#fast sharp crisp and unmistakable

[socialobligation]

tell my mom we're in love | h. sero

fake dating wasn't on your holiday to-do list—until sero invited you home for tamales and chaos (3525 words)

you regretted this the moment you stepped out of the dormitory and into the sharp chill of mid-december air, a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and your dignity already teetering on the edge. trailing beside you was hanta sero, practically vibrating with the smug energy of a man who had just talked his best friend into making the worst decision of her academic career.

and technically, he had.

somewhere between his mother's increasingly invasive matchmaking attempts and his inability to say the word "no" like a normal person, he'd decided the solution was to invent a girlfriend. and of course, of course, he'd chosen you.

"come on," he said now, as a cab idled at the curb, white exhaust curling into the crisp air like smoke from a slow-burning disaster. "tell me this won't be fun. just a little bit."

"i think i'm too emotionally aware to find this fun," you muttered, hoisting your bag into the trunk as he leaned beside you with his usual careless grace.

sero grinned—that unbothered, insufferably pretty grin that always made it harder to stay annoyed with him for long. "emotionally aware, huh? sounds like you're already getting into character."

you leveled him with a look. "if i'm your girlfriend, you're going to need to stop flirting like a golden retriever with a god complex."

"babe," he said, slipping into the backseat beside you with the kind of unearned confidence that should have come with a warning label, "flirting is literally how i survive in social settings. don't take this from me."

you stared out the window, hoping the freezing glass would cool the creeping warmth crawling up your neck. "we're not actually dating, hanta."

"right," he said, and he sounded amused, not wounded. "but we could be really good at it."

you didn't answer. he didn't press.

the cab pulled away from the dorms, and for a moment the silence between you was companionable, like it always had been. you'd known sero for years now—long enough to understand that his laid-back demeanor was as real as it was performative. he was the kind of person who made a room feel lighter just by being in it, but who also knew the weight of silence better than most people ever would.

he didn't make you feel like you had to be anyone but yourself. and that, unfortunately, was the root of the problem.

somewhere along the road from "we're just friends" to "please pretend to be my girlfriend so my mom stops trying to marry me off," things had started to shift.

not all at once. not obviously.

but they shifted.

now he was dozing beside you, his head tilted toward your shoulder, and every bump in the road made him inch closer. you should have nudged him off. you should have drawn the line.

but you didn't.

instead, you studied the soft lines of his face—the relaxed set of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows like his dreams were just a little too fast for his thoughts to catch—and you wondered what the hell you'd gotten yourself into.

by the time the cab slowed, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light over a neighborhood that looked far too idyllic to be real. sero's house was two stories of warmth and welcome: string lights curled along the porch railing, a wreath hung slightly crooked on the front door, and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney that promised something warm inside.

standing at the threshold was a woman with sharp eyes, a kind smile, and the unmistakable aura of someone who could both bake you cookies and emotionally destroy you in the same breath.

sero's mother.

you froze.

he didn't.

without hesitation, sero leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. his voice dipped just low enough for only you to hear. "smile like you love me."

then he reached for your hand.

his fingers, long and warm, laced effortlessly through yours.

you didn't pull away.

and that was the moment—standing at the edge of his childhood, your fingers locked in his, heart skipping in the kind of rhythm you weren't prepared for—that you realized you were in far more danger than you thought.

because part of you didn't want to let go.

the cab hadn't even rolled to a full stop before sero's mom was standing in front of it, arms crossed, eyes already locked onto her target like a seasoned general. you had seen pictures, sure—sero had shown you a few over lunch one day, swiping through images of his mom with an almost reverent fondness—but none of them did her justice.

she was radiant. that was the first word that came to mind. not in some soft, dreamy way, but in the sharp, unmistakable warmth of someone who had mastered the art of existing unapologetically. she had a scarf looped carelessly around her neck, dark hair pinned up with wisps escaping, and that immediate, unnerving energy unique to mothers who know everything before you say a word.

"hanta," she said brightly as you approached. "you took forever, mijo. i was about to call."

and then her eyes slid to you.

her whole face changed.

"qué linda," she said, stepping down toward you without hesitation. "you're even prettier than the pictures."

you opened your mouth to answer—say something polite, maybe even charming—but instead you were pulled into a hug so warm and familiar you forgot how to speak altogether.

she smelled like cinnamon and butter, like café and home. her arms wrapped around you without hesitation, solid and reassuring, and you blinked twice before realizing she wasn't letting go just yet.

she pulled back, hands on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face with curiosity. "how old are you, mija?"

"seventeen," you managed. "ua student. same class as hanta."

"top twenty," sero chimed from behind you, proud and useless.

his mom smiled wider. "good. you'll need that to keep up with him. he talks too much."

"i'm right here," sero said, offended.

"and what's your quirk, sweetheart?" she asked, guiding you inside like she owned every molecule of the house—which she probably did.

"just a luck quirk," you replied. "it's not anything big or flashy."

"flashy's overrated," she said. "flashy gets you on magazine covers, but smart keeps you alive. hanta could use some of that balance."

sero made a wounded noise. "i'm right here."

you stepped into the house and tried not to gape. it was warm and lived-in, with mismatched furniture and soft lights, and framed photos in every direction. you passed at least three different versions of baby sero—one with cake on his face, one dressed as a shark, and one in a tiny suit looking like he'd lost a bet.

you were immediately ushered to the couch, where sero flopped down beside you like he'd done this a thousand times. his arm stretched along the back of the cushions behind you, easy and casual, but you felt the heat of it like a brand against your neck.

his mom sat in the armchair across from you, one leg crossed, hands folded, expression deceptively pleasant.

"so," she said. "how long have you two been together?"

"six months," you and sero answered in unison.

your eyes met. you both smiled.

it was practiced, but god—it didn't feel like a lie.

"how'd you meet?" she asked next.

sero leaned forward like he was telling a secret. "training. she beat up kaminari. i've never recovered."

you tried not to laugh. "he followed me around for a week."

"i was courting you."

"you were loitering near vending machines."

"i was being persistent," he corrected. "it worked, didn't it?"

his mom watched you both, eyes narrowed just enough to make you sweat.

"and what do you like about my son?" she asked you, suddenly.

your mouth went dry.

sero glanced sideways, surprised.

but the answer came easy.

"he's reliable. and funny. and he listens—really listens. like you're the only person in the room."

you could feel sero's eyes on you, and the room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

"he's easy to be around," you said, a little softer now. "i feel like i can breathe near him."

a long silence stretched across the room.

then sero bumped your shoulder with his own, voice low. "you're not supposed to make me blush in front of my mom."

his mom smiled, pleased. "i like you."

you smiled back, because how could you not. "thank you."

"i made tamales," she said, rising to her feet. "sit tight. i'll get you a plate."

"do you need help—?" you started, half-standing.

"no, no. you're a guest. you sit and let yourself be adored."

she vanished into the kitchen with surprising speed.

the moment she was out of earshot, you collapsed sideways onto the couch.

"i blacked out," you whispered. "what did i even say?"

"that i'm amazing and you love being around me," sero said smugly.

you shot him a look.

he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. "also, you were adorable. you didn't have to go that hard. i almost forgot it was fake."

you didn't answer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

dinner came after a comfortable lull in the afternoon—just enough time for you to grow used to the house's warmth, the quiet hum of kitchen sounds, and the sound of sero humming to himself as he helped his mom plate tamales. there was something undeniably domestic about it—watching him lean over the counter, sleeves pushed up, swiping a bit of masa from the corner of a dish with a grin when he thought no one was watching.

you caught yourself watching.

a little too long.

and when he turned around and caught your eye, offering you a wink that made your stomach stutter—you looked away, pretending to study the wall like it had secrets.

the house filled slowly with more noise, more feet, more voices. by the time dinner was ready, the table was surrounded by people—his siblings, all younger, all chaos incarnate. there were five in total, ranging from what looked like barely ten to maybe sixteen. all of them clearly adored sero, and all of them clearly had a thousand questions about you.

"are you really his girlfriend?" one of the younger girls asked, blinking up at you from her seat at the far end of the table.

sero, already sitting beside you, reached for your hand under the table without hesitation. "of course she is," he said easily. "she puts up with me. that's gotta mean something."

you glanced sideways, surprised by the way his thumb started tracing circles into your palm. his fingers were warm, his grip relaxed, like this was a habit and not a performance. your first instinct was to pull away—but you didn't. you let him hold on.

"do you like him?" one of the boys asked bluntly, somewhere between a dare and a test.

you looked over at sero, who was already looking at you.

and the smile that spread across his face wasn't teasing. it wasn't even smug.

it was soft.

"i do," you said honestly. "he's easy to like."

one of his sisters actually swooned.

their mother returned from the kitchen, a stack of warm plates balanced in her arms. "aye, look at you two," she said fondly, setting down the food. "you look like you've been married five years already."

sero snorted. "that's because she already tells me what to do."

"someone has to," you said, nudging his leg under the table.

his knee pressed into yours and didn't move.

the meal began in full, voices rising over each other, stories flying back and forth like birds across the table. tamales were unwrapped, passed down, devoured. rice and beans steamed in bowls at the center. someone spilled horchata and got teased for it for fifteen minutes straight.

sero kept his hand under the table the entire time.

sometimes on your knee. sometimes brushing your fingers. once, briefly, resting on your thigh with a touch so casual and confident you forgot how to breathe for a second.

"so how did you know?" his mom asked halfway through the meal, raising an eyebrow. "that you liked each other, i mean."

you blinked. "um."

sero didn't miss a beat.

"she made this face at me once," he said, totally serious. "during training. right after i got my ass handed to me. and i thought—yeah. i'd let her ruin my life."

you choked on a sip of water. "that's not what happened."

"you raised your eyebrow," he insisted, "like i was both impressive and pathetic. it was very motivating."

"you were bleeding."

"romance is about timing."

the table erupted in laughter.

"you're ridiculous," you muttered, but there was no bite to it. you felt lightheaded from smiling too much.

his younger sister leaned over the table toward you. "you make him less annoying," she said seriously. "he's, like, way less weird with you here."

"he's still weird," someone else muttered.

"hey," sero said, deeply offended. "i'm the glue of this household."

"you're the glitter glue," one of the boys shot back. "unnecessary and all over everything."

the conversation swirled, but it was warm. easy. you felt like you'd slipped into a rhythm you hadn't known you were missing. sero's family didn't make you feel like an outsider. if anything, they treated you like a permanent fixture—like they already liked you, just because he did.

and sero—he kept looking at you.

in the quiet moments between bites. when you laughed at something his brother said. when you wiped your fingers on your napkin and he passed you your drink like he'd already anticipated you'd reach for it.

"you're really good at this," you whispered during a lull, leaning in.

"at what?" he asked, voice low, chin tilted toward you.

"this," you said. "pretending."

his eyes flicked down to your mouth, just for a second.

"what can i say," he said quietly. "i'm something of an actor."

you snickered.

and then his mom called your name from across the table.

"you like dessert, mija?" she asked, already bringing out the plates.

you blinked twice before answering, forcing a smile. "of course. thank you."

sero didn't look away from you for a long time.

dinner had long ended. the noise had faded. sero's house, once pulsing with overlapping voices and clattering plates, now thrummed with a different kind of energy—low, contented, quiet.

his siblings had scattered, full-bellied and sugar-sticky, off to bedrooms and couches and wherever else they disappeared to in the evening. someone had turned on a dusty old playlist in the den, and the soft hum of vintage boleros curled through the walls like warmth that refused to die.

you stood in the hallway between the dining room and the back door, hovering in the in-between of things: of conversations and thoughts, of what was real and what had only started out that way.

you weren't sure what to do with your hands.

or your heart.

sero appeared beside you like he always did—quiet-footed and comfortably close, smelling faintly of soap and masa and something sweet from dessert you hadn't caught the name of. his sleeves were still pushed up, revealing his forearms, and you hated that you were looking at them. not because they weren't worth looking at—they were—but because it meant your guard was down. again.

"come on," he said softly. "balcony?"

you didn't answer. you just nodded and followed.

the air outside was sharp and clean. the kind of cold that wakes you up without being cruel. you wrapped your arms around yourself more out of instinct than discomfort. the balcony was small, with a windchime shaped like a lizard hanging from the overhang, and a view of soft suburban rooftops and yellow windows scattered like lanterns across the horizon.

you leaned against the wooden railing. he did the same.

neither of you spoke.

you were too full of the evening. of tamales and laughter. of too much touch under the table. of words you'd said with a smile that weren't lies—but weren't supposed to be true either.

the problem wasn't pretending.

the problem was that pretending didn't feel like pretending anymore.

you didn't know when it had changed. maybe it was gradual—each time he laced his fingers through yours without asking, or rested his hand on your thigh mid-story, or offered you a grin across the table that was so familiar, so soft, you forgot why you were here in the first place.

but it hit you now, standing beside him in the chill—this unshakable, irreversible knowledge:

you were in love with him.

god, you were in love with hanta sero.

not just in a surface-level, crush-colored way. not just in the i-like-how-he-makes-me-laugh way. it was deeper than that. older. something that had snuck in when you weren't looking and taken root so quietly you hadn't noticed until it was everywhere.

you were in love with the way he held space. with the way he listened without trying to fix you. with the way he let the world land on him lightly, and still carried it in both hands when it mattered.

you were in love with someone who didn't even know you weren't faking anymore.

you exhaled.

"you're quiet," he said, not looking at you. "regretting it already?"

you shook your head. "no. it's just... weird how easy it was. with your family."

he hummed. "they like you."

"they liked that i made you less annoying."

"that is the highest compliment in my house."

you smiled, faint. "they're sweet. loud, but sweet."

"you kept up fine."

"i think i blacked out for half of it."

"you were golden," he said, softer now. "you always are."

you turned toward him slowly.

the lights from the kitchen spilled faintly through the curtains behind you, catching just enough of his face for you to see how relaxed he looked. how present. how close.

you swallowed.

"hanta?"

he looked over at you, brows raised. "yeah?"

there was a beat of silence.

"i don't know how to lie to you," you said.

he blinked once.

then again, slower.

"what?"

"i mean," you continued, hands curling around the edge of the railing. "i've been trying. all day. and i thought i could. i thought i could pull it off—play the part, pretend—but then we got here, and your mom hugged me, and you touched my hand under the table, and i just... i don't know when it stopped being a bit."

his eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he'd already lost.

"hanta," you said again. "i'm in love with you."

his face froze.

the air between you seemed to still. the windchime didn't move. the whole world narrowed into this one pinpoint moment, bright and fragile and terrifying.

he stepped back—just barely.

"you don't have to keep pretending," he said. carefully. cautiously. "no one's watching anymore. you can drop it."

you stared at him.

"i'm not pretending," you said.

another beat. a sharp exhale.

his lips parted slightly. his brows furrowed, not in confusion, but in disbelief. in the kind of fear that came from wanting something too much and being afraid to reach for it.

"you're serious."

"i've never been more serious about anything in my life."

sero let out a long, shaky laugh. it cracked halfway through.

"say it again," he whispered.

"i'm in love with you."

and this time, you reached for him.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, and you felt the moment he melted—slow and overwhelmed, the way something melts that's been cold for too long.

"you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, leaning into your touch. "i thought—god, i thought i was the only one losing my mind over this."

you smiled, eyes stinging.

"you weren't."

"i've been in love with you since second year," he admitted, voice breaking a little. "you kissed my cheek that one time after i carried your books back from the nurse's office, and i nearly died. like, actual cardiac arrest."

"that was a year ago."

"welcome to my long, slow descent into insanity."

you laughed, quiet and ridiculous.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn't rushed. wasn't showy. it wasn't a fireworks-and-credits-roll kiss.

it was the kind that happened in doorways, in hallways, in quiet rooms where hearts beat too loud. the kind that changed nothing and everything all at once.

he kissed you like he meant it.

you kissed him like you'd been waiting your whole life to.

when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours.

"you're real?" you whispered, breath catching.

"i better be," he said. "otherwise you've just confessed to a figment of your imagination."

you swallowed a grin.

his thumb traced your cheek.

"i thought this would end in disaster," he said quietly. "that pretending would ruin everything."

"and?"

"and now i don't want it to end at all."

you leaned in, bumping your nose against his.

"then it doesn't have to."

he smiled, and kissed you again.

not like he was pretending.

like he was home.

[just-aake]

Christmas Together

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Natasha arrives at her daughter's ballet recital, only to discover a small problem.

Warnings: fluff

Words: 2896

Stepping outside the brightly lit school building into the crisp night air, you pull your jacket tightly around yourself, bracing against the sharp bite of the snowy Christmas Eve wind. 

The muffled sound of excited chatter and laughter filters through the heavy doors behind you as you retrieve your phone from your pocket. You don’t need to look at the screen to dial anything; her number is the first on the list of your favorite contacts. 

Pressing the call button, you glance around, offering polite smiles and nods to the other parents and guests who stream past you into the building, bundled in scarves and coats, their faces glowing with anticipation. 

Your breath clouds in the freezing air as the phone rings, each chime making your stomach twist a little tighter. 

On the third ring, the line clicks, and you speak quickly, barely giving her a chance to greet you.

“Natasha, where are you?” you ask urgently. “The show starts soon.”  

There’s a muffled grunt on her end, followed by a sharp thud that makes your heart skip. Then her voice finally comes through, faintly breathless but steady.

“I’m on my way, moya lyubov.” 

You exhale sharply, your breath fogging the cold night air. But before you can relax, there’s a distant boom on the line—small but unmistakable. Your pulse quickens.

“Natasha—” you start, the question already forming.

“I’m okay,” she interrupts quickly, her tone firm and reassuring. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.” 

You lean against the cold brick wall, shoulders sagging with a mix of exasperation and concern. 

This is the perpetual tightrope of being married to Natasha Romanoff—one moment, she’s your wife, the woman you share quiet, mundane moments with. The next, she’s an Avenger, her world filled with danger and unpredictability.

A sudden gust of icy wind cuts through your coat, making you shiver and clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering. 

Natasha must hear it because her voice softens, tinged with concern.

“Are you outside in this weather?” she asks, the slight edge of disapproval unmistakable. 

“It’s too noisy to hear anything inside,” you reply defensively. 

The warmth and bustle inside the building are a stark contrast to the biting cold out here, but you needed the quiet.

You glance back toward the entrance, catching glimpses of parents and grandparents eagerly chatting, their hands clutching bouquets and cameras. The auditorium is filling fast, the anticipation palpable as everyone waits for the ballet recital to begin.

“I just…I wanted to check in,” you admit, your voice softening as you think about the conversation you had earlier with your daughter behind the stage. 

Her small hands had tugged at your sleeve, her wide, hopeful eyes searching yours. 

You let out a small sigh.

“She’s asking if you’re still coming,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. 

On the other end of the line, there’s a brief pause. The sounds of scuffling and distant chaos seem to fade, leaving only Natasha’s steady breathing.

“Get inside, moya lyubov,” she finally says, her voice gentle but resolute. “I promise I’ll be there in time.”

You close your eyes, letting the certainty in her tone wash over you. Natasha has faced impossible odds more times than you can count, and she’s never let you or your daughter down before. 

“Okay,” you reply quietly, your trust in her unshaken.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha bursts through the school doors, her movements swift but controlled. The faint scent of winter snow clings to her Black Widow suit, and her sharp eyes immediately scan the empty hallway. 

A quick glance at her phone tells her she’s still ten minutes early. Relief washes over her, and she takes a deep breath, allowing the warmth of the building to seep in. 

Natasha strides toward the auditorium, intent on finding you and settling in before the performance begins. 

But just as she reaches for the door, she hears the soft pitter-patter of little footsteps behind her. 

She turns, instinctively dropping her defensive stance when she sees the familiar streak of red hair flying toward her.

“Mama!”

The little girl barrels into Natasha, wrapping her small arms tightly around her legs. Her face buries into Natasha’s suit, her muffled breaths quick and uneven. 

Natasha immediately returns the embrace, her heart softening as she strokes her daughter’s hair. 

“Hello, Lena,” Natasha whispers gently, her voice soothing. She uses the nickname affectionately—a nod to her sister, Yelena, whom Lena adores and calls “Aunty Yelena.”

But Lena doesn’t respond to her greeting, her head remaining firmly tucked against Natasha’s body. 

Her small shoulders tremble slightly, and Natasha can feel her little hands gripping the fabric of her suit tightly.

Concern flickers across Natasha’s face. She glances up, spotting you standing a few steps away. 

You’re standing with your arms crossed, your expression a mix of worry and exasperation. When her gaze meets yours, she tilts her head slightly, silently asking for an explanation.

You sigh, offering a helpless shrug before mouthing the words, She’s scared. 

Natasha’s brows knit together. 

Without hesitation, she kneels fully, carefully extracting herself from Lena’s grasp to bring herself to her daughter’s eye level. Her hands move with practiced tenderness as she brushes the unruly strands of red hair away from Lena’s face.

“Lena,” Natasha coaxes, her voice warm and patient. “What’s wrong?”

Lena shakes her head, refusing to look up. Instead, she leans forward, burying her face into Natasha’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her again.

“Too many,” she mumbles, her voice trembling.

“Too many people?” Natasha asks gently, and Lena nods, her lower lip quivering.

Natasha’s heart clenches. 

She remembers all too well the fear of performing under a watchful audience, though for very different reasons. 

But this isn’t about her—it’s about her daughter.

“Do you still want to do this?” Natasha asks, her tone careful. “It’s okay if you don’t. We can go home.” 

Lena pulls back slightly, her tearful eyes searching Natasha’s face. There’s hesitation, a flicker of doubt, but beneath it, Natasha sees something unmistakable—determination. 

Her little girl is scared, but she doesn’t want to quit. 

A small smile plays on Natasha’s lips as an idea forms. 

“What if I join you on stage?” she offers, her tone light and inviting.

Lena’s face scrunches in thought before a soft pout emerges. 

“But you don’t know the dance,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with uncertainty. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. 

“Did you forget who I am?” she teases, her voice taking on a dramatic flair. “I’m a superhero!” 

Without warning, Natasha launches a playful tickle attack, her fingers finding the sensitive spots along Lena’s sides.

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.” 

Lena bursts into giggles, squirming as she tries to fend off her mother’s relentless fingers. The sound of her laughter rings through the hallway, chasing away the tension that had hung in the air moments before. 

Natasha grins, feeling the warmth of the moment seep into her chest.

When Lena’s laughter finally subsides, Natasha stands, brushing off her suit, and glances toward you. 

“Can you ask her teacher if there’s a spare pair of ballet slippers?” she asks with a faint smirk.

You hesitate, your expression shifting to one of quiet concern. 

Natasha’s relationship with ballet is something you’ve never been able to forget—the Red Room, the forced lessons and training, the precision that was more weapon than art.

“Natasha,” you say carefully, your voice tinged with worry. “Are you sure about this?”

She meets your gaze head-on, her green eyes steady and resolute. There’s no shadow of the pain she once carried in them. Instead, there’s something else entirely—resolve, a quiet strength, and even a spark of joy.

“I’m sure,” Natasha replies, her hand resting gently on Lena’s shoulder. She smiles, a genuine, heartfelt smile that lights up her face. “I want to dance with my daughter.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You return to your seat, settling in as Natasha and Lena make their final preparations behind the stage. Your hands work to turn on the camcorder, ensuring it’s ready to capture the moment. 

As you adjust the settings, a low commotion at the back of the auditorium catches your attention.

Murmurs ripple through the audience, accompanied by the sound of heavy boots and the faint clinking of metal. 

Turning around, you spot the unmistakable figures of the Avengers entering the room, drawing stares of awe and excitement from the surrounding parents and guests. They’re still dressed in their battle gear, dusted with dirt and scratches from whatever fight they must have just finished. 

Steve spots you first, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on you. He calls and gestures for the others to follow as they weave through the rows toward the seats you had saved.

“Where’s Nat?” Steve asks as he sets his shield carefully on the ground beneath his seat, his tone casual despite the circumstances.

“She’s backstage with Lena, getting ready,” you reply, amused as you watch the team settle in. 

Wanda sits beside Clint as he removes his quiver, propping it against the seat beside him, while Thor tries to wedge Mjölnir under the narrow chair legs, much to the whispered amazement of nearby onlookers. Bruce tries to adjust his torn shirt before sheepishly giving you a grateful nod when you pass him your jacket, while Sam nudges Bucky, who’s muttering something about how much he hates crowds. 

Tony, true to form, leans forward over Steve and waves dismissively at your camcorder. 

“Come on, that thing’s archaic. Enjoy the show and let the suit handle it—I’ll have a 4K file sent to you before the night’s over.” 

You roll your eyes but concede, stowing the camcorder away. 

Knowing Tony, he’s probably not joking.

The lights dim, signaling the start of the performance. A hush falls over the audience, and your heart beats in anticipation as the curtains part to reveal the young dancers in their opening positions. 

You immediately spot Lena, her red hair tied back into a neat bun, standing in formation with the other children. Her posture is straight, but you can see her nerves in how her eyes dart across the audience. 

Then, she finds you. 

Her gaze softens, and her little shoulders visibly relax when she sees your encouraging smile. Her eyes shift slightly to the row beside you, where the familiar faces of the Avengers sit. 

Thor gives her an exaggerated thumbs-up while Clint offers a subtle nod of approval. 

Lena’s lips curve into a faint smile, and the tension in her posture begins to melt away.

Her gaze then moves to the stage, where Natasha stands poised in position with the ballet teacher, seamlessly blending in with the other performers. Natasha catches Lena’s eye and gives her a subtle, playful wink. 

That’s all it takes to bring a brighter smile to Lena’s face.

The soft strains of the piano begin, the timeless melody of The Nutcracker filling the room. 

The dancers spring into motion, their movements light and deliberate. Your eyes follow Natasha and Lena, the pair moving in perfect sync with the other performers. 

Natasha glides effortlessly across the stage, her movements precise and graceful. Yet her focus is on Lena, her face alight with a rare softness as she watches her daughter perform. 

Lena, bolstered by the presence of her mother and the familiar faces in the audience, dances with a newfound confidence. Her steps are fluid, and her timing is impeccable. 

You feel your heart swell as you watch them. 

Natasha’s expression is one of pride and joy, her past struggles with ballet fading into insignificance as she turns something once painful into a beautiful moment with her daughter.

When the final notes of the piano fade, the dancers hold their ending positions, and the audience erupts into thunderous applause. 

The sound is overwhelming, and yet Lena doesn’t seem to notice. 

As if breaking from the performance mindset, she darts toward Natasha with a gleeful laugh, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist. 

Natasha catches her effortlessly, spinning her in a small circle before holding her close.

From the stage, Natasha looks out into the crowd, her eyes easily finding yours. She holds your gaze for a moment, her expression softening even more as she reads your reaction, and you blow her a kiss, clapping enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You carefully top off the mugs of hot chocolate with a generous sprinkle of tiny marshmallows, the warm aroma filling the kitchen as you place them on a tray. Balancing the tray in your hands, you head to the living room where Natasha and Lena are sitting. 

The sight that greets you as you round the corner softens your expression instantly. 

Lena is nestled against Natasha’s side, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Her little hand clutches a blanket loosely, a faint smile still lingering on her face, as if her dreams were carrying her through the joy of the evening. 

Natasha looks down at her with a tenderness that never fails to move you. 

“Hot chocolate delivery,” you whisper, setting the tray on the coffee table. 

Natasha carefully takes a mug, her free hand brushing Lena’s hair gently.

“I guess catching Santa isn’t happening this year,” you remark quietly as you sit on the other side of Natasha, picking up your own mug. 

Natasha chuckles softly, her voice low and warm. 

“She got closer this time—almost made it to midnight.”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips as you watch your little girl, her steady breaths a soothing rhythm in the cozy glow of the Christmas tree lights. 

After a moment, Natasha carefully sets her mug down, shifting her weight to lift Lena into her arms. 

“I’ll tuck her in.”

You nod, watching as Natasha cradles Lena with ease. 

There’s a protective air about her, a quiet instinct to ensure Lena’s safety and comfort, even in the simplest of acts. 

As Natasha heads to Lena’s room, you take the opportunity to retrieve the hidden presents you’d stashed away earlier. The pile is a mix of brightly wrapped boxes, their bows glinting under the tree’s twinkling lights as you carefully place each one in its spot. 

You’re positioning the last box under the tree when Natasha reappears in the doorway. Her expression shifts instantly, her eyes widening as she realizes where you are.

“Wait, Lena put–” Natasha begins, but it’s too late. 

A soft click echoes from behind the curtains when your hand releases the box. Before you can react, a net springs from its hidden position, entangling you in one swift motion. 

You yelp in surprise as the net tightens around you, sending you to the ground in an unceremonious heap. 

“–a trap there for Santa,” Natasha finishes with a wince, rushing forward to help as you let out an exasperated groan.

She kneels beside you, stifling a chuckle as she starts working to untangle the net. 

“She gets this from your side of the family,” you grumble playfully, earning a laugh from Natasha.

“Probably,” she admits with a smirk. “I bet Yelena gave her the idea.”

As the net loosens, you sit up, brushing stray strands of rope from your lap. 

“Speaking of Yelena, she and your parents are flying in tomorrow morning, right?” 

Natasha nods, leaning back against the base of the sofa. 

“Yeah. They should get here before Lena wakes up.”

You settle beside her, resting your head lightly against her shoulder. Her arm drapes around you automatically, pulling you closer as you both gaze at the tree, now adorned with gifts.

“That’s perfect,” you say softly. “We’ll open presents together.”

Natasha’s gaze lingers on the presents under the tree, her expression distant. A slow, almost disbelieving breath escapes her lips, drawing your attention. 

“What is it?” you ask gently, sensing the shift in her mood.

Natasha hesitates before speaking, her voice tinged with wistfulness. 

“There was a time, years ago, when I was undercover. We had to stage family photos for our cover. I remember being surrounded by Christmas presents—dozens of them. Even though I knew they weren’t real, I wanted to believe it was.”

Her eyes meet yours, soft and filled with gratitude. 

“I never thought I’d get to have this. A real home. A family. Moments like this. And it’s because of you. You gave me this life I never thought was possible.”

Your chest tightens with emotion at her words. Smiling, you cup her face, your thumb brushing gently along her cheekbone. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, pouring every ounce of love and reassurance you can into the gesture. 

When you pull back, you echo the words she’d spoken earlier to Lena. 

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

Natasha laughs softly, her eyes glistening as she tilts her forehead against yours. The sound is warm and filled with love. As she leans in to kiss you again, the clock chimes, its soft tones signaling the arrival of midnight.

Natasha pauses, her lips brushing yours as she whispers, “Merry Christmas, moya lyubov.”

You smile against her lips. “Merry Christmas, Nat.”

And as her lips find yours once more, the world outside seems to fade, leaving only the warmth of the moment, the glow of the tree, and the quiet joy of Christmas shared together.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: This came out later than I wanted 😅, but I still hope everyone has a merry christmas and a happy holidays! Thank you for all the support over the past year! Hopefully, we'll continue together and have fun in the upcoming year.

Side note: I just realized that the my recent update on the series Feline Connection is not showing in the tags (at least for me), so I just wanted to let those know who follow the series that the next part is out.

[luvly-writer]

Basgaith: Eyes Up, Gamlyn

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

Later that afternoon, the sun was lower, casting long shadows over the training yard. The squads had moved into formation drills under the watchful eyes of the wingleaders, and Xaden Riorson—shirt back on, to Y/n’s great disappointment—was stalking the line like a general preparing for war.

“Positions should be tight,” he barked, sharp voice cutting through the air. “If your flanks are open, you’re already dead. Move with your squad like they’re your wings.”

His tone was clipped, commanding, and way too attractive for someone who was supposedly terrifying. Y/n tried to focus. Really. But her eyes drifted again. To the way his black rider jacket clung to his broad shoulders. To the effortless way he moved��calculated, sharp, dangerous. A shadow wielder wrapped in command and cold beauty.

Then it happened.

He turned.

Caught her.

And winked.

It was fast—barely a twitch of one eye—but it was unmistakable.

Y/n’s breath caught. Her entire body stiffened.

And then—

“Oh my gods.”

Rhiannon snorted it first, grinning like a devil.

Violet wheezed next. “Y/n’s blushing again!”

Sawyer whistled loud enough for the cadets across the yard to turn. Ridoc—ever the doting older brother—threw his head back and cackled.

“HE WINKED AT HER,” Sawyer teased. “I SAW IT.”

Y/n groaned and covered her face with both hands. “I will murder every single one of you in your sleep.”

"You can't do that, it's against Codex"

"Shut the fuck up, Ridoc"

“I think you just got promoted,” Rhiannon teased. “Straight to Riorson’s favorite.”

Xaden, from the center of the yard, did not comment. He didn’t look again.

But that smirk?

Yeah. It was very present.

Battle brief was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering mage lights overhead and the massive map stretched across the central table. The Iron Squad sat shoulder to shoulder with other riders as Xaden led the briefing, his voice low, crisp, and authoritative.

Y/n sat between Rhiannon and Violet, braid tight, posture straight, trying to focus despite the way Xaden’s presence always seemed to pull at the edges of her awareness.

“Gamlyn,” Xaden said suddenly, looking straight at her. “If the enemy surrounds your flank while a forward ambush is in play, what’s your best counter?”

“Pull the center forward, redirect the flank into a crescent maneuver, then trap them in a false retreat,” she answered quickly, voice clear and steady.

He gave a small nod. “Correct.”

She barely had time to let the praise settle before she felt it.

A soft brush.

Not on her hand, not on her shoulder—but around her ankle. Cool and silken, like smoke wrapping around skin. Not alarming—just a tease. A caress of magic no one else would notice.

Her breath caught. Eyes flicked downward. A faint, wispy curl of shadow danced around her boot before dissipating entirely.

No.

Her gaze darted up, scanning the riders at the table—until she found him.

Xaden hadn’t moved from his position across the table, arms folded, voice still deep in explanation. But his eyes?

They flicked toward her—just briefly—and there it was.

The smirk. Barely there. Just the edge of his lips curving up, like he knew exactly what he’d done. Like he was daring her to call him on it.

Y/n straightened in her seat, pulse thudding quietly in her throat.

Rhiannon leaned in, whispering, “You good?”

She gave the smallest nod, lips twitching into a secret smile. “Peachy.”

Xaden continued speaking, cool and collected.

But the next time her eyes dropped, she swore she saw the faintest flicker of shadow curl beneath the table once more.

The Iron Squad was technically supposed to be studying.

Books were open, yes. Scrolls unrolled, quills in hand, the works. But the library table they’d taken over looked more like the aftermath of a strategy meeting and a bakery run—crumbs from stolen pastries, notes half-doodled, and Liam’s bored sketches scattered among actual information.

Rhiannon had her feet propped up on a chair, leaning back as she quietly bickered with Sawyer over the interpretation of some dragon battle formation. Ridoc was half-asleep with a book over his face, and Violet kept trying to quiz everyone, only to be met with groans.

Y/n, seated at the edge of the table, was dutifully scribbling notes, eyes down, posture perfect… until she glanced away—too quickly and too often—to the far corner of the library.

Where Xaden was seated.

Focused. Intense. Reading over something with Garrick beside him. He hadn’t noticed her gaze, too deep in thought—or maybe he was just good at pretending not to notice.

But Liam noticed.

And so did the rest of them.

Sawyer’s brows shot up first. Rhiannon’s smirk followed. Violet elbowed Ridoc without looking up. “Don’t,” she warned under her breath.

Ridoc smirked at her, lifting the book off his face just enough to peer at Y/n with a suspicious grin. “Y/n. Dearest sister. Something got your attention over there?”

Y/n didn’t look up. “Hm? No.”

“You sure?” Liam chimed in, barely hiding his grin. “Because it looked like you were studying a particular... shadow wielder’s form.”

“Must be a fascinating subject,” Rhiannon added, mock-innocent. “Very advanced material.”

Y/n lifted her head with the calmest expression imaginable. “I was not.”

“Right,” Sawyer said. “And I didn’t hear you sigh five minutes ago.”

“I sighed at your inability to do simple math,” she retorted smoothly, flicking her eyes back to her notes.

“Uh-huh,” Ridoc drawled, leaning across the table. “Just saying, for someone who isn’t looking at Riorson, you’ve got a very focused non-gaze going on.”

Y/n didn’t even blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, princess,” Rhiannon teased under her breath with a wink.

Y/n rolled her eyes and flipped a page dramatically, trying to ignore how warm her face felt—especially when she looked up again, just to make sure he hadn’t noticed the entire thing.

Spoiler alert: he had. And he was definitely smirking.

Later that night...

It was late in the evening, the sky outside their dorm window glowing with the soft purples and oranges of twilight. The three girls were sprawled across Rhiannon room, a rare quiet moment between brutal training and even more brutal classes.

Violet was lying on her stomach on the bed, flipping through notes halfheartedly. Rhiannon sat cross-legged on the floor, braiding a piece of Y/n’s hair absentmindedly while Y/n lay back with her head in her best friend’s lap, staring at the ceiling with a dazed expression and a dreamy little smile tugging at her lips.

“Okay,” Rhiannon said, narrowing her eyes. “Spill it. What’s got you all floaty?”

“Hmm?” Y/n blinked. “Nothing.”

Violet lifted her head, immediately catching on. “Liar. You’ve been in a daze since sparring this morning.”

Y/n flushed and groaned. “No I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have,” Rhiannon said smugly. “You tripped over your own feet walking back to the barracks. You never trip.”

“It was a loose stone!” Y/n squeaked.

“Uh-huh,” Violet said, smirking. “Was the stone tall, dark, and broody with a mark crawling up his arms and a voice like a war drum?”

Y/n shoved a pillow over her face and mumbled something incoherent.

“What was that?” Rhiannon teased, tugging the pillow away.

“I said—I might have a small... teeny tiny... barely-there crush on Xaden,” Y/n muttered, face bright red.

Rhiannon let out a triumphant gasp. “Knew it!”

Violet burst into laughter, falling back onto the mattress. “Girl, we’ve BEEN knowing.”

Y/na sat up, scandalized. “No, you have not!”

“Yes, we have,” they said in unison.

“Violet caught you staring at him three days into training,” Rhiannon added, grinning.

“You told me his arms were ‘so unfair it should be illegal,’” Violet added with mock innocence.

“I—I never said that!”

Rhiannon laughed so hard she nearly toppled over. “You absolutely did!”

Y/n covered her face with her hands. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Violet said sweetly. “But you do like him.”

Y/n let out a dramatic groan, collapsing back onto the floor. “He’s going to know. He knows.”

“Good,” Rhiannon said with a wink. “He should.”

All three of them dissolved into laughter, their voices echoing into the twilight like the beginning of something wonderful.

Unbeknownst to knem...

The hallway outside the girls’ barracks was dimly lit, quiet except for the muffled sounds of laughter echoing from one of the rooms.

Xaden and Garrick were walking past, having just returned from a strategy meeting, when Garrick suddenly slowed down, one brow raised. “Wait.”

Xaden frowned. “What?”

“Shh.” Garrick tilted his head toward a door cracked just slightly open—Rhiannon’s room.

From inside, they could hear unmistakable giggles—and then Rhiannon’s voice, loud and teasing: “What was that?”

There was a pause, and then a flustered voice followed. Y/n’s.

“I said—I might have a small... teeny tiny... barely-there crush on Xaden.”

Xaden froze mid-step.

Garrick’s jaw dropped for a second… then his lips split into a slow, smug grin.

“Oh my gods,” he whispered, absolutely delighted. “She likes you.”

Xaden was still frozen, expression unreadable—but the slight twitch of his mouth gave him away.

“You’ve been brooding like a lovesick idiot for weeks,” Garrick whispered, practically vibrating. “And now this? This is the best day of my life.”

“Shut up,” Xaden muttered, but he couldn’t stop the way his eyes darted toward the door, or how his jaw relaxed slightly at the sound of Y/n’s laughter.

Inside the room, Rhiannon let out an exaggerated gasp, Violet howled with laughter, and Y/n was protesting loudly.

“They’re adorable,” Garrick whispered like a proud mother hen. “Can I plan the wedding?”

Xaden rolled his eyes and tugged him away by the arm, muttering under his breath. “You breathe a word of this and I’ll have Sgaeyl drop you into the river.”

“Worth it,” Garrick grinned.

As they walked off, the door clicked gently shut behind them, the girls completely unaware that their secret had just made a certain Wingleader’s night.

Author's note: Because of her being a pretty girly girl, Ridoc constantly called her princess from an early age, which caused the nickname to stick with their friendgroup once they got to Basgaith.

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia

To be added to the taglist, leave a comment <3

[xoxolaw]

+ HEARTS & HAZARDS

weak hero university au

CH 1

The rain dripped onto her face like it was trying to wake her.

Thin rivulets trailed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that spilled from the gash on her forehead — warm, metallic, and slow. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, each inhale burning like fire in her chest. Her vision swam, tears blurring the already fractured lights above, turning the world into a smear of motion and color.

The concrete beneath her was ice-cold, soaked and unforgiving. Her body trembled violently, muscles locking and unlocking without control. Her scraped knees throbbed, stinging raw from where they had slammed into the ground. She could barely feel her fingers as she pressed her palms flat to the pavement, trying—failing—to push herself up.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t think past the ringing in her ears.

Then—

A voice. Distant at first. Sharp. Urgent. Her name, flung into the night air like a lifeline.

And footsteps — fast, reckless, crashing through puddles. Closer. Closer.

Her heart lurched.

She didn’t know who she wanted it to be.

No. That was a lie.

She knew exactly who she wanted it to be.

His voice.

His arms.

The promise he made — “I’ll always find you.”

But it wasn’t him.

And somehow, that hurt more than the blood, more than the cold, more than the pain that sang through every inch of her fractured body.

“Hey—! Hey! Stay with me—look at me—!”

A figure knelt beside her, hands hovering just above her shoulders, terrified to touch. She blinked up, lashes heavy with rain and blood and tears. The world kept tilting, spinning, refusing to stay still. Her throat burned. Her chest heaved.

Her name was spoken again — softer this time. Shaky. Frightened. As if it would disappear if said too loud.

She tried to answer. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Only a silent gasp. A twitch of her fingers.

Her hands were slick, crimson and rain-slicked. She couldn’t tell where the wounds ended and the water began.

The face above her blurred and darkened. Her vision tunneled. Her body sagged.

And then—

far away, but rising, sharp and unmistakable—

The sirens began to wail.

---

ONE MONTH EARLIER

There was a quiet kind of chaos that came with the start of university — not loud or showy, but humming just beneath the surface. It lingered in the shine of freshly waxed tiles, the crisp swipe of brand-new ID cards, and bulletin boards so crowded with flyers they blurred into a collage of ambitions no one had time to read.

Hwayang University didn’t scream for attention.

It waited.

Like something watching from the edge of a rooftop — still, silent, waiting for you to slip.

You were either ready, or you weren’t.

Y/N was ready.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She’d unpacked half her dorm in under fifteen minutes, torn open boxes with keys and teeth, and left her suitcase unzipped, its contents half-spilled across the floor. She nearly tripped over a stack of folded jeans trying to get out the door, balancing her phone in one hand and a hair tie in the other.

Then her phone lit up —

BAKUUUUU👊 “Athlete wing. Behind the gym.”

That was all the permission she needed.

She didn’t even stop to tie her shoelaces.

Childhood friendships were like old songs — even if you hadn’t heard them in years, you still knew every beat, every pause, every crash of drums.

The late summer sun painted gold over the courtyard bricks as she rounded the east wing, skipping steps two at a time, her hair still damp from a rushed shower and clinging to the back of her neck. Her chest buzzed with something warm and untouchable — the kind of electricity that came from knowing someone who knew you before the world got complicated.

Before reputation.

Before pride.

Before pretending not to miss each other.

But then—

Screech.

A crash.

Rubber shrieking against concrete.

And a curse — sharp, low, and deeply annoyed.

Something metal clattered against the pavement.

A blur of motion shot around the corner — a scooter, wild and riderless, skidding just inches from her foot. Y/N froze, breath catching in her throat as the vehicle spun out, tail whipping, before crashing against the base of a vending machine.

Her heart hadn’t even caught up when she heard the thud — a heavier sound, grounded and solid.

The rider had landed — knees bent, one hand bracing the ground, the other tugging down a black hoodie. He stood in one smooth motion, all muscle memory and nonchalance, like someone who’d done this more than once and never bothered learning from it.

Y/N blinked.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“Are you serious?” he said, voice flat, like she was a punchline he didn’t ask for.

He was tall — annoyingly so — all sharp angles beneath the hood of a black sweatshirt. A fresh cut split near his elbow, already smudged with dirt and grit. His eyes — dark, narrowed, and unbothered — swept over her like she was the hazard in his way.

“You almost killed me!” she gasped, stepping back instinctively.

“You ran into me,” he shot back without missing a beat, tone like steel cooled too fast.

She pointed furiously at the crooked sign half-eaten by ivy, the one that clearly read NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT.

“You’re not even supposed to ride a scooter here!”

“And you’re not supposed to sprint across a blind turn like it’s Olympic tryouts.”

They stood there, breath short, the scooter still tipped helplessly between them like a neutral party in a war neither of them planned to start. His hoodie was soaked at the edges, knees stained with concrete dust, and yet he looked far more composed than someone who had just launched off a moving vehicle.

He exhaled hard through his nose — a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a tired laugh. Not out of humor. Out of disbelief.

“Unbelievable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you normally drive like that, or just when you’re trying to get someone hospitalized?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you normally leap into traffic, or just when you’re auditioning for drama club’s next tragedy?”

That made her freeze.

His voice — it wasn’t familiar in a personal sense. But there was something about it.

The rhythm.

The bite.

Like a memory she couldn’t name brushing the edge of her mind.

Before she could grab hold of it, he’d already turned, lifting his scooter with one smooth motion and walking off without another glance. The words “reckless freshmen” drifted under his breath, just loud enough to make her blood boil.

“Wait—!” she called after him, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

She stood there, heart pounding, arms crossed tight around her ribs as the question echoed inside her.

Why did he feel so familiar…?

But before the thought could land, a new voice crashed through the fog — louder, lighter, and impossible to miss.

“Y/N!”

She spun around.

And grinned.

There he was — towering over most of the students passing by, sweat clinging to the edges of his black tank top, muscles flexing as he adjusted the duffel bag slung carelessly over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“BAKU!!”

“Took you long enough,” he teased, breaking into a jog. Before she could dodge, he reached out and ruffled her half-damp hair with all the delicacy of a brick.

“You still run like you’re late for school.”

She rolled her eyes, swatting at his hand.

“And you still talk like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I do. That I’ve still got the better vertical jump.”

“And I’ve still got the better insults.”

Their grins met in the middle — crooked, familiar, full of things left unsaid.

Just like that, the years melted.

He looped an arm around her shoulders like they hadn’t missed a day, like it hadn’t been years since they last stood side by side without a screen in between.

She leaned into it — just a little. Just enough.

They started walking toward the athlete wing, the sun casting long shadows behind them.

“God, everything here feels so big,” she muttered, scanning the wide campus paths, the towering lecture halls, the endless maze of signs pointing in all directions. “I keep thinking I’ll turn a corner and get eaten by a syllabus.”

Baku snorted. “You and me both. I literally got lost trying to find the weight room ,his morning and ended up in the music department.”

“Let me guess. You stayed for the drum solo?”

“Nah. I was asked to leave for trying to eat a protein bar too loudly.”

She laughed, and the knot in her chest loosened further. There was something weirdly comforting about knowing Baku — strong, unbothered, always-ready Baku — was just as new here. Just as unprepared.

“Okay but seriously,” she said, side-eyeing him. “How does it feel being the ‘new guy’ again?”

He considered that for a moment, then sighed. “Honestly? Feels like walking into a movie halfway through. Everyone already has their groups, their gossip, their go-to cafeteria tables.”

“Same.” She kicked a pebble off the path. “But at least I’ve got one familiar face.”

He looked down at her, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Yeah. Same.”

They walked in silence for a beat. Easy, unpressured.

Then she hesitated.

“…Hey. Can I tell you something weird?”

Baku glanced at her. “Always.”

“That guy with the scooter… I think I’ve seen him before.”

“Here?”

“No. Before Hwayang. His voice just…” She trailed off, scrunching her brows. “It’s stupid. Probably nothing.”

He nodded slowly, letting it sit without teasing her this time. “Gut feelings usually aren’t ‘nothing,’ you know.”

She smiled faintly. “When did you become the wise one?”

“Somewhere between music hall evictions and protein deficiency.”

They rounded a bend in the path and the back of the athletic building came into view — the place where it all started.

He looked ahead, then at her. “You still up for a tour of the gym?”

She raised a brow. “You're giving me the tour? Weren’t you lost this morning?”

“Confidence is 80% of leadership,” he said proudly.

“And the other 20%?”

“…Not getting us locked in the equipment room.”

She grinned, jogging ahead just a few steps before glancing back at him.

They were both new here.

But together, it didn’t feel so intimidating.

Not yet.

---

The rest of the day blurred in a kind of beautiful chaos — new maps, new names, and wrong turns softened by shared laughter.

Baku, despite claiming he knew where he was going, led them into the economics wing instead of the cafeteria. They ended up eating vending machine crackers on a bench under the shade of a ginkgo tree.

“Gourmet,” he said, holding up a crumbling granola bar like it was fine cuisine.

Y/N took a dramatic bite of hers and gagged. “You owe me real food after this.”

He chuckled, watching her shake crumbs off her jeans. “Deal. Once I figure out where the actual cafeteria is.”

From there, they wandered across campus. Found the main quad. Got distracted by a drama club doing improv games near the library stairs. Baku tried to join. Got kicked out within five minutes for pretending to faint too realistically.

“You really would’ve killed it in drama club,” she teased.

“I live for chaos and applause,” he shrugged.

Later, they sat side by side in the student lounge — shoes kicked off, heads tilted back against the soft hum of overhead lights. Around them, other students drifted in and out, laughter and conversation filling the quiet in waves. Y/N watched the golden-orange light slant across the windows, painting everything in warm tones.

She was tired — not the heavy kind, but the good kind. The kind that came after walking all day, learning too much too fast, and being with someone who made it feel easier than it was.

“You okay?” Baku asked, nudging her with his foot.

“Yeah.” She exhaled. “Today was… a lot. But not bad.”

“You made it better,” she added without thinking.

There was a pause.

Then he cleared his throat, eyes flicking down to his hands. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

She looked over, curious.

He ran a hand through his hair, like he was suddenly shy about it — a rare expression for someone who usually barreled through life without hesitation.

“You wanna play basketball tonight?” he asked. “Not anything serious. Just… us. Under the lights.”

She blinked.

It was the kind of invitation that didn’t need explaining. They’d played hundreds of times before — on cracked school courts, rainy driveways, even during festivals when they were both supposed to be doing anything but playing basketball.

Her lips curled. “You asking because you want to hang out, or because you need someone to crush you before orientation?”

Baku grinned, wide and immediate. “Definitely the second one.”

“Then yes,” she said, standing up and stretching with a mock yawn. “Prepare to be humbled.”

He stood too, tossing his duffel over his shoulder again. “You wish.”

And just like that — the weight of the new day melted a little more.

Plans were made.

The sun dipped lower.

And somewhere behind it all, Hwayang University began to feel less like a beast and more like a place they could call theirs.

---

But things never go as planned, do they?

The night came soft and slow, slipping over campus like a hush no one wanted to break. The courts were quieter still — soaked in gold from the floodlights, with the hum of insects weaving through the silence like a lullaby.

Y/N stepped out through the dorm gates, the echoes of hallway chatter fading behind her. A warm breeze pressed against her skin, lifting strands of her hair as she paused — just long enough to steady her heartbeat.

She crossed the grass-lined field path with her hands tucked in her pockets, breath evening out.

And then—

She saw him.

Her breath caught before she even realized why.

He hadn’t changed.

Still dressed like he didn’t care, like style happened to him by accident — black denim, hoodie pushed up to his forearms, a silver chain hanging loose from one pocket. A cigarette spun lazily between his fingers — unlit, but held like it was muscle memory.

Geum Seong-je.

His head turned the second she passed.

Their eyes met — and the world tightened.

It was like stepping into a memory with a pulse.

She froze.

He looked exactly the same. Or maybe he didn’t — maybe he was sharper now, colder at the edges — but to her, he still looked like seventeen, like moonlit rooftops and the sound of his bike revving outside her window.

She had told herself it wouldn’t matter if he was here. That it wouldn’t matter if she saw him again.

But now?

Now, all she could think about was the weight of his helmet in her hands. The way he used to pull her onto the back of his bike like she belonged there. The way he’d smile — like rules never applied to them.

And then the other memories came.

The ones with blood.

With whispers.

With Union.

The way she found out — slowly, piece by piece, like a wound spreading under the skin.

The way he’d say “don’t worry about it” when she asked why his hands were bruised.

The way her voice shook when she finally asked if it was true.

They hadn’t spoken since the night she walked away.

She thought she’d buried it all.

But even now, from a distance…

There was something in her that still reacted to him.

That still remembered how he made the world feel bigger. Scarier. Brighter.

Like danger could be beautiful.

He took a step forward.

She didn’t move.

Not even when he smiled — not the warm kind. The one that always came before he said something designed to cut.

His voice came soft, low, and smug.

"Didn't expect you to see here."

His voice wrapped around her like smoke — casual, sharp, and full of something unspoken. It wasn’t quite surprise, and it wasn’t welcome either. Just that low hum of arrogance he wore like a second skin. Like he already knew how this would go.

Y/N didn’t answer at first. She couldn’t. Her throat felt too tight.

So he kept going.

"New campus. New people. Thought you’d leave all your bad decisions in high school."

The corner of his mouth lifted — not quite a smile. Not yet. But close enough to sting.

"And yet…" He gestured vaguely toward her. Toward himself. Toward this ridiculous, heavy silence between them. "Here we are."

She found her voice, finally. Barely.

"You shouldn’t be here."

"Why?" His brows raised, mock-innocent. "Because you are?"

"No," she snapped. "Because I’m finally somewhere you’re not supposed to follow."

That silenced him — for half a beat.

Then: "Didn’t know you still thought about me enough to assume I’d follow at all."

There it was again. The smirk. But his fingers twitched at his side.

She didn’t know what she hated more — the way he said things like they were jokes, or the way they weren’t.

Her pulse kicked harder.

Behind her, laughter floated from the courts. Someone called her name. Baku. His voice — open, kind, expectant — sliced through the air like a reminder of who she was now.

Not the girl who used to ride backseat on a stolen bike. Not the girl who’d hold her breath while wiping blood from someone else’s knuckles.

But Seong-je stepped closer.

And quieter this time, with no smirk left to hide behind, he asked, “You gonna act like none of it meant anything?”

His eyes weren’t mocking now. Just… waiting.

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. Still unlit.

Y/N's breath trembled in her chest.

And for a second, the world held its breath with her.

Behind her: safety. New beginnings.

In front of her: the ghost of everything she once swore off — and once loved.

She didn’t know what scared her more.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hope you enjoyed it!! Do tell me if you are excited!!

GAME MENU

TAGLIST

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[pazzi5351]

PART 6

Just Friends

Football P x Cheerleader A

Highschool AU

WC: 2.3k

AN: IM BACK BITCHES😋😋 if you missed me I’m so sorry but I think that this chapter will make up for it. I worked on making it more detailed so lmk if there’s errors and I tried making it longer than my usual so also lmk if my transitions make sense! Love ya 🥰

————————————————————————————---------------

The morning of the playoff game was crisp and electric, the kind of day where every breath seemed to crackle with anticipation, like the air was holding its own secret, waiting to explode. The sun was just beginning to stretch golden shadows over University of Virginia’s campus, casting long shadows across the football field, where the freshly painted yard lines gleamed with promise. 

Fans began trickling in slowly at first, then in clusters, decked out in school colors—deep maroon and bright white—faces painted with stripes and symbols, school logos pinned proudly to hats and scarves. Excited chatter swirled around the parking lot, the unmistakable hum of pre-game energy buzzing beneath it all. Friends gathered, voices rising and falling, laughter interrupted by the sharp blast of whistles and the distant thud of a football being tossed back and forth.

Inside the team’s locker room, the atmosphere was thick with a mix of tension and determination. It was the kind of quiet storm that always rolled in before a big game—the collective heartbeat of the team, rapid and steady, reminding everyone that this was the moment they’d been working for all season long. Cleats scraped against the polished floor, coaches barked last-minute instructions with the same passion they had all year, and players shifted nervously, adjusting pads and helmets, some pacing, others sitting silently, focused and calm on the surface but freaking out on the inside.

Paige sat on the bench, methodically pulling on her gloves, her fingers steady even though her heart was pounding against her chest like a drum. She had the practiced ease of someone who had run these routines a hundred times before, but the stakes were different now. This was no ordinary game—it was the playoffs, the moment that could define everything. Her cleats dug slightly into the turf as she stretched and warmed up along the sideline, eyes sharp and scanning.

The Arlington offensive line had spent the past few weeks watching endless hours of film after school and in between practices, studying their opponent’s defense—a team known for their relentless, physical playing style. Their defensive line was infamous for crushing running lanes, slamming into quarterbacks with the force of a freight train, and never letting up. Every yard on the field was going to be a challenge. Paige knew the defensive ends were fast and brutal, the linebackers hit like trucks, and the secondary played tight coverage that left no room for error.

Nearby, on the cheerleading sideline, Azzi was busy coaching one of the freshman girls through some new motions that were part of their halftime routine. Her voice was low but steady, carrying just enough encouragement to push without pressure. “Okay, hit that low-v faster — like this. Remember, low-v is 1, break is 2, and punch is 3.” She demonstrated with sharp, precise movements, muscles taut and controlled. The younger girl nodded, trying to mirror the exact motions, lips pressed in concentration.

Paige jogged over, a wide grin breaking through her usual game face—a grin that was equal parts excitement and nerves. She tapped Azzi’s shoulder lightly, and Azzi turned mid-instruction, muttering a “one sec.” to the freshman. She looked at Paige and their eyes met, locking for a split second in a quiet moment away from the chaos that was right infront of them. Paige’s smile was shy but full of warmth, the kind of smile that made Azzi’s chest flutter; the same one Caroline called her “Azzi smile”. Without a word, they slipped into their secret handshake, fluid, and practiced with quick highfives, double hand taps, fingers briefly intertwining before they parted. Paige’s eyes twinkled with adrenaline as she nodded once, then jogged back toward the huddle, heart racing.

On the sidelines, Caroline and Ryan exchanged wide-eyed looks, mouths hanging open just a little. “What the fuck?” Ryan muttered, voice low.

Caroline smirked knowingly, nudging him. “I clocked that shit the second Paige tapped Azzi’s shoulder grinning. But, chill before you blow our cover.” She threw a pointed glance at Azzi, who was already slipping back into her spot on the cheer line, cheeks flushed but composed, with a slight smile on her face.

The referee’s whistle blew sharply, slicing through the murmurs of the crowd and signaling the start of the game. From the very first snap, the opposing defense came out swinging hard.The linebackers swarmed Paige the instant she caught the ball, jostling and tackling her with brutal intensity, every inch on the field was met with a battle. Arlington’s offensive line stood firm, but the pressure from Lehigh was relentless, pushing their quarterback to scramble just to keep plays alive. Sweat dripped, breaths came fast, and every move was met with resistance.

By the third quarter, cracks began to show in Arlington’s protection schemes. A few key plays stalled, drives ended in punts or field goal attempts when touchdowns had seemed possible. Frustration curled in Paige’s stomach when she was flagged for a borderline pass interference call, teeth clenched tight. She pushed it down, reminding herself that this game was far from over.

The crowd was electric as the clock wound into the fourth quarter, the score tight and tension thick. Both teams were locked in a fierce,fight—hits landing hard, catches made on the edge of control, and cheers roaring with every daring play. With just under five minutes left, the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath.

During a timeout, the Arlington team huddled close, sweat glistening on faces, chests heaving, eyes filled with determination. Their head coach stepped forward, whiteboard in hand, sketching out a new play — a quick sideline run designed to exploit a weakness they’d spotted in the rival’s formation. It was perfect for Paige’s speed and agility, a chance to outrun the defense along the edge and break free.

“Alright, Paige,” the coach said, voice low and serious, locking eyes with her. “You’re the key. Get the ball, stay low, and push down that sideline and don't stop until you reach the endzone. We need this touchdown.”

Paige nodded, adrenaline surging through her veins. She felt the weight of the moment settle over her shoulders but didn’t flinch.

Back on the field, the snap was clean. Paige exploded off the line, eyes sharp and scanning the defense. The defensive backs closed in fast, but she was faster. With a quick juke, a powerful push, she slipped past the nearest defender and sprinted along the sideline. The crowd erupted as she barreled toward the end zone, the defense chasing desperately behind. One final dive, arms stretched out in front of her, and she crossed the goal line.

The stadium exploded with cheers and jumping fans.

Her teammates swarmed her immediately in the endzone—helmet taps, chest bumps, playful butt slaps echoing the close victory. They hadn’t just won; they’d earned every inch, fought every step. The taste of the win was almost dizzying.

But even in the rush of celebration, the nerves of the state championship game the next day hung heavy. The team’s curfew was strict:room checks by 10:45, lights out at 10:50 sharp. Azzi and the cheer squad followed the same rules, which were enforced by their coaches, knowing the stakes were higher than ever.

Later that night, after the mandatory bedroom check, Azzi lingered near the door in her room, a mischievous glint lingering in her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she whispered low, just loud enough for Caroline and Ryan to hear.

Caroline shook her head, exasperated. “You really should stay. You don’t want the whole team getting in trouble.”

Azzi waved her off. “Relax. The football guys already had their checks earlier. And Paige’s the only girl on the team, which means, she gets her own room. Nothing to worry about. And if anyone sees me and asks, Paige left her hoodie in here the other night.”

Caroline rolled her eyes and Ryan protested further from the bathroom, but Azzi was already halfway out the door. She hopped in the elevator and rode down to the floor where the football team was.

As she walked down the hall toward Paige’s door, she paused near the other guys’ rooms, as she heard her name from behind the door.

“I think you could totally pull Azzi, man. The other night, you just came off way too strong talking about her.”

“Yeah, and plus, Paige was there. You know her ass goes crazy for Fudd. Wants to keep her all to herself, even though Azzi’s not even gay.”

The last voice was unmistakable—the same boy who’d made a rude comment about Azzi at the pool on the first night. “Maybe. I’m gonna see if I can get her without her bodyguard.”

Azzi’s blood ran cold. Without hesitation, she knocked hard against their door. Then again. And again.

Footsteps approached and the door swung open.

“Listen,” Azzi said, voice low but fierce. “Fuck off. If you ever disrespect Paige again, I swear on everything I’ll make sure you never see a football or field again. And I’m not threatening you — that’s a fucking promising.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, muttering apologies.

“For the record,” Azzi added, stepping closer, eyes sharp, “even if I were straight—and that’s a big fucking if—I wouldn’t think twice about rejecting your ugly asses.”

She turned sharply and walked away, the hallway suddenly quiet.

When Azzi reached Paige’s door, it opened before she could knock.

Paige stood there, slightly disheveled like she’d just woken up, messy hair framing her face, looking impossibly pretty.

“What was all that banging?” Paige asked, eyebrows raised.

Azzi smiled but said nothing, leaning in to kiss her softly. When Paige smiled against her lips, she grabbed Azzi’s waist, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. Laughter bubbled from Azzi when she pulled away, earning a playful protest from Paige.

“You played so well today baby,” Azzi whispered.

Paige’s lips curled into a teasing smirk. “Then you should come in and show me how well I played, mama. Please?”

Azzi chuckled, mumbling, “You act like a horny 13-year-old boy sometimes.” She kissed Paige again, then shook her head. “Goodnight P.”

The next morning, Paige’s team was already on the field well before 8:30. Paige groaned, mumbling something about how it was way too early to start drills and practice plays for tonight. She ran routes with the second-team quarterback, focusing on her footwork and cuts.

As she rounded the corner, the same three boys Azzi had confronted the night before approached her, looking sheepish.

“Yo, Paige. Look man, we’re so sorry for disrespecting you and Azzi,” Malik said quietly. 

“We didn’t know your relationship was that serious. We didn’t mean anything by it.” Trey added nodding, barely even looking at her.

Paige blinked, confused but appreciative. “Thanks… I guess.”

They nodded quickly and backed off.

Coach called a break. “Alright, get off my field. Get some rest before tonight. Be downstairs by 5.”

Paige nodded and hurried inside. Instead of heading to her own room, Paige took the elevator two floors higher, heading to Azzi’s. She knocked twice, and Caroline’s voice called out, “Az, your girlfriend is at the door!”

Paige blinked, caught off guard. “Girlfriend?”

Caroline smirked. “Yeah, seriously. The pregame handshake sold it for me. But don’t forget, she’s my best friend—I know everything.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi appeared in the doorway, mock annoyed. “Carol, you’re so annoying. I tell you shit in confidence.”

Azzi glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby, then leaned forward to kiss Paige deeply.

“Hi,” she whispered, pulling back.

Azzi’s eyes roamed over Paige’s post-practice look—messy bun, compression tee, practice pants, pads in hand—and she murmured, “You look so fucking good right now… kinda making me wish I had a room all to myself.”

Paige laughed softly and kissed her again, getting a small whimper from Azzi as she pulled back.

“Tonight, after we’re champs,” Paige said lowly, “my room is all ours, alright ma?”

Azzi’s breath caught, eyes half-lidded as she buried her face in Paige’s chest. “Fuck, I wish you weren’t so you sometimes.”

Paige grinned. “Why’s that, baby?”

Azzi groaned softly. “Because you’re just so hot and perfect, and I can’t even do anything about it. One, I still have to cheer later; two, you still have a game; and three, my annoying ass friends are in here.”

Paige laughed as Azzi pouted into her chest.

Suddenly remembering, Paige pulled back slightly. “Baby… Why did Malik and Trey come up to me during practice, apologizing like crazy for ‘disrespecting’ me?”

Azzi’s expression stiffened. “Nothinggg, I swear… I just– might have overheard some dumb shit they were sayin’ last night and I maybeee threatened them… only a little though! Maybe saying if they talk about us again, they’ll never see a football field again.”

Paige laughed, pushing Azzi playfully. Azzi pouted at her again. “Paige, it’s not funny. They were saying crazy shit. You can’t even blame me. Don’t think I forgot how you were about to beat Trey’s ass at the pool cause he was sayin’ dumb shit.”

Paige kissed her again. “I know, I know. But, I also know them, so I believe you. That’s why it’s funny. I’m glad you said something, but you should’ve seen how scared they were coming up to me.”

Azzi chuckled. “Good. They needed it.”

Paige glanced at her watch and sighed. “I should head downstairs to get ready.”

Azzi hugged her tightly. “Okay. But whatever happens tonight, I’m proud of you—and I’m definitely taking you up on that empty room offer.”

Paige laughed, kissed her one last time, and headed for the elevator with one thought burning bright in her mind: Win.

[supernova2205]

Unexpected Introductions

Gaz x reader

Summary: When the reader brings Gaz his forgotten lunch on base, she’s unexpectedly introduced to the rest of the 141. What starts as a simple gesture turns into a whirlwind of teasing. Despite Kyle’s embarrassment, the reader leaves a nice impression strengthening the bond between her and Gaz.

The mid-morning sun bathed the base in crisp winter light, the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of exhaust and freshly brewed coffee. You shifted the weight of the neatly packed lunch bag in your hand, your heart thumping a little faster than usual as you approached the entrance to the 141’s headquarters.

It wasn’t your first time doing something thoughtful for Kyle—your Kyle, better known as Sergeant “Gaz” Garrick—but walking onto a military base felt different. The gates, the security checks, the hum of activity… It was all a little overwhelming.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the small lunch bag you’d found sitting on your kitchen counter, forgotten in his early-morning rush. The idea of him going without food during his long hours on base didn’t sit right with you. So here you were, standing in the reception area, waiting for someone to fetch him.

Kyle was mid-briefing in the conference room, standing alongside Price, Soap, and Ghost. The team’s attention was split between the holographic map on the table and the captain’s deep, commanding voice.

That was until a knock broke the rhythm of the conversation.

“Enter,” Price said without looking up, his tone clipped.

The door swung open, revealing a junior soldier who saluted sharply. “Apologies, sir, but there’s someone here for Sergeant Garrick.”

Kyle blinked. “For me?”

“Yes, sir. Civilian. She said she’s got your… lunch.”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Kyle. Soap’s head whipped around so fast he almost knocked over his coffee mug, while Price’s brows inched up with barely concealed amusement. Even Ghost cocked his head slightly, though his mask obscured any expression.

“Uh…” Kyle cleared his throat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… probably my—” He hesitated, catching himself. “I’ll handle it. Thanks.”

Price leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his smirk downright predatory. “Well, Garrick, don’t keep her waitin’. We’ll hold the fort.”

Soap leaned closer, his grin wide and mischievous. “Aye, hurry along, Romeo.”

Kyle shot him a glare before ducking out of the room, muttering under his breath.

You spotted Kyle the moment he turned the corner, his sharp features softening into a warm smile as soon as he saw you.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice rich and familiar.

“Hi,” you replied, holding up the bag. “You left this at home. Thought you might need it.”

A sheepish chuckle escaped him as he took the bag from your hands. “Didn’t even realize. Thanks, love. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“It’s no big deal,” you said with a shrug. “Besides, can’t have you going hungry, can I?”

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours briefly in a small, unspoken thank-you. “You’re the best.”

The tender moment was cut short by the unmistakable sound of a broad Scottish accent.

“Who’s this, then?”

Both of you turned to see a man standing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He leaned casually against the frame, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s.

Kyle groaned softly. “Soap. Don’t start.”

Ignoring him entirely, Soap’s grin only grew. “Ach, so this is why ye’ve been sneakin’ off like a lovesick lad, eh? Didn’t ken ye were hidin’ a lass from us!”

“I wasn’t sneaking off,” Kyle said, his tone defensive.

Soap cocked an eyebrow. “Ye weren’t? Coulda fooled me. Now”—he turned to you with a theatrical flourish—“who might ye be, darlin’?”

You glanced at Kyle, whose face was rapidly turning red. Deciding to save him from more embarrassment, you offered your name.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Soap said, reaching out to shake your hand. “Call me Soap. Everyone does.”

Before you could respond, another voice joined the fray.

“Soap, what’s goin’ on?”

Captain Price appeared behind him, his brow furrowing briefly before his gaze landed on you. A knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Ah, I see.”

Soap stepped aside dramatically. “Cap’n, meet Gaz’s bonnie lass. She’s brought him his lunch. Proper wife material, if ye ask me.”

Kyle groaned louder this time. “For the love of—can we not do this right now?”

Price ignored him, extending a hand to you. “Captain John Price. And you are?”

You shook his hand, offering your name again. “It’s nice to meet you, Captain. Kyle’s mentioned you.”

“Has he now?” Price’s eyes gleamed. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” you replied, earning a quiet laugh from the captain.

“Hold on,” Soap interjected, his grin turning devious. “Does this mean you’re… his girlfriend?”

“Soap—” Kyle began, but the damage was done.

You hesitated, glancing at Kyle, who sighed in resignation. “Yes,” he muttered, almost too quietly to hear. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Soap let out a whoop of delight. “Knew it! Called it ages ago!”

Kyle buried his face in his hands as Soap clapped him on the back. “Och, mate, ye’ve been holdin’ out on us! She’s a keeper, that’s fer sure.”

Ghost appeared then, his imposing figure silently observing the scene. His voice, deep and dry, cut through the chaos. “You didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend, Garrick.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Kyle muttered, his ears burning.

“Relevant?” Soap echoed, incredulous. “Yer daft, mate. This is the most relevant thing I’ve heard all week!”

The next half hour passed in a whirlwind of questions, teasing, and introductions. Soap bombarded you with questions about how you met Kyle, what he was like at home, and even what his favorite meal was.

“So,” Soap said, leaning in conspiratorially, “does he snore?”

You laughed. “Not usually, but when he’s really tired…”

“Oh, brilliant,” Soap said, doubling over with laughter.

Price, meanwhile, asked more thoughtful questions, his tone warm but curious. “What’s it like putting up with him? He’s a handful here; I can only imagine what he’s like at home.”

“He’s sweet,” you said honestly. “Very thoughtful. He even leaves little notes around the house—”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Kyle interrupted, stepping between you and the team. “You lot have had your fun.”

Soap smirked, but he didn’t press further. Even Ghost seemed amused, though he remained mostly silent, his presence a quiet counterbalance to Soap’s energy.

As you said your goodbyes, Kyle walked you to the entrance, his hand brushing yours.

“Sorry about them,” he said, his voice low. “They’re… a bit much.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, smiling up at him. “They’re great. I can see why you care about them so much.”

He paused, his expression softening. “Thanks for coming. Really. It means a lot.”

You squeezed his hand. “Always. See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

As you walked away, you heard Soap’s voice echoing behind you.

“She’s a keeper, Gaz! Don’t mess this one up!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, already looking forward to the next time you’d see them all again.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I really hope you enjoyed this cute, fluffy story featuring Gaz. I’ve been feeling like I haven’t given him enough love in my writing, so I’d love to explore his character more! I also tried my hand at writing his accent, so I hope it turned out well. Thanks for reading! 😄💕

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔫-𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔡, 𝔠𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔶 𝔟𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔡p

Mike Munroe x male reader

Summary: a request that i received: “maaaaaybe some mike from until dawn, i was thinking of jealousy related stuff”

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Established relationship. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Mike and Jess are not together in this. Smut out in the open. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Dom Mike Munroe. Bottom male reader. Handjob (r giving and receiving). Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒿𝓈𝓉

Words count: 3000 words

The cold bit at your skin, crisp mountain air slipping beneath the layers of your jacket, but the breathtaking view before you was worth every sharp inhale. Moonlight poured over the snow-blanketed wilderness, turning the towering evergreens into dark, looming silhouettes against the endless sky. The air smelled of pine, woodsmoke and the distant bite of ice.

You leaned against the sturdy wooden railing, the aged timber solid beneath your weight, hands pressed together in front of you, rubbing for warmth. Your breath came out in visible puffs, dissipating into the night, mixing with the distant howl of the wind.

A sudden presence pressed against your back, solid and unyielding.

Mike’ hands landed on the railing on either side of yours, palms pressing against the wood, caging you in before you even had time to react. His broad chest met your back, the weight pressing and making it impossible to move. The heat of him was a stark contrast to the cold air, his body an unspoken invitation against yours. His head rested fully on your shoulder, leaning into the curve of your neck. The pressure was heavy, intimate, like he had no problem making it clear just how comfortable he was being this close.

A thick, undeniable pressure nudged against your lower back, large and firm. The realization struck fast, your breath catching in your throat, body going rigid before you managed to regain control of yourself. Right when you could share a romantic moment together with him.

A grin broke on your lips before you even fully processed it, the rush of heat beneath your skin betraying your best efforts to play it cool.

"Wow," Mike murmured against your ear, his voice low, husky, the warmth of his breath brushing along the shell of it. "Would you look at that?"

Your throat was dry. It took you a second to remember he was talking about the view. You exhaled through your nose, trying to steady yourself. "Yeah," you said, but it was weaker than you intended.

If Mike noticed, he didn't call you out on it. Instead, he hummed, his chest vibrating against your back. His fingers tapped absently against the railing, casual, like this was all perfectly normal. "Beautiful, isn't it?" His head shifted slightly, cheek brushing yours.

You nodded, desperate to hold onto whatever composure you had left. "Mhm."

Mike chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "You know," he mused, his voice dropping lower, like he was sharing a secret, "I know someone who could very easily match this view."

His head tilted, his mouth now dangerously close to your ear, the warmth of each syllable curling against your skin. You swallowed hard, fingers clenching against the railing, the wood rough beneath your touch. "Oh yeah?" you managed.

His breath hitched slightly and you swore you could feel the smirk against your skin. "Mhm," he murmured. "He's got this whole... look about him. Kinda hard to put into words." His weight shifted, pressing that firm, unmistakable pressure against you once more. "But I gotta say, it's pretty damn distracting."

Fuck. Heat coiled in your stomach, thick and insistent. Your heart pounded against your ribs, every muscle in your body tightening in response. You exhaled sharply through your nose, willing yourself to hold it together, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much he was getting to you.

He hadn't moved a muscle, his solid frame keeping you locked against the railing.

"Hey, pornstars!" Josh's voice cut through the moment like a blade, shattering the tension in an instant.

You barely had time to react before you felt Mike tense behind you, his entire body going rigid. His hands curled into fists against the railing, breath hitching in frustration as you instinctively pushed back against him to free yourself and face Josh only to make the fatal mistake of pressing even more against his thick, unrelenting hardness.

A sharp inhale came from Mike. A barely restrained noise in the back of his throat, caught just before it could slip free.

His fingers twitched against the wood, knuckles whitening as his body fought to stay completely still. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his jaw clenching tight. His frustration was palpable, like he was caught between cursing Josh out for interrupting and wanting to pull you right back against him and make sure you felt exactly what you'd just done.

But you already slipped away, stepping out of his grasp, leaving behind only the ghost of your heat.

Josh grinned from where he stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold with all the satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what he just interrupted. His eyes flicked between the two of you, glinting with amusement.

"Hope I wasn't interrupting anything," he added, smirking as he took in Mike's very obvious disappointment.

Mike exhaled sharply through his nose. "Nah, man," he muttered, voice just a little too tight. "Perfect timing."

You scoffed, shaking your head at Josh's shit-eating grin. "Pervy," you said, throwing the word at him with a playful smirk.

The accused just laughed in your face, shrugging, completely unbothered. "Hey, I call it like I see it," he shot back before tossing some keys in your direction.

You reacted fast, reaching out and snatching them mid-air, the cold metal biting against your palm. They jingled slightly as you curled your fingers around them, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

Josh stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, rocking on his heels. "Sorry for booting you guys out like that," he continued, though he didn't sound particularly sorry. "But something tells me you two won't have too much trouble finding some time alone."

You grinned widely at him and before you even fully thought it through, you stepped closer to him.

Josh stilled, just slightly. His smirk didn't falter, but there was a shift-a flicker of something behind his eyes as you closed the distance, bringing a hand up to his shoulder.

"You're good, man," you said, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Really. No problem. I’m just glad we can all spend time here."

For a split second, the teasing glint in Josh's eyes softened. His lips parted slightly, like he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead, his shoulders eased and he exhaled through his nose, a subtle but noticeable shift from his usual playful demeanor.

In an instant, he had you pulled into him, arms locking around you in a deep, tight hug. You barely had a second to react, blinking as you suddenly found yourself enveloped by his warmth. It wasn't just some casual, half-assed embrace, this was tight, deliberate and open in the way he clung to you. The usual teasing edge in his voice remained when he laughed softly, but the way his fingers curled against your back betrayed something else entirely.

His arms didn't loosen right away, like he needed you to feel it too. And maybe that was why, in the midst of it, you didn't immediately register the mistake the fact that his grip was so tight, so firm, that he could very easily feel... everything.

Josh suddenly pulled back, grinning, eyes glinting with mischief. "Damn," he snorted, voice light but cutting straight through you like a bullet. "Didn't know you were this excited to be here with me."

Your stomach plummeted. He felt the erection you had not because of him, but because of Mike and everything that had just happened between you two. Heat shot straight to your face and you scoffed, smacking his shoulder not hard, just enough to push at his teasing. "Idiot," you muttered, but your voice was weak, betraying you.

Josh, of course, ate it up. He laughed, full and unfiltered, eyes dancing with amusement. "Hey, hey, no need to be shy about it," he taunted, his voice painfully flirty. He leaned in, lowering his tone just enough to make it dangerous. "We could always go back inside, y'know. Make sure the others haven't already made a mess in there."

He said it so smoothly but with just enough implication to make your breath hitch.

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. "Not happening."

Josh chuckled, taking a step back. "Your loss," he said with a wink before reaching for the door handle. But just as he pulled it open, he turned his head, calling over his shoulder. "Oh, and Mike? Think there's a generator down the path-might wanna check that out if you guys actually wanna get anywhere."

Mike had been silent, but the second Josh spoke to him directly, you felt the shift. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, his lips parting just enough to exhale, slow and even, forcing himself to stay cool. When he finally responded, his voice was low, nonchalant, so casual that it was almost eerie.

"Yeah, man," he said smoothly, tossing the words out like they were nothing. "Thanks for the tip."

Josh, blissfully unaware (or maybe fully aware and just loving it), just flashed a grin before disappearing back inside. The door shut behind him with a solid click, leaving only you and Mike in the cold.

Silence.

Then a solid and warm hand on your wrist, pulling you towards him.

You blinked, stumbling slightly as he tugged you backward with more force than necessary. "Mike—dude, I get it!" You let out a laugh, surprised, your feet barely keeping up as he dragged you toward the stairs.

But he didn't stop or even slow down.

The grin that spread across his face was wolfish, sharp with something wild. His fingers curled tighter around your wrist.

No choice. You let him pull you down the stairs, your breath coming quicker from the unexpected chase, something electric buzzing under your skin.

One second you were trying to steady yourself, the next Mike' hands were on you, body crashing into yours with big arms locking around your frame. His mouth found yours instantly, a wildfire igniting between you without a second to breathe.

It was rough, lips moving against yours with an urgency that sent your head spinning, his grip bruising and unyielding. His fingers dug into your back, holding you there.

His body pressing you back, his knee slotting between your legs, his tongue swept against yours, deep and possessive.

It was dizzying. Mind-numbing. You gasped into his mouth but he didn't let up, the sound only spurred him on.

You barely even noticed when he moved. One moment, you were on the ground. The next lifted mid air.

His arms hooked under your thighs, hauling you up with ease, muscles flexing as he set you down onto the wooden railing of the nearby fence.

His lips were red, slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss, breath coming out in sharp, heavy exhales. The grin that spread across his face was downright wicked and dangerous.

"Jesus, Mike," you breathed, still trying to catch your breath. He smirked, eyes flicking down to your bruised, swollen and bitten lips.

"Couldn't even wait to get to the cabin?" you teased, your voice just a little breathless.

"Oh, you have no idea," he murmured, voice smug, dripping with promise. His fingers trailed along your thigh, deliberate, teasing. "This is just a preview."

A slow, deliciously irritating pause.

"Just wait 'til later tonight."

Another breathtaking kiss took place, relentless like the latest one. Lips that moved against yours with a rough hunger, devouring and claiming. A deep, satisfied noise rumbled in his chest at your response.

His tongue dragged against yours, slow and teasing despite the aggression behind it, relishing in the way you tasted. His breath came heavy, sharp exhales through his nose as he pressed into you, crowding you up against the wooden railing.

He needed to remind you who you belonged to.

His hands were rough as they slid up beneath your shirt, fingertips pressing hard against your skin. His breath was heavy against your lips, body pressed so tightly against you that there wasn't a single sliver of space left between you.

He yanked down your pants, his fingers curling around your cock, hot and firm and knowing exactly how to reduce you to nothing in seconds. You gasped, the contrast of the freezing air against your flushed skin almost too much, but Mike didn't give you a second to protest. His grip tightened, his strokes slow but merciless, teasing you to the edge without ever giving you enough.

His lips dragging down your neck, biting and nipping as his pace quickened, his free hand gripping your hip, holding you in place and making sure you felt everything.

You could feel him rock-hard against you, his cock pressing into your thigh, thick and heavy and so fucking there. The realization sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, your hips jerking forward into his grip, seeking more, needing more.

"Mike— Oh fuck, pleas—" you gasped, the word spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

Mike chuckled darkly, his fingers tightening on your skin. "Please? That's all I get? Thought you'd be a little more creative than that." His voice was mockingly sweet, smug.

His fingers slipped lower, brushing against your entrance, teasing and circling, making you squirm, making your breath hitch.

"Mike—fuck—"

One finger pushed inside, slow but firm, stretching you open. You choked on a moan, your nails digging into his shoulders, legs spreading further without even thinking.

Mike’s breath came in hot bursts against your lips, body pressed flush against yours. The way Josh had looked at you earlier with that lazy, smug grin of his, how he touched you so casually, even worse how you let him—it was still burning in the back of his mind, coiling in his gut like a sickness.

His mouth crashed against yours, messy, aggressive, his teeth dragging over your lower lip before he bit down hard to make you gasp. The second the sound escaped you, he soothed the sting with his tongue, swallowing your breath like even that belonged to him.

His lips trailed lower, pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw and throat, sucking marks into your skin, making sure they'd be there tomorrow for everyone to see. His fingers sank into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you apart, the friction making you whimper into his mouth.

Yeah, let everyone fucking hear that. Make everyone know exactly what they were missing. He rubbed himself against the curve of your ass, making you feel him, making sure you knew exactly what was coming.

No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to have you like this.

Fueled by the dopamine that these thoughts brought to his mind, he pushed a finger inside, slow, deep, watching the way you tensed as you took him so easily. His cock throbbed at the sight.

He added another finger, curling them, stretching you, making you moan, making your back arch. His smirk widened, his cock straining painfully against his jeans, his control slipping with every second that passed.

He was going to fuck you so good you wouldn't even remember your own fucking name.

He worked you open, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm and scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you open and pressing against that perfect spot inside you with every movement.

He loved knowing he could make you fall apart with just his hands and a little patience.

He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving you empty, leaving you aching and fuck, he loved the way you whimpered at the loss, your body already moving on instinct seeking more.

He grabbed your wrist, fingers firm and controlling, guiding you down, pressing your hand to his belt, over the heavy, aching length of him, grinding against your palm, making you feel it, making you understand.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and wild, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk as he pressed your hand down harder.

"You want it?" His voice was low, taunting, thick with something smug, something bordering on cruel.

Your fingers trembled as you obeyed, as you fumbled with his zipper, dragging it down, reaching inside, feeling how hard and thick he was. He groaned, the sound deep and guttural, rumbling low in his chest as your fingers curled around him.

"Fuck—" He pressed into your touch, pushing forward, making you take all of him in your hand.

You stroked him rapidly as his hips jerked forward, forcing more of himself into your hand, forcing you to take him.

"That's it," he groaned against your mouth, the words breathless, praising when you squeezed and grew more bold with your actions. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips everywhere, biting, sucking, dragging his teeth over your skin, marking every fucking inch he could.

He bit down again, harder this time, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, grunting when you hissed, your hand faltering for just a moment before picking up again, stroking him faster, your thumb swiping over the leaking tip, spreading the slickness, working him over with that same fucking obedience he loved.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice hoarse, shaking, his cock throbbing in your grip, hot and heavy, pre-cum dribbling down your fingers as his hips jerked again, chasing the friction.

Mike pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you open, forcing your body to take him, to mold around him like you were made for him.

Fuck. He was so big, the thick girth of him splitting you open, making you feel every inch of him as your walls clung to him, squeezing down, swallowing him deeper, taking him all.

Even after all the times he'd had you, your body would still grip him like it didn't want to let him go, desperate to keep him inside.

He was buried inside you now, deep, fully seated, fitting against you. He stilled, just for a moment, just to let you fully embrace it.

He should wait. Should give you time and let you breathe.

But the way your muscles clenched around him and the softest little sound when he shifted made his control snap.

He pulled back to make you feel the emptiness before slamming back in, burying himself deep with a sharp, unrelenting thrust.

His body moved on instinct, driving into you, setting a rhythm that was relentless, unforgiving as his cock stretched you open, filling you so fucking completely.

Your cries were muffled against his jacket, but he felt them, each one vibrating against his chest and sending a new rush of heat through his veins. And fuck, it wasn't enough. He needed to hear you, to fucking break for him.

So he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up, crashing his mouth against yours, swallowing your moans as his pace deepened and thrusts became harder, angled just right and there—

His lips curled into a smirk against your mouth, his hips snapping forward again, hitting that spot, making your whole body jerk, gasping his name like a prayer.

His rhythm became erratic, his thrusts harder and faster. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, as you trembled against him, your body fucking shaking.

His hips slammed forward, one last deep, perfect thrust before he came so fucking deep inside you that you swore you could feel it everywhere. His groan was rough, guttural, torn from his chest as he spilled into you, his cock throbbing and pulsing, filling you up, making damn sure you felt exactly what belonged to you.

And the moment the heat flooded your insides, your body broke—

Your own release crashed through you, sharp and overwhelming, your walls clenching down around him, drawing him in deeper, milking him, owning him just as much as he owned you, knowing full well that you were his

[noorpersona]

Rivals: Kuroo Pt. 3

The crisp morning air hit you the moment you stepped outside, your cheeks still flushed with residual heat from the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, tugged your coat tighter around your body, and walked. Faster than necessary, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the unmistakable ache in your legs that served as an unrelenting reminder of last night.

What the hell did I do?

The question looped in your mind as you trudged down the sidewalk, each step bringing another humiliating flashback. The way his lips had trailed down your throat, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer, the heat of his breath against your ear.

The way you begged for him.

You groaned out loud and shook your head violently as if you could physically shake the memories loose. This was bad. This was so bad.

By the time you reached your apartment, your heart was still hammering in your chest, the adrenaline of your walk of shame still rushing through your veins. The second your key turned in the lock and you pushed the door open, a familiar weight landed against your legs.

“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, bending down to scoop up your cat, pressing your face into his fur for a moment of comfort. He meowed in response, blinking up at you with wide eyes before batting at the collar of your coat.

At least he wasn’t judging you.

You set him down and made a beeline for the shower, peeling off your clothes as fast as you could. You needed to wash off Kuroo Tetsurou, scrub away any remnants of his touch, his scent, his presence.

But no matter how hot the water was, no matter how much you lathered soap against your skin, it didn’t leave you. The heat of his hands, the press of his body—it was all still there, lingering like an impossible-to-ignore memory.

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water cascade down your back. Why him? Of all people, why Kuroo?

The man drove you insane. Always teasing, always pushing, always so damn smug. You’d spent years butting heads with him, rolling your eyes at his antics, gritting your teeth at his unrelenting wit.

And yet…

The minute he touched you, something inside you had snapped. You’d met his fire with fire, let yourself get lost in the burn of it.

And worst of all?

You wanted to do it again.

You sucked in a sharp breath and shut the water off, gripping the edge of the shower door for stability. No. No, no, no. This was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment.

You would not let yourself fall into this trap.

By the time you were dressed, your cat had curled up on the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you ran a towel through your damp hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I know I made a bad decision.”

He flicked his tail, unimpressed.

You threw the towel into the laundry hamper and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, mind still racing. You had to go back to work on Monday and pretend nothing happened. You had to look Kuroo in the eye and act like you hadn’t had his name spilling from your lips over and over again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply.

This was going to be hell.

__

The weekend blurred by in a haze of distractions. You tried everything—burying yourself in errands, binge-watching dramas, even deep-cleaning your apartment twice—but nothing worked. The memory of Kuroo was burned into your brain, lingering at the edges of your mind no matter how hard you tried to shove it away.

You could still feel his fingers digging into your hips. The sharp scrape of his teeth against your neck. The husky, teasing laughter in your ear as he dragged you down with him into the mess of tangled sheets and breathless whispers.

You growled at yourself, shaking off the heat pooling in your stomach.

Before you knew it, Monday morning arrived, and the reality of facing him hit you like a freight train.

You stepped into the office, coffee in one hand, your other gripping the strap of your bag tightly, as if that alone would keep you grounded. You could do this.

Thankfully, Kuroo was nowhere in sight. A quiet sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you made your way to your office, eager to lose yourself in work and push all thoughts of him aside.

Settling into your chair, you opened your laptop, sipping your coffee as you began typing out emails, reviewing contracts, and approving documents. The mundane rhythm of work was a welcome distraction, something solid and predictable to keep you from spiraling back into the humiliating thoughts of the weekend.

That relief, however, was short-lived.

Just as you started drafting a compliance report, your office door swung open without a knock. You glanced up, already annoyed, only to find your boss standing there, arms crossed, an expectant expression on his face.

"Good job getting that campaign finalized," he said, nodding as if you had done something worthy of recognition. "There's a shareholder meeting this week to discuss it. You need to be there."

Your stomach dropped.

Shareholder meetings were always a pain, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the real issue was that Kuroo would be there. You’d have to see him sooner than you thought.

You quickly straightened in your chair, trying to compose yourself. “Sir, I have a full schedule today, a backlog of approvals, and several reports to review—surely someone else from legal can attend?”

Your boss gave you a flat look, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, don’t even start. You’re the one who finalized this campaign, so you’re the one explaining it. Be in the meeting room in half an hour.”

You barely had time to protest before he turned on his heel and left, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Half an hour.

Your pulse quickened as you slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had been hoping—no, praying—for more time before you had to see him again. But now, in thirty short minutes, you’d have to sit across from him in a professional setting, pretend nothing happened, and endure whatever smug, knowing looks he threw your way.

You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulders back as you forced yourself to think rationally. Kuroo might have the upper hand in teasing, but that didn’t mean he had the power here. You were damn good at your job, and if he thought he could waltz in and fluster you with a few smirks and carefully placed jabs, he had another thing coming.

Straightening in your chair, you pulled up the campaign documents, reviewing them with meticulous attention. You weren’t just going to walk into that meeting unprepared. No, you were going to walk in with confidence, fully armed with every technicality, every regulation, every damn reason why you knew what you were doing.

You checked the clock. Fifteen minutes left.

With one last steadying breath, you closed your laptop, grabbed your notes, and stood, smoothing out your outfit. He’s just another coworker. Nothing more. If Kuroo wanted to play games, fine. But you weren’t going to lose. Not this time.

Squaring your shoulders, you stood, grabbed your notes, and marched toward the meeting room, determination outweighing the lingering heat in your face. You weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

Fuck him. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Yet, the moment you stepped inside, you instantly regretted everything.

Kuroo was standing near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with a few of the shareholders, his usual easygoing charm on full display. His sharp suit was tailored perfectly, the slight smirk on his lips too damn self-assured. And then, as if he could sense you, his golden eyes flicked toward the door, locking onto you instantly.

His knowing smile deepened, and you had to physically fight the urge to turn around and leave.

“Ah, there she is,” Kuroo announced, casually gesturing toward you. “My partner on this campaign.”

Your stomach clenched at the word. Partner?

The older gentleman Kuroo had been speaking to turned, his expression brightening. “Oh, so you’re the legal mind behind all of this! I’ve heard good things. Very impressive work.”

You forced a polite smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a team effort.”

But Kuroo, of course, wasn’t about to let you downplay your role.

“Don’t be modest. She kept me in check the whole time,” he added, his tone dripping with amusement.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the urge to shove him into the nearest chair. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Before you could formulate a response, he gestured to the seat beside him. “Come on, have a seat.”

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here. That wasn’t even enough time to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable disaster that was seeing Kuroo again.

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here.

More people trickled in, the sound of chatter filling the room as the shareholders settled into their seats. Small conversations broke out, professionals exchanging pleasantries while waiting for the meeting to begin. The air in the room was light, easy, full of smooth laughter and the clinking of pens against notepads.

For everyone except you.

You turned to Kuroo, lowering your voice in a hiss. “Partner?”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, voice full of teasing amusement. “Would you have preferred I introduce you as my handler?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt beneath the table, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. You were already regretting every single interaction you had with him. Smug bastard.

You narrowed your eyes, about to snap back, but before you could, the meeting was called to order.

Kuroo led the discussion with practiced ease, his voice smooth and effortlessly engaging. He was sharp, confident, weaving through each point with that natural charm of his, drawing in the room like he belonged there. And the worst part? The shareholders loved him.

You mostly kept quiet, answering questions when necessary, keeping your responses measured and precise. You weren’t about to let him run circles around you. Still, you had to admit—grudgingly—that he was good at this. Too good. His ability to present information with just the right balance of authority and ease was frustratingly effective. It made you irrationally angry, watching the way he commanded the room with nothing but a few smirks and a well-placed joke.

And he knew it. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he could feel your irritation thrumming beneath the surface.

Bastard.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, your boss spoke up. “We were actually discussing another campaign that needs some serious revisions. Given how well this one turned out, we’d like the two of you to work on it—on short notice.”

Your breath caught. No. No, no, no.

Panic shot through you like a live wire, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You had barely survived the last time you worked with him—mentally, emotionally, professionally. And now they wanted you to do it again?

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. You had told yourself the project was a one-time thing, an unfortunate alignment of responsibilities that you had somehow, miraculously, endured. You had barely made it out of the last collaboration with your sanity intact, and after what happened between you two, the very thought of working with him again made your stomach churn.

It wasn’t just about the way Kuroo existed to push your buttons. No, it was the fact that you had let him get under your skin—too far under, past the point of irritation and into something more reckless, more dangerous.

And now, you were supposed to do it all over again?

Your fingers clenched under the table, nails pressing hard into your palm to stop yourself from blurting out something unprofessional. This isn’t fair. This isn’t my fault. You had done your job perfectly. If Kuroo hadn’t gone out of his way to be Kuroo, none of this would even be an issue. Now, because of his antics, because he couldn’t help himself, you were getting roped into another late-night headache with him.

Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out the rest of the boardroom as your mind scrambled for a way out. Any excuse. Any way to get literally anyone else assigned to this instead.

But you knew your boss. He didn’t care. He had made up his mind. And Kuroo—that smug bastard—had probably already figured that out too.

You straightened in your seat, carefully choosing your words. “Of course, but we’d need extended work hours to meet such a tight deadline—”

Kuroo, the bastard, cut you off effortlessly. “No need. We’ll just work on it after hours, like last time.”

The room barely reacted, but you felt the shift like a blade pressed against your skin. The way he said it—so casually, so naturally—it was almost as if the two of you had some kind of established dynamic. Like you were some seamless, perfectly functioning duo.

Which, you absolutely were not.

Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists beneath the table. And then, just to drive the knife deeper, he added, “In fact, let’s get started tonight. Over dinner.”

Your head snapped toward him, but he didn’t even have the decency to look at you. He was still facing forward, still completely composed, as if he hadn’t just publicly tricked you into agreeing to spend more time with him.

Your teeth ground together as your boss nodded approvingly. You had no choice but to nod along, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”

You could feel Kuroo’s eyes on you, the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin like an irritating heat you couldn’t shake. Your fingers curled around your notes, grip tightening as you fought the very real urge to smack that insufferable smirk right off his face. This bastard.

The shareholders murmured their satisfaction, the meeting officially winding down as the final notes were made. The conversation naturally shifted to small talk as people began gathering their things, but you were barely listening. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the past minute over and over.

Another project. On short notice. With him.

And worse—

Over dinner.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, schooling your features into something neutral, something capable, because the last thing you needed was for Kuroo to see the way your pulse had spiked at the mere thought of spending another evening alone with him. You could already hear the smugness that would drip from his voice. The lazy, self-satisfied amusement. The way he’d push your buttons just enough to make you snap—because that’s what he did.

You should have argued more. Should have demanded proper work hours. Should have reminded your boss that he had hired you for legal work, not to babysit the marketing team. But instead, you sat there, forcing a strained smile while Kuroo all but preened beside you like a cat that had just caught a canary.

A chair scraped back beside you. He was standing. Stretching. As if he hadn’t just successfully trapped you into another night of torture disguised as collaboration.

“Looking forward to it, partner.”

The way he said partner made you want to throw something. Preferably his overpriced watch right out the nearest window.

He strolled past you, his confidence almost offensive, and you knew—you knew—that he was expecting a reaction. A flustered glare, a sharp retort, anything to fuel his amusement. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

You took a slow, calming breath and gathered your papers, pressing them together with deliberate patience. Kuroo was still lingering, just at the edge of your vision, but you refused to acknowledge him. If he thought you were going to give him what he wanted, he had another thing coming.

You stood, keeping your expression perfectly schooled, smoothing out your skirt like this was just any other normal meeting, like he hadn’t just completely thrown you off balance. Then, just as you turned to leave, you made the mistake of glancing up.

And there he was. Watching you.

Golden eyes, sharp and waiting. The barest trace of a smirk still pulling at his lips.

Something inside your stomach twisted—not in anger, not in frustration, but something dangerous. Something reckless.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping up your spine, and turned sharply on your heel, storming toward the exit without a word.

Kuroo chuckled under his breath behind you, the sound deep and far too amused.

You were never going to survive this.

[bradleysass]

ghost - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 1.3k - jegulus

James doesn’t believe in ghosts. Not really. He believes in memories, in the weight of things unsaid, in the way grief can rot a person from the inside out. But ghosts—real ghosts—those are something he’d always filed away into the parts of magic he didn’t dare touch. Until he starts seeing Regulus.

It begins with small things, the sort you can lie to yourself about. A jumper laid out on the bed, sleeves folded, as though someone expected him to wear it. The kettle boiling when he hadn’t turned it on. His old record player crackling to life with no hand near it, playing music he hasn’t heard in years. Regulus’ music. That soft, orchestral waltz he used to hum under his breath while reading. The one James had never known the name of but now hears at midnight, echoing through the house.

At first, he thinks it’s stress. Or memory. Or maybe grief that never really left—just settled, like dust, into the corners of his life. It’s been over ten years since Regulus Black died in that godforsaken cave. Ten years since he’d kissed James in the kitchen, pressed a shaking hand to his face, and said, “Stay here. I’ll come back. I promise.” Ten years since James learned what a broken promise tastes like.

He never came back. No body. No burial. Just silence, and that haunted look in Sirius’ eyes when he said, “It was his choice.” But choices don’t keep you warm at night, and they don’t explain why Regulus’ coat appears at the foot of James’ bed in the dead of winter, crisp and cold and carrying the unmistakable scent of sea air and sandalwood.

He doesn’t tell anyone at first. What would he say? I think my dead ex-boyfriend is folding my laundry. Sirius would just give him that look—tight-lipped, too-knowing. Harry would worry. Remus would go quiet and sad. So James keeps it to himself, watches the patterns build. Regulus never shows up outright, not in the early days. It’s always just the edges. The feeling of being watched, not in a menacing way but with gentle intensity, like being read by someone who knew every word of him already. A mirror that flickers wrong. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. The faint indentation on the other side of the bed.

It becomes a routine. A second mug of tea placed beside his own, even though he drinks alone. His favorite jumper laid out before big meetings. The soft, familiar press of weight on the couch cushions beside him when he reads, though no one is there. And James, idiot that he is, starts talking.

He tells the air about his day. About Harry, who’s thriving and too brave for his own good. About Sirius, still angry in all the same ways, still healing in others. About Remus, who writes long letters from the cottage and asks too gently how James is sleeping.

James never lies. He just says, “I’m managing.”

Then one night, sitting alone in the garden with a bottle of wine and too much silence, James mutters, “Why did you leave?” The wind answers with a gust that rattles the trees, and the porch light flickers once—twice—then steadies. When he goes inside, there are wet footprints across the kitchen tile. Bare, narrow feet. Walking toward the fireplace.

He stares at them for a long time. Then, quietly, he says, “If this is a dream, don’t wake me.”

After that, Regulus gets bolder.

It’s still not direct. James never sees his face. But he feels him. A cold hand ghosting over his shoulder when he’s reading. A brush of breath at the back of his neck when he lingers too long in front of a photo. Sometimes, he wakes up with tears on his cheeks he doesn’t remember crying, the scent of the sea so sharp it makes his lungs burn. Once, and only once, he sees Regulus in a mirror.

Not a reflection. Not really. More like a memory bleeding through—pale skin, sharp collarbones, dark eyes full of some ancient sadness. James turns too fast, and just like that, he’s gone.

“Coward,” James says, but there’s no heat in it. Only longing.

The house feels fuller with him in it. Lonelier, too, in a way James doesn’t understand. He begins to live around the haunting—leaving space on the sofa, buying Regulus’ favorite tea even though he never drinks it. He stops seeing people. Stops trying to explain the lines under his eyes or the way he sometimes forgets what year it is. The past is loud here. It fills the rooms, saturates the walls. And Regulus, whatever’s left of him, is a constant presence.

James dreams of him. Not the way he was in life—guarded and elegant, all quiet fury—but softer. More honest. Regulus in the dreams reaches for him. Says things he never had time to in life. Sometimes, he apologizes. Other times, he just looks at James like he’s the most beloved thing in the world, and James wakes up aching.

Then, the voice starts.

It’s faint at first. A whisper. One night, sitting at the table flipping through old letters, James hears: You haven’t changed.

He freezes. “Reg?”

Silence.

He starts talking to the voice when it comes. Little things. “You’d hate the wallpaper. Sirius picked it out.” Or, “I found that ridiculous shirt you liked. Still ugly.” And once, quietly, when the house was too dark and his hands were shaking: “I miss you so much I can’t breathe.”

That night, a note appears on his nightstand. Familiar, slanted handwriting. Ink on parchment. Just four words: I never really left.

James cries so hard his ribs ache.

After that, Regulus becomes part of the house. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, it’s with that same old sharpness, laced with tenderness. He corrects James when he forgets a date. Knocks over books when James lies to himself. Leaves notes with facts only Regulus would know. It should be terrifying. It isn’t.

It’s home.

And James—well, James begins to let go of the idea of “moving on.” Maybe he’s gone mad. Maybe this is what grief does, makes gods of ghosts and lullabies of memories. But Regulus is here. Not whole. Not warm. But here.

Once, James whispers into the quiet: “Why me? Why are you still here?”

The mirror fogs over, and a word appears in the condensation: Love.

James presses his forehead to the glass and whispers, “You were always such a sap.”

But his hands shake.

He starts writing letters to Regulus. Just in case. Tucks them into the pages of his books. Fills them with stupid things—complaints about the weather, how Remus still insists on signing his letters with too many commas, how Harry’s laugh is exactly like Regulus’ when he used to let go of things. Sometimes the letters disappear. He never sees them go.

On the anniversary of Regulus’ death, James wakes up to find the house sparkling clean, a candle lit on the windowsill, and his wedding band—long thought lost—resting on the pillow beside him. He picks it up and closes his fist around it.

“I would’ve married you, you know,” he says into the silence.

The piano starts playing in the other room. That same haunting waltz.

James doesn’t cry this time. He just stands, walks to the source of the music, and whispers, “Dance with me, then.”

He sways, alone, in the empty room. But for a moment—just a moment—he feels arms around him, cool and steady. A chin on his shoulder. The faintest pressure of lips on the curve of his neck.

And when the music ends, he says, “Don’t go.”

The silence that follows feels almost like agreement.

Maybe this is what love looks like, when death doesn’t stop it. Not closure. Not healing. But cohabitation. A life lived with echoes. A bed with one warm side and one cold. A teacup left full for someone who doesn’t drink anymore. A ghost who never really left, and the man who never really wanted him to.

James doesn’t believe in ghosts.

But he believes in Regulus.

And that’s enough.

[ffleurist]

🕸️ 030 . in the shadow of betrayal

synopsis as you followed the 'nurse' who disguised as the green goblin, the truth finally comes to light—you now know who’s really behind the mask. wc 1617

tw— violence, kidnapping, knifepoint

the uneasy feeling lingers long after you leave mihya's hospital room. something about the nurse’s stare, no, the goblin’s stare sticks in your mind like a splinter. you shake it off and make your way out, but the nagging sense that something is wrong refuses to fade.

as the night air hits your face as you step outside, crisp and sharp, but it does little to calm your nerves. your steps quicken, an instinct pulling you towards the alley beside the hospital.

you need to save mihya.

you freeze when you spot them.

two figures stand in the shadows, tension crackling in the air like static. one of them is unmistakable spider-man, his posture tense, shoulders rigid beneath the familiar red and blue suit but however, he wasn’t in his suit. the other figure looms before him, clad in dark green, the mask reflecting the dim light with an eerie gleam.

the green goblin, still marked with blood and bruises from the earlier fight.

your breath catches in your throat. for a split second, you consider turning back but then you hear mihya’s voice, low and strained.

“who are you and why are you doing this?” his usual sharpness is gone, replaced by something quieter. something broken.

you inch closer, heart pounding in your chest. you’re still hidden, but from this distance, you can make out the tension in mihya’s clenched fists and the subtle tremor in his voice.

the goblin chuckles a cold, empty sound that echoes through the alley. “isn’t it obvious spidey? no, should i say kaiser?” his voice is rough, bitter. “you left me behind.”

a chill runs down your spine. this isn’t just some villain with a grudge, this is personal.

mihya takes a step forward, fists still clenched. “the fuck?” he says, but there’s a crack in his voice. “i don’t even know you!.”

for a long moment, the goblin says nothing. then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches up and pulls off his mask.

your stomach twists into a knot at the sight of his face. he’s young, around mihya’s age. someone you don’t recognise, but mihya clearly does. his face pales beneath the streetlight, the usual arrogance gone, replaced by something raw.

“ness,” mihya breathes, the name barely audible.

the weight of that single word hangs heavy in the air, and your heart breaks a little at the vulnerability in his tone. whoever this ness is, did he meant something to mihya? and now he’s the one threatening everything.

you barely notice the phone trembling in your hand as you dial emergency services, forcing your voice to stay steady as you report the scene. but your focus never leaves mihya, and the fragile way his mask of confidence seems to crack with every second.

the police will be here soon. you just hope they make it in time.

but the sudden loud ring of your phone breaks the moment, loud and unforgiving. you curse under your breath, knowing ness heard it.

shit. why didn’t you silent your phone? he’s definitely going to find you now.

suddenly, a sharp noise cuts through the tense silence. the sound of the blade flicking open. your breath hitches as ness turns to face you. his eyes gleam with malicious intent, his grip on the knife firm as he presses the cold steel to your neck. the blade’s edge feels too close, the sharpness too real, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“not so fast,” ness snarls, his voice rougher now, eyes glinting with madness. “i’m not going to let you ruin this, too.”

you freeze, fear taking root as you feel the blade graze your skin. mihya doesn’t move, his fists clenched in rage, but he’s too far away to act quickly.

ness’s grip tightens on the knife, and you can feel the cold metal pressing against your skin, a constant reminder of the danger you’re in. his eyes are wild now, his breath quickening.

he jerks your phone from your hand before you can even react, throwing it to the ground with a violent crack. for a moment, you’re disoriented, but then your mind snaps back into focus. the police are close. they have to be close.

you can hear mihya’s voice strained, but still defiant. “ness, stop! this isn’t you! whatever this is, you don’t have to do it!”

but ness isn’t listening. his eyes flick to mihya for the briefest moment, then back to you, his expression hardened. "you think i don't know? i know exactly who i am now. and you..." he pauses, his voice dripping with venom. "you took my everything from me."

your heart races. his words are like daggers, and you can see the depth of his pain, twisted into anger but there’s something almost fragile in the way he holds the knife, like he’s about to lose control at any moment.

mihya moves, but slowly, cautiously. he knows one wrong move and it could all go south.

“you don’t have to do this, ness,” he says, his voice calm but with an underlying urgency. “put the knife down. you don’t want this. this is between you and me, let her go!”

ness only laughs, the sound harsh and bitter. "too late! you think i want your pity? i don't need it!"

he turns back to you, his grip on the blade unshaken, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. "this is your fault too. if you hadn’t come here, none of this would’ve happened."

the seconds stretch into eternity. your heart pounds in your ears as you wait for the police, praying they arrive before things spiral even further. you feel the weight of the moment, the sharpness of the blade, and the desperate tension in the air.

then out of nowhere, you hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. the arrival of help.

ness’s expression changes in an instant, his eyes flicking to the sound. the knife wavers in his hand, but he doesn’t lower it. his shoulders sag, and for a brief, fragile moment, it seems like he’s about to surrender.

but then

mihya lunges forward.

in one fluid motion, he’s at your side, pulling you away from ness and into his arms, just as the sound of police cars blares through the alley. ness stumbles back, eyes wide with panic. 

he’s cornered. desperate.

“don’t make this worse,” mihya warns, his voice sharp as he steps toward him. “you know what you’ve done. let’s end it now.”

ness, visibly shaken, drops the knife at his feet, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. the fight has left him, and with a shaky surrender, he collapses into the arms of the approaching officers, his head hanging low in defeat.

as the police moves in to secure him, you let out the breath you didn’t realise you were holding. you lean into kaiser, the rush of relief and adrenaline mixing into a strange fog.

you glance up at him, who’s still holding you close, his eyes distant. in that moment, you realize just how much you’ve both been through and how much further there is to go but for now, at least, you’re both safe.

the sirens still echo through the alley, their blaring wail a strange relief after the suffocating tension. as the officers move in and cuff ness, the weight of the situation slowly begins to settle around you. the world seems to slow, everything blurry except for the frantic beat of your head.

“are you two civilians alright?" one of the police officers asked. "miss, could you please escort him back to the hospital? he looks like he needs some rest, you too. thank you for your bravery tonight."

mihya’s hand brushes against yours, but he doesn't say anything at first. you find his presence grounding, but his silence speaks volumes. he’s torn between relief that the danger is over and the rawness of everything that’s unfolded tonight. the officers are finally securing ness, leading him away towards the car. as they do, mihya takes a slow, steady breath, his eyes never leaving the scene. It’s as if he’s trying to piece everything together, the betrayal of his friend now sinking in.

“mihya, we’re safe,” you murmur, though it feels hollow. you’ve never been more terrified, yet something inside you keeps you from breaking down and the adrenaline hasn’t fully worn off yet.

kaiser glances at you and his eyes soften just a little, as if he’s seeing you in a different light. a moment of vulnerability, one he’s not used to showing. it’s enough to let you know that, no matter the mask he wears, there’s a man behind the spider-man who’s still healing too.

he steps closer, his voice low and guarded. “are you okay?”

you nod, though you’re not sure you fully believe it. “i think so. just… shaken.”

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looking at you as if trying to decide whether or not to let his guard down. finally, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of your palm. “you did good back there. i don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t—”

the words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. you don’t want to acknowledge what could have happened. not now. you glance at him, who’s still watching the police car driving away with ness. you sense that he’s too far gone to be comforted right now.

“let’s get you back to the hospital.” you say quietly, glancing around the alley. the streetlights flicker, casting long shadows, and the world outside feels like a foreign place after everything you’ve just witnessed. the moment feels oddly final.

“it’s over. at least for now.”

series MASTERLIST

notes from lily ❦⋆ : i’m crashing out on both my work & this chapter oh my god / i didn’t even proofread lol bye. # highkey hate engineering

TAGLIST

@mixolya @x3nafix @96jnie @tamashithe2nd @cookielovesbook-akie @yuiearyi @noomimi @stargirljas @jhsluvv @lotusofia @livelaughloveshidou @swagkittybear @axquella @passw-0-rd @hwaassaa @saeglazer @tofumiarchives @justanotherweeb666 @metaphorically-here @ravenbc @levihanmyotp @rybunnie @adrnmyknight @etherealrin @shosuki @90s-belladonna @wwastro @shr00mfairy @pan-kojiwa @pctterheadd @shumeow-h @deadlydollsstuff @renchai @nomyimi @beomn @heartmaddie @orphicarchive @sky-casino @8x9d @hanmastattoos @biscuitsx [tell me if i missed out anyone]

© ffleurist 2025 do not plagiarise, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[6azia]

New Drop | Silco x m!reader

—summary. Y/N meet Silco for the first time and Silco feels betrayed by his own mind

—content warning. -

—word count. 4,0k

—azia‘s notes. I've posted it on Ao3 but now it's also here

Part 1↞ ↠Part 3 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝕾𝖍𝖎𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

The streets of Zaun buzzed with their usual chaos as Y/N made his way back from Piltover, biting into the apple he had picked up from a vendor earlier that morning. The sweet, crisp taste lingered on his tongue, a small reminder of the fleeting luxuries found aboveground. He was trying to savour it, but the other taste in his mouth-shimmer, acrid and metallic-was harder to ignore.

A cigarette in his hand burned faintly with the eerie violet glow of the drug he couldn't seem to give up. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up and disappear into the slowly turning polluted air. The guilt tugged at him like an ever-present shadow, but he brushed it aside with the same excuse he'd told himself countless times. I'm around it all day anyway. My lungs are already full of the stuff. Quitting wouldn't make a difference. And even if I did, it would do more harm than good with how long I'm already exposed to it.

The streets shifted as he approached a familiar sight-the crumbling façade of The Last Drop. The old bar stood like a relic of a bygone era, its walls still carrying the echoes of Vander's laughter and the raucous chatter of the people who had once filled it. Y/N hadn't been here in months, maybe longer. Yet, something or someone there felt like home, even if home was a bittersweet memory now.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the once-vibrant energy of the bar was replaced by an eerie stillness. The room was nearly empty, the air thick with smoke and tension. At a table near the centre, two figures sat in quiet conversation.

Sevika leaned back in her chair, her mechanical arm resting heavily on the table, its faint hum filling the silence. Across from her sat a man Y/N immediately recognized, even if they'd never met before. Silco. His sharp features, mismatched eyes, and air of calculated authority were unmistakable.

But what caught Y/N's attention most was the small figure curled up on Silco's lap. Powder laing there, fast asleep, her face peaceful in a way that felt out of place in Zaun's chaos.

Y/N hesitated at the door, suddenly aware of how out of place he was. Silco's gaze flicked to him, sharp and calculating.

"Can I help you?" Silco's voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it that made Y/N's skin prickle.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Y/N said quickly, stepping further into the room. "I used to work here, back when Vander ran the place. Just... passing through."

Sevika's eyes narrowed as she took in the cigarette in Y/N's hand, the faint shimmer glow still visible especially in the dim light. "Passing through with that?" she said, her tone sharp.

Y/N followed her gaze, cursing himself silently for not putting it out sooner. "It's nothing," he said, trying to wave it off.

"Doesn't look like nothing," Silco said, his voice low and dangerous. "Where did you get it?"

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of their stares pressing down on him. "I did it myself," he tried to form some lie to get himself out of this position "I-in my personal lab."

Silco's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to grow colder. "You want me to believe you?," he mocked, his tone annoyed because someone dared to try and lie to him. "And why exactly do you have this?"

"I mix," Y/N said, his voice steady despite the knot forming in his stomach. "I sometimes try to do new things and that came out. That's all."

"And you thought it was a good idea to bring it here?" Sevika said, her mechanical arm shifting slightly, the sound of it like a warning.

"I didn't think-" Y/N started, but Silco cut him off.

"No," Silco said, his voice quiet but firm. "You didn't."

The weight of his words settled over the room, and Y/N felt his pulse quicken. "I'm not here to cause trouble," he said quickly. "I just... wanted to see the place again. That's all."

"And yet here you are," Silco said, his gaze piercing. "Walking into my bar with my product, uninvited and unannounced. Tell me, why shouldn't I see this as a threat?"

"It's not a threat and this isn't your product," Y/N insisted, his voice rising slightly. "I didn't mean-"

"Then what did you mean?" Silco interrupted, leaning forward slightly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're either careless or stupid. And in Zaun, neither of those qualities tends to end well."

Y/N felt the blood drain from his face. "I just used to work for Vander," he said, his voice quieter now. "That's all. I don't know anything about... about whatever politics are going on here."

Silco studied him for a long moment, his mismatched eyes unblinking. Finally, he leaned back, his hand idly brushing through Jinx's hair as she stirred slightly in her sleep. "If I find out you're lying," he said softly, "I'll make sure you regret it."

"I'm not lying," Y/N said, though his voice wavered slightly.

"Good," Silco said, his tone calm but final. "Then we won't have a problem."

Sevika didn't look convinced, but she stayed silent as Y/N turned and made his way toward the door. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed it open, stepping back out into the cold, polluted air of Zaun's streets.

The guilt and fear churned in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him. He took another drag from the cigarette, the shimmer burning in his lungs, and tried to tell himself he'd made it out unscathed. But deep down, he knew the truth. Silco didn't trust him, and in Zaun, trust was the only thing keeping most people alive.

The smoke filling his lungs made him slightly lightheaded and one could see some veins marks becoming more visible with every drag. He took another one out after finishing one. He needed to calm down his nerves.

Silco's hunting eyes follow his form as he exits.

The door had barely shut behind Y/N when a small voice called out, groggy but unmistakable.

"Y/N?"

He froze mid-step, the cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers. Slowly, he turned back toward the bar, his heart skipping as he saw Powder sitting up in Silco's lap. Her wide blue eyes were red-rimmed with sleep and tear streaks tainting her round innocent face, but the recognition in them was unmistakable.

"Powder..." he whispered, his voice thick with surprise.

In an instant, she scrambled down from Silco's lap and ran to him, her small arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Her face buried itself in his coat, and he could feel her trembling slightly.

"I thought-" Her voice cracked as she clung to him. "I thought you were gone too. Everyone's gone. They're all dead or... or they left me." The little girl was about to cry again and added in a whisper, "Because of me ju..."

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the flood of emotion. He knelt down, his hands resting gently on her shoulders as he looked at her tear-streaked face. "I didn't leave you and I won't" he said softly, his voice steady despite the knot in his chest. "I'm still here, Powder. I promise."

Behind them, Silco's expression tightened, his sharp features drawn in suspicion. He didn't say anything, but his mismatched eyes bore into Y/N like a blade.

Y/N ignored the weight of Silco's gaze, his focus entirely on Powder. "I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said, his voice low and earnest. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Powder sniffled, her grip on him loosening slightly as she pulled back to look at him. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

He nodded. "I mean it." His free hand rested on her cheek and was drawing small circles on her, catching tears that wanted to escape.

They sat on the floor together, Y/N leaning against the wall as Powder curled up beside him. Her small hands fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, her expression a mix of relief and lingering sadness.

"I've been learning," she said suddenly, her voice gaining a spark of energy. "Ekko was teaching me, but... but not anymore. Can you teach me things? My things never work as I would like them to. Could you show me how to fix them?"

Y/N smiled faintly, memories of their time together rushing back. "I can teach you again," he said. "Everything I know about tech, about machines... I'll show you. I promise."

Powder's eyes lit up, a glimmer of joy breaking through the weight she carried. But before she could respond, Silco's voice cut through the moment.

"That's enough."

Y/N looked up to see Silco standing over them, his arms crossed and his expression cold. "You make promises easily," he said, his tone dripping with distrust. "But promises in Zaun mean nothing without action."

Y/N opened his mouth to respond, but Powder interrupted, her voice rising in a sudden outburst.

"It's Jinx!" she shouted, her fists clenching at her sides. "Not Powder. Not anymore!"

The room went silent, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. Y/N looked at her, his expression soft but unreadable. "Jinx," he said after a moment, his voice calm. "Okay. Jinx."

He took another drag, to loosen up a bit.

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, it looked like she might cry again. But instead, a small, hesitant smile crept onto her face. "You're not gonna ask why?"

He shook his head. "I don't need to. If that's who you are now, that's who you are. I'm the last one to judge you."

Her smile grew, and she leaned into his side, her earlier tension melting away.

Silco watched the interaction with a frown, his gaze flicking between the two of them. For a moment, he looked like he might say something, but then he stopped. He saw the way Jinx's shoulders had relaxed, the way her usual frantic energy had stilled in Y/N's presence.

"Fine," Silco said finally, his voice low. "But don't overstep."

Y/N met his gaze, nodding slightly in understanding. He didn't trust Silco, and it was clear the feeling was mutual. But for now, it didn't matter. What mattered was the girl at his side, who for the first time in what felt like forever, didn't look so broken. Silco envied him for it but didn't do anything and observed their interaction.

"Thank you," Jinx whispered, her voice so quiet he almost didn't hear it.

He placed a hand on her head gently, his own guilt momentarily forgotten. "Always," he said softly. His hand passed through her unruly hair to which the girl protested with a pout.

Y/N sat on the ground, the faint shimmer-infused high from his cigarette settling into his limbs with every second like a weighted blanket. His head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as he fought off the creeping guilt gnawing at him. For a moment, he forgot where he was, the soft hum of the dimly lit Last Drop almost lulling him into a trance.

He felt sorry for Pow-Jinx to have someone like him to look up to and not to mention the promise to Viktor. Silcos words were running in a loop in his mind. Maybe he was right or maybe his voice was too calming so you just agreed to him.

Y/N didn't know. His mind was feeling fuzzy. The third cigarette still nestled between his index and middle finger while his other one was playing with a small braid in Jinxes hair. Two would look better. He thought while Jinx rambled about some random events. He couldn't understand a thing, but he tried to catch some things.

"Y/N! I'm hungry!" Jinx's voice echoed from the back, breaking the silence in his mind and pulling him from his thoughts. "Come on! Like always!"

Y/N blinked, exhaling a slow plume of shimmering smoke before stubbing out the cigarette. He didn't move immediately, the lethargy of the high holding him in place. Across the room, Silco watched him with thinly veiled disdain.

The boy looked frail-sickly, even. His gaunt face was framed by the faint sheen of dirt, and there was a hollowness to his movements that spoke of someone barely holding it together. Silco's lips curled slightly in a mixture of disgust and pity. This was the person Jinx clung to? This boy who looked like he could collapse at any moment?

Y/N finally pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow but with purpose. He caught Silco's piercing gaze and offered a weak, knowing smirk, as if he could feel the older man's judgment radiating off of him.

In the back of the bar, Jinx was already rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, her mismatched socks sliding against the scuffed floor as she searched for... something. Anything. Silco followed her, his taller frame casting a shadow over her smaller one.

"I'll make you something," Silco said, his voice calm but firm.

Jinx didn't even glance at him. "Nope," she said, continuing to dig through the cabinets. "Y/N's the best cook. He knows exactly what I want."

Silco's jaw tightened. "Jinx, I'm perfectly capable of making-"

"I said no!" she snapped, turning to face him with her hands on her hips. Her voice softened slightly as she added, "Y/N just... gets it. He knows what I like, how I like it. He's always done it for me."

Silco stood frozen for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his mismatched eyes glimmered with something sharp and unspoken. He had wanted so desperately to be her everything-to be the father figure she never had, better than his own and better than Vander could ever have become. But hearing her so casually dismiss his offer in favour of someone else stung more than he cared to admit.

He glanced back toward the bar, where Y/N now leaned lazily against the doorway, his frame slouched and his eyes distant. Silco's lip curled again, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue further. But he stopped himself.

"Very well," he said coldly, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen.

Jinx didn't notice the tension radiating off of him as she grabbed Y/N's arm and pulled him forward. "Come on, lazybones! Make the thing! You know, the thing!"

Y/N chuckled faintly, the sound low and tired. "Yeah, yeah, I know the thing."

Silco lingered for a moment longer, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he watched them. Jinx was already rattling off instructions in her usual chaotic manner, her face alight with a rare smile. Y/N listened patiently, nodding occasionally as he gathered ingredients with a practiced ease.

It was a scene Silco couldn't help but feel excluded from, a reminder of the bond they shared-one he wasn't a part of. He turned sharply on his heel and left the kitchen, his expression as cold and calculated as ever. But deep down, a flicker of something raw and unresolved churned within him.

In the kitchen, Jinx leaned against the counter, watching Y/N work with a rare calmness. "You're still the best at this," she said, her voice softer now.

Y/N glanced at her with a faint smile, his hands moving automatically as he prepared the food. "And you're still as picky as ever." He could bet on how he can do this while asleep with how often Jinx already asked for him to do that.

She stuck her tongue out at him, but there was no malice in it. For the first time in what felt like forever, she looked... happy. And for Y/N, that was enough. Even as the weight of his choices pressed on him, even as the shimmer coursing through his veins threatened to pull him under, he found a strange sense of peace in this moment.

For now, that was all he needed.

The kitchen was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of chopping and the sizzle of a pan as Y/N stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, carefully preparing food. The shimmer-induced haze dulled his exhaustion but heightened his focus in an odd way. His hands started to move with a strange mix of precision and hesitation-pausing mid-motion every so often, a faint tremor in his fingers as though his body couldn't decide whether to obey him or not. Despite the interruptions, he worked methodically, his breathing steady as he diced a few vegetables and seasoned the pan.

Jinx sat cross-legged on the counter, swinging her legs as she eagerly watched Y/N. "See, dad? I told you Y/N's cooking is the best. " She grinned mischievously, earning a sharp glance from Silco who returned to look at the calming display, though he held his tongue.

Silco stood nearby, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on Y/N. He wasn't sure whether he was more annoyed by Jinx's comment or the fact that he felt compelled to observe this stranger. Y/N, however, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He moved to the stove, flipping a sandwich in the pan with practiced ease, though his grip faltered slightly before steadying again. The smell of melting cheese and toasted bread filled the air, cutting through the faint chemical tang that seemed to cling to Y/N's clothes.

"Careful, don't burn it!" Jinx piped up, giggling as Y/N gave her a lazy smirk in response.

"I've got it under control," he murmured, though his voice was quiet and slightly hoarse. He added a pinch of spice to the pan, giving it a quick swirl before moving to check on the small pot of vegetable stew simmering beside it.

When the food was ready, Y/N placed a plate in front of Jinx-a golden-brown cheese sandwich, perfectly crisp on the outside and oozing with gooey cheese on the inside. Jinx's eyes lit up, and she immediately grabbed the sandwich, taking a big bite. "Mmm! It's perfect!" she declared, her voice muffled by the food.

Y/N turned back to the counter and quietly prepared another plate, this one with a small serving of the stew, and set it down in front of Silco with a faint nod before retreating to the table with his glass of water. He sat there, quietly sipping, his gaze soft and focused as he watched Jinx eat. Even in his high state, there was a warmth in his expression-a genuine affection that seemed to anchor him despite the shimmer coursing through his veins.

Silco, however, stared at the plate with distrust. The stew looked deceptively simple, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it might be some kind of trick. He glanced at Y/N, whose head was tilted slightly as he rested his cheek against his hand, exhaustion evident in every line of his face, though he seemed more steady now that he was seated.

"Don't trust it?" Jinx asked, smirking as she took another bite of her sandwich. "Fine, I'll try it for you."

Before Silco could stop her, Jinx grabbed a spoonful of the stew and tasted it. Silco's breath hitched as he watched her, his mind racing. When she didn't immediately keel over, his tension eased slightly, though his annoyance was evident.

"See? It's good!" Jinx said, grinning at him.

Reluctantly, Silco picked up the spoon and tried the stew. The flavours surprised him-rich, savoury, and expertly balanced, despite the lack of quality ingredients. It was far better than anything he had ever managed to cook. He ate in silence, his thoughts churning.

Meanwhile, Jinx chattered away, her sandwich long gone. "Y/N, I've got so many ideas! Like, what if I made a paint bomb? It'd be super pretty and explode everywhere! Or maybe a paint gun that shoots in cool shapes? Oh! And a-"

Y/N smiled faintly, his voice quiet as he replied, "Those sound like they'd be a lot of fun to build."

Silco's attention drifted back to Y/N, his sharp eyes narrowing. The boy's hands still shook faintly as he held the glass of water, his movements almost imperceptibly slowed by all the shimmer still lingering in his system. Though he seemed calm, there was an undeniable fragility to him, one that Silco couldn't ignore.

Yet, Jinx adored him. She seemed calmer, happier, and more focused with Y/N around. Silco's chest tightened uncomfortably. He didn't like this. Letting a stranger into their lives-into her life-was dangerous. Y/N was a liability, and Silco knew better than to trust someone so fragile.

Still, he couldn't ignore the way Jinx smiled when she talked to Y/N, or the way her voice carried a lightness he never heard from her. He told himself he was only tolerating Y/N for her sake, but a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind questioned his reasoning.

Silco glanced down at his now empty plate, his thoughts drifting to himself. He had spent his entire life trying to prove he could be better than the men who had failed him-better than Vander. Yet here he was, standing in his kitchen, watching a shimmer-addicted boy cook because Jinx liked him. He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

Silco told himself he wouldn't let this stranger become a permanent fixture in their lives. But as he watched Jinx laugh and Y/N smile faintly in response, he couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late.

With a sigh he stood up, none of the two paid him a glance. Silco was too exhausted to deal with this and Sevika was still in the bar if something went wrong so he made his way into his new bedroom, letting Jinx and Y/N have their one sided conversation.

Their voices were nearly inaudible in his room but he could imagine Jinxes expression and Y/N's responses. His mind told him to get rid of him. A stranger in his home made him uneasy nevertheless he can't deny Jinx her happiness and if it's with that shimmer-head, he may even allow it.

It seems that they have known each other for a long time and if he really knows so much about alchemy he could soon have two producers which would be excellent for his business.

With one last image popping into Silco's mind, one of how Y/N was looking at her.

He knew he could use Jinx to get Y/N. Silco just didn't know if it's only for Jinxes sake or for something else.

Something about Y/N's delicate form and apparently carrying nature drew him in. Silco wanted to see that warm look of Y/N more often and without shimmer or any drug promoting it.

Silco could feel his face getting more warm by the minute. He was sure there wasn't poison in his food.

Silco was sure that he was getting sick. He damned that shimmer-head in his new home.

The chatter now completely stopped and Silco took a deep breath while looking up on the ceiling, one of his cold hands began to draw some circles and random shapes on his abdomen, inching with every move more up, till his fingertips came in contact with some old scars.

His hand rested on his neck and his fingertips brushing the textured skin. Silco's mind was imagining another hand. Oh, how he wished that it were other hand.

He pictures the ones that could make Jinx calm.

.

.

.

Silco felt betrayed by his own mind.

Maybe the drugs on Y/N got to him.

With one last caress the darkness of the night consumed him.

[ninaworkingatsams]

🐍 A Lock of Hair 🐍

[Fluff] What starts as a daring joke soon reveals hidden sentiments, leaving both surprised by the warmth behind the laughter.

Jamil X Slightly Mischievous! Reader

It was a late evening in the dimly lit library, and most students had long since retreated to their dorms. The air was thick with the scent of yellowed papers and old books, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional rustle of a turning page. Jamil sat at one of the large wooden tables, his posture impeccably straight, his dark hair pulled back into its usual, immaculately tied ponytail. His eyes, sharp and focused, skimmed over the text in front of him, absorbing every detail on his literary course requirement reading.

To any observer, Jamil seemed untouchable—completely absorbed, lost in the depths of his studies.

From across the library, the Prefect watched him with a sly grin, her eyes glinting with playful intent. In her hand, she held a small pair of scissors, her plan already set in motion.

With silent steps, the Prefect approached Jamil from behind. His dark hair shimmered faintly in the warm glow of the lamp, perfectly maintained as always—a testament to the pride he took in his appearance. She suppressed a giggle, keeping her composure as she slowly lifted the scissors—

Snip.

The sound was crisp and unmistakable.

Jamil’s shoulders tensed instantly, his eyes snapping up from the book, narrowing in suspicion. His hand moved almost reflexively to the back of his head, where his fingers checked for his sleek ponytail. Had the Prefect really cut his hair?

He turned slowly, his gaze sharp as he locked eyes with her. She stood there, holding up what appeared to be a long, dark strand of his hair, her eyes wide with faux innocence and a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

For a moment, there was silence. Jamil’s mind raced, processing what had just happened. His hand instinctively checked his ponytail again—still intact. But the possibility that she had actually cut a lock of his hair stirred something fierce in him.

Before he could react, the Prefect spun on her heel, stifling a laugh as she dashed between the towering bookshelves.

“Prefect!” Jamil’s voice was sharp but controlled, his irritation tempered with disbelief as he rose from his seat. His long strides carried him swiftly, his jacket flowing behind him as he gave chase. Had she really done it?

The Prefect’s laughter echoed faintly through the library as she darted between shelves, her footsteps light. But Jamil was fast, and he had no intention of letting her escape so easily. He weaved through the aisles with precision, closing the distance between them.

Just as she was about to round another corner, her foot caught on the edge of a loose book. She stumbled forward, landing in a heap of robes and scattered belongings.

Jamil slowed to a stop, satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he approached. He stood over her, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The tables had turned.

“I suppose you didn’t think that one through,” Jamil remarked, kneeling beside her and bending slightly to meet her gaze. His tone was soft, almost teasing, but laced with a hint of victory. “Are you alright?” he added, though the question carried a clear air of smugness.

The Prefect burst into laughter despite the fall, her eyes bright with amusement. “I’m fine,” she managed, cheeks flushed.

As she pushed herself up, her bag tipped over, spilling its contents across the floor. Jamil’s eyes flicked downward, catching sight of a black-haired wig—identical to his locks. Realization dawned; it was a prank. Relief and bemusement washed over him.

His smirk faltered briefly as he noticed a small collection of brightly colored sticky notes among the scattered items. He picked one up—a reminder, written in his own neat handwriting, of an impending rain shower. He remembered slipping it into her calculus notebook. The note, slightly warped with dried spots, hinted at her carelessness that sometimes worried him.

“You kept these?” Jamil asked, his tone softening as he studied the notes. Each bore small reminders or tips he’d given her over time, now preserved with care.

The Prefect’s laughter quieted, and she blushed slightly as she reached for the wig. “Maybe,” she replied, trying to sound casual but clearly embarrassed. “I like to keep track of what you say.”

Jamil raised an eyebrow. “So, you collect my reminders and pull pranks on me in the same breath?” His voice remained calm, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

“Can you blame me? A chance like that, with a leftover prop from the production club, doesn’t come around often.” The Prefect grinned, brushing herself off as she gathered her belongings.

Jamil huffed softly, shaking his head as he handed her the rain-soaked sticky note, pausing briefly to reflect before passing it back. “You’re truly unbelievable,” he muttered, though the warmth in his voice betrayed the lack of any real bite. Kneeling further, he helped her gather the scattered items.

The Prefect slipped the wig back into her bag as she stood. “Admit it,” she teased, “for a moment, you really thought I’d cut your hair.”

“For a moment, yes,” Jamil admitted with a calm smile, his eyes glinting with playful menace. “But don’t think I’ll let this slide.”

The Prefect giggled, her grin widening. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Quiet in the library!” The sharp voice of the librarian cut through the air, her glare piercing from behind the shelves.

Both Jamil and the Prefect straightened, offering sheepish glances. The Prefect stifled a laugh, and despite his best efforts to maintain composure, Jamil felt a rare smile tug at his lips.

For all her mischief, there was a certain fondness to her actions—a care for even the smallest of things he shared. As frustrating as her antics could be, part of him found them… oddly endearing.

[yanderejustforyou]

Carving Shadows

Fandom:My Hero Academia Pairing: Kirishima x Reader

The sun hung low in the sky, casting an amber glow over the yard as you and Kirishima worked together on your jack-o'-lanterns. It had started as a light-hearted activity, a way to celebrate the upcoming Halloween with some old-fashioned fun. You’d both carefully selected your pumpkins, your hands sticky with the pulp as you scooped out the insides, laughing at each other’s attempts to make the perfect design.

The autumn air was crisp, the smell of roasted seeds drifting from the pumpkins as you toasted them in the oven. It had been a perfect afternoon—bright, simple, and full of easy laughter.

You had already completed your jack-o'-lantern, a goofy face with crooked eyes and a big grin. Kirishima had put more effort into his, a fierce-looking design with jagged teeth that gave it a slightly intimidating look, yet it still retained that signature warmth of his personality.

As the sun dipped lower and the evening crept closer, you could feel the temperature beginning to drop. The yard was now bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of twilight, and the flickering candlelight inside your jack-o'-lanterns illuminated the space, casting dancing shadows on the ground. The sound of the carving knife slicing through the pumpkin flesh had a rhythmic, almost meditative quality to it.

But then, as you reached for another pumpkin, something shifted in the air. A sudden chill. The laughter that had flowed so freely just moments ago seemed to have evaporated. Your gaze shifted to Kirishima, who had paused mid-slice, his wide shoulders stiffened in a way that sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Kirishima?” you asked, voice a little uncertain.

He didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were distant, unfocused, staring at the knife in his hand as if it were an extension of himself, a part of something darker. His jaw tightened, a barely noticeable shift in his expression that was enough to make your heart race, like an instinctive warning.

“Kirishima…?” you tried again, more hesitant this time.

He finally looked up, his expression returning to the usual warmth you were so familiar with, but there was something beneath it—a flicker of something darker, something that didn’t belong.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, his voice smooth, but it lacked the usual confidence, his words coming off as too controlled. “I’m just thinking.”

You nodded, unsure of how to respond. He had always been strong, confident, and protective. But this? This wasn’t like him.

The silence stretched between you, both of you standing in the dimming light of the yard, the air suddenly thick with tension. You watched as he turned the knife in his hands, twirling it thoughtfully.

And then, without warning, his movements became swift and precise, too fast for you to fully process.

A cold blade pressed against your throat, the sharp edge biting into your skin as he stood behind you, his body solid and unyielding. Your breath caught in your throat, fear creeping in as his warm, familiar scent wrapped around you, but there was an unmistakable edge to it now—a dangerous energy you hadn’t noticed before.

“K-Kirishima?” you gasped, heart hammering in your chest. “W-what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer at first. His body pressed closer to yours, his breath warm against your ear. “You don’t know how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy, a stark contrast to the light-heartedness from earlier. “Everything I do, I do it for you. For us. You just... don’t understand.”

Your mind raced. This wasn’t the man you had spent the afternoon laughing with. This was someone else—someone twisted by a need to control, to keep you close.

“Please,” you whispered, trying to remain calm, despite the panic bubbling in your chest. “Kirishima, what is this? This isn’t you.”

His grip on the knife didn’t loosen, but his chest seemed to rise and fall with a heavy breath. His voice was strained when he spoke again, thick with something raw, something broken.

“You think this is not me?” he asked, his tone almost accusatory. “You think this is some... game? I’m protecting you. The world doesn’t get to take you from me. It doesn’t get to decide what happens to you.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes locked on the knife pressing against your skin. “You’re hurting me...”

Kirishima’s grip on the knife tightened for a moment before he pulled it back slightly, just enough to release the tension from your throat. He let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly, though there was still an intensity to his gaze—something that made your heart twist.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered, the words shaky. “But if I don’t do this, if I don’t keep you close, someone else will take you. And I can’t... I can’t let that happen.”

You could feel his breath against your neck as his hands, trembling slightly, moved away from the knife, instead gripping your shoulders as if trying to keep you tethered to him.

“Kirishima,” you murmured softly, trying to meet his gaze. “I don’t need to be protected like this. I need you to trust me.”

His gaze faltered, his hand sliding up to touch your cheek, almost gently, like he was trying to remind himself of the tenderness between you.

“I do trust you,” he said, but the words felt hollow. His eyes, though, betrayed him—they were full of something darker, an obsession he couldn’t control.

“I can’t lose you,” he added, his voice breaking.

You could feel your pulse thumping in your ears, your mind a haze of confusion and fear. Kirishima was still there, the same person you had spent the day with, but something had shifted. You weren’t sure how far he would go to prove his love, and that uncertainty left a cold pit in your stomach.

“You’re safe with me,” he repeated, his voice so soft, but the desperation in it left you chilled to the bone. “I promise. No one will ever take you from me.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak as you slowly reached up to take his hand from your cheek, pulling it away carefully, hoping to calm the storm building inside him.

[miyukis-writings]

— Bound by Silk and Shadows. [IV]

pairing. ilumi zoldyck x (insert oc)

summary. In a quiet village, she runs a humble café, serving customers with a serene smile, unaware that she has captured the interest of one of the deadliest assassins alive. Ilumi Zoldyck, cold and emotionless, finds himself drawn to her—an anomaly in his carefully calculated world. She does not flinch under his piercing gaze, does not cower in fear like others do. And that intrigues him. What starts as silent observation soon spirals into obsession. He watches from the shadows, memorizing her every move, ensuring no one else dares to lay claim to what is his. Even Hisoka, ever the provocateur, finds amusement in Ilumi’s growing fixation. But Ilumi is not a man of patience. If she won’t come to him willingly… he may just have to take her. After all, a rare treasure should be kept safe—locked away, where no one else can touch.

tags. yandere ; kidnapping, manipulation ; friends to lovers ; eventual smut (will be tagged accordingly).

a.n. there's a lot going on with my life lately. i've been pretty busy as well with my work. but, here's a new chapter i guess? it's 'Chap Goh Mei' today. anyone celebrating it? anyway, happy cny <3. i've been working on a new header as well for this story. i asked my friend to draw me ilumi yesterday along with 'her'. been wanting to show her full name in the story but, that can wait. enjoy, like and reblog are much appreciated! xoxo miyuki

status. on-going // prologue, chapter I, chapter II, chapter III, chapter V, chapter VI

The festival was winding down, but the air still thrummed with lingering excitement. The soft glow of paper lanterns bathed the village in a golden haze, and the distant sound of laughter and music wove through the crisp night air.

Far from the festival’s celebration, Ilumi Zoldyck stood at the edge of a secluded rooftop, watching the night unfold below him.

His gaze was impassive, sharp eyes scanning the crowd without any real investment. The noise, the colors, the joy—it was all meaningless to him. Yet, his attention lingered on the shrine, his mind tethered to a presence he couldn’t quite ignore. His sharp eyes swept over the festival without interest, his mind barely anchored to the present. He had no reason to linger in this place—no reason, except for the faint pull of curiosity.

Then, without warning—

A strange sensation gripped his chest.

It was subtle at first, an inexplicable prickle at the back of his mind, like a silent whisper brushing against his consciousness. A warning. His fingers twitched, his body stiffening. Something was wrong.

His instincts had never failed him before.

Ilumi’s gaze darkened as his eyes flickered toward the shrine’s rear entrance, where the shadows seemed deeper, more suffocating. The festival’s noise became distant, drowned out by the quiet hum of awareness settling into his bones.

He knew this feeling.

A disruption. An intrusion. A threat.

Hisoka Morow, standing at the festival’s outskirts, felt it too.

The candy-sweet scent of the night dulled, replaced by something far more tantalizing—the unmistakable thrill of an approaching climax. His golden eyes gleamed, his lips curling around the lollipop he lazily twirled between his fingers.

“Hmm~” Hisoka hummed, his gaze flickering toward the shrine.

He hadn’t been looking for anything in particular—just something to entertain him. And oh, wasn’t this just delightful? The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if anticipating something deliciously tragic.

Ilumi’s pupils constricted.

The shrine’s rear entrance. The shadows there were deeper, darker, unnatural.

Hisoka noticed it too, his amusement only growing. Ilumi, ever the perfect predator, had already shifted into motion, soundless as he descended from the rooftop. Hisoka watched him, intrigued.

“Oh? How unlike you to move so fast, Ilumi~” Hisoka mused, voice dripping with teasing delight.

Ilumi ignored him. His focus was singular. That unnatural pull in his chest—something had happened.

A faint trace of warmth flickered in his mind, an echo of someone’s presence. It was subtle, barely there, but unmistakable.

Without a word, Ilumi moved, his body shifting into motion as effortlessly as breathing. His steps were soundless as he descended from the rooftop, his mind already sharpening into a singular focus.

The girl.

His steps quickened, his thoughts sharpening. He should not care—he had no reason to care—but the disturbance, the wrongness, would not leave him alone.

Hisoka chuckled, trailing behind like a ghostly spectator.

“Oh, this is getting exciting~”

The festival roared on, oblivious to the unseen chaos unfolding in its midst. But Ilumi and Hisoka?

They knew.

And soon, everyone else would too. --- The shrine stood silent, untouched by the chaos that had already unfolded within. The flickering lanterns illuminated the worn stone steps, their warm glow contrasting the sharp chill in the air. But something was missing. Something vital.

Ilumi landed soundlessly at the shrine’s rear entrance, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings with cold precision. Hisoka followed at his own leisurely pace, rolling the lollipop against his tongue as if he were merely on a casual stroll.

Ilumi stepped forward, the faintest hint of disturbed ground catching his attention. He knelt, his gloved fingers brushing against the dirt where footprints had been hastily erased. His pupils dilated.

Too clean. Too perfect. A professional job.

His gaze flickered to the entrance, then to the inside of the shrine. The scent of incense lingered in the air, but beneath it—something else.

The faint trace of struggle. The scent of blood.

She was gone.

Hisoka’s soft chuckle cut through the stillness. “Oh my~ seems like someone snatched our little flower right from under your nose.”

Ilumi said nothing. His mind was already reconstructing the scene, analyzing every possible scenario.

She was here. She was taken.

He glanced toward the inner shrine, where her ceremonial garments had been discarded, tossed carelessly to the side. His fingers twitched as he reached for a strand of fabric caught in the wooden panels. He rolled it between his fingers, feeling the lingering warmth of her presence.

She had just been here.

The timing was precise. Deliberate. Calculated.

Someone had planned this.

Ilumi’s grip on the fabric tightened imperceptibly. Unacceptable.

Hisoka tilted his head, watching Ilumi with eerie amusement. “How very unlike you to be this invested, Illu~ Did she perhaps leave a little impression on that cold heart of yours?”

Ilumi ignored him. His thoughts were a razor’s edge, slicing through the implications.

If they had planned to kidnap her, it meant she was still alive. That was the only reason he hadn’t left a trail of corpses yet.

Hisoka stretched lazily, his voice sing-song. “Well, well~ shall we go hunting, then? I do love a good chase.”

Ilumi stood, his silhouette bathed in the dim lantern light. His next words were quiet, but carried the weight of an inevitable fate.

“Find them.”

Hisoka’s grin widened.

“Oh, now you’re speaking my language.” --- She had always known the past would come to haunt her one day.

She just never thought it would happen so suddenly.

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the pain.

Her wrists ached, bound tightly by thick ropes that chafed against her skin. The wooden chair beneath her creaked slightly as she shifted, her body sore from being tied in the same position for too long. The dim, flickering light of an oil lamp barely illuminated the damp room, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat.

A wave of nausea twisted in her stomach as she took in her surroundings.

She was back in their hands.

A heavy door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed against the cold stone floor.

“Well, look who’s awake,” a deep voice drawled.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward, his scarred face twisted into a grin. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned against the wooden table across from her.

“Been a long time, hasn’t it, little lady?”

Her jaw clenched, her nails digging into her palms.

“Let me go.”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “See, that’s not how this works. Your dear ol’ dad left quite a debt before he kicked the bucket. And guess what? It didn’t just disappear when he died.”

He leaned in closer, his breath hot and laced with the stench of alcohol.

“Someone’s gotta pay up.”

She turned her head away, refusing to let him see the fear creeping into her expression.

“And what? You’re planning to sell me off?” she spat, her voice laced with anger despite the slight tremble.

The man smirked. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re worth too much now. Pretty little thing like you? We can make plenty of money by sending you to the Entertainment District. We might make a fortune by sending you there.”

The implication sent a cold chill down her spine.

She swallowed, forcing herself to stay calm. She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not in front of them.

The boss chuckled at her silence and reached out, gripping her chin with rough fingers.

“But don’t worry,” he purred, tilting her face up to meet his leering gaze. “You won’t be going anywhere. Not until I decide what to do with you.”

Her stomach twisted in fear. She had always known her father’s debt was a heavy burden, but she never imagined it would come back for her like this. She could feel her arms getting weaker, probably due to the drugs that they used. A group of men surrounded her after that, their expressions were a mix of greed and cruelty.

“She’s a pretty one,” another voice mused. “Might be worth something before we collect what’s owed.”

Fear iced over her veins. She tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to think, but the terror was suffocating. The drug coursing through her system made everything sluggish, her thoughts disjointed as she fought to stay conscious.

Her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She had to get out.

One way or another—she had to escape. --- The night stretched long, suffocating in its eerie silence. The festival had long since ended, leaving only the remnants of distant laughter and the faint scent of fireworks clinging to the air. But for Ilumi and Hisoka, the world had shrunk down to a single objective.

Find her.

The two figures moved like shadows, their search methodical yet relentless. They had started at the shrine, but as the minutes passed, Ilumi expanded their search radius, combing through the winding village paths, the marketplace now abandoned, and the narrow alleyways that twisted like a labyrinth.

No trace of her. No scent. No lingering presence.

It was as if she had vanished entirely.

Hisoka, who had thus far been entertained by the pursuit, sighed dramatically, twirling a throwing card between his fingers. “My, my~ such a troublesome little thing, isn’t she? I must admit, watching you pace like this is quite the rare treat.”

Ilumi didn’t respond. His steps were quick, precise, his mind racing through the possibilities.

They wouldn’t have killed her. If they wanted her dead, they would have left the body. No. They took her somewhere. But where?

Hisoka hopped onto a rooftop with ease, scanning the empty streets below. “Tsk. What a shame. I was rather looking forward to seeing how she’d react to all this attention.” He leaned on one knee, red eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Now, Ilumi~ I wonder... why are you so tense? Could it be that you actually—”

Ilumi’s piercing gaze snapped up at him.

Hisoka grinned. “Ooh, scary~”

Ignoring him, Ilumi continued his search, his focus razor-sharp. Every street, every abandoned house, every possible hideout—nothing. No witnesses. No clues. No signs of a struggle.

It wasn’t just a simple abduction.

It was a disappearance.

The realization settled in his gut like ice. Hisoka, sensing the change in his demeanor, raised an eyebrow. “This is getting interesting~”

Ilumi said nothing. His fists clenched at his sides. She was his to keep. His to watch. His to decide.

And now, someone had dared to take her away.

Unacceptable.

Hisoka stretched, letting out a low hum of amusement. “So? What now, dear Illu?”

Ilumi exhaled slowly, his voice devoid of emotion but carrying a quiet promise of devastation.

“We find them.”

The hunt wasn’t over.

It had only just begun. --- The years passed like fleeting shadows, yet the hunt never ceased.

The village had changed—new buildings, unfamiliar faces, and whispers of stories that no longer held relevance to him. What was once a place of warmth, of memories tied to her, had now become a cold, lifeless backdrop in his relentless search.

She was nowhere to be found.

No traces. No rumors. No lingering scent.

As if she had been erased from existence.

Ilumi stood at the shrine, his gaze impassive, yet the weight of the silence pressed heavier than ever. This was where she belonged. This was where he should have found her. And yet—

She was gone.

The air smelled of incense, the offerings placed by worshippers unfamiliar to him. Even her presence, the memory of her standing before the shrine dressed in that delicate white and red attire, had begun to blur.

He hated it.

He hated that he couldn’t find her.

That she had slipped through his fingers.

That time had stolen her from him in a way no enemy ever could.

Had she died? No, if she had, there would have been proof. Had she escaped? Possible, but even that possibility did little to ease the strange ache that sat heavy in his chest.

Hisoka, who had long grown bored of this game, finally voiced what Ilumi refused to acknowledge.

“Face it, Illu~ she’s gone. Vanished. Disappeared into thin air~” His grin widened, eyes twinkling with delight at the assassin’s unwavering fixation. “Even you can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

Ilumi’s expression remained unreadable. No. That wasn’t true.

No one escaped him.

Not permanently.

Hisoka chuckled. “Still searching after all these years~? My, my, isn’t that obsessive?”

Ilumi turned his back to the shrine. Hisoka was right about one thing. It had been years. Yet, it made no difference.

Time would not change his resolve.

He would find her.

No matter how long it took.

No matter where she was.

She was his. And she would return to him.

Eventually. --- The lanterns flickered in the dimly lit streets, painting golden reflections on the cobbled path. The night air carried the faint scent of incense and cherry blossoms, mingling with the sound of distant laughter and the soft notes of a shamisen. The Entertainment District was alive, vibrant, filled with fleeting pleasures. But within one of its grand establishments, a lone figure sat near an open window, untouched by the liveliness beyond.

Dressed in an exquisite oiran kimono, embroidered with intricate silver and deep violet threads, she moved a Gungi piece across the board, her fingers as delicate as the silk she once wove. The customers across from her watched in quiet admiration, more entranced by her presence than the game itself. A soft, polite smile adorned her lips, but it never reached her eyes.

She won. Again. And again.

Yet, victory never brought her satisfaction.

She then reached for the teacup beside her, but instead of drinking, she traced the rim absentmindedly, her gaze shifting toward the bustling streets below. A wistful sigh escaped her as she watched the world continue beyond the confines of her cage.

Her fingers moved on their own, brushing against the lacquered wood of the window sill, a soft hum escaping her lips—an old melody, one she had sung absentmindedly back when she had something to call home. The gentle tune drifted through the air, weaving between the sounds of the night, unnoticed by most, yet holding a weight only she could feel.

She was counting the days.

How many had passed since she last stepped foot outside on her own terms? Since she had last seen the shrine, the café, the faces of those she loved?

A warm breeze carried a few petals through the window, their delicate forms landing beside the Gungi board. Her smile faltered as she reached out, fingers brushing against the pale pink bloom. The petals felt real. Unlike everything else around her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, gripping the flower between her fingers. Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned back to her customers, resuming the game.

But even as she played, her heart remained elsewhere—lost in time, longing for something just beyond her reach.

[dozedoffeugene]

death & romance⚕️⋆⭒˚.⋆

Chapter 1/10 : 4.3k words

Cross-posted on AO3

Warnings: needles/injections

Context: post-fall of Overwatch

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When you left Overwatch, you thought you were done.

You had nothing: no orders, no purpose, just some credits to your name and what was left of your pride.

That is, until you received an unmarked letter in your mailbox.

Talon, requesting your presence. No details. Just a location.

You should’ve ignored it. But you didn’t.

What you found there wasn’t just a job—it was her. Moira. Cold hands, sharp eyes, and promises too precise to be lies. She said she could make you stronger. Said there was potential in you, if you let her bring it out.

Eventually, the line between choice and control starts to blur. You keep returning to her lab. Letting her study you. Change you. The injections burn, but the way she touches you afterward: the way she watches you like you’re hers, burns hotter.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You don’t ask where they’re taking you.

The Talon escort is silent. Helmeted, with no insignia. Just a pulse rifle slung low and footsteps that echo like a countdown.

You’ve been walking for seven minutes—down clean, windowless corridors, past red-lit doors that stay closed and most definitely hold secrets. The place smells like metal and antiseptic.

It’s all too quiet.

You’ve walked through facilities like this before. Years ago. Though with a different symbol on the walls. Different handlers, too. Back when your orders came from elected officials, men and women you once trusted.

Back when people still called you by a name.

You don’t use that name anymore.

Now, you just walk.

You’ve stopped asking where you’re being taken. If they wanted you dead, you’d already be in a body bag.

You knew what Talon was before you ever walked through their doors—whispers of blacksite labs, discarded test subjects, science that didn’t ask permission.

You told yourself you’d never crawl to them, not after what Overwatch cost you. But survival chips away at pride fast, and you were tired of bleeding for people who spoke about justice like it was clean. At least Talon doesn’t lie about what it is.

Still, your gut twists with each new turn.

Eventually, the escort stops in front of a smooth, unmarked door and types in a code without a word. The lock hisses open.

“Inside,” he says. Then he leaves.

The lab is colder than you expected. Not just in temperature, though the air has that sterile chill that clings to your skin, but in atmosphere. The lighting is low, with a soft violet cast from the wall monitors and status bars flickering quietly across machines you don’t recognize.

Tables are lined with instruments: precision tools, surgical arms, vials of iridescent liquid in subtle, pulsing hues. There’s a scanner in the corner shaped like a medical cradle, its frame dark and braced with restraints. The air smells sterile, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a place built for healing.

The room is quiet—save for the woman waiting at the far end.

She stands at the far console, back turned, her silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. She’s tall, sharper in profile than you expected, all angles and intent. Her lab coat drapes like a shroud, cinched neatly at the waist, not a wrinkle in sight.

One gloved hand taps out something on a data pad, the other resting against her hip with unconscious control. Her hair glows faintly under the light—rusted red swept back into a signature arc, its color almost unnatural in this place.

You know who she is before she says anything.

Moira O’Deorain.

The name alone carries weight, even in whispered rumors. Ex-Overwatch. Disavowed. Visionary or villain, depending on who’s telling the story. Her reputation precedes her—but it doesn’t prepare you for seeing her in person.

“Sit,” she says, voice crisp and low, like something engineered to cut through static.

You do, watching her still.

She’s not wearing armor or a mask or any of the usual Talon regalia—just a high-collared black coat with plum accents and sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing surgical gloves and veins traced with faint bioluminescence.

She taps a few times on the datapad, then looks you over momentarily. When she does, her eyes catch the light unevenly. One is a sharp, clinical blue, the other a deep, warm brown. You can’t decide which one feels more invasive.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” she says flatly. “Overwatch discard: Field capable. High trauma tolerance. Excellent improvisation under duress. Behavioral markers suggest a need for structure.”

You blink slowly. “How flattering.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says. “It’s an observation.”

You say nothing.

She picks up a small glass vial.

It glows a violet-gold, shimmering like it’s alive.

“This compound interfaces directly with the nervous system. Enhancing response time and increasing sensory clarity. It’s temporary—at first.”

You study it, trying to understand what she’s implying.

“You’ve been trained to survive,” she says. “But survival isn’t evolution.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what is this? A shortcut?”

Her mouth lifts, just barely. “It’s a correction.”

That lingers. Long enough that you shift where you stand, gaze trailing across the room’s cold steel edges.

Moira watches you from across the console, head slightly tilted, her expression unreadable.

“You’re treating this like I’ve already agreed,” you say.

“Hesitation is still a form of consent,” she replies. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

You told yourself you were done taking orders that led nowhere. Done bleeding for people who forgot your name the moment the mission ended. Maybe that’s why you walked in here. For once, you wanted to be changed on purpose.

You swallow, pulse kicking a little harder.

“You want me to be a lab rat.”

Moira doesn’t blink. “I want to see what happens when something already dangerous stops limiting itself.”

Her tone doesn’t change—flat, composed, like she’s narrating a thought experiment.

She steps closer.

The vial turns in her fingers.

“This is the offer,” she says. “Power without doubt. Function without weakness. You’ll become what they failed to make you.”

Your mouth is dry.

You want to laugh. You don’t.

You want to tell her she’s wrong.

But she isn’t.

You’ve lived too long on the edge of usefulness. Too long pretending your silence is control.

You watch the vial in her hand for longer than you should.

It hums faintly. The light inside shifts colors—gold, violet, something in between. Not like any compound you’ve seen before, and you’ve seen more than most.

Moira watches you the way a sculptor watches raw stone, already imagining what she’ll carve away. And what will be left when she’s finished. She gestures to an exam table, clearly already prepped for you.

You approach and stand at the edge of it, fingers twitching against your side.

“This… is official, right?” you ask. “There’s a contract? Something binding?”

Moira doesn’t look up from the tray she’s prepping—syringes aligned like surgical instruments. “There’s no paper, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You wait.

She turns, finally, her tone smooth as ever. “Your consent is the contract.”

The words feel thinner than they should. Too easy to swallow, too hard to spit out.

Risky…

You glance once over your shoulder, toward the door. Then back at her.

“I could just walk out.”

“You could,” she says, then: “You won’t.”

She gestures once more to the table.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’ve bled on worse. Laid down in tighter spaces. Still, something about the clean sheet, the smooth leather straps resting neatly on either side.

It gets to you. Your stomach coils.

You climb up anyway.

You lie back, the surface colder than expected. Moira steps to your side with measured grace and takes your left wrist in her gloved hand.

“This is just for safety,” she says.

The strap clicks gently into place.

Then the other.

Then ankles.

Not tight. Not yet. But firm enough to remind you this isn’t casual.

“You’ll feel resistance,” she says, standing above you now, her gaze unreadable. “Physiological. Psychological. Let it happen.”

Your throat feels dry.

"I'm still not sure about this."

She cocks her head.

"And yet you came."

You close your eyes. Exhale once, slow and tight. You try to remember what was waiting for you outside this room. No job, no orders. The long, dull silence of a life with no purpose. And then you stop trying.

Beside you, you hear the faint, clinical hiss as she draws the dose.

“You’ll be permitted access to the facility after this,” she says. “You may come and go. No handlers. No surveillance.”

You glance up. “That’s rare.”

“You’re no prisoner,” she says. “You’re an investment.”

Moira places her gloved hand at the side of your neck, pushing your head slightly to the side. The injector is cold against your neck. She doesn’t wait, pressing it with clinical precision.

The hiss is subtle. The effect isn’t.

Your body tenses immediately, a cold rush running through your veins.

The injection surges through you like fire laced with ice—your muscles convulse, your vision blurs, and something deep inside begins to split. It feels like your body is being stripped molecule by molecule, peeled down to bone and then rebuilt in fast, clumsy layers.

You gasp, but the air won’t come right; every breath feels like it’s catching on a new set of lungs that haven’t learned how to work yet.

Moira watches your vitals spike, then level. She walks to you—measured, composed—and places two fingers to your neck, just below your jaw. You flinch slightly at her touch.

“Pulse elevated. Oxygen efficiency increasing.”

She doesn’t remove her hand.

“You’re responding beautifully,” she murmurs.

You look up at her, closer now. She doesn’t move away. Her face is unreadable. That heterochromatic gaze lingers on you just a moment too long.

For a second, you think she might say something else.

She doesn’t, instead stepping away and finding her spot at the console, adding her data.

The worst of it passes like a storm—fast, blinding, and impossible to track. Your limbs still shake, but the seizing has stopped. You blink against the overhead light, breath coming in slow, uneven pulls as sensation returns to your fingers.

It feels like you’ve been scraped out from the inside.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping the edges of the table until you hear the soft click of the restraints releasing.

Moira steps back, folding the data pad under one arm. “Sit up when you can.”

You do, slowly. Your muscles don’t hurt—they feel new. Unfamiliar. Like they don’t quite belong to you yet. You glance down at your hands, flex them once, twice. There’s a tremor you can’t control. Your skin is damp, flushed. Not quite feverish, but close.

“How would you describe the sensation?” Moira asks.

You swallow, tasting metal at the back of your throat. “Like… like something was trying to tear its way out of me. And build something else on the way out.”

She nods, typing. “Respiratory constriction?”

You nod. “Like drowning and overheating at the same time.”

“Good.” Her voice doesn’t praise or soften—it just records. “Can you feel any difference in your vision?”

You blink a few times, squinting toward the light. Colors seem sharper around the edges, like they’ve been turned up just slightly too high. “Clearer,” you say. “Too clear.”

Moira tilts her head. “Fascinating.”

You breathe again, slower this time, grounding yourself with one hand on the table’s edge.

Everything still feels wrong. But not in the way you expected.

“Monitor yourself for the next twelve hours,” she says. “Return if there are any hallucinations, blackouts, or signs of violent compulsion.”

You nod in response. Moira reaches into the drawer beside her console, eyes still watching you.

From the tray, she lifts a slim, dark device. It’s smooth, featureless, no bigger than a coin. She holds it out to you between gloved fingers.

“In case of failure,” she says, voice even. “Or compromise.”

You take it carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm. There’s no button visible, but you know it doesn’t need one.

“It’s a tracker?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She nods her head, just slightly. “It’s a tether.”

Her hand brushes yours as she releases it. “Press it once,” she murmurs. “And I’ll come find you.”

You take it, sliding off the table on unsteady legs and tuck it into your pocket. Every step is unfamiliar—like your body is a suit you haven’t fully grown into.

”If nothing arises, return in a week for your next dose.”

You nod again, and say nothing as you leave.

The lab’s door slides closed with a gentle click. Outside the room, you catch your reflection in the polished steel: flushed, trembling, eyes wide with something between awe and regret.

When you finally step through your own door, legs still unsteady from the dose, the silence hits harder than the comedown.

Your apartment is small: barely more than a room with a sink and a bed jammed into opposite corners. The walls are stained from old coolant leaks, and the overhead light flickers every few seconds, humming faintly with low-grade energy draw.

A cracked holo-screen flickers above the desk, half the interface permanently glitched, stuck on an outdated Talon newsfeed loop. It’s the best you could afford after going off-grid—no pension, no backup, just your name and whatever credits you hadn’t burned through staying alive.

Later that night, you don’t sleep.

You try.

The lights are off. The window’s open. Your gun’s within reach. But nothing feels right.

Your heart is still racing, but you’re not anxious. You’re... alive.

Every sound in your apartment feels amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the air vent, the tiny throb of your blood in your ears. The serum’s still in you. Still humming.

You stare at the ceiling and think about her hand settled on your throat—fingers steady, gloved, but not without sensation. You’d felt the faint press of her nails just beneath the material.

Measured. Possessive.

You think about the way she looked at you—not with attraction, but certainty.**

Somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

The days after the injection are strange too, but not unpleasant.

You feel sharper, like your blood’s running cleaner—muscles taut, reflexes tight, your thoughts moving just ahead of themselves. Whatever was done to you, didn’t break anything.

On the third morning, you find an envelope in your mailbox, unmarked except for a symbol you haven’t seen since your Overwatch days. Talon, unmistakably. Inside: a small stack of credits. A sum you haven’t seen in one place since you left the field.

There’s no note. No instructions. Just payment—for your body, for your silence, for your return.

It’s not a hard decision, you know you’ll go back.

Not because you were told to.

Because you want to.

You return to the lab after a week.

In the days since the injection, your body has felt like it’s finally catching up to the person you were always meant to be. Strength has become a constant hum beneath your skin. Your thoughts are clearer too, probably since you haven’t craved a drink since the day you got back.

For the first time in years, you feel like you have a future. You’ve had doubts, of course—Talon’s reputation isn’t lost on you—but you told yourself you’d know if something felt wrong.

That you’d recognize the line before it was crossed. And nothing’s felt wrong—not really.

So you come back.

The halls of Talon stretch out in cold, quiet symmetry as you follow the guard—each step clicking steady against the polished floor.

When the final door slides open, she’s already there.

Moira.

Exactly as you remember her.

Posture straight, back turned, reading something across a pane of blue-white light. Gloves on. Sleeves rolled. Hair pinned back with sharp precision.

She doesn’t acknowledge you at first. Just keeps working, tapping something on the display with long, pale fingers.

Then, without looking up—

“You came back.”

Her voice is soft. Even. Not surprised. Not pleased.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You told me to.”

Moira turns.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight—blue and bronze, unnerving. She studies your stance, your breathing, your delay.

“You metabolized the first dose efficiently,” she says. “No adverse reactions?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good.”

She reached for a new vial—slimmer than the last. Darker, it’s yellow glow almost overpowered by the purple.

She steps toward you.

You don’t back away.

But you don’t move forward either.

“Here is your second dose,” she says, lifting the injector slightly. “Necessary for stabilization.”

You eye the vial, then her.

“What exactly am I stabilizing for?”

Moira doesn’t answer right away. She steps closer, gaze sharp with interest.

“Does it matter?” she asks, voice low, almost soothing. “You’re to reach a final form. Stability is the foundation of evolution.” She tilts her head slightly, lips just barely curved. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to being ordinary?”

She waits.

The thought settles fast, heavy in your chest: you don’t want to go back. Not to the dull ache of survival, to the half-life you clawed through before this. Ordinary was killing you slowly. At least this feels like becoming something.

“Lie back.”

The command is quiet. Unassuming. But it doesn’t leave room for negotiation.

You settle onto the table, the cold pressing through your spine as your body adjusts to the sterile, unwelcoming surface.

Moira’s fingers move with methodical ease, guiding the restraints over your wrists and ankles, locking them into place with a soft metallic click.

She steps to your side, her gloved hand brushing your hair back from your neck with a sterile kind of care. Then, she places her hand at the base of your throat—not rough, but steady.

The injector touches skin. A sharp press. Then the hiss.

This dose is different.

The serum tears through your veins with violent precision, flooding every nerve ending with heat so sharp it feels like you’re being stripped down and reassembled all at once. Your back arches slightly against the table—every muscle tight, spasming, then locking into new form. Your vision fractures, sharpens, breaks again. You bite down until your jaw aches just to keep from screaming, though you can help but groan in pain.

Moira observes silently. She notes your vitals without shifting her stance, her eyes flicking between the monitor and your face—studying.

When the worst of it finally ebbs, you’re left shivering, breath coming in broken pulls, your limbs molten and useless. Sweat clings to every inch of you like a second skin.

Moira tilts her head slightly. “How do you feel?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “Like I just fucking died.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “Good,” she murmurs. “Then it’s working.”

After you’ve caught your breath, she undoes the cuffs holding you down.

Moira slips a hand beneath your shoulders with practiced ease, guiding you upright like she’s repositioning a specimen.

“And your cognitive clarity?” she asks. “Any visual distortion? Maybe auditory?”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No distortion. Just… intense.”

She steps closer, holding a small scanner close to your temple. “How was your muscle control?”

“Bad,” you answer, rubbing your sore arms.

She doesn’t flinch. “Residual pain is expected.”

Then, quietly—she speaks to herself.

“Good retention. Stable neural response. Adrenal system… adapting.”

Her gaze flicks back to you, searching. “You’ll be operational within the hour.” She returns to the console and begins typing away.

After a moment, she speaks.

“I knew you’d return.”

There’s no smugness in her tone. Just certainty.

“I didn’t,” you admit.

You don’t mean to say it.

But the serum makes you honest.

“Yet here you are,” she says quietly, turning to look at you, “Still seeking what only I can give you.”

She approaches where you’re sat on the table.

You start to answer, but nothing comes.

Moira peels off her glove with practiced ease as she comes closer, the material slipping free to reveal skin that’s unnaturally pale underneath. Along her forearm, faint veins pulse with lilac bioluminescence, glowing subtly beneath the surface, the lines raised just enough to catch the light. It looks engineered, not healed—something evolved past human.

You don’t mean to stare, but the moment her glove comes off, your eyes lock onto the exposed skin.

Moira notices.

She doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t pull the glove back on. Instead, she lifts her arm between you, palm down, offering it like a demonstration.

“Curious?” she asks, voice unreadable.

You glance up, but she’s already watching you, observing you.

“I started with myself,” she says, letting the bioluminescent patterns catch the lab light. “Every breakthrough I’ve made since—every risk I ask of others—I earned by testing my own limits first.”

Her hand lingers in the air between you, impossibly still.

“I wouldn’t ask anything of you I’m not already willing to survive.”

When Moira reaches you, she raises her unaffected hand and lets her warm fingers trace the edge of your jaw. You hold still, refusing to flinch, though your eyes flick downward the moment her skin brushes yours.

She scans your face like she’s watching something unfold beneath the skin. A map of circuits lighting up in real time.

“What reason have you to fear me?” she asks, lips twitching in a near-smile.

She tilts her head slightly.

Curious.

Already calculating your next threshold.

Her gloved hand slips from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful. And she kisses you.

Her lips are poised. Precise. You tilt forward instinctively, breath hitching, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprises even you.

The warmth rushes up your neck, prickling down your spine. Her hand is firm on your neck, her fingers anchoring you in place. She tastes faintly of pine, and maybe citrus—heady, electric.

Your body reacts faster than your thoughts, heat surging low in your gut as your hands find her hips, pulling her closer.

Her other hand comes up to rest lightly against your chest, not pressing you closer, just marking the distance. Controlling it.

It lasts longer than it should.

Then it’s over.

She breaks the kiss slowly, deliberately, like drawing the final line of an equation.

For a moment, her face stays close. Her breath brushes your skin, cool and steady. You half expect her to whisper something—stay, good, again.

But she doesn’t.

She steps back like a pulse just ended.

You’re still leaning forward, breath caught, blinking like you missed a step on solid ground.

Moira turns without a word and retrieves her data pad from the counter. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently—already documenting.

“Increased cardiovascular irregularity,” she says aloud, tone devoid of judgment. “Cortical spike aligns with prior instability markers. Emotional volatility appears more responsive to close proximity stimuli.”

She doesn’t say I kissed her, it’s close proximity stimuli.

Like it was inevitable.

You don’t speak. Can’t. The shame floods you too fast, thick and hot, dragging every rational thought under. You’re not even sure what you were hoping for. Recognition? Softness?

All you’ve given her is a reaction. A hunch confirmed. Something she can name.

You sit in silence, the lab colder than before, your hands clenched tight in your lap.

Moira finishes typing.

She turns toward you, perfectly composed. “Your first mission will be in three days. You’re to report here the morning of. I’ll prepare the next dose.”

You nod once—mechanical. You don’t trust your voice.

She turns back to her console, already moving on.

You don’t know what you expected.

But it wasn’t this.

You slide off the table without a word.

Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind won’t settle. The door hisses shut behind you, and the silence of the corridor wraps around you like a vacuum.

You keep your pace steady. You don’t look back.

But every step away from that lab feels like you’re shrinking back into something smaller than what she saw.

Your apartment is, as usual, quiet when you return. Still. Clean.

You pace once from wall to wall, strip off your jacket, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed—barely able to breathe through the weight pressing into your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You kissed her like you meant something.

You kissed her like she wasn’t already watching every reaction you had.

You bury your face in your hands.

It wasn’t calculated. It was raw. Messy. Human.

Weak.

She didn’t even have to reject you. She just observed it. Wrote it down. And moved on.

You lie back. Try to sleep. Try to clear your head.

But you don’t.

Because every time you close your eyes, you feel it again. Her hand gripping your neck, guiding you closer, steady and possessive.

You remember the exact pressure of her mouth, the way she held you there—not resisting, just allowing, and how badly you wanted more.

You imagine her stepping in closer, slipping a thigh between yours, grinding down until your breath hitched. You see yourself yanking that lab coat off her shoulders, baring her piece by piece, worshiping every inch like she deserves.

When you wake, these thoughts make shame settle deep, low and hot.

One kiss shouldn’t make you feel so completely undone.

You roll onto your side and curse under your breath.

The next morning, you train.

You wake before dawn and work until your limbs shake. You go for a run, set up your old punching bag, and do everything you can to drown out the humming in your ears. The dose left you with more energy than you know what to do with.

At night, you try to rest.

But you don’t.

Sleep never comes clean. It’s hot, fragmented. Every time you drift off, her voice catches you in the dark. Her eyes. Her breath just barely brushing your skin.

You dream of her lips—her body pressed against yours, imagining the feel of her skin against yours. The memory is twisted now, need tangled up with shame.

When you wake, you’re sweating. Thighs pressed tight together, breath hitching from the edge of a dream you can’t speak aloud.

You don’t touch yourself. The idea of looking Moira in the eye afterward, knowing one kiss left you that desperate, that wrecked, makes your stomach twist with humiliation.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, jaw locked, waiting in agony for the night to end.

You do this every night.

And when the third night breaks into morning, and your alarm clock ticks toward your arrival—

You’re itching to go back.

[shiorihyugawrites]

Throne of Flowers

In the opulent court of Valoria, Emperor Solomon and Mikasa Ackerman fight to rewrite a 300-year-old law demanding four noble consorts, determined to make their love the empire’s heart.

As a foreign soldier turned ambassador, Mikasa faces nobles’ scorn and political schemes, while Solomon balances duty and devotion. With allies like Empress Dowager Solana and foes lurking in the empty Rose, Lily, Dahlia, and Peony houses, their bond is tested by tradition, ambition, and secrets.

Can they forge a future where love, not law, reigns supreme? Sequel to Diamond Of The First Water (Mikasa x OC)

Chapter One: A New Dawn

The Valorian sun blazed over the imperial city, its golden light cascading across rooftops and spires, transforming the harbor into a shimmering expanse of liquid fire. The air hummed with the rhythm of a thriving port—gulls wheeling overhead, their cries mingling with the shouts of merchants and the creak of ropes against weathered docks. 

Mikasa Ackerman stood at the bow of a sleek Valorian ship, its rosewood hull polished to a gleam, its crimson sails snapping in the salt-laced breeze. Her cloak billowed, dark and unadorned, a stark contrast to the vibrant city unfolding before her. Valoria was a marvel, its marble facades and bustling markets a world apart from Paradis’s scarred hills, yet this arrival carried a weight she’d never felt before. She wasn’t here as a scout, nor merely as an ambassador for Paradis. She was here to marry Solomon, the emperor whose love had awakened a part of her she’d long buried—a part that believed she was worthy of a gentle, unwavering devotion.

Her fingers gripped the rail, calloused from years of wielding blades, a flicker of nerves coiling in her chest like a coiled spring. She was a foreigner, a soldier forged in the crucible of war, stepping into a court that revered noble blood and polished grace. The 300-year-old law mandating four consorts loomed like a storm cloud, its tradition a barrier that could shatter her dreams. As a Paradisian, with no lineage to claim, she’d face scrutiny, whispers, perhaps even scorn. Yet Mikasa’s heart held fast, anchored by her belief in Solomon and the love they’d nurtured. His emerald eyes, alight with passion, his voice promising a future where she was his only empress—these were her armor. They’d find a way, together, to bend the unyielding tides of Valorian custom. Her resolve hardened, a soldier’s discipline merging with a lover’s hope, as she scanned the docks, her dark eyes sharp beneath the morning glare.

The ship docked with a gentle lurch, the gangplank lowering to reveal a cadre of palace staff, their crimson-and-gold uniforms crisp, their expressions a mix of deference and curiosity. A young servant, barely older than a recruit, hurried forward to collect her two modest trunks, his eyes wide as he hefted them with care. A steward, an older woman with silver hair pinned neatly, stepped forward, her stern face softening with a smile. “Lady Mikasa, welcome to Valoria,” she said, her voice warm but measured, her bow precise. “His Majesty has arranged your transport. This way, if you please.”

Mikasa nodded, her posture steady despite the flutter in her stomach. “Thank you,” she said, her voice calm, honed by years of command. The steward led her to an opulent carriage, its panels gleaming. Silk curtains framed the windows, and the horses—sleek bays with braided manes—stamped impatiently. This was no ordinary transport; it was a declaration, a testament to Solomon’s heart. The steward opened the door, and Mikasa’s breath caught at the sight within: a bouquet of roses, their petals a deep, velvety crimson, rested on the velvet seat, their fragrance rich and heady. Beside them lay a sealed letter, Solomon’s elegant script unmistakable against the cream parchment.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the note, breaking the wax seal with care, as if it were a sacred relic. The words danced before her, each one a spark igniting her heart:

To my beautiful fiancée,

 I cannot wait to see and hold you in my arms again. I yearn for the moment I get to feel my lips on yours once more. I have a surprise for you when you arrive at the palace. 

Forever yours,

Solomon.

Her heart leapt, a warmth flooding her chest as she pressed the letter to her lips, the roses’ scent enveloping her like a lover’s embrace. Solomon’s notes, his small gestures of devotion, were the threads that had woven their love. Their story had begun unevenly—his boyish crush, ardent and unguarded, met with her skepticism, a soldier wary of a prince’s charm. She’d seen him as a fleeting distraction, a noble too bright for her shadowed world. But Solomon had been relentless, his affection steadfast, his laughter and sincerity chipping away at her defenses. When she’d finally agreed to a chance, his joy had been a sunburst, his love unwavering since. Every promise, every touch, had proven him true, and now she was here, ready to claim their future.

The steward’s voice broke her reverie, gentle but curious. “Is everything to your satisfaction, my lady?” she asked, her eyes flicking to the roses, a spark of intrigue in her gaze.

“Yes, perfectly,” Mikasa said, her voice steady, though she caught the servant’s whispered exchange with another—a hushed speculation about the flowers, the letter, the carriage’s extravagance. This was no diplomat’s welcome; it was the emperor’s heart laid bare. The staff’s murmurs grew, their eyes darting to Mikasa, the beautiful soldier from Paradis who’d captured Solomon’s devotion. He’d delayed choosing a consort, a break from tradition that had set the court ablaze, and her arrival in such splendor fueled gossip that would race through the city like wildfire. Mikasa straightened, her chin lifting, her resolve a shield against the whispers. She was here for Solomon, for their love, and no court’s judgment would sway her.

The carriage rolled through Valoria’s streets, its wheels humming on cobblestones, the city unfolding like a living tapestry. Market stalls brimmed with silks, spices, and gleaming trinkets, their colors a riot under the sun. Musicians strummed lutes in shaded squares, their melodies weaving through the chatter of vendors and the laughter of children darting through crowds. Noble women glided past, their gowns a cascade of satin and lace, their hair adorned with jeweled pins, their movements a study in grace. 

Mikasa watched them, a flicker of insecurity stirring. She was no court lady, her hands scarred from blades, her posture shaped by barracks, not ballrooms. Her cloak and boots felt plain against their elegance, her Paradisian simplicity a stark contrast to Valoria’s opulence. But Solina’s gifts—a trunk of tailored dresses, lessons in noble etiquette—bolstered her confidence. Solina had taught her to navigate Valoria’s customs, from the art of a curtsy to the subtleties of courtly speech, ensuring she wouldn’t falter. Mikasa’s lips curved, gratitude for her friend warming her. 

The journey was peaceful, the weather a gift of clear skies and gentle breezes, allowing Mikasa to drink in Valoria’s vibrancy. The city was alive, its energy pulsing through every street, from the flower-laden carts to the fountains sparkling in sunlit plazas. She leaned toward the window, her reflection faint against the glass, and imagined Solomon’s surprise, his smile, the warmth of his embrace. The thought steadied her, a beacon through the uncertainty. The noble women’s elegance might intimidate, but Solomon saw her—scars, strength, and all—and loved her fiercely. That was enough.

The palace gates loomed, their iron filigree glinting like a crown, guards in crimson livery snapping to attention as the carriage passed. The Imperial Palace was a vision, its towers soaring into the clouds, its marble walls carved with roses and vines, its gardens a riot of color—roses, lilies, dahlias, peonies, their empty houses a silent challenge to tradition. The carriage halted before the grand entrance, a sweep of marble stairs leading to doors inlaid with gold, their surfaces gleaming like mirrors. A footman, his gloves pristine, opened the door and offered his hand, his bow deep. “Welcome to the Imperial Palace, my lady,” he said, his voice formal but kind.

Mikasa stepped out, her boots steady on the cobblestones, her heart racing as the palace’s grandeur enveloped her. The air was scented with jasmine from the gardens, the sun warm on her face, and she felt the weight of history in every stone, every glance from the staff lining the stairs. And then she saw him—Solomon, standing at the base of the stairs, every inch the emperor from a storybook. His red curls caught the light, a fiery halo, his emerald eyes blazing with joy, his imperial robes tailored to his broad frame, gold embroidery shimmering. His smile was wide, unguarded, a beacon that banished her nerves, his presence a promise of home.

Beside him stood Empress Dowager Solana, her crimson hair swept into an elegant knot, her gown a deep sapphire that complemented her regal poise. Her smile was warm, but her eyes held a trace of caution, a mother’s love tempered by concern for her son’s choices. Former Emperor Armand flanked her, his weathered face softened by pride, his graying hair neat, his presence a quiet strength. His gaze, though kind, carried a weight, as if measuring the storm Mikasa’s arrival would unleash. Palace officials and staff stood behind them, their expressions a mix of curiosity, reserve, and barely concealed intrigue. The empty consort houses—Rose, Lily, Dahlia, Peony—loomed in the distance, a reminder of the tradition Solomon was defying, the court’s expectations a palpable tension.

Solana leaned toward Armand, her voice low. “He’s happy, isn’t he? But this… it’s a bold move, Armand. The court won’t take kindly to it.”

Armand’s lips twitched, a wry smile. “Our boy’s never been one for convention. She’s a soldier, Solana. Strong. They’ll need that strength.”

Solomon strode forward, his steps eager, his smile widening as he closed the distance. “Mikasa,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, a tremor of joy breaking through his imperial composure. Before she could speak, he engulfed her in a hug, his arms strong and warm, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a whirl of laughter and light. “You’re here,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Gods, I’ve missed you so much.”

Her cheeks flushed, a rare blush warming her as she clung to him, her arms around his neck, the world narrowing to his heartbeat against hers. “I’ve missed you too, Solomon,” she said, her voice soft, her stoicism melting under his touch. “It’s been too long.”

He set her down but didn’t let go, his hands framing her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he gazed at her, his eyes shimmering with love. “Too long,” he agreed, his voice low, fervent. Then, heedless of the watching staff, he kissed her passionately, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that spoke of weeks apart, of letters and longing. The kiss was bold, unapologetic, a declaration to the court, and Mikasa leaned into it, her hands gripping his robes, her heart soaring despite the gasps from the officials.

Solana cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the moment, amused but firm. “Solomon, really,” she said, stepping forward, her hands clasped. “You’re the emperor, not a lovesick poet. Perhaps a touch more decorum?”

Solomon pulled back, his grin unrepentant, his arm sliding around Mikasa’s waist. “Sorry, Mother, but I’ve waited weeks for this. Decorum can wait.”

Mikasa’s blush deepened, but she met Solana’s gaze, her nod respectful. “Empress Solana,” she said, her voice steady. “Thank you for welcoming me.”

Solana’s smile softened, her eyes kind but searching. “You’re radiant, Mikasa, and Solomon’s been insufferable without you. But you know this path won’t be easy. The court… they’re restless.”

“I understand,” Mikasa said, her tone resolute. “But we’re ready to face it together.”

Armand approached, his hand extended, his smile warm but weighted. “Mikasa, Valoria’s honored to have you here again,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Though I suspect you’ll turn this palace upside down. I look forward to seeing it.”

Mikasa shook his hand, her grip firm, her eyes meeting his with a soldier’s clarity. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to honor Valoria—and Solomon.”

The officials murmured, their glances sharp, some approving, others skeptical, the weight of tradition a silent pressure. A young woman among them, whispered to a companion, her eyes narrowing at Mikasa. “A soldier? For the emperor? The ton will have a fit.”

Solomon’s hand tightened in Mikasa’s, his voice low, meant only for her. “Ignore them,” he said, his smile a shared secret. “You’re my heart, Mikasa. Let them talk.”

She nodded, her lips curving, his certainty a shield against the whispers. “Let them,” she said, her voice soft but fierce. “I’m here for you.”

He beamed, his arm guiding her toward the stairs. “Come,” he said, his excitement infectious. “I have a surprise waiting inside. And I want you to see your new home.”

Solana and Armand followed, their steps measured, their expressions a mix of pride and concern. “He’s delaying the consort selection,” Solana murmured to Armand, her voice low. “The noble families are circling like vultures. This engagement… it’s a spark in a powder keg.”

Armand’s hand rested on her arm, his voice steady. “Let it burn, Solana. He’s our son, and she’s his choice. They’ll face the fire together.”

As they ascended the stairs, the palace doors swung open, revealing a hall of marble and chandeliers, their crystals scattering light like stars. Mikasa’s heart pounded, the grandeur overwhelming, the court’s eyes a weight she felt but refused to bow to. Solomon’s hand was warm in hers, his love a flame that lit her path, and she stepped forward, ready to face Valoria’s challenges, to claim their future, one defiant, radiant step at a time.

“How was your trip?” Solomon asked, his voice bright, his emerald eyes searching hers as they navigated a corridor lined with tapestries depicting Valoria’s history. “The sea can be rough this time of year. I hope it treated you well.”

Mikasa’s lips curved, the memory of the Valorian ship’s smooth journey easing her nerves. “It was peaceful,” she said, her voice soft but clear, honed by years of command. “The weather was kind, and your ship… it’s beautiful. I felt like royalty before I even stepped ashore.”

He laughed, a low, joyous sound that echoed off the marble. “Good. I wanted you to feel that way. You’re my fiancée, Mikasa. You deserve nothing less.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, a small gesture that sent warmth curling through her. “And how are Solina and Levi? Little Solea? I miss them—my sister’s letters don’t do them justice.”

Her smile widened, gratitude for his care softening her soldier’s edges. “They’re thriving,” she said, her tone warm with affection. “Solina’s a natural mother, radiant and fierce. Levi’s… well, Levi, but softer with Solea. She’s got all her mother’s charm—already stealing hearts. They send their love.”

Solana, walking a pace behind, let out a soft sigh, her gown rustling. “Oh, my Solina,” she said, her voice thick with longing. “I miss her so much, and my precious grandbaby. Solea must be growing like a flower.”

“She is,” Mikasa said, glancing back, her nod respectful. “She’s laughing now, grabbing everything. Levi’s hopeless against her.”

Armand chuckled, his weathered face creasing with pride. “Sounds like him. That girl’s got the Valorian sparkle. We’ll spoil her rotten when they visit.”

Solomon’s grin widened, his hand squeezing Mikasa’s. “And Dimaria and Elliot? I heard they went to Paradis to meet Solea. How’s that cowboy handling Paradis?”

Mikasa’s laugh was soft, the memory of Elliot’s drawl and Dimaria’s glow vivid. “They’re perfect,” she said. “Dimaria’s smitten with Solea, bouncing her every chance she gets. Elliot’s teaching her horse tricks already—or trying to. They’re happy, settled. They talked about you, Solomon—said you better throw a big party for your coronation anniversary.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s a historic occasion—my first year as emperor. The whole family’s coming, and I want it to be unforgettable.”

Solana’s smile was fond but tinged with anticipation. “It will be, darling,” she said, her hand resting on Armand’s arm. “Everyone will all be here in a few months. The palace will be alive again, just as it should be.”

Armand nodded, his gray eyes warm. “We miss them, Mikasa. Thank you for the news. It does an old man’s heart good to know they’re well.”

Mikasa’s chest warmed, their shared love for family bridging the gap between Paradis and Valoria. “They miss you too,” she said, her voice sincere. “They’re counting the days.”

The corridor opened into a sweeping staircase, its banisters leading to the palace’s private quarters. Solomon guided Mikasa upward, his excitement palpable. “I want to show you your rooms,” he said, his voice eager. “I picked them myself. I think you’ll like them.”

“Rooms?” Mikasa asked, her brow arching, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Not just a room?”

He grinned, undeterred. “You’ll see.”

Solana and Armand exchanged a glance, their smiles indulgent but shadowed by unspoken concerns. The court’s unrest was a storm brewing, and Mikasa’s arrival was its spark. They followed, their presence a quiet support, as the group reached a set of double doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl, guarded by a maid in a crisp apron, her bow deep.

“Lady Mikasa,” the maid said, her voice soft, “I’m Layla, your personal attendant. Welcome.”

Mikasa nodded, her surprise tempered by gratitude. “Thank you, Layla.”

Solomon pushed the doors open, revealing a suite that stole Mikasa’s breath. It was no mere room but a lavish apartment, a sanctuary of elegance and comfort. A four-poster bed dominated the space, its canopy draped in sapphire silk, pillows piled high. A walk-in closet stood open, its racks already holding dresses, their fabrics shimmering in the light. An en suite bath gleamed with marble and gold, a clawfoot tub promising luxury. A sitting area beckoned with plush armchairs and a low table, a vase of roses mirroring the bouquet from the carriage. A small kitchenette, stocked with porcelain and a silver tea set, completed the space, its modernity a nod to Valoria’s wealth. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, framing a view of the gardens, their peonies and lilies a vibrant tapestry.

Mikasa stood frozen, her eyes wide, her soldier’s simplicity overwhelmed. “Solomon,” she said, her voice a whisper, “this is… incredible. It’s too much.”

He stepped behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his voice warm against her ear. “Nothing’s too much for you,” he said. “I wanted you to feel at home, Mikasa.”

Solana cleared her throat, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s a beautiful suite, Solomon, but let’s remember propriety,” she said, her eyes flicking between them. “You’re not married, and there are always eyes watching.”

Solomon’s grin faltered, but he nodded, his arm slipping around Mikasa’s waist. “I know, Mother,” he said, his voice teasing but respectful. “I’d rather have her in my chambers, but I’ll behave. For now.”

Mikasa’s cheeks warmed, her gaze dropping, but Solana’s smile was kind, her concern unspoken. She wasn’t blind to the noble families grooming daughters for consort roles, the whispers of tradition betrayed. She doubted Solomon and Mikasa could marry as they dreamed, the 300-year-old law a mountain too steep, but she couldn’t bear to dim their joy. “The two of you are such a lovely couple,” she said, her voice softening. “We’ll leave you to settle. We’ll see you at dinner tonight—the family’s gathering to welcome you, Mikasa.”

Armand nodded, his hand on Solana’s arm. “James, Soleil, Gracelyn, Andrew, Ruby, the twins—Solandor and Solenne—they’ll all be there,” he said. “Lady Blair and Lady Madeline, too. Lady Darcy’s here, but… well, she’s declined to join us.”

Mikasa’s lips twitched, understanding Darcy’s absence, her estrangement from Dimaria a silent wound. “I’m honored,” she said, her voice steady. “I look forward to it.”

Solana squeezed her hand, her touch maternal. “Rest, dear. You’ve had a long journey. We’ll see you soon.”

With a final smile, Solana and Armand departed, their footsteps fading down the corridor, the maid Lila following with a curtsy. The doors closed, leaving Solomon and Mikasa alone in the suite’s quiet splendor. The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting shadows across the sapphire drapes, and Mikasa turned to Solomon, her nerves surfacing now that they were alone. She set the roses on the table, her fingers lingering on the petals, her voice hesitant.

“Solomon,” she said, her dark eyes meeting his, “I’m… nervous. Being here, in Valoria, in this palace—it’s overwhelming. And what if we can’t get married? The law, the court… what if they stop us?”

His smile softened, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Mikasa,” he said, his voice fierce with love, “I’m not giving you up. No ancient law, no court, no noble’s schemes will come between us. I’m the emperor, and I’ll find a way. We’ll find a way.”

Her breath caught, his certainty a balm to her fears, and she leaned into his touch, her eyes shimmering. “I believe you,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I just… I want this so much. I want us.”

He closed the distance, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss, deep and fervent, a vow sealed in firelight. Mikasa melted into him, her hands gripping his robes, her heart racing as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling, a hungry edge to their reunion after weeks apart. His hands slid to her waist, her fingers tangled in his curls, and they lost themselves in the moment, the suite fading until it was just them—Solomon and Mikasa, two hearts defying an empire. …

Solomon’s hands slid lower, his touch both gentle and possessive, and he slowly backed her toward the four-poster bed, its velvet canopy a shadowed haven. Mikasa’s knees brushed the mattress, and she sank onto it with a soft gasp, her fingers tugging at his collar to pull him down with her.

Her Ackerman strength surged, instinctive and powerful, and Solomon nearly toppled forward, a startled laugh breaking from him as he caught himself at the last second, his arms bracing on either side of her. He caged her beneath him, his emerald eyes glinting with amusement, his breath ragged. “Easy, love,” he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with joy. “You’re gonna break me before we even get started.”

Mikasa’s lips curved, a rare playfulness softening her soldier’s stoicism. “I’d catch you,” she said, her voice husky, her hands sliding to his shoulders, relishing the solid warmth of him. She leaned up, capturing his lips again, the kiss deeper, hungrier, a spark igniting into a blaze. His laughter melted into a soft groan, his hands roaming her sides, the fabric of her dress riding up as their bodies pressed closer. The heat between them was electric, her fingers digging into his back, neither wanting to stop as the moment spiraled into something wild, untamed.

Her dress bunched at her thighs, the cool air a contrast to the fire of his touch, and Mikasa’s breath hitched, her heart racing with a longing she rarely allowed herself to feel. Solomon’s kisses trailed to her jaw, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and she arched into him, a soft sound escaping her. The suite, the court, the world beyond—it all faded, leaving only them, two hearts entwined in a dance of passion. But Solomon’s hands stilled, his breath uneven as he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but softened by something deeper.

“Mikasa,” he said, his voice rough, out of breath, “as much as I want to stay here, lose myself in you… I have something planned. A surprise.”

She blinked, her chest heaving, curiosity piercing the haze of their intimacy. “A surprise?” she asked, her voice breathless, her hands still resting on his chest. “What is it?”

He grinned, a boyish spark in his eyes, his curls mussed from her fingers. “You’ll see,” he said, his tone teasing, tight-lipped. “But you have to come with me. Trust me.”

Her brow arched, a flicker of amusement in her gaze. “You’re being mysterious,” she said, but her smile betrayed her intrigue. “Alright. Show me.”

Solomon slid off the bed, offering his hand to pull her up, his touch lingering as she stood. Mikasa smoothed her dress, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the fabric, her cheeks flushed from their closeness. Her dark hair was slightly disheveled, a strand falling across her face, and Solomon reached out, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that made her heart skip, and she ducked her head, unaccustomed to such open adoration.

He stepped to a small table, retrieving a silk blindfold, its deep blue shimmering in the firelight. “One more thing,” he said, holding it up, his grin mischievous. “You need to wear this.”

Mikasa’s eyebrow shot up, her soldier’s instincts wary, but the trust in his eyes disarmed her. “A blindfold?” she said, her tone skeptical but amused. “Solomon, what are you planning?”

“Something you’ll love,” he said, stepping closer, his voice earnest. “Please, Mikasa. Let me surprise you.”

She hesitated, then nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Fine,” she said, turning to let him tie the blindfold. His fingers were gentle, the silk cool against her skin as he secured it, his breath warm against her neck. The world went dark, heightening her senses—the crackle of the fire, the rustle of his robes, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he took her hand.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a soft anchor.

“Ready,” she said, her trust in him absolute.

He led her out of the suite, his hand firm in hers, guiding her through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors. The walk was long, the air shifting from the warmth of marble halls to the cool, jasmine-scented breeze of the outdoors. Mikasa’s boots clicked on stone, then softened on grass, the sounds of the palace fading as the hum of crickets and the rustle of leaves took their place. She heard the faint lilt of music—violins and flutes, a romantic melody that stirred her curiosity. “Solomon,” she said, her voice laced with confusion, “where are we going?”

“Almost there,” he said, his tone teasing, his hand squeezing hers. “Patience, love.”

The ground leveled, the air growing fresher, and Mikasa sensed water nearby, its gentle lap a soothing counterpoint to the music. Solomon stopped, his hands guiding her to face him, his touch steady. “Stay here,” he said, his voice soft, and she felt him step away, the absence of his warmth a fleeting ache.

Her ears caught the music’s swell, the strings weaving a melody that tugged at her heart, and she frowned, the blindfold heightening her confusion. What was he planning? The air was alive with scents—roses, lilies, the crisp tang of water—and she heard the soft splash of movement, perhaps birds or fish. Her instincts strained to piece it together, but she trusted Solomon, letting the moment unfold.

His voice came again, close and earnest. “You can take it off now,” he said, a tremor of anticipation in his tone.

Mikasa’s fingers lifted, gently pulling the blindfold free, and she blinked, her eyes adjusting to the twilight. The sight before her stole her breath, a gasp escaping as she took in the scene. They stood by a lake near the imperial gardens, its surface aglow with hundreds of tealights, their flames dancing like stars. Swans glided gracefully, their white feathers catching the light, their movements a silent ballet. The shore was adorned with garlands of roses and lilies, their petals strewn across the grass, and a small orchestra played nearby, their music a romantic serenade that filled the air. Behind it all, rose hedges had been sculpted into words, their blooms spelling out “Will you marry me?” in a declaration that made her heart stutter.

Her gaze dropped, and there was Solomon, kneeling before her, his emerald eyes shimmering with love, his red curls glowing in the fading light. In his hand was a ring, its beauty timeless—a large, oval-cut ruby, an imperial jewel from Valoria’s vaults, set in a band of white gold etched with delicate roses. The gem caught the tealights, its depths a mirror to the lake, its value beyond measure. Mikasa’s eyes welled with tears, her hand flying to her mouth, emotion overwhelming her as she stood frozen, her heart laid bare.

“Solomon,” she whispered, her voice breaking, tears spilling down her cheeks.

He smiled, his own eyes glistening, his voice steady but thick with love. “Mikasa, you captured my heart the moment I saw you in Paradis. I came there for duty, to oversee the iceburst stone mining for my father and as support for my sister, but I found so much more. I found you—the love of my life. You’re not just beautiful, though you take my breath away. You’re fierce, a noble soldier, a protector who’s faced horrors I can’t imagine and come through stronger. Your heart, your courage, your strength—they’re why I wake up every day wanting to be better, for you.”

He paused, his voice trembling, his gaze unwavering. “I know we’ve talked of marriage, and you’ve said yes, but I wanted to do this right, to show you what you mean to me. I want you by my side, forever, as my wife, my partner, my everything. I promise to love you, to cherish you, to fight for you every single day, the way you deserve. I want you, Mikasa, and only you. No law, no tradition, will change that. So, please… will you marry me?”

The tears flowed freely now, streaming down Mikasa’s face, her chest heaving with sobs she couldn’t contain. She’d never felt so seen, so loved, her heart swelling with a joy so profound it stole her words. Solomon’s words, his love, were a mirror to her soul, reflecting every part of her—soldier, woman, lover—and deeming it worthy. She’d faced titans, loss, and war, but this moment, this love, was her greatest victory, a happiness she’d never dared dream of.

She tried to speak, but her voice failed, choked by emotion, and Solomon’s eyes softened, his smile tender. He rose, setting the ring on the grass, and engulfed her in a hug, his arms a sanctuary as she cried against his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair, his hands stroking her back. “I’ve got you, love. I’ve always got you.”

Mikasa clung to him, her sobs easing, her heart steadying in his embrace. She’d never been so overjoyed, the weight of his love a warmth that banished every doubt. Finally, she pulled back, her eyes red but radiant, a smile breaking through as she looked at him, her voice trembling but clear. “Yes,” she said, her words a vow. “I’d be honored to marry you, Solomon.”

His face lit up, a sunburst of joy, and he kissed her passionately, his lips claiming hers with a fervor that matched the lake’s glow. The orchestra swelled, the swans glided, and the tealights flickered, witnesses to their love. Solomon pulled back, his grin wide, and knelt again, retrieving the ring. He took her hand, his touch reverent, and slid the ruby onto her finger, its weight heavy but perfect, the gem a mirror to her strength.

“It’s beautiful,” Mikasa said, her voice thick, her eyes tracing the ring’s elegance, its roses a nod to Solomon’s heritage, its ruby a promise of their future.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, rising to pull her close, his forehead resting against hers. “This is just the beginning, Mikasa. You and me, forever.”

She nodded, her tears drying, her smile radiant as she kissed him again, the lake and its magic fading into the background. They were Solomon and Mikasa, an emperor and a soldier, their love a defiant flame that would light Valoria’s future, no matter the storms ahead.

~

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