aching but whole.

“You flew in from Dallas last night,” you murmur, kissing her cheek. “I don’t even know how you’re still standing.”

“I’m running on pure love and admiration,” she says, dead serious. “And also three Red Bulls.”

You pull away to look at her. She’s flushed, bright-eyed, beaming like your personal sun.

“Paige,” you say softly, cupping her face. “You didn’t have to come. I know you’re exhausted—”

“Shhh,” she cuts you off, pressing her forehead to yours. “I wanted to. I love watching you play. I swear I lose my voice every time, but it’s worth it just to see you light up the court like that.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment stretch between you.

Later, after the press, the cool down, the ice baths and the change of clothes, you find her waiting outside the locker room with a smoothie in one hand and your favorite hoodie in the other.

“You looked hot in that match,” she says, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Like. Distractingly hot. The camera operators probably had to recalibrate their lenses.”

You laugh, eyes crinkling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” she shrugs, lacing her fingers through yours, “you still choose me.”

Always. Every time.

@/WAGPaige my girl just dropped an ace at 40-40. god i love tennis. mostly my girl 🫶🎾

@/WAGPaige ESPN only showed her handshake with the opponent?? rude. show the real trophy. ME hugging her in the hallway like a clingy koala

@/WAGPaige people: why is paige at every match me: because love is real and lesbians are devoted

It’s the final match of the U.S. Open.

Arthur Ashe Stadium is electric—packed to the brim, buzzing with anticipation, with tens of thousands of people glued to their seats and millions more watching around the world. The air feels heavier, charged, like the whole city is holding its breath for you.

And in the middle of it all, under the brightest lights, you stand on the baseline—sweat dripping down your back, pulse racing, racket gripped tight in your hand.

Match point.

Your opponent's serve is good. Strong. But not strong enough.

You return it with a powerful forehand down the line—clean, sharp, devastating.

The ball clips the sideline. Your opponent can’t reach it.

Game. Set. Match.

You’ve just won the U.S. Open.

The crowd explodes.

Your knees give out.

You drop your racket and fall to the court, burying your face in your hands, trying to process what just happened. The noise is overwhelming—cheers, clapping, music, camera shutters going off like a symphony—but it all fades into static.

Until—

“THAT’S MY GIRL!!!”

You look up just in time to see a blur of blonde hair, denim jacket, and Nike sneakers sprinting past security.

Paige.

She leaps over the ad boards like she’s diving for a loose ball, practically barrels down the steps, and storms onto the court like she owns the place. One security guard tries to stop her—but the badge around her neck and the sheer force of her love get her through.

And then she’s on you.

Tackling you onto the blue surface of center court, arms around your shoulders, both of you laughing and crying and breathless. The stadium lights seem to zero in on just the two of you, like you’re the only people in the world.

“You did it,” she breathes into your neck, squeezing you so tight it almost knocks the wind out of you. “You freaking did it, baby.”

You laugh through the tears, arms winding around her waist. “I did it for you.”

“You did it for you,” she corrects, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “But I’m so damn honored I got to witness it.”

She kisses you right there in the middle of Arthur Ashe Stadium, in front of all of New York, in front of cameras and commentators and stunned sports fans around the world.

The crowd roars.

Not because you're a headline now.

But because it’s real. Because the win was glorious—but the love? Even bigger.

Later, during the trophy ceremony, you catch Paige standing just off to the side of the court. She’s wearing her oversized "Team (Y/L/N)" jacket with your face printed obnoxiously on the back, proudly dabbing at her eyes with a napkin she definitely stole from catering.

The reporters ask about strategy, about pressure, about how you handled the nerves.

But all you can think about is her.

After the ceremony, you get pulled into media duties, endless photos, press room obligations. Paige waits patiently outside the tunnel, still holding the flowers you didn’t even notice she’d brought you—red roses with a single note that reads:

“My champion. On and off the court.”

When you finally get a moment to breathe, you find her outside your locker room, sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through Twitter.

You drop your duffel bag with a thud and just... collapse into her lap.

She immediately runs her fingers through your hair, soothing. Familiar. Home.

“You okay?” she murmurs, brushing the sweat-dried strands from your forehead.

You nod. “I’m better than okay.”

She smiles softly, and then—just barely above a whisper—says:

“Seeing you out there today… I’ve never been more in love with you.”

You look up at her. And for the first time in your career, it hits you fully—not the weight of the title, but the weightlessness of having someone like her in your corner. Always.

“You’ve been at every match,” you murmur, voice thick. “Even when I lost. Even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

She nods, a soft chuckle in her throat. “I’ll be at every one after this, too. Just say the word and I’ll be court side forever. Screaming like a maniac. Holding cringe signs. Wearing your merch like a proud little trophy wife.”

You grin and pull her down into a kiss. “Promise?”

She kisses your forehead. “Swear on every tennis ball I ever accidentally hit into the stands trying to return your serves.”

@/WAGPaige my girlfriend just won the us open #WAG4Life

@/TennisNation Paige Bueckers has officially redefined WAG energy. From front row hype woman to post-championship center court cuddle. Iconic.

@/espnW BREAKING: U.S. Open Champion Y/N shares tearful kiss with girlfriend Paige Bueckers after match point win. Sports power couple of the year?

@/WNBAFan Paige Bueckers interrupting the U.S. Open broadcast to tackle her girl is the most romantic thing I’ve seen all year. Someone write a movie.

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #paige x reader #paige buckets #wuh luh wuh #wnba x reader #dallas wings

534 notes · View notes

wordsofelie · 2 months ago

Text

uni student!akaashi who frowns when he sees you for the first time in modern literature 103 because you rush in late, breathless, loudly excusing yourself before nearly tripping on your way to the front row—two seats ahead of him. who’s even late on the first day of the semester? and especially for their major?

uni student!akaashi who quickly decides you’re annoying. your reactions to the professor are far too expressive. you nod too eagerly, laugh too easily and above all—you’re unable to sit properly on your chair without moving every second. is there something wrong with these chairs?

uni student!akaashi who finds you weird for having way too many pens and highlighters and puppy-shaped erasers. who needs that many colours and what are you gonna do with them? does highlighting in lavender really help understand the class? he thinks that’s odd.

uni student!akaashi who wants nothing more than to disappear when, after a missed alarm, a car splashing his brand-new jeans, and a tragic drop of his coffee—realises he’s forgotten his copy of the setting sun. the very book he spent all night annotating. how is he even supposed to follow a course about dazai if he doesn’t have the material in his hands? it’s a terrible day.

uni student!akaashi who ends up sitting beside you when you gently offer to share the book (because despite your clumsy attitude and tendency to arrive late, you didn’t forget it). and who’s startled to discover that your notes are not only neat but extremely detailed and thoughtful. you even noticed metaphors and assonances that he hadn't seen (although he was convinced he was pretty attentive to that kind of things). maybe the day isn’t so terrible.

uni student!akaashi who didn’t know he liked jasmine so much until he sat beside you and caught a trace of it from your scarf. the scent has been haunting him since then. now he finds himself buying jasmine tea even though he never drinks tea. he usually prefers coffee, black and filtered. but maybe jasmine isn’t so bad and it helps ease his mind. so he concludes that jasmine is relaxing. yeah, that must be it. just something to do with chemical reactions. nothing more.

uni student!akaashi who wonders where you’ve been when you don’t show up to the class the next day. it’s pretty cold outside now that november is ending so you’re probably just a bit sick, right? but now that he thinks of it, you wore a scarf and gloves the day before so maybe something bad happened to you. maybe he should try to find you on campus and make sure you’re okay?

uni student!akaashi who can finally catch his breath when he sees you at the library. he decides to take a sit beside you because you’re his classmate after all and you missed class this morning, so maybe he could offer some help. you thank him. twice. you blush. and he forgets how to breathe, again.

uni student!akaashi who turns to the guy complaining about the noise you make when you tap your pen against the table and quietly says, “then sit somewhere else,” before returning to his book like it didn’t cost him everything to say it. but you tell him he looked “cool”. and he thinks he wouldn’t mind getting into a fight with every single person in the library just to hear you say this again.

uni student!akaashi who brings you coffee and raspberry cookies (the ones from the café he assumes you like so much, since you always bring food from there in class) just “because it’s the finals soon so everyone deserves a treat and…” but your smile is so bright it knocks the words from his chest. and he needs to find somewhere to sit soon—his knees are weak and his heart thunderous.

uni student!akaashi who shyly mirrors your smile when your eyes light up after he mentions something about your favourite book. you start blabbering and he nods at everything like he’s loved it for years when really, he pulled an all-nighter reading it just so he could understand why it’s your favourite. not that he did it only for you. as a literature student, he thought it was interesting to broaden his reading culture. maybe it’ll help for the exams. and he just wants make sure he’s ready for the exams.

uni student!akaashi who feels his ears burn red when you wait for him after class with a chocolate muffin and a tiny candle. “happy birthday,” you say, all sweet and beautiful. and before he can overthink it, he asks, “there’s a new exhibit in town. about dazai. do you want to come with me?” you answer yes—too quickly.

uni student!akaashi whose heart threatens to explode when he receives a text from you that night with a "happy birthday again!! see you tomorrow for our date :)" but at least his mind is at ease. wait—should be bring something? are you expecting flowers? maybe he’ll stop by the coffee shop and the flower shop. and the library… he doesn’t sleep that night.

i’m not ashamed to say i have been obsessed with uni student akaashi for weeks. so i had to write something.

#akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi x you #akaashi x y/n #akaashi keiji x you #akaashi keiji x y/n #akaashi #akaashi haikyuu #akaashi hq #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu fluff #akaashi fluff #time skip akaashi #haikyuu time skip #uni student akaashi

743 notes · View notes

tavukwings · 1 month ago

Text

DISCORD USER KÖNIG

𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎

(König x Reader — Discord Friends, Slow Burn, Soft, Eventual Smut)

You weren’t expecting to make friends on Discord.

The SHADOW OPS server was meant to be a place to blow off steam after work. Get a few wins in Warzone, complain about loadouts, and maybe not lose your sanity in randoms.

But then you noticed a particular user.

StillerJäger

No profile picture. No custom status. Just a tiny Austrian flag emoji in his bio and a link to his Twitch that had no videos, no schedule, no banner—nothing.

Mysterious.

You first heard his voice by accident.

[Voice Chat Log: 23:18 | VC #3 | Trio Queue]

You:

“Ugh, sniped again. Hey, Jäger, you got eyes on—”

StillerJäger:

“…Scheiße.”

You:

“Bless you.”

StillerJäger:

“…Was?”

“Ah—n-nein. I didn’t sneeze. It means… like… damn it.”

Pause.

“Sorry.”

You:

“That was the most apologetic cuss I’ve ever heard.”

“You okay over there?”

StillerJäger:

“Ja. I am… fine. Just… got surprised.”

Another pause.

“You are funny.”

You:

“Thank you, that’s why they keep me around. That, and I don’t steal killstreaks.”

StillerJäger:

Low chuckle. “You lie. I saw that UAV.”

You:

“…You weren’t supposed to see that.”

From that night on, you noticed he started joining your VCs more often.

Always with a soft mic click.

Always after everyone else had already settled in.

He never used camera. Never joined game nights that involved anything too social. But whenever it was Warzone or DMZ? He was there. Quiet. Watching. Deadly.

And slowly… talking more.

[Private Messages: 01:07 | Direct Chat]

StillerJäger:

“You play well. You’re… calm.”

You:

“Thanks! You’re like a sniper grandma. Always lurking in a window and silently handing out cash.”

StillerJäger:

”…Sniper grandma?”

You:

“It’s a compliment.”

StillerJäger:

”…Okay.”

”…Can I be a tall grandma?”

You:

“You’re like 6’10, König. You’re the Grandma of the Gods.”

”…Wait. Can I call you König? That’s what people say in chat sometimes.”

StillerJäger:

“Ja. That is… okay. My callsign.”

You:

“Cool. I’ll make you a Discord role. ‘Grandma König.’ Purple name. Elite tier.”

StillerJäger:

”…Please don’t.”

You started playing duos regularly.

And König, for all his muscle and military training, played like an anxious support character half the time.

“Stay behind me,” he’d mutter.

“Don’t push the door yet.”

“You will get shot, bitte, I will clear it—”

You: “König, we’re in a Buy Station menu.”

König: “…Still dangerous.”

Sometimes he’d mutter in German when he was focused, and you started picking it up. Just small things.

“Warte.”

“Links.”

“Lautlos.”

“Schieß nicht, ich mach das.”

Once you repeated one back to him mid-match and he went completely quiet for ten seconds.

König: “You… understood that?”

You: “Kinda. I assumed it meant ‘don’t touch my kill’ or something.”

König: “It means… ‘Don’t shoot, I’ll do it.’”

“But… yours is also accurate.”

[Private Messages: 22:44 | Direct Chat]

You:

“Be honest, how many push-ups can you do in a row?”

König:

”…Without stopping?”

You:

“Yes.”

König:

“I don’t want to brag.”

You:

”…That’s a lot, isn’t it.”

König:

”…You will think I am weird.”

You:

“König. You wear a hood and whisper murder in German during casual matches. I already think you’re weird.”

König:

”…Fair.”

”…183.”

You:

“Bro.”

König:

”…Bro?”

Sometimes, after a game, he’d stay in VC just to chat. It was always small things at first.

What weather was like where he was.

How awful the food was on base.

That he’d been issued a new uniform and it “fit like a tent.”

“You’re huge, König,” you laughed once.

“They’d have to sew two uniforms together.”

“They did,” he replied deadpan.

“They used parachute material.”

You choked on your drink laughing.

He got quiet for a second.

“…That was funny?” he asked, hopeful.

“Yes. Very. Tell me more.”

He did.

Over the months, König became your teammate. Your late-night chat partner. Your quiet comfort.

Still shy. Still distant sometimes.

But warmer. Less stiff. Easier.

He never said anything bold. Never crossed any lines. Never hinted at more.

But sometimes, his voice got softer when he said your name.

And once—just once—he ended a message with:

“I sleep better after talking to you.”

“Bitte… stay safe.”

You stared at the screen for a long time.

And smiled.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It started like any other night.

A “yo” pinged in from you.

A cautious “Hallo” from him a few minutes later.

The two of you loaded into duos while your drinks warmed slowly beside your keyboards—his probably black coffee at some ungodly military hour, yours a half-melted energy drink.

But König sounded… off tonight.

Quieter than usual.

Slower in the lobbies.

A full minute passed between his “ready up” and his actual click.

You: “You okay? You sound like you just ran a marathon with your soul.”

König: “Nein… Just… long day.”

He didn’t elaborate. But the exhaustion was clear in his voice.

You landed hot at Observatory, and within minutes, he was in full protector mode again.

“Behind you.”

“Let me breach first.”

“Drop that vest, you need better.”

Even mid-fight, he moved like a wall between you and the bullets. Not controlling—just naturally built to shield.

You: “You know you’re kind of like a very muscly Roomba, right?”

König: “Roomba?”

You: “Yeah. You clean up enemies and follow me around and make weird mechanical noises when you’re cornered.”

Beat.

König: “…I do not make noises.”

You: “You absolutely do. You growled at a guy in the hallway last match.”

König: “That was—tactical. Psychological warfare.”

You: “Whatever helps you sleep, Grandma König.”

Tiny pause.

König: “…Scheiße… I’ll never live that name down.”

The match ended in a quiet win—he clutched the last guy with a heartbeat sensor, two stuns, and what looked like pure spite.

Back in the lobby, you leaned back, smiling.

You: “König, I swear, if I ever meet you in real life, I’m going to make you carry all the groceries. You’ve got human forklift energy.”

König: “I… already do that.”

You: “Not surprised. You probably open jars just by looking at them.”

Pause.

König: “That’s… not true. But sometimes the cap breaks.”

You: “God, that’s hot.”

Silence.

Long silence.

You blinked.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d said it out loud. That one slipped through the mental filter.

König: “…Was?”

You froze, staring at your screen.

You: “I mean—uh. You know. Like, hot. Funny. Not like—hot hot. Unless you want it to be, I mean—no wait. I didn’t mean it like—like that.”

König: “…Mein Gott.”

You swore you could hear the fluster in his breath. Like he’d leaned away from the mic.

König: “You think jar-breaking is… hot?”

You: “I mean. Kind of? In a terrifying muscle-guy way? Yes?”

Another long pause. Then, softly:

König: “…You are… teasing me.”

You: “Absolutely.”

König: “…You are mean.”

But he was laughing. Quietly. Like he couldn’t stop smiling.

You heard the tiniest breath of a laugh through his mic—one of those real ones, all nose and joy and no filter.

You: “Are you blushing under that mask?”

König: “…It doesn’t matter. You can’t see me.”

You: “That means yes.”

König: “…Nein.”

You: “You hesitated.”

König: “…Scheiße.”

For the rest of the night, he kept dropping items at your feet with suspicious speed and never said a word about it.

You caught him staring too long on the minimap.

He pinged everything three times in a row.

At one point, you coughed and he said “Bless you” even though you definitely didn’t sneeze.

And later, as you logged off, you saw a message pop up:

[Private Messages: 02:18 | Direct Chat]

König:

“You are very dangerous, you know.”

You:

“What, because I flirted with you once?”

König:

“Because you make me want to say things.”

“Soft things. Nice things.”

“I don’t say those often.”

You:

“You can say them here.”

König:

“Maybe next time.”

“If you don’t tease me again first.”

You closed your laptop that night with your heart beating way too fast for a “just friends” moment.

But it was still just that.

For now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It was past midnight when you noticed König wasn’t replying to your pings.

Weird. He always answered, even if it was just a little:

“1 min”

“coffee”

“charging headset”

But tonight?

Nothing.

You hovered over his name in Discord, thumb tapping your mic button, debating.

You: “König? You dead?”

No answer.

You rolled your eyes and hit Call.

The ringing went for four solid seconds before he picked up—and you were met not with a greeting…

…but heavy breathing.

Panting.

“H-Hallo,” he gasped, low and hoarse.

You: “Whoa. What’s going on? Did I catch you mid-battle? Are you escaping a war crime right now?”

“…Workout,” he grunted, breathless.

“Push-ups. And crunches.”

You: “Liar. You play games all day. You’re built like a fridge but somehow I don’t believe you work out at all.”

A pause. Something shuffled. A low hum through his mic.

“You don’t… believe me?”

You: “Not a chance, grandma.”

And then you got it.

The ping.

A Discord notification. From him.

A direct message with an attachment.

You opened it—and immediately choked on the water you had just sipped.

The image was blurry, like he’d taken it quickly and from an awkward angle—but it hit like a truck.

Just under the chin. No face.

His black T-shirt clung to his massive chest, soaked with sweat and hugging every line of his thick, sculpted muscle.

Shoulders like stone. Collarbone defined.

Grey sweatpants, low-slung, loose.

The shirt was damp enough to be nearly painted on.

You were not ready.

You swallowed too hard and hacked into the mic.

You: “Jesus Christ—König—what the hell was that??”

He laughed softly—nervous, maybe a little smug.

“Proof. You didn’t believe me.”

You: “I was joking! I didn’t think you’d drop a thirst trap in 0.2 seconds!”

Silence. Then:

“…Thirst trap?”

“I thought that meant… posing.”

You: “You are posing! Your muscles are doing the talking.”

Soft breath of laughter through his mic.

You: “I—okay wait. Serious question.”

He hummed, cautious.

“Ja?”

You: “Can I squeeze your tits?”

Silence.

Not even a breath.

Then—

“…Mein Gott.”

You: “No but like. Just a little honk. You can charge me.”

“You are evil.” His voice cracked, flustered and low. “You can’t say that—when I’m—sweating—!”

You: “You started it!”

“I was working out!”

A second later, your phone buzzed again.

Another photo. Slightly clearer. This time of his forearm, bent just enough to flex as he wiped sweat from his neck. Veins. Muscles. The rolled sleeve of his black tee. The hint of a scar.

You blinked at it for a second too long.

You: “…Do you model part-time or is that included in your killstreak bonus?”

“You said you didn’t believe me,” he replied, smug now. “Now you do.”

You decided to return fire.

Ten minutes later, still laughing from your flustered choking incident, you took a shower selfie—just your face, hair covered in shampoo, styled into ridiculous little horns.

You sent it with no context.

You: “Battle mode. Ready to breach.”

He didn’t answer for a second.

Then—

“Oh mein Gott.”

“You look like a soap demon.”

“This is terrifying.”

You: “Bet my biceps are bigger than yours.”

“Lüge.” (Lie.)

“Show me proof.”

You responded with a classic flex pose in the mirror—dramatic lighting, serious face.

He sent back a close-up of his bicep that looked like it could crush your skull.

You both burst out laughing in VC.

Soon, it became a game.

He’d send blurry mirror selfies with captions like:

“Threat level: low. Protein bar defeated.”

You’d send silly ones like:

“Just woke up. Please ignore the hair, the face, and my soul.”

Sometimes you’d send a photo of your feet up on your desk with a can of soda next to them and label it “combat ready.”

He once sent a photo of just his hoodie-covered knees, sitting on the floor with the caption:

“Overheating. Send help. Or ice.”

You replied with a photo of your hand holding five ice cubes and a single message:

“Incoming airstrike.”

But through it all, even in the laughter and the flirty jokes…

He never crossed a line.

Never asked for more.

Never made it weird.

Just… stayed close. Steady. Gentle.

And you could feel it in the way his voice softened when he said your name.

“Danke… for calling me tonight.”

“It helped.”

You: “Anytime, König.”

“You’re my favorite roided-out grandma.”

He groaned.

“You are going to regret that when I flex you through a wall.”

You: “No I won’t.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

König:

“Spielst du mit mir?”

(Will you play with me?)

You smiled at your screen, curled up in bed with your book open and a warm cup of tea next to you. The way König asked things sometimes made it sound so gentle, so hopeful—like a puppy tapping at the door.

You:

“Not tonight. Reading.”

König:

“Reading…? Hah. Lüge.”

(Lie.)

You:

“Excuse me?? You think I don’t have the braincells to read?”

König:

“I think you lie to avoid my bullets.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, then decided to prove it. You held up the book in one hand, angled your phone, and snapped a quick photo. Just enough of the book cover, the blanket, your hand, the soft light…

…and you didn’t think much else of it.

You hit send.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then—

König is typing…

You waited. Still typing.

Still typing.

Then:

König:

“Ah… you are really reading.”

König:

“I—uh… didn’t know you… slept like that.”

You blinked.

Wait.

You clicked your own photo.

Then your stomach dropped and your face burned.

Oh.

Your hair was messy, a soft halo of sleep-tangled strands.

Your lips still a little puffy from chewing them while reading.

The tank top—black, old, soft—clinging a little too well. No bra.

Your pale stomach visible above your loose sweats. Cozy. Sleepy.

Maybe… a little too cozy.

You:

“…oh my god I didn’t mean to send you a thirst trap.”

König:

“Ist… ist okay. I… I liked the book.”

You:

“The book?? König, what color was the cover?”

König:

“…uhm…”

You:

“Exactly.”

König:

“I am very respectful.”

You:

“You looked at my tits.”

König:

“Not directly!”

“They just… entered the field of vision.”

“Unavoidable. Like a sniper scope.”

You burst out laughing.

You:

“My tits are sniper scope–level distractions?? That’s new.”

König:

“I mean—! Nein! Wait—ugh!”

“Forget I said anything.”

You:

“Too late. I’m changing my Discord status to that.”

König:

“Bitte.”

“I am going to die.”

You:

“So dramatic. It’s just a sleepy photo.”

König:

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

You smiled down at your phone, heart doing little flips.

He wasn’t being creepy. Just… flustered. Respectful.

But real. And honest. And sweet.

And he was trying very, very hard not to imagine anything he shouldn’t.

You:

“Hey, König?”

König:

“Ja?”

You:

“You’re cute when you panic.”

Another long pause.

König:

“You are going to kill me.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It started with a few harmless drinks.

A movie night alone.

Some wine. Maybe too much.

Your phone buzzed on your bed beside you.

König:

“You alive? Haven’t seen you in a few days. Did you get eaten by your book?”

You stared at the screen, buzzed enough that your heart skipped.

König. Sweet, shy König who hadn’t messaged too much—probably worried he was bothering you.

You didn’t even think.

You hit call.

He picked up faster than usual.

König (voice):

“Hallo?”

“You okay?”

You flopped back against your pillows.

You (slurred):

“Hi, König.”

He paused.

König:

“…You sound different.”

You:

“Do I sound sexy?”

A beat of silence.

König (quiet):

“…You sound… drunk.”

You giggled.

You:

“Only a little. Enough to be honest, though. That’s the fun part.”

König:

“Honest?”

You:

“Yeah… like how I think about your arms way more than I should.”

Another long pause.

König:

“My… arms?”

You:

“Your biceps. The picture you sent me weeks ago, and I swear to god, König—”

You sat up dramatically, spilling a little wine on your blanket. “I almost passed out. Like. Who looks like that? Who has arms like that?? It should be illegal. You made me soaked, you bastard.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

And then König coughed violently.

König:

“Scheiße—what—what do you mean?!”

You:

“I mean soaked. Like, ruined-my-panties kind of soaked.”

König:

“Mein Gott—!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Words tumbling out of your mouth like you were possessed by every drunk thought you’d ever had.

How his voice made your spine tingle.

How you imagined laying your head against his chest.

How curious you were about the scar on his bicep.

How the thought of him holding you in those big arms made your knees weak.

How badly you wanted to run your fingers up the line of his jaw under that mask.

König (barely whispering):

“You should go to sleep.”

You (giggling):

“You gonna tuck me in, big guy?”

König:

“…If I were there, maybe.”

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you aware that that wasn’t something he normally would’ve said.

You:

“…You’re dangerous when you flirt back.”

König:

“I am not flirting. I am… malfunctioning.”

You laughed again. Then yawned.

You:

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up before I say something worse. Like how your accent makes my thighs—”

Click.

You hung up.

The next morning?

Mortification.

You didn’t open Discord.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Or the next.

Every time you saw a new message notification, your stomach dropped.

And König? He didn’t spam. He sent one message:

König:

“Just checking. Are you okay?”

But still, you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You avoided Discord like it owed you money.

Every time you opened your laptop, your finger hovered over the icon—only to veer away at the last second like a coward. Three days had passed. Three whole days since you drunk-called König and poured your unfiltered thoughts into his ear like some kind of wine-soaked, thirst-trapping poet.

You’d told him his biceps made you soaked.

And now you wanted to disappear.

He hadn’t spammed your DMs. He hadn’t been weird. No cringey follow-ups. Just one simple message:

König:

“Just checking. Are you okay?”

The man was respectful even when he could’ve made things awkward.

Your guilt tripled.

You grabbed your phone and opened Discord at last. Heart pounding. You stared at his name—still online, still “playing Warzone,” still probably thinking you ghosted him out of regret.

You hesitated… then typed:

You:

“I’m alive. Sorry I went MIA.”

He responded instantly.

König:

“Gott sei Dank.”

“I was about to send a search party.”

You smiled.

You:

“You’d have to kick my door down.”

König:

“6’10. Military. Wouldn’t be hard.”

You:

“Fair.”

There was a pause.

Then—

König:

“Did I… make you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard.

God, he really was the sweetest. Shy and careful. A walking tank with a heart like warm bread.

You:

“No. Not at all. I made myself uncomfortable. I was drunk and said too much.”

König:

“It was… a lot.”

“But not bad. Not unwanted.”

Your breath hitched.

König:

“I mean—I’m not good at… that stuff. Flirting. Or hearing it.”

“You are very… expressive. And beautiful. And loud when tipsy.”

You laughed out loud at that one.

You:

“Loud? I didn’t yell at you!”

König:

“Not with volume. With words. You said… things I’ll never forget.”

You facepalmed.

You:

“God. I need to change my name and flee the country.”

König:

“No! Don’t go. I’d miss you too much.”

That shut you up.

You stared at the message. Then reread it.

You:

“You missed me?”

König:

“Of course I did. I play worse when you’re not online.”

“No one bullies me on VC the same way.”

You smiled, heart flipping.

You:

“So… you forgive me for being a drunk idiot?”

König:

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“But if you’re sober now… maybe you want to play?”

You hesitated.

Then reached for your headset.

You:

“Invite me, tank boy.”

Voice Chat: Connected

König:

“Hallo…”

You:

“Hi.”

His voice was softer than usual. Almost shy.

König:

“Still reading your book? Or… still thinking about my arms?”

You choked on your tea.

You:

“Did you just flirt with me?”

König:

“…Maybe. Little bit.”

You (laughing):

“Well, I guess I deserve that.”

König:

“Ja. You do.”

You sat back, smiling, cheeks warm—but no longer from embarrassment.

This wasn’t the end of something awkward.

It was the beginning of something new.

Something soft. Honest. Slow.

You were still just friends.

But maybe…

Not for long.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

-Part 2

#konig x reader fanfict #konig x reader fanfiction #konig x reader #konig x you #cod fanfic #konig call of duty #konig cod #konig fanfiction #konig smut #könig

441 notes · View notes

lixiemissexotic · 2 months ago

Text

𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐃 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑౨ৎ

girl dad eren yeager who full-on sobbed when you told him you were pregnant, then cried again at the ultrasound when he found out it was a girl. and then again yes, again when he was lying beside you on the hospital bed holding her for the first time. you looked over at him, eyes puffy, nose red, whispering, “she’s not even the biggest baby in this room,” and he just laughed through the tears, excited to finally have his little family.

girl dad! eren yeager who learned to do hair with you as his own real life mannequin while you were pregnant. “she’s gonna be so pretty just like her mommy”.

girl dad! eren yeager who constantly spoke in the third person to his daughter when she was a toddler in hopes that “dada” would be her first words.

girl dad! eren yeager who is no regular girl dad, he’s a dance dad as well. he’s front row at every single recital, he’s never missed a single one. camera in hand, cheering way too loudly. he makes all his friends come as well, ensuring his baby feels more than enough support. he takes his dance dad duties ver seriously and helps her practice moves at home and ends up knowing the whole routine better than the dancers. he jabs you while the dance is happening “i can twirl better than these amateurs”. then screams “that’s our girl !” as soon as your daughter makes her appearance.

girl dad! eren yeager who goes absolutely insane when his daughter is sick, raids the supermarket for vitamins, cough drops, tissues, pain killers, cough syrup everything. luckily for your daughter her grandfather is a world class doctor so trust and believe he’s always in the best hands.

girl dad! eren yeager who spoils his daughter absolutely rotten. he tries to say no at first, but folds the second she pouts. she has him absolutely wrapped around her tiny glittery painted finger and she knows it.

girl dad! eren yeager who’s the kind of guy to make a power point presentation on why she will have to wait till she’s 30 to have her first boyfriend. when he picks her up from school and sees her holding hands with reiner’s son he damn near almost losses it but he’s good at keeping his cool (fakest most evil smile you’ve seen btw).

girl dad! eren yeager who lets his daughter sit on his lap while he’s driving, teaching her how cars work. he loves taking her out for joy rides especially late at night. it’s these special little moments that make him happiest.

girl dad! eren yeager who’s always making sure to treat you like his diamond, always bringing your flowers, taking you on nice vacations and adoring you in gifts and affection not only because he loves you to the moon and back but also to make sure his daughter grows up with a good example of what a man should be like.

girl dad! eren yeager who loves you and his daughter more than anything else and would give up anything to make sure you two were safe and happy.

💐— ily girl dad eren!! likes & reblogs always appreciated. stay safe and hydrated pokies <3

#lixie’sparadise🌺#eren x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager aot #eren x fem!reader #aot x black reader #eren x black y/n #eren x black reader #girl dad #dilf!eren yeager #attack on titan #eren headcanons #aot hcs #attack on titan x black reader

526 notes · View notes

demie90s · 21 days ago

Text

Too Late to Love Me Right

Caitlin Clark x Paige Bueckers x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Caitlin Clark had a boyfriend. And she had you—at least, late at night when no one was looking. You asked for more, but she stayed where it was safe. Wrong Choice.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Angst, hurt/comfort, healing, second chances denied, slow-burn romance (Paige x Reader), ex-regret (Caitlin x Reader)

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Emotional cheating, toxic dynamics, heartbreak, pining, past sexual tension, implied smut, strong language, protective Paige energy

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 1k

I should’ve known the second she didn’t pick up.

It was pouring—like the sky was sick of holding back. The kind of rain that soaks your socks through your sneakers. The kind where you don’t just need a ride, you need someone who gives a damn. And I called Caitlin.

Not Connor. Not my roommate. Not even my sister. I called her. And she sent me to voicemail.

The next day she texted, “Sorry. Connor was over. I didn’t wanna start something.”

That was the moment something snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… final. A slow, quiet burn of realization that she was never gonna choose me. At least not fully. Not proudly. And not in the way I needed her to.

It didn’t start that way. We were best friends first. Teammates without a team. She’d FaceTime me at 1AM just to vent about film, about pressure, about how lonely it gets when the whole world thinks you’re untouchable. And I’d listen, every time. We had this rhythm—late night talks, shared playlists, inside jokes no one else would get. She called me her peace. I called her my maybe.

I tried to hold onto that.

Even when she introduced Connor. Even when she said it was “casual.” Even when he started showing up to practices. Sitting front row. Putting his arm around her waist like he had any right. I played cool. I joked. I smiled through gritted teeth when he called me her little bestie.

But I wasn’t little. And I wasn’t just her friend.

Not with the way she looked at me when she thought he wasn’t watching. Not with the way her voice dropped when she asked who I was talking to. Not when her hand brushed mine and lingered. She knew what it was. She just didn’t want to risk it.

I did.

I told her one night, soft and serious. “I’d do this for real. Just say the word.”

She blinked. Stared at the ground. Said nothing.

And a week later, I saw her post him with the caption “my favorite person.”

So I left. Transferred. Got the hell out of Iowa and decided to stop waiting for someone who only wanted me in private.

UConn wasn’t even on my radar until my best friend—a loudmouth, genius media manager—said, “You need a fresh start and a better roster to break hearts with.” She shared a dorm with me. Let me crash her team events. Gassed me up so hard the players started noticing before I even wore a jersey.

That’s how I met Paige. And she didn’t hesitate.

She saw me—really saw me. The first day we talked, I was sitting in the corner of the gym, headphones on, iced coffee sweating in my hand. She sat beside me like she’d been invited. Asked my name. Asked where I transferred from. Asked why I looked like I didn’t wanna be touched.

I told her the truth. I said, “Someone picked the easy choice over me.”

She said, “Damn. Their loss.”

Then she winked. Then she came back the next day. And the next. And the next.

It started slow, but not shy. Paige wasn’t afraid to like me out loud. She pulled me into team huddles. Sat next to me on the bus. Flirted in front of coaches. She never made me guess. And somewhere in the middle of that chaos, I realized I was healing.

Until one night, months later, I checked my phone and saw her name.

Caitlin. No Connor. Just her.

“Hey. I saw your game. You looked good. Can we talk?” I didn’t answer. But I showed the text to Paige.

She looked at it, then looked at me. “You good?” I smiled. “I’m better.”

I hated sitting still. Watching my team warm up without me made my jaw clench. My leg was fine—bruised, not broken—but protocol was protocol. One month off. No exceptions.

I wasn’t mad about resting. I was mad that this game, this one, had to be the one I missed.

UConn vs Iowa. Of course it was.

The second I saw that schedule, I knew it’d happen eventually. I just didn’t expect to be benched, iced up on the sidelines in team sweats and a hoodie, watching Caitlin Clark jog across my court like she hadn’t torn through me a year ago.

She looked the same. A little more tired maybe. Still sharp. Still dangerous with a ball in her hands. But when her eyes found mine from across the gym, she froze. Only for a second—but I caught it.

I didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. I just turned my attention to Paige, who was already leaning over my chair, rubbing my shoulder like I was the star of the show anyway.

“You sure you wanna sit on the floor?” she asked, voice low just for me.

“I need to see everything,” I muttered. “And I want her to see me seeing it.”

Paige smirked. “You’re evil.”

“Maybe.”

We laughed. And from the corner of my eye, I saw Caitlin watching.

It was like that all game. Her eyes kept drifting over. Even during timeouts. Even when the ball was live. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t engage.

At halftime, she finally got bold.

Came over during the shuffle to the tunnel, her warmup towel hanging around her neck, sweat still glistening down her temple. She looked at me like she had a hundred things to say.

“Hey,” she said.

I gave her a flat, polite smile. “Hi.”

Her eyes flicked to Paige, who was holding my water bottle and definitely not moving. Then back to me.

“You look good,” she said softly. “I didn’t know you were out this game.”

“Yup. Just this one.”

Awkward pause.

“Well… I hope it’s not serious,” she added, like that might get her somewhere.

I nodded once. “Thanks. Good luck.”

Then I turned right back to Paige, who leaned down and whispered, “You handled that real cute.”

I smiled up at her. “I’m past cute. I’m in my healed era.” The second half started, and I didn’t look at Caitlin again. But I could feel her.

She’d had her shot. Now she was stuck on the outside looking in—just like I used to be.

And this time? I wasn’t coming back.

Third quarter was tight. Bodies flying, fouls building, energy high. But I didn’t flinch from my seat, leg wrapped, hoodie on, completely at peace. Paige had dropped fifteen already, and every time she hit a three, she looked back at me like she wanted to hear me scream her name.

And I did. Loud.

I wasn’t just cheering—I was hers. Unapologetically. The whole team knew it. Our coaches probably suspected it. Hell, even the crowd caught on when she winked at me from the free throw line.

Caitlin did too.

She’d been glancing over since tipoff, but now it was different. She missed a shot, and I saw her head snap toward me after it bounced off the rim. Like maybe I’d say something. Like maybe she needed to see my reaction.

Instead, she saw Paige come to the sideline, sweat dripping, and lean right into me.

“You need anything?” she asked, holding her hands on the armrests of my chair like she was locking me in.

“Yeah,” I said, pretending to think. “A win. And a kiss.”

Paige grinned. Brushed her fingers under my chin. “Later.”

I laughed. Pulled her down just a little by the drawstring of her jersey and whispered something in her ear I knew would make her blush. And when she jogged off, I looked up and saw Caitlin still watching.

Like frozen. Like the pieces were finally clicking, too late.

The way Paige touched me. The way I leaned into her. The way I looked at her like she was the only person in the room. You couldn’t mistake it. You didn’t have to hear the words. It was in the body language, in the comfort, in the quiet claiming of something real.

That used to be her.

Caitlin blinked hard. Looked away. Missed her defensive assignment. And I didn’t feel bad.

I just reached down, grabbed my water, and leaned back in my seat—smiling as Paige drained another three and pointed right at me.

We won.

It wasn’t a blowout, but it was clean. UConn by nine. Paige dropped twenty-three and held Caitlin to her quietest fourth quarter all season. She just… couldn’t focus. Missed open looks. Turned the ball over twice in the final two minutes. She kept looking over. At me. At Paige. At us.

And we didn’t look back.

When the buzzer went off, the bench exploded. Coaches clapping, girls yelling, cameras flashing—and right in the middle of it, Paige sprinted toward me like she was the one coming off the bench. Like she’d been holding it in all game.

“Baby,” she breathed, already climbing into my space, one knee on the bench, one hand in my hair.

“Hi,” I grinned, teasing.

“You saw me out there?”

I nodded slow. “Girl be frl.” That was all she needed.

She kissed me. Hard and sweet and reckless, like she didn’t care who saw—and truth was, she didn’t. She kissed me like I was her prize. Her person. Her proof.

And the crowd ate it up. Phones out. Flashes popping. Teammates cheering louder. I even heard someone gasp from the other side of the court, but I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Caitlin.

She was standing there still in uniform, hands on her hips, sweat curling at her temples, eyes locked on me like she was in a different game entirely. One she’d already lost.

And this time? I didn’t flinch. I didn’t smile. I didn’t even blink. I just kissed Paige back, deep and soft and full of everything Caitlin refused to claim.

Then I pulled away, rested my forehead against hers, and whispered, “Told you I’d get that kiss.”

Paige smiled against my lips. “Next time, make me work harder for it.”

She walked back to the team. And I sat there, still basking. Still warm. Still winning. Caitlin finally looked away. But the damage was done.

@draculara-vonvamp @non3ofurbusiness @toorealrai @kajspeaks

361 notes · View notes