#match performance evaluation

[senigayungfatani]

Activity Profile During Action Time Between Winners And Losers Of Young Male Silat Tempur Athletes

AbstractBackground and aim. The purpose of current study was to describe the detailed activity that occurs during the fight time of silat bouts between winners and losers among young male athlete in national silat tempur competition. Problem. There is less research that specifically describes the activity involved in silat tempur that specifically describes the activity that contributes to the…

[yieldtotemptation]

WISH ft. Giselle

giselle x male reader smut

8k words

"It's a Christmas miracle!" —is how Giselle chooses to make her grand entrance, swinging open the door to your bar, a fresh powder of snow dusting her shoulders. She shrugs it off. "My favourite person in all of Seoul."

You deadpan, "That's very concerning."

She laughs off your quip with the same ease that she does everything else. Sways her hips, saunters over to you, fire engine-red heels clacking against wood as she rushes to take her usual stool. Not like she'd have to fight anyone for it, there's no one else here.

Besides, even if there were—it's always been hers.

You're sliding over her drink before she can even open her mouth to order, because that's what you do for her. Anticipate. Your job in a nutshell, really. Knowing what she wants.

Her thanks is in the blush colouring her cheeks, flushing them a rosy pink, matching her hair in hue.

Just so immediately pretty.

She raises the drink, grinning at you through the glass. Gets a little too dramatic with her gasp.

"Exactly what I wished for! How did you know?"

"Made a list, checked it twice."

That earns you a giggle, has Giselle leaning forward, propping an elbow on the bar, chin in her palm. Her usual routine—just sitting there, all beautiful and flirty and really, really fucking out of place amongst the dim lighting and worn-out leather.

And yeah, you’ve committed it all to memory, seen it in every light and shadow; the smoky liner ringing around her eyes, the gloss that makes her lips look shiny and sweet and oh so soft. The absolutely devastating smile that never seems to leave her—only gets wider, warmer, parting when she laughs and slaps a hand on the table, or lands it on your forearm.

Accidentally, of course.

"Does that mean I get to sit on your lap later?"

It’s a touch early for her to throw out bait so blatantly. That’s more of a three-drinks-in kind of thing.

Still, your mouth answers for you before your brain can catch up, “Depends if you've been naughty or nice.”

“I think we both know the answer to that one,” she says, far too casually for you to handle, daring you to let that thought linger. Let it rattle around your head with all the other loaded thoughts involving her in various states of undress and in all sorts of compromising positions—underneath, on-top, kneeling. Thoughts that are better kept on a tight leash.

Because you know what would happen if you were to give in to them.

How you’d reach over the bar separating the two of you, pull her onto the counter. Send all the glasses, the bottles, crashing to the floor, and just kiss that smile right off her face, right here, right now. Tear off her clothes and leave her bare and exposed to the cold December air, make her yours, fuck her absolutely senseless. Render her nothing but a victim to your fingers, your lips, your cock, to all the need that’s been boiling inside you over the past months and—fuck.

She's got you good.

There's no point in pretending like it hasn't been this way since the first time she found you—at the end of an alley that's at the end of another alley, down the stairs and into the underground proper. Waltzing her way into the hovel that is your whiskey bar; all for reasons that you’re yet to fully untangle.

Months of performing this same dance—it's late, she walks in, typically perfect and bouncy, like some half-remembered fantasy or a libido-driven hallucination. Only, she must be real, because there’s no way you could ever conjure up someone like her.

It's embarrassing, you really should be far more used to it now, built up at least a partial immunity to her brand of charm. But somehow, she still finds a way under your skin. You’re only human, after all. And she’s… she’s Giselle.

Undeniably, in-your-face gorgeous, Giselle.

Dead-set and determined to throw herself at you until you break.  

"Perfect," is her evaluation when she's taken her first sip. It plays out like it’s been choreographed: she licks her lips, flashes that million-dollar smile, lets loose a sigh of pure joy. Looks at you all wide-eyed and impressed; like you're the only person in the world who's ever given her exactly what she wants. Like she doesn't already live in a reality where everyone else falls flat on their faces to ensure that the needs of Aeri Uchinaga are met. “Always perfect.”

And you have your own steps to follow. You're glued to the pulse in the curve of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the naked collarbone when she shirks off her coat to reveal tits that are much too ample for her dress to contain. All these little things that make her so fucking distracting.

She says, surreptitiously, "You know, I didn't think you'd be open today."

"And yet you came anyway."

"And yet I did."

There's the loaded insinuation stacked on top of her words like a teasing question mark:

('I came looking for you.'

'I was waiting.')

"Like I said, a Christmas miracle," Giselle repeats, softly this time. Barely audible over the Christmas tunes you’ve got on a loop, some self-inflicted torture you’re wreaking on yourself for purposes unknown. Maybe to get into the spirit of things. Maybe to keep the silence at bay. Maybe to make Giselle's efforts feel less effective.

It doesn't work.

It does, however, have you leaning in just to hear her better, and that's a mistake right there. Getting too close that you can follow the lines of the dress she's picked out for the night. A sheer black, strapless number that hugs her figure close, dipping at her chest, giving you just enough of a glimpse to send the alarm bells ringing.

Ending short of the tops of her thighs, because of course she's wearing stockings, and of course they have tiny little bows holding them up, and you're already thinking about how easy it would be to get your teeth in them and pull them apart, and the walls are starting to feel closer and closer with each passing second.

But you don't say anything. You just try to remember to breathe. You chance a look back at her face, aiming for unaffected.

Her eyes instantly undo you.

Giselle uncrosses and crosses her legs. The stockings stretch.

"Like what you see?"

Now seems like an optimal time to pour yourself a drink. Something strong to fortify the weakness in your knees, to maybe bolster the resolve that's threatening to crack like the ice frosting over the windows outside.

You grab a glass, pour a good measure of whiskey and throw it back without even bothering with the usual ritual. You need it. The burn is a good distraction.

You turn her question back on her. Shame on her for asking something so obvious. "What do you think?"

"I think," Giselle smiles, tilts her head, that curtain of bubblegum-pink cascading over her collarbone and down onto the bar, "That it appears that all the effort I put getting into this tight fucking dress was worth it."

You're unable to stop yourself from saying, "Don’t need the dress if that was the intention." It slips out of you, like an idiot, and you decide to busy yourself by pouring two more drinks, because you really don't know what the fuck else to do at this point.

“Duly noted,” she says, likely adding it to some mental file she keeps on you. Ways to get you to drop your guard. Ways to get under your skin. “But don’t you think unwrapping presents are half the fun?”

You’re rolling your eyes, it’s too much, but Giselle’s too good at this whole thing. Got the two of you sliding deep into the easy rhythm of conversation you've found yourselves in many, many times before; when it's just you and her in the waning hours of the night and you're finding excuses not to close up and she's finding excuses to stay.

And the drinks just compound on it even more. All the alcohol really seems to do is blunt her filter and dull your better instincts, bringing you both to that tipsy point where everything that comes out of your mouths can’t help but sound like shameless innuendos; all terrible ideas that you both absolutely must indulge in.

Talking and flirting and drinking until you’re finally crossing that invisible line drawn over the counter of your bar, forgetting about that ethereal wall of separation that keeps you on the straight and narrow; that would normally stop you from doing things like reaching over and brushing a strand of pink out of her face and over her ear.

You keep your hand there, your thumb padding the soft skin of her cheek. She leans into your palm.

“So,” she says, and it’s accompanied by the kind of pause that holds a whole universe of possibility. She takes a sip of her third drink of the night, her eyes fixated on you, studying the lines on your face. Trying to find the cracks.

“So.”

“Why haven’t you made a move on me?”

She might as well have gathered snow from outside your door and thrown it right at your face. You blink, the warmth of the whiskey in your cheeks fading fast. “Very confident of you to think that I would want to.”

“Don’t dodge,” she chides. “We both know you didn’t open tonight for the amazing business rush. So. Spill. Why?"

You’re about to spout off an excuse—something about a Hippocratic oath, or bartender-customer privilege, but Giselle cuts your lie short before it can even leave your throat.

“You’ve been staring at me like you want to eat me alive every night I’ve been here, and you expect me to believe you’re not interested?” Giselle leans closer, her breath warm on your hand. Her eyes piercing through, stripping away every defence you’ve ever had. “You’re barely hiding it you know? How badly you want me.”

There’s an implicit challenge underneath her words. You get the message loud and clear:

Don’t you know how badly I want you too?

"It's—" you start, before course correcting when you catch the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. You swirl the whiskey around in your own glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light and dance. "Complicated."

"Oh really?" Giselle's eyes light up at that, and you're beginning to feel like you're falling into some trap she's set up. It just hasn’t revealed itself to you yet. "I like complicated. I live off complicated."

"I'll bet," you reply, not missing the fact that she's now taken your hand into hers, threading her fingers through yours. "Probably why you're here so often."

Giselle clicks her tongue, runs it across her lips. You'd die for a taste. "I thought I asked you to stop dodging. But, if you really want to know, I come here because I like the company," she explains, before ending her thought with, "and the attention."

"Because being an idol doesn't give you enough?"

"Not in the way I want it."

"And I do?"

"Not yet," she says, with an air of finality. "But give it time."

The silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of the unspoken. The air in the bar feels charged, like the moment before a storm hits. You're reading her, acutely aware of the things running through her mind, because you can see it in her eyes, because they're the exact same thoughts that’s never left yours.

You want her.

You need her.

She’ll give herself to you.

Giselle’s the first to break the pause. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

The corners of eyes crinkle ever so slightly, and that's about where you realise your fate's been sealed from the start. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. You’re aching already. "What I really want for Christmas."

You don't need a map to know where this is headed. But you still ask anyway. "And what is that?"

"You."

You set down your glass with a clink. "Look, Giselle—"

"Let me finish," she interrupts, and now her hand's sliding up your arm, leaving a trail of static wherever she touches. "For Christmas this year, all I want is for you to do whatever you want to me."

A second attempt, "Giselle—"

"I know you want to. You know I want you to. We've danced around this for too long and I'm running out of ways to subtly tell you that if I don’t get my hands on that perfect cock that I know you're hiding, I just might burn this place to the ground. So," she says carefully, intentionally. Making sure you feel each word coursing through your every nerve ending, winding their way down to your cock, until you’re throbbing in your pants.

Giselle bats her eyelashes. Bites her lip. Leans even closer. Her tits get very close to winning the war against her dress.

"Don't you want to make my Christmas wish come true?"

You never stood a chance. "I do quite like my bar in one piece."

"I do too." Giselle's smile turns devilish. “But I like the idea of having your cum inside me more.”

"Then we better get you out of your clothes."

Only, a slight amendment.

"But keep the stockings on."

—

Giselle kisses you like a woman starved. Messy, sloppy crashes that has her nose bumping into yours and her teeth finding purchase in your lip. She seems determined to leave her mark. You’re more than happy to let her.

It’s a far cry from what you’re used to—the build-up, the slow crescendo where you both pretend that you don’t immediately want to jump to the inevitable—but Giselle clearly doesn’t give a fuck about any of that.

The moment you’ve dragged her over the bar, fulfilled your fantasy and cleared the countertop so the only thing standing between you and her body is the crumpled mess of her dress, she's on you. Moaning, whining into your mouth, desperate. Tongue hunting down yours, pressing into it, trying to wrestle it into submission.

Taking your cheeks into her hands, holding firm, the only thing keeping her steady as you match her hunger, heat against heat. Her taste is everything you've ever wanted—sweet and sharp, like the whiskey burning through your veins, warming you from the inside out.

"God, I needed this," she whispers in the breaths between your kisses, as your hands get adventurous and run down the length of her spine, pulling her closer into you.

You make good on your promise, finding the zip, peeling it down, leaving the fabric to sag off her shoulders. Her skin is cold underneath your fingertips, the curve of her back breaking out in goosebumps. Your touch makes her arch, her back bow, her breasts push up against her dress until it can't hang on any longer and the whole thing pools around her waist.

“Merry Christmas to me,” comes tumbling out of your mouth when you finally get to appreciate Giselle.

The full, round tits, naked and begging for your hands. The smooth curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach. The way her hips flare out, giving way to thighs that you know, just know, will be the perfect grip. And the stockings. Holding up the suspension of your disbelief—she’s so ridiculously out of your league and yet so, so needy for you.

“Fucking gorgeous, Giselle,” you’re telling her, making her sigh, her eyes closing shut as you reach out to fill your hand with her chest. Your touch makes her nipples pebble, stiffen underneath your thumb. She leans back, pushing her chest out even more, giving you as much of herself as she can for you to touch, to tweak, to worship.

And she’s so much smaller than you, so much softer than you’ve ever allowed yourself to believe. The reality of her in your arms is far more intense than any fantasy you’ve ever concocted in the quiet of the night after she’s long gone and left you with nothing but her memory. But she’s giving herself to you now, wanting you to do it all.

Letting you push into her, kiss the skin between her neck and her clavicle, press into her a brand that will linger long after you’ve both unwinded and unraveled each other.

“Just like that,” Giselle whispers in your ear, hands finding your neck, needing you even closer still. “Don’t stop, just keep touching me. You can do whatever you want—tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just don’t stop.”

Nothing else to do but oblige, to give in to your baser instincts, to bring every fantasy, every lurid thought to life. Giselle’s been living in your mind rent-free. Filled it with thoughts of fucking her into oblivion again and again—so you already know exactly where to go, what to do next.

You know to trace the edge of her stocking with your thumb, pressing down on the bow, watching as the skin around it flushes from your touch.

You know to drag your hand up, higher up her thighs, push the hem of her dress to her waist, slip under the elastic of her panties and hold itself there. Leave her trembling in anticipation of your touch.

“Please,” you’ve barely started and she’s already begging, breathless. Needing for you to explore her.

But first, you need to tell her how.

“I’m going to touch you,” you say, voice gruff, and she shudders, her hands tightening around your neck. “I’m going to get my fingers into your cunt, I’m going to squeeze your tits, I’m going to make you scream my name, and you will, because you’re going to be such a good girl for me. Understood?”

Her eyes flash open, meeting yours. Not an ounce of doubt. Just pure need.

“Yes,” she says. A single word that’s more a plea than a response. “Please. Do whatever you want. Make me feel good.”

She just about collapses when you yank her panties down and push your hands between her thighs.

“God—fuck—” and she’s sobbing already.

“You’re so drenched,” you’re remarking, sliding your fingers higher, feeling the wetness that’s been gathering there for who knows how long.

“For you,” she’s gasping, repeating herself, “For you.”

It’s so easy to find the heat of her, to push in and down on the top her mound. Give just the right amount of pressure on her clit that makes her jerk. Makes the muscles in her face twitch, her mouth open wide and moan. It’s a melody in your ears, and you press down harder, swirling now, and you’re beginning to think you’ve found your true calling.

Fuck making her drinks; making her fall apart is why you were put on this planet in the first place.

Her breasts jiggle with every tremble that runs through her, flickering in reach of you, taunting you with their bounce. You can’t help but lean down. Not when they’re calling to you like that.

You lick a path from the base of her neck to her collarbone, and then lower, to one of those perfect peaks that’s been begging for your attention.

Giselle inhales sharp through her teeth, her chest heaving as you start to suck on her nipple. You work your tongue around it, roll it in your mouth until her knuckles turn white against the edge of the bar, her nails digging into surface. The sounds she’s making, these choked gasps that are so raw, so needy.

Showing how good she feels with every part of her body—pushing her breasts up and into your face, her hands tangling in your hair, legs spreading wider, thighs shaking at the effort of staying upright.

You don’t let up, keep going—tongue swirling, fingers moving at double-time over her cunt, her other tit.

Listening to her turn your name into something filthy, something that sounds like a curse.

You pull back off her, cool air kissing the wetness you leave behind, making her quiver, her high, fuck-me heels knocking against wood.

“Giselle,” you say, taking in this look of bliss on her face. The teary eyes, the trembling lip, her cheeks now so very red. “Gonna make you cum now.”

You don’t wait for permission. You already have it. You step forward, lifting her legs up and trapping her atop the bar, spreading her wide open.

Two fingers at first, all at once, no hesitation. Giselle’s pupils blow wide, shocked, teeth bite down on her bottom lip, muffling a cry that you feel in the pit of your stomach. She’s so soaked that you slide right in with ease, a slow push that makes her whine, the slickness making the sounds of your fucking echo over the din of the empty bar.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Giselle stutters, all breathy and desperate. Hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in. Holding on for dear life, writhing as your fingers curl upwards, pushing up against that magical spot inside that has her clenching.

“Such a good girl,” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth like they’ve always been there, just waiting for her to hear them.

The whimper that she makes—the noise alone should be illegal.

“So tight around me,” you tell her, pushing on, focusing entirely on pulling more of these noises from her, doing your best to ignore how hard you already are, how unbearable it is to not be inside her. “So good for me.”

It’s the praise that makes her keen, makes her whine. Pushes herself onto your fingers, trying to get more, trying to get all of you. Just so fucking hot for you.

You can see it playing out across her body, the way she’s losing herself to the pleasure, giving up control of her own functions to you.  So helpless, so beautiful. So fucking delighted to finally have you using her in ways she’s only dreamt of.

You’ve never seen anything like it. You’re addicted before you’ve even had her.

“This cunt is going to feel so good around my cock.”

Giselle's nodding, slurring together a string of yeses and thank yous in response.

Her pussy’s pulsing around your fingers, juices soaking your hand, she’s already so close. So close that you can almost taste the orgasm on her skin.

“You want it so fucking bad, don’t you, Giselle? Want me to fuck you senseless.”

Her eyes are glazed over, barely there. Just stunningly beautiful even in the midst of her desire, and you’re not even sure she’s heard you at all until she’s panting out, “I want it. Need it. So much. Oh, God, please, fuck me with your cock. Make me cum. Make me scream.”

But you get in close, lips to her cheek, a command for only her to hear. “You’re going to cum all over my hand. You’re going to show me how badly you want it. Understand?”

“Yes—yes, please—” is the most she can manage, a harsh whisper that barely gets through. You feel it more than hear it, a shiver running through her, down her spine and up yours. “Do it. Give me more, I need it.”

She’s nothing short of incredible. Writhing under your touch, losing herself to your fingers—there’s never been anything—anyone—like this. Anyone that runs this hot,  that pleads this much, that is so eager for nothing but you, as much of you as you can give.

There’s no excuse for why it's taken so long to get here, why you let every other opportunity skate by. But now’s not the time for regrets. This is all just catch-up. Getting to this moment that’s been burning a hole in your mind. Making up for all the times when you should’ve been bringing her to her knees, should've been marking her up as yours.

“Mine,” you’re claiming, taking her lips once more, feeling the tremble in her chin. “You’re going to be mine, aren’t you?”

“Yours,” her voice quavers back into your mouth.

She kisses you back like she’s drowning, like you’re the very air she needs to breathe. And it’s all you can do to finger-fuck her faster, pressing deeper into her wetness. It’s filthy, borderline disrespectful the way that you’re owning her now. But it’s all necessary, if that’s what it’s going to take to get to feel her shatter in your arms.

But just as you can feel her hips bucking up off the counter and into your wrist, as she’s about to tip over the edge, you pull back, breaking the kiss, leaving her choking for air.

“Look at me,” you tell her, forcing her glassy eyes to refocus, to snap to yours. “I’m going to make you feel so good. You’re going to cum so hard for me. You’re going to look at me when you do.”

Giselle opens her mouth answer, but all that comes out is a whiny mewl when you slide your other hand from her tits to the back of her neck, pulling her into you, hard enough that you can feel her pulse drumming against your palm.

“That’s it, such a good girl,” you say to her, adorning her with all these sweet words that absolutely wreck her. And it’s so easy to because all of them fit. Your good girl, your slut, your baby, your whore. She deserves to hear them all. “Take it, take it all for me.”

“Fuck, please, I’m almost—” She tries and fails to put the syllables together—your fingers are too good, too precise in their frenzy. Playing her body, hitting every key, every beat, rushing to that final chorus.

And then it hits her, without warning, just a sigh and then she’s—

“I'm—I'm—cumming!”

Eyes trying to stay on yours, losing focus, turning wild, until she’s barely even there anymore.

Giselle cums.

Locking her in place, rippling across her body. Every muscle tensing, cunt quivering, hips lifting off the bar as her juices paint your hand.

“Thank you, thank you, fucking thank you—"

Her voice dies out, trapped in her throat, her words becoming nonsense as your fingers have her riding waves. You’re utterly transfixed, watching the orgasm rip across her face, melting her down to a messy puddle. Barely hanging on to you, mouth lolling open, eyes screwed shut, breaths coming in sharp and fast.

She’s limbless, her body goes slack, and you debate giving her the space, or even just a second to catch her breath, to come back to reality.

But you just don’t.

You don’t stop moving, don’t stop working her, because something tells you that the last thing she’d want is for you to stop. Something tells you that she’s one of those girls—the ones who love to chase the high. Who love to be pushed, who love to be told that they’re doing so well, that they’re perfect.

And Giselle is.

“Again,” you press into her neck, and she gives you the closest approximation to a nod that she can muster. “Again and again, I’ll make you cum until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget what it was ever like to not have my cock inside you.”

The nods come faster, insistent, following a whine as your fingers slide out of her cunt, all sticky with her juices. You bring it up to her, hold it in front of her face so she can see the mess she’s made of your hand.

Her breath hitches when she opens her eyes, catching sight of your glistening digits. You don’t even need to prompt her; she takes the initiative—she’s sucking your fingers without a second thought.

Moans when she tastes herself, sucking them clean, tongue flicking across your knuckles, pulling them into her mouth, relishing her own flavour.

“So fucking needy for it, aren’t you?”

You withdraw your fingers, enjoying the cry of protest at the loss, but you’ve got better plans for her. Pressing a kiss to her temple, before backing off completely, leaving Giselle empty, her legs wobbly.

You're quick to lose your clothes, stripping yourself off without much ceremony, tossing them aside with little care for where they end up.

And yet Giselle’s eyes rake over you, following your every move—she’s seen you before, you’ve caught her staring at your arms, your biceps, making no secret of assaulting you with her gaze at any chance she can get.

But now it’s the unbuckling of your belt, the vanishing of your jeans, the reveal of your cock. Springing free, hard and heavy.

Giselle wants it. Mouth salivating, pussy leaking at the sight of it. Oh, how she wants it.

It gives her energy, has her reaching out for a touch, a stroke. But you stop her, gently taking her wrist into your hand before she can make her Christmas wish come true.

She even has the audacity to pout. “Haven’t I been good?”

“Good?” You repeat, and you’re laughing. “You’ve been downright angelic.”

The pout quirks into a smirk, and there’s that familiar mischievous spark returning. “Then don't I deserve a little reward?” Giselle’s fingers go to her folds, spreading them apart. Putting her cunt on display, proud to show off how ready she is to be filled. “Like that big, beautiful cock of yours in my perfect little pussy?”

You don’t bother with the usual finesse, there’s no need for that. This doesn’t land anywhere on the normal spectrum of casual hook-ups to making love. This is about fucking. About need, raw and unfiltered.

“So, would you please—"

You’re yanking her by the waist before she can get started, lifting her off the bar and setting her down in front of you. There’s that thrill rushing through her, at being so easily handled, so effortlessly claimed.

She’s panting, breaths fogging up the air between you, waiting for your instruction.

“Get rid of the dress.”

Her compliance is instant—she steps out of her outfit, her panties. Until she’s just standing before you; the charm, the sex appeal, the big beautiful eyes all in view, so full of hope and desperation for the special kind of bliss only you can provide her.

Just Giselle, her fucking gift of a body in a pair of tight black stockings and high stiletto heels.

“Now,” you say, tilting your hips forward, your cock jabbing into her stomach, pressing a stamp of need into her skin. Giselle preens at the contact, practically vibrating at your touch. One more thing— “Beg.”

“Fuck me,” she says. Simply, honestly. With every ounce of her soul. “Fuck me good. Take me. Please. I need it. I need to feel you inside me. I’ve been dreaming of this, of you fucking me just like this, so—please, make it real.”

“Begging’s a good look on you, Giselle,” you murmur, finishing the rest of the thought in your head. ‘You're going to be doing a lot more of it tonight.’

She yelps when you flip her over, force her to brace herself against the bar. Her lovely ass high up in the air, her pussy drooling onto the floor.

You don't bother warning her.

You stuff your cock into her.

She fucking screams.

So wet, so slippery. Sliding in and out of her, forcing her cunt to mould itself too you. So fucking tight that you have to bite back a groan, have to fight the urge to just pound into her, to fuck her into the counter.

But there's still a pace you're setting, a rhythm that’s not quite as frantic as her needy cries. You’re in no hurry, not yet. You want to savour this. The feel of her clenching around you, the way her back arches with every thrust, her palms slapping against the bar top, leaving little smudges of sweat behind.

“God, this—” Giselle tries, but finds herself lost for words, unable to properly articulate just how good it feels to have you inside her. But the noises she makes—whimpers and gasps and moans and groans—speak volumes.

You complete the thought for her— “You fucking love this, don’t you?” You’re grunting, pressing your body to hers, nipping at her ear. Slurring these dirty thoughts like they're sweet nothings, these words of pure filth into her neck. “Love being fucked like this. Been waiting for it for so long. So goddamn desperate for it that you can’t even fucking talk.”

She’s fucking amazing. Not just the feeling—hot and tight and perfect—it’s the way she moves with you. Pure pleasure ricocheting through her, the slap of her ass against your hips, the sway of her tits underneath her, her cunt desperately trying to swallow you whole.

It’s her, her body, so alive and responsive and sensitive underneath yours. Taking your cock so deliciously, her cunt fluttering around like it’s trying to hold onto it, like it’s never going to let go.

“So, so fucking hard,” she’s found her voice, clawing back some level of composure. Enough to tense her cunt, squeeze her walls around you. Needing you to know every inch of her body, every inch of her pussy, needing you to know that it’s all yours for the taking. “God, it feels so good—doesn’t it? Fucking me here. Tell me. Tell me how good I am. Tell me I’m a good girl. Tell me you’re never going to be able to spend another second here without thinking of my pussy.”

You know she’s right, she’s leaving a part of herself here, branded into the very fabric of this bar that’s been your sanctuary. It has you pushing in deeper, a violent thrust of your hips, a little punctuation to drive her point home.

She swallows as you pick up speed, chokes on a half-formed moan—so, so fucking close. But you’ve only just begun.

Grabbing her hair, winding your fist in pink, pulling her up so she's forced to listen. The details on her face are all hazy, her makeups smudged from tears, from where she’s rubbed at her face, trying to keep the pleasure at bay. But that’s not how this goes. That’s not how any of this goes.

“You want to hear how good you’re being for me?” A harsh whisper for her, and it takes so much effort for her to just nod in response. “You want me to tell you all the filthy things I’m thinking? Everything that I’ve been dying to do to you?”

“Yes,” she pleads back. “Tell me, please—I need to hear it all.”

So you do. You lay it all on her. Every unfiltered, explicit thought you’ve had—every depraved fantasy that’s on the tip of your tongue whenever she’s around. You tell her all of it, how much of a whore you’re going to turn her into; how much of a slut you want to make her.

How this isn’t the last time. No, there’s going to be hours, days, weeks of this after.  Of you fucking her here, of her coming to you just to have another taste of your cock. It’s a revelation, a promise, and it fucking ruins her.

“Every single time you've walked into here, every single time you've sat across form me, I've thought about this," you're grunting now, giving in to the urgency that’s been building up in your chest, the pressure that’s been weighing on you for what feels like an eternity. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very bar. Making you beg for it, making you scream out my name when I fuck my cum into you. Making sure every single person out there knows that this cunt is mine to take whenever I fucking want.”

It’s so fucked, the effect that hearing all this has on her. The sound of your voice, your darkest desires, the harshness of your words, it’s all too much for her, it’s everything she’s ever wanted to be told.

You’re unlocking something in her, something she’s never admitted to anyone, not her closest friends, not her bandmates, not even herself. The way you speak to her, the way you’re treating her like a perfect little fuck doll—and you’re realising that maybe, just maybe, it’s because no one’s ever fucked her well enough to find out.

There’s no room here to be gentle, there’s no way in hell she’d ever want you to be. You tighten your grip in your hair, slam into her harder, skin slapping against skin, mixing with the wet sounds of her pussy taking all of you. Each cry you fuck out of her is music, each one a little higher pitched, a little more desperate than the last.

“This is what you want isn’t it?” You’re demanding of her, even when she’s blubbering, barely able to breathe let alone respond. Just trying to hold on.

But you’re not letting her.

You’re taking her to that place that’s beyond words, that’s beyond thought. The place where all she can do is feel and react. And she’s doing that so beautifully, her body shaking, her cunt quivering around your cock. It’s building and building, the things you’re doing to her, saying to her, making her choke on her own spit, making her eyes roll back and her mouth drop open, until all she can repeat, over and over again is your name.

“Again,” she shapes another word, another plea. She’s a total disaster of need. “Please, again, make me cum again.”

“You'll cum when I say you can,” you growl, forcing her to choke on another whine. The strangled noise goes straight to your cock; makes it throb harder inside her, drive deeper into her. You let go of her hair, only to palm her tit, squeezing into the flesh hard. Giselle jolts, a squeal escaping her lips. “But since you’ve been so good, I’ll let you cum before me again. Just this once. Just because it’s Christmas.”

You’re being evil, you know it, she loves it, but it's the best part. She clearly wouldn't want it any other way.

”Yes.” Giselle’s beaming, shivering with excitement. Getting fucked into utter ruins and thanking you for the privilege. “Thank you, use my pussy, do whatever you want, just let me cum.”

That sparks an idea, “Whatever I want?”

“Whatever you want,” Giselle pants, not a single idea of what she’s agreeing to. But maybe that's the whole point. “Anything.”

There’s a grin that splits your face that you can’t help, that you don’t bother suppressing. “I’m not going to ask for permission anymore, Giselle. I’m just going to fuck you the way I want. Make you addicted to my cock. Take you how I want, cum in all your holes, fill you up over and over again.”

Giselle’s eyes go wide, nearly stops breathing entirely. So close. Knowing that the next words out of your mouth are going to decimate her completely.

“Gonna make you start the New Year knocked up.”

She freezes.

“God—” Giselle’s a fucking wreck, on the verge of something explosive, something else entirely. “Oh my God.”

She just needs you to give her that push.

“You love it, don’t you? Being made nothing more than a fucking cumdump for me? That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

You’re fucking her too hard, hammering into her too roughly, it’s a wonder that she can even manage a stuttered, “I—I—”

“Fucking say it, Giselle,” you say, “Spit it out.”

It’s too difficult for her to fit the words together, to form her reply, so it means all that more when she manages to tell you. “I want it.”

“Want what?”

“Your cum in me. All of it. Until I’m, until I’m—” She’s there, lost in it, in the idea of you ruining her in such a permanent, irreversible way. Or maybe completing her, making her whole, making her perfect for you and only you.

But you’re so close too. Right fucking behind her. All she has to do is say it.

“Until you breed me. Fill me with your cum, give it to me. I need it. Make me your permanent cocksleeve and never let me go. Make me yours—completely, forever yours. Make me your fucking whore.”

“Good girl.”

And with that, she’s gone.

Hits her like a fucking meteor. Leaping right off the most intense high she’s ever climbed. Bucking and quaking against your bar, your cock still impaled inside her, mercilessly undoing her. It’s nothing short of fucking pornographic, fucking depraved the way it’s destroying her.

Seizing her entire body in pleasure, her nails digging into the wood, scraping up marks that will prove to be a sweet, everlasting reminder of the exact moment she became yours. Fracturing her, breaking her apart into a million tiny pieces and then remaking her all over again as something purely sexual—something that only exists for your satisfaction.

“So fucking good, your cock, God it’s you, just you—” Giselle’s words dissolve into a keening cry that shatters the remaining silence of the bar. “Breeding me so good—”

Nothing short of a miracle that she’s still on her feet, that she can still do anything at all. One last thing she needs to do in the dying embers of her lucidity, one final goal—choke your cock with her cunt, wring you dry, make you flood her with your cum.

“Cum, cum, fill me, breed me, give me your—”

“Take it,” you exhale, “Take it all.”

And it’s Giselle in her entirety that overcomes you, overloading your senses with the pure, distilled feeling of just her. The smell of her sex, her perfume, the feel of her curves, her softness, the perfection that is her pussy, enveloping your cock, drenching it in her wetness. These things that you’ll never, ever be able to forget.

But it's her words that make you erupt.

“Breed me, Daddy!”

You cum deep into Giselle’s pussy.

Buried inside her, rushing white hot, thick and heavy. Ropes and ropes of it, spurting inside her, painting her insides, coating her walls until it’s just sheer heat and you making her whole.

Her cunt’s clenching around you, she’s begging, slurring moans and whimpers that there’s no fucking chance you have of comprehending—just basking in the knowledge that they’re desperate, needy sounds that are all for you.

She can’t keep it all in. But she needs to.

Something knocks the architecture out of her legs, but you’re quick enough to wrap your arms around her, holding her tight, keep her on her feet. Keeping her from collapsing entirely, just letting her pulse around you, clench and quiver.

You’re kissing her into the shoulder, cooing these affirmations, keeping her with you, telling her the truth of it all, “Such a good girl, Giselle. Taking my cum so well.”

Giselle can’t say anything. She sobs. Face buried in her hands. Not from pain, not even close. You’ve never seen pleasure look so much like agony. So much like release.

It’s overwhelming.

You try to make a move, take a step back. But Giselle flexes her cunt, clutching you tighter. Reaches back with her hand for your thigh to stop you.

“Wait,” she whispers. "Not yet. Don't move. Keep your cock inside me. Don't let a single drop get out."

You give her the time, because she’s just so perfect like this. So unfathomably gorgeous, all fucked up and cum-drunk. In ways no one should ever be. Like you’ve torn the wings off an angel, brought her down to Earth and made her yours.

You revel in it.

“Take your time,” you breathe; the exhaustion, the strain, the adrenaline pumping through your veins all coming to a head at once. Keeping your cock plugging up her cunt. Leaving all your cum inside.

Neither of you are moving anywhere. Not until she says so.

Giselle laughs.

“Perfect,” she sighs, voice hoarse and shaky. “I knew it would be perfect. I knew you would ruin me like this. God, I don’t ever want to go back.”

You’re laughing too, harsh, airless chuckles that feel like they’re being torn out of your chest. You twitch your cock inside her. “You think you have a say in the matter?”

“I guess I don’t,” she giggles.

You look around at the scene of the crime, the evidence you've left on her. The marks on her skin, her shoulder, her neck. The ruins of her dress, her panties. The tearing of her stockings. Her tear-filled eyes, her smeared mascara, her drooling lips.

And her cunt, so full of you, so very yours.

It’s barely believable. She may not have burned down the bar, but there’s certainly a fire that’s been set. One that’s not likely to die down anytime soon.

It has you swelling inside her all over again.

Gisele feels it.

“Say,” she starts, wriggling her hips against you, making you groan. “You didn’t have any Christmas plans, right?”

Your hands slip down to her hips, idly massaging into the small of her back. “None at all.”

A contented exhale escapes Giselle's lips. She looks up, lashes fluttering, a soft, sweet smile. Her hand reaches back, caressing the side of your face. “And the rest of the year?”

“Nothing that can’t be cancelled.”

“Good,” she says, her breath sweet against your cheek. “Cancel them all. Close up for the holidays. Shut all the doors. Stay inside with me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And do what?”

“Get to work,” Giselle answers, pulling you into a last kiss, threatening to undo you all over again. “You did promise to knock me up by New Years.”

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ You test out a new lipstick

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

Tw: smooches! Shield your eyes!

Oh, would you look at that, you bought a new lipstick. You just need to test whether it wears down quickly or leaves any mark. 

✧ Pierro is in a haste. You blurt out that you need a new lipstick once, and the next thing you know, he purchases several high-quality ones for you. Offering you swatches of colors, makeup removers, different shades, and lipstick textures, he observes with analytical admiration as you sit in front of a mirror and apply the lipstick carefully. 

One last step is missing – to try its imprint. The Jester is ready to reach for a napkin to let you try. But you only smiled. Before he can comprehend, your hand reaches to turn his head and gently guides him closer to your lips until you sweetly capture his. It’s not often that The Jester experiences a complete blank out, but when you deliberately trace your lips across his skin and start preparing his face with kisses, how else is he supposed to react? Hold in his hitched breaths? Not deepen the kisses to relish the ambrosia of your lips?

Suffice it to say, you are proud of the imprints on his pale skin. He seems even prouder, wearing them like a badge of honor, despite his stoic appearance.

✧ You asked Il Capitano to evaluate the new shade of lipstick you bought. Like any loving partner, the honorable Captain stated honestly that any hue suits you elegantly. Even if his knowledge of cosmetics is minimal, he felt delighted and proud of your looks.  

But that wasn’t the issue. Now you were standing in front of him, smiling menacingly.  

“What is it, my treasure?”  

You stepped closer.  

“Dear…?”  

You stepped even closer. Oh no, thought the Captain, he’s in danger. His pleas for reason and mercy went unheard. Instead, he faced a bigger battle—a battle that left his helmet not with scratches but with various imprints of your kisses. You stood triumphantly, happy with your lipstick and the numerous marks on his helmet and neck. 

Il Capitano lost the battle that day. 

✧ At last, Il Dottore mused to himself, the perfect hue of lipstick designed scientifically for you. You voiced your issue in finding a suitable shade of makeup for yourself, hence you asked none other than your beloved to find a logical solution. So he took matters into his own hands to find the best chemical solution and accurately create the best shade to match your skin. 

Naturally, it was a success. With his gloves stained in various colorful substances, he proudly handed you a slender tube with a delicate black cap from the table as if it were a casual concoction he could make on a whimsy. Hence, you thanked him and blithely applied it on the spot.

“Dottore, it turned out magnificently!” – you said as you looked into the reflection of your face. But when you turned to look at him, Dottore’s complexion went vaguely blank. “Hm, what is it? Isn't it good? You made it matte, too.” 

He silently stepped forward; even behind his black mask, you could sense his full attention zooming on the beauty of your lips. 

"Well, true... I formulated it to be stain-proof, so it won't smudge as you go about your day. However," - he hummed, his hand cupping your jawline warmly. "Every product requires assiduous testing. We could conduct a few tests of our own to ensure its performance. If I may," 

Of course, he would test it personally. Of course, he then captures your lips in a kiss, his hand on the back of your head, his touch an ardent mix of passion and desire. He explores your mouth, his tongue caressing yours with a fervor, wanting to test how long the lipstick will last under the pressure of his kisses. You should've expected this, as his other hand encloses around you to press you flush against him. 

"Ah... interesting. It's held up quite well. There's no transfer on your skin or mine, but I do think further testing is necessary."

“Enough, enough! That’s plenty of testing from you!” 

✧ Scaramouche dislikes shopping. It’s a hassle, truly. You requested him to accompany you on a leisurely stroll, oblivious of your trap to drag him to some quick shopping. Except this quick shopping turned into a full-blown shopping spree. The question is: was he here to accompany you or to pull you away from wasting all your Mora on fleeting indulgences?

“No, you don't need any more clothes. You have plenty of unworn ones.”

“No, we don't need any more plushies, your bed is already littered with them.”

“And no, you already had some snacks on the way here. Stop buying more!”

You couldn't escape his stern reminders, even if they were practical. However, there was still one shop you left as an ace up your sleeves. Before finishing today's trip, you encouraged The Balladeer to join you in cosmetics shopping. Your innocent smile spoke promises of letting him choose your new lipstick color if he so desired, and the allure of it caused him to halt. 

“... Me? Why must I choose? Can't you pick a simple color and call it a day, huh?” - Scaramouche feigned annoyance when, in reality, he quickly grabbed your arm and led you hastily to the boutique. “We'll quickly buy one, but don't get any ideas that we're staying here for any longer.”

Poor Harbinger; he didn't have to lie to himself so cruelly. The two of you stayed in the boutique for a long while, not because you were indecisive, but because Scaramouche suddenly took the matters with utter seriousness. Should he suggest a carnelian shade? It would match with his own red eyeshade. Or perhaps a darker one would suit your complexion? Especially if you decided to leave contrasting lipstick imprints all over his porcelain skin- 

Scaramouche shook his head. Your voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Um… Scara, sweetie? Could we decide already? We spent the whole day in this shop.”

“We'll buy all of them, then,” - he held up your face, his full focus on you as you timidly averted your gaze. “Here. Now let me help you apply it.” 

✧ Pantalone sat behind his desk, fingers intertwined thoughtfully. Silver glasses cast a shadow upon his already darkened gaze. His expression, unfortunately, was far from pleased. 

“L-lord Harbinger Regrator,” – the Fatui subordinate uttered. “It is with utmost sorrow that I must inform you that- that the cosmetologists you hired have not finished their work. They are still in the process of creating the products you requested.” 

The silence of the office was deafening. The Harbinger granted no mercy with his prolonged pause.

“... I commission the best cosmetologist in all of Teyvat, and they still dare to waste my Mora and time? Is this some frivolous matter for them?” - The Harbinger's hands sternly pressed against the table, his voice raised “My beloved requested a new lipstick! They deserve the best of the best, as soon as possible!” 

“Uh, honey… I am still here in the room.” - your voice interjected awkwardly. Indeed, it's true; you are sitting nearby, blinking in confusion. You waved at the Fatui subordinate to take it easy, signaling sympathetically that your partner was having another one of his ambitious episodes. 

“Honey, my love, this is no fleeting matter! I wanted you to get the highest, custom-made quality for cosmetics. You rarely ask for anything, but when you do, I can't just let you down!” 

“It's just lipstick…! I didn't even say what color or kind I wanted.”

“And that's precisely why you shall get all of them. You there,” - he signaled back to the subordinate swiftly. “Quick, send the letters to those cosmetic chemists to hurry up if they want to make themselves worth the Mora. Delays are not negotiable.”

With the Fatui worker scurrying away in a hurry, Pantalone sighed deeply before plopping down beside you on the sofa of his office. You patted his back, amused by his sudden precedence over something so mundane. 

“There, there, Pantalone. You know it's nothing urgent. It's just lipstick.”

“Not any lipstick. Your lipstick, darling! I need to see you don the most dazzling color on your lips.” He turned to gently trace his thumb across your jawline, his voice softening. “...The lips that should be showering me with kisses and leaving lipstick prints on my skin.”

You laughed heartily – “Oh, so that's what it's all about? You know, makeup or no makeup, I can still kiss y-”

You didn't register how The Harbinger's head bowed lowly in reverence. “I would pay you any amount of Mora for you to do so.” 

Pantalone truly knows how to blow up over the most bizarre things. Either way, as the weeks passed, the newly ordered cosmetics did arrive as instructed. How did people know? Because Pantalone didn’t shy away from flaunting the traces of your delicate lips on his neck and blouse. A testament to stolen kisses and intimate moments behind closed doors. His triumphant grin says it all. 

✧ Your ever-observant boyfriend, Tartaglia, noticed you mulling something over by the mirror. You seemed in deep focus, a new item in your hands as you inspected your visage. You tried on a new lipstick! 

Childe, being the endearing goofball that he is, complimented your new purchase with delight. You appreciated his knack for noticing even the smallest changes, even if you didn't directly tell him you tried on something new. All was well! 

Or was it? For beneath his easygoing smile, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Tartaglia was begging, crying, screaming. He wanted to hold your face in his palms and kiss you senseless. He wished to taste the sweetness of your lips until this adorable color of your lipstick was smeared on both of your faces. He wished to soak in the warmth of your pecks and kisses, dreaming for your touch to litter his face with imprints.  

Did he say all of that? Of course not. He kept beaming at you in adoration, his smile tender while his thoughts devouring. Yet, after days of wrestling with his unspoken desires, Childe devised a plan – a very, very subtle plan.

“Oh nooo,” - he lamented dramatically, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped theatrically over his forehead. “If only my beloved was here to bestow me some loving kisses, especially when they look so alluring in their new lipstick! If only!” 

You raised an eyebrow at Tartaglia’s shenanigans as if asking him: Really? What is this damsel in distress act? Nonetheless, luckily for the 11th, his oh-so-subtle hints hit the mark, because you happily cupped his cheeks and smooched them with fervor, feeling his warm skin under your lips as he chuckled.  

Needless to say, your lipstick didn’t stand a chance.

[screaminglygay]

No way back

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

summary: you and natasha joined S.H.I.E.L.D. at the same time, but you're the only one who feels truly at home. while you find your footing, natasha struggles with the unfamiliarity of it all - new people, new rules, and the overwhelming sense that she doesn’t quite belong, but you try your best to make her feel like she´s at home

warnings: slow burn, teasing, kissing, fighting, swearing, light angst, overthinking, Natasha feeling out of place, mentions of a brother's passing, emotional vulnerability

word count: 9.6k

an: thank you for the request!! i had fun writing it, once again sorry it took me forever, the next two parts will be even more angsty!!

part one I part two I part three

The air in the S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility was thick with unspoken words. Conversations lowered to hushed tones whenever she walked past. The few who didn’t bother whispering let their disapproval show in glances, in the way their shoulders stiffened when she entered a room.

Natasha Romanoff was used to isolation. But this? This was different. It wasn’t just suspicion, it was hatred.

The KGB had collapsed, and the Red Room along with it. She was one of the lucky few who got a second chance, but the agents here didn’t see it that way. To them, she wasn’t just a recruit, she was an enemy, a traitor, a remnant of something they wanted erased. They didn’t see a woman trying to rebuild herself, only the ghost of something they despised.

And yet, there was you.

Bright-eyed and eager, just another fresh recruit with no bloodstained history weighing you down. You weren’t a Widow. You weren’t special. But you were kind. And unlike everyone else, you didn’t look at her like she was something vile.

Natasha noticed it from the start, the way your gaze didn’t linger with wariness, the way your voice didn’t lower when she was near. And when she entered the training room that afternoon, she noticed you again.

The training mats were filled with recruits testing their combat skills. You were off to the side, holding pads for another agent, excitement lighting up your features as you explained something with your hands moving animatedly.

Natasha didn’t care for small talk, but something about the way you smiled… so open, so easy, made her pause.

Moments later, she was called up for testing. Evaluating abilities, strengths, weaknesses. Seeing where she fit. She knew how they expected her to perform, like a ruthless machine. So she did. She made quick work of her opponents, every strike precise, efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation. When she finally stepped off the mat, there was silence. Not admiration, not respect, just discomfort. A reminder that she wasn’t one of them.

And then you spoke.

"That was insane." Your voice cut through the tension, bright and impressed, not a hint of unease. "How the hell did you move like that?"

Natasha blinked. People didn’t usually direct questions at her unless they had to.

You took her silence as an invitation to continue, unfazed. "I mean, I know it’s years of training and all, but-" you gestured vaguely, still catching your breath from your own sparring match. "That was like some ninja stuff ."

She just stared, unsure what to do with the unexpected enthusiasm directed her way. You were still looking at her, waiting, expecting an answer. No hostility, no apprehension.

She exhaled sharply. "Practice."

You grinned. "Yeah? Guess I should be practicing a hell of a lot more, then." You chuckle. You are not a bad at this, no. You are fast and quick, but these moves, that Natasha made… they were something else.

Natasha almost smirked, but before she could respond, your instructor called for a break. The recruits scattered, finding their usual groups.

She didn’t have one. She was used to sitting alone. It didn’t bother her.

But then-

"Hey, uh, you good?" Your voice again. You were standing in front of her now, holding two water bottles, offering one out. "You kinda just wrecked everyone, figured you might need this."

She eyed the bottle warily before taking it. "Thanks."

You sat down beside her without invitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Natasha waited for the hesitation, the awkward excuse to leave, but it didn’t come.

After many days of training, it became more harsher and more exhausting, you knew it was S.H.I.E.L.D. testing you, trying to sort just the best one, but it was a lot, but not for her, at least it didn´t look like it.

Natasha sat in the corner of the training room, carefully adjusting the bandages wrapped around her hand. It wasn’t a bad injury, just a scrape from earlier drills, but the fabric had stuck to the wound. She barely reacted to the discomfort, her expression cold as ever.

You noticed, though. "Hey, looks like that’s stuck. You need help?" you asked, crouching beside her.

Natasha didn’t even look up. "No."

You grinned, undeterred. "I wasn’t really asking." Before she could pull away, you were already untying the bandages with quick, precise fingers. The fabric peeled away from her skin, and Natasha finally looked at you, her sharp green eyes studying you, not with anger, but with something closer to surprise. She didn’t say anything. Just watched.

"There," you said, satisfied. "That’s better, right?"

Natasha flexed her fingers slightly, testing. "I suppose."

You took that as a win.

From that moment, you made it your mission to include Natasha, whether she wanted it or not. It wasn’t hard, everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. liked you. You were warm, helpful, and easy to talk to. Even the most hardened agents softened in your presence. But when it came to Natasha, people kept their distance, speaking in hushed tones when she passed by, leaving her to sit alone during briefings.

You weren’t having it.

Every conversation, every briefing, every group training, if you were there, you made sure Natasha was a part of it. When you laughed at a joke, you turned to see if she was listening. When you partnered up for drills, you dragged her into the mix. If she tried to stay in the background, you pulled her forward. At first, people didn’t know what to do with it. Some just stared. Some whispered. But you? You smiled at Natasha like she was just another teammate, not the ex-KGB assassin everyone was afraid of. And eventually, even if she didn’t say it, you could tell, she appraciated it.

She appraciate you.

You weren’t exactly sure when things started to shift. Maybe it was during that one mission, the first time you and Natasha had to rely on each other for real. A simple recon op that went sideways, forcing you and her to fight back-to-back. It was the first time she saw you as more than just the kind recruit who wouldn’t leave her alone. The first time she saw that you could handle yourself.

By the time you both got back to base, bruised but victorious, something had changed. It wasn’t big, not yet. Just small moments.

The way Natasha sat closer during briefings, the way her gaze lingered when you spoke. Like she was watching, waiting, trying to figure you out.

So you decided to push things a little further, trying to make her feel more… comfortable and safe. Make her feel more like she belongs here.

"Come with me," you said one evening, right after dinner.

Natasha raised a brow. "Where?"

"The shooting range." You said simply.

She studied you for a long moment. "At this hour? There won’t be anyone else."

"Nope," you grinned. "Just us. I wanted to see the real things you can do with a gun. And I want you to teach me."

Natasha folded her arms, the corner of her lips twitching. "You don’t think it’s- "

"Scary?" you interrupted. "No. Badass? Yup."

She blinked, surprised, before shaking her head with something dangerously close to amusement. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re avoiding the question." You smiled at her, knowing she will say yes, but won´t go down without looking like a scary person.

Which is funny, because not even after bunch of stories you heard, not a single time did you think she was scary. Interesting and strong, definetly, but never scary.

Natasha sighed, but there was no real resistance. She stood up, rolling her shoulders. "Fine. But don’t embarrass yourself."

You grinned. "No promises."

The range was quiet at night, the fluorescent lights casting a cool glow over the empty stalls. You handed Natasha a pistol, watching as she inspected it with the kind of precision that could only come from years of training.

"So, what do you wanna learn?" she asked, slipping into that calm, focused state that made her so lethal in the field.

You thought about it for a second. "Everything."

Natasha let out a short laugh, a real one. "That’s ambitious."

"You´re good with guns, so…"

Her expression faltered, just for a second. She wasn’t used to compliments. Not the genuine kind. But she recovered quickly, loading the gun and placing it in your hands.

"Alright then," she murmured, stepping behind you. "Let’s start with your grip."

Her hands covered yours, adjusting your fingers, pressing against your back to fix your stance. Her touch was careful but firm, her voice smooth as she explained each movement. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of her body so close or the sheer focus in her tone, but your pulse quickened.

And when you fired the first shot, dead center on the target, you swore you heard a quiet hum of approval.

"Not bad," Natasha admitted.

You smirked. "Told you I wouldn’t embarrass myself. But why is the grip so important? It´s just the shot, no?"

She rolled her eyes, but this time, she didn’t pull away so fast. "Is your gun loaded?"

"No. I had only one bullet in-" before you could finish that sentence, Natasha not so harshly bumped into your wrist and the gun you were holding fell easily down. "Oh… I see now." You turned your head so you can look at her, you smiled a bit, even though you can feel your heart in your throat.

After that bonding the smiles started. They weren’t much at first - hesitant, uncertain - but they were there. Agents who once ignored her were now nodding in acknowledgment. Some even started greeting her by name. It wasn’t lost on Natasha that this shift had everything to do with you.

You had always been easy to like, weaving yourself effortlessly into the cracks of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cold walls. You helped agents with their reports, sparred with them without making it a competition, and always - always - made sure Natasha was included.

At first, people didn’t know how to react. They weren’t sure if you were just being polite or if you really meant it. But then, in the middle of a late-night training session, you made sure to give Natasha the credit, she didn´t think was even there.

"Damn, how did you pull that off?" one of the agents asked after you had effortlessly flipped them onto the mat.

You grinned, wiping sweat from your forehead. "Natasha taught me." Silence. A few skeptical glances were exchanged. "…Romanoff?" someone finally muttered.

"Yeah," you said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For a moment, no one knew what to say. But then, one of the agents turned to Natasha, hesitant but genuinely curious. "Wait… you actualy train others?"

Natasha, who had been leaning against the wall watching the interaction unfold, tilted her head slightly. "When I feel like it."

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t listen to her. She does and she’s actually great at it."

A few agents exchanged glances before someone hesitantly asked, "Can you show us?"

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t fear. It was just… unfamiliar. People looking at her with interest instead of distrust.

You gave her a little nudge. "C’mon, show off a little." And once again you chuckle, pushing Natasha´s buttons a bit more. Making her open more and show others, that she´s not so cold and scary looking lady.

A beat passed. Then, Natasha sighed and stepped forward. "Fine."

That was the moment everything truly changed. The next few weeks, more agents started joining in. What started as casual observations turned into genuine respect. They saw how skilled she was, how efficient her movements were.

"Oh my god, who taught you that?" someone asked you after another sparring session.

"Natasha did," you answered with a smirk.

And instead of the usual shock or discomfort, the response was different this time. "Damn," one agent muttered. "She’s really good."

"She really is," another admitted.

It was subtle, but Natasha noticed it. The way people started sitting next to her in meetings. The way conversations didn’t immediately die when she entered a room. The way people started listening. For the first time since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., she didn’t feel like an outsider, at least not that much, she felt like this could really be a new beggining for her.

As the days comes by Natasha finally catch you after a training, finally being able to talk to you properly. The gym was empty now, except for the two of you. Sweat clung to your skin, muscles sore from sparring, but neither of you seemed in a hurry to leave today. Natasha had been improving fast, not just physically, but in how she carried herself around the others. She was more comfortable now, less guarded. It was something you had noticed gradually, and honestly, you were proud of her.

That’s why it caught you off guard when she suddenly said, "Thanks."

You blinked. "For what?"

Natasha exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair before leaning against the wall. "For making me look friendly. Helping me fit in."

You shook your head with a small smile. "Zero idea what you’re talking about."

She shot you a dry look. "Oh, shut up."

You chuckled. "That was all you, Nat. They just needed a little push. So did you."

Natasha didn’t argue with that. She let the words settle between you before glancing down at her hands, quiet for a long moment. Then, almost hesitantly, she said, "I don’t blame them, you know."

You frowned at her, letting her speak.

"The others. For being wary of me." She sighed. "I was trained in the Red Room. Worked for the KGB. I know what people like me have done." She hesitated, then her voice dropped slightly. "I know what I’ve done, I know who I am..."

She didn’t say it, but you heard the word she left unsaid.

Monster.

Your chest ached for her.

"We all make mistakes," you said softly. "But you’re here for a reason, aren’t you? You want to change. To do something good. What happened… happened. You can’t change the past, but you can choose who you want to be."

Natasha let out a breath, something shifting in her expression. "You ate a wisdom, hm?" she muttered.

You grinned, "that’s my daily bread."

A small chuckle escaped her lips, quiet but real. It was rare to hear her laugh, but when she did, it was worth it.

After that, things between you and Natasha just… clicked. Wherever she was, you weren’t far behind. And wherever you were, she was right there with you. People started joking about it. "If we need to find Romanoff, just look for (Y/N)."

"I swear, they come as a set," another agent laughed at that.

You started doing things together outside of training. Natasha would drag you to the shooting range at odd hours, testing out different weapons while you tried (and often failed) to match her skill. In return, you convinced her to join you in normal, non-mission-related activities - grabbing coffee, watching movies, playing pool in the rec room.

And then there were the missions. You worked better together than anyone expected. It was seamless, almost instinctive. The way you covered each other’s backs, how one glance was enough to understand what the other was thinking. You weren’t just teammates. You were a duo.

Time goes by, and it was the one-year celebration of you being in S.H.I.E.L.D. The same goes for Natasha. The party was in full swing, the usually serious S.H.I.E.L.D agents actually let loose, drinks in hand, music a little too loud for a facility, and even the higher-ups seem to have abandoned their usual stiff posture. For once, the atmosphere was light, warm. You had a good time, chatting with everyone, laughing at dumb jokes, even letting yourself get a little tipsy.

But even you had limits, your social battery is wearing thin, and the heat of the crowded room got to you. So, without much thought, you slipped out of the main hall and made your way up the stairs, pushing open the door to the training center’s rooftop. The night air was cool against your skin, refreshing after the stuffy warmth of the party. The city lights stretched out in the distance, flickering like a thousand little stars, and you sighed, leaning against the railing.

Peace. At least for a moment.

Because not long after, the door creaked open again. You didn´t have to turn around to know who it was. Natasha stepped forward, her footsteps light, almost silent. She stopped beside you, resting her arms on the railing. You glanced at her, she looked the same as always, calm, composed.

"You’re not drunk," you observed.

She huffed out something like a chuckle. "Of course not."

"Why? Afraid of letting loose?" you teased, nudging her with your elbow.

She didn´t respond immediately, just watched the city below. Then, with a small shrug, she said, "I grew up in Russia. Tolerance to alcohol is kind of in my blood."

You raised an eyebrow. "Then why you’re not even slightly tipsy?"

"Would take a hell of a lot more than what they’re serving in there," she said, nodding towards the party. "It’s a little pathetic, honestly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"Maybe I should teach you... you look like you would need it," she teased.

"Excuse you, I have some tolerance." You glanced at her, "besides I did have my own growing up experience with drinking."

Natasha looked at you, silent, waiting.

"My brother taught me how to drink," you chuckled, "at least tried to." You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “His names is Thomas.” A pause. “Was.”

She didn´t say anything, but she turned fully toward you, giving you her full attention.

"He was in the Navy," you continued. "One of the best. Smart, strong… better than me in everything, really. But he was also the kind of guy who couldn’t sit back if someone needed help." You took a breath. "There was an accident. A mission gone wrong. He saved his teammate… but he didn’t make it."

You swallowed, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. Even after all this time, it didn´t go away. It´s the alcohol that made your shiny personality, to get a little cloudy.

Natasha was still quiet, but she watched you with something soft in her expression. Understanding.

"That’s why I trained," you said finally. "Why I kept pushing myself. My biggest dream was to work for the CIA, actually." You chuckled, shaking your head. "And I almost made it. Passed all the tests, was about to get in, until a guy with one eye came in and basically stole me."

Natasha’s lips quirked. "Fury?"

You nodded, "Fury."

There was a comfortable silence between you after that. Just the sound of the wind, the faint music from the party below, and the distant hum of the city.

Then, quietly, Natasha said, "I’m sorry about your brother."

You glanced at her, giving her a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Another beat of silence. Then, in a rare, quiet admission, she added, "He sounds like a nice guy."

You chuckled, tilting your head. "He would’ve liked you."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, "even though I’m Russian?"

You nudged her shoulder. "Even though you’re Russian." It was very easy to talk to you, to joke with you and to let her guards down, she liked this... she liked spending time with you.

You let out a soft chuckle, leaning your elbows on the railing as you gaze out over the cityscape. The cool night air does little to sober you up, but you didn´t mind the warmth in your cheeks. It was a nice buzz, one that made you loosen up, talk more freely.

"He actually was really into women who could take care of themselves," you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between you and Natasha. "His captain was a woman. I remember how head over heels he was for her… it was crazy. He was thirteen again, having a crush like a little boy."

You laughed at the memory, shaking your head. "I swear, he would talk about her like she walked on water. All serious and professional when she was around, but then the second she left? He’d go on and on about how badass she was."

Natasha chuckled at your rambling, a rare amusement flickering in her expression. You were slightly tipsy, your words a little looser than usual, but she didn´t mind. There was something… nice about it. About you just talking, sharing pieces of your life like they were meant to be told.

She watched as you grin to yourself, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the railing. There was a soft flush to your cheeks, not just from the alcohol, but from the warmth of the memory. It made her hesitate, just for a moment, before she spoke.

"I get it," Natasha finally said, exhaling softly. "Having someone you admire like that."

You glanced at her, intrigued. "Yeah?" And Natasha just hummed.

After few minutes of just silence once again, her gaze fell back on the city. “I had a sister.” A pause. "Have a sister."

Your head tilted slightly, your attention sharpening. "You do?"

Natasha nodded again. "Yelena. She’s younger than me. Stubborn as hell, always had something to prove." A small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "We grew up together… well, as much as we could. The Red Room didn’t exactly allow for normal childhoods."

You didn´t push, just let her talk, sensing the weight of her words.

"I haven’t seen her in years," Natasha continued, fingers flexing slightly against the railing. "Not since I left." There’s a flicker of something in her expression - guilt, longing. "I don’t even know where she is. If she’s okay. But I still think about her."

You were quiet for a moment, letting her words settle between you. Then, gently, you asked, "What was she like? Back then?"

Natasha exhaled a short laugh. "A menace."

You grined at that. "Sounds about right for a younger sibling."

"She always had this way of getting under my skin," Natasha admited, shaking her head slightly. "Always trying to prove she could be better, faster, stronger. But she was also… kind. Not in the traditional way, but in the way that mattered. She cared… deeply. Even when she tried to hide it."

You watched Natasha’s expression shift, soft in a way you don’t see often. It was different from her usual guarded demeanor, there was something raw in it. Something real.

"I hope she’s okay," Natasha murmured.

You reached out, hesitating for only a second before gently placing your hand on hers. "If she’s anything like you, I’d bet she is."

Natasha looked at you then, her green eyes flickering at your hand on hers, then back at you. But after a moment, she just huffed out a quiet breath, shaking her head. "You’re really bad at this whole tough S.H.I.E.L.D. agent thing, you know?" she said.

You grined, "yeah, well. Someone’s gotta balance you out."

She didn´t argue. Instead, she just let out another soft chuckle, turning her gaze back toward the city. And for a while, the two of you just stayed like that. Side by side, watching the world move below, the weight of past and present settling comfortably between you.

One second, you were just standing there, glancing at Natasha, enjoying her presence - the next, her lips were on yours. Soft. Warm.

A little hesitant at first, like she wasn’t sure she should be doing this, but then firmer, more certain.

Your breath hitched, heart slamming against your ribs as your brain caught up with what was happening. Natasha Romanoff - Natasha - was kissing you.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, she pulled away, eyes wide, looking more startled than you felt. "Oh, shit," she breathed. "I- I didn’t mean to-"

You blinked at her, still processing, still feeling the ghost of her lips on yours. Butteflies flying everywhere.

"I mean, I did, but I- I don’t know why I-" She took a half-step back, running a hand over her face. "That was- I wasn’t thinking, I just-"

She was spiraling. Natasha Romanoff was spiraling. And honestly? It was kind of adorable.

You grinned, heart still racing, but in the best way. "Nat."

"I shouldn’t have-"

"Natasha."

She shut up, blinking at you.

"Don’t apologize," you said softly, still feeling the warmth of her lips lingering on yours. "That was nice."

She blinked again. "Nice?"

"Very nice." You nodded and as Natasha looked at you fully so she could notice the blush on your cheeks. Knowing very well it wasn´t from the alcohol.

Her brows furrowed, like her brain was still struggling to process the fact that you weren’t mad, weren’t pulling away. "But I just- I didn’t even ask, I just-"

"Yeah, I noticed," you teased, a giddy little laugh bubbling up. "Not that I’m complaining."

Natasha groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is not how I wanted to do this."

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. "Oh? So you wanted to kiss me?"

Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. "I- That’s not- I mean-"

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. A bright, breathless, happy sound.

"I knew it," you teased, poking her arm.

Natasha scowled, but the way her ears were turning pink betrayed her, "you did?"

"Nope, but I wanted you to do it so badly, so… manifestation." You smiled widely at her.

"You’re insufferable," she muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

"And you just kissed me," you pointed out, grinning.

She groaned again, looking up at the sky like it might save her. You just smiled, reaching for her hand and giving it a small squeeze.

"Hey," you said softly. She looked at you, and there was still a little hesitation there, a little uncertainty.

You squeezed her hand again. "This is nice," you repeated, gentler this time. "You are nice. To me. And that’s all that matters."

Natasha stared at you for a long moment, like she was still trying to find a way out of this. But then, finally, finally, she let out a breath. "You’re really something else," she murmured, shaking her head.

You grinned. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of your hand.

…

From the moment that kiss happened on the rooftop, something between you and Natasha changed.

Not in a way that was overwhelming or scary - no, it was easy, like flipping a switch that was waiting to be turned on. You still trained together, ate lunch at the same table, sat beside each other in meetings, but now there was an added something to it all. A kind of warmth, a softness.

Like how Natasha would nudge your arm when she passed by, or how she’d steal your drink without asking, giving you a smirk when you huffed at her. Or how she’d lean into your side when you sat next to each other, casually draping her arm over the back of your chair, fingers sometimes brushing your shoulder absentmindedly.

Little things. Easy things.

Dating Natasha Romanoff was surprisingly not some impossible, larger-than-life thing. It was waking up and getting coffee together before morning drills, where she’d always roll her eyes but still make sure you had your favorite one.

It was stealing quick, hidden moments in hallways when no one was looking, Natasha rolling her eyes at how obvious you were, only to pull you in for a kiss when she thought no one was around. It was training together, still pushing each other, but now with teasing smirks and stolen kisses. It was, you had to admit, kind of perfect.

Natasha was perfect. And everyone was noticing.

Once word got out, because of course it got out, that you, arguably the kindest person in S.H.I.E.L.D., chose Natasha, something shifted in how people treated her.

Not in a bad way, though.

Before, people had been friendly enough, mostly because you kept bringing Natasha into group activities and conversations, but there had always been a kind of caution. A distance. They still saw her as Black Widow, the woman who had red in her ledger, who had a history drenched in violence.

But now?

Now, people looked at her differently.

If you, the person who always went out of their way to help others, who saw the best in everyone, liked Natasha, then maybe she wasn’t someone to be feared. Maybe she deserved a second chance. And Natasha? Oh, she noticed.

People started smiling at her more in the hallways.

They started asking for her help with things - small tasks, not only minor training exercises, more little things they never would have approached her for before.

And the flirting?

The flirting was insane.

It was like the moment people saw Natasha through your eyes, they realized she wasn’t just a deadly assassin… she was hot.

You’d never seen her ego this big before. Training days became something else entirely.

"Alright, everyone, partner up." Maria Hill, Fury´s right hand yelled, so everyone can hear her.

Immediately, half the room turned to Natasha. You watched as agents practically scrambled to be the first to get to her, some subtly and not so subtly bumping into each other in their rush. Natasha smirked.

"Oh," she mused, glancing at you from across the room. "Guess I’m popular now."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "You’re impossible." Not thinking about it as a big deal.

She gave you a smug little smile, tilting her head. "Jealous?" You scoffed, trying not to let her entirely correct assumption show on your face.

She chuckled, then turns to some random rookie, “sorry, but I already have a partner," she said simply, jerking her head toward you.

The rookie looked both disappointed and terrified.

You, however, were fighting back a grin. She is yours and you are hers.

Natasha made her way over, stopping just in front of you. "You don’t mind, do you?"

You huffed, "like you’d let me say no."

She smirked, leaning in just enough for her voice to drop, “exactly."

You swallowed, because god, she knew what she was doing.

"Alright, alright," Maria called, clapping her hands. "Let’s get started."

You were going to kill her.

Or kiss her.

Possibly both.

And Natasha? She knew exactly what she was doing.

After training wrapped up, you and Natasha made your way to the locker room. The adrenaline was still thrumming in your veins, your body buzzing with the remnants of sparring.

Or maybe it was just her. Who knows?

Natasha was grinning, that signature, smug little smirk plastered on her lips as she leaned against the lockers with her arms crossed. "See how much people wanted to spar with me today?" she teased, tilting her head as she looked at you.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. It was a little desperate if you ask me."

Natasha gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Desperate? They chose me.”

You huffed, turning away to open your locker. "Yeah, well, I think I’m gonna have to start charging them if they want to breathe the same air as my girlfriend." There was a tiny hint of jealousy and of course she noticed it.

Natasha let out a delighted laugh. "Oh? So I’m yours now?"

You turned to her, lifting a brow. "You were always mine."

That shut her up, momentarily.

Then, she grinned, stepping closer. "Oh, is someone turning green?"

You turned away quickly, but Natasha was faster. Before you could even think of hiding, she had you pinned against the lockers, her hands firm on either side of your head as she leaned in.

"I think you are," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours as she spoke.

"I am not," you mumbled, though your resolve was very quickly dissolving.

Natasha chuckled. "Mhm." And then she kissed you. It was soft at first, just a slow, teasing press of her lips against yours. Then, it grew deeper, her hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. You sighed against her mouth, your hands moving to cup her face, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw.

She was being so affectionate. Touching you like she needed to, kissing you like she wanted to pour everything she felt into you. When she pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, you found yourself whispering, "We’re together… together."

She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. "We are…" Another kiss to your cheek, "…together." Another to your jaw, "…which is why you should move in with me."

You blinked, your mind short-circuiting. "Wait. What?"

She pulled back slightly, her hands still on your waist. "Move in with me."

You stared at her.

She tilted her head. "What?"

You blinked again. "You just said- wait. Are you serious?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Of course I’m serious. We basically spend all our time together anyway."

You hesitated, your heart pounding. "But we-"

"You want to." She grinned, leaning in again, her lips brushing over yours. "I know you do."

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at her. "…I hate how well you know me."

She smirked, "so?"

You sighed, dramatically, "fine."

"Fine? Just fine?" She can´t help, but chuckle again.

You chuckled as well, "fine, I’ll move in."

Natasha grinned, "good," and then she kissed you again.

The only thing left to do was tell Fury. So you did the next day, since the word travels fast in this facility. You weren’t nervous, per se, but still… this was Fury. You stood in front of his desk, back straight, hands clasped behind you. Natasha was waiting outside, mostly because she didn’t want to hear Fury’s inevitable sarcasm firsthand.

Fury looked at you over the rim of his coffee cup, unimpressed. "You want to what?"

"Move in with agent Romanoff, sir."

He blinked, setting his cup down, "you’re already living in headquarters."

"Yes, sir."

"And now you want to live together?"

"…Yes, sir."

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "I’m happy for you." He said that with total blank expression, so it was hard to tell if he meant it or not.

You blinked, "wait, really?"

"But," Fury continued, leveling you with a look, "don’t you dare let it affect your work."

You swallowed, “it won’t, sir."

"You and Romanoff are my top agents," he said firmly. "I don’t have time for relationship drama messing with my missions. So don’t you dare."

You straightened, "I understand. Don’t worry, sir."

Fury eyed you for a moment before sighing. "Good. Now get out of my office."

You tried not to smile as you turned on your heel and walked out.

Natasha was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. "Well?"

You grinned. "He said yes."

"Told you he would" Natasha smirked.

You rolled your eyes, nudging her. "Come on, roomie."

She chuckled, draping an arm over your shoulders as you walked away together. Words can´t describe how happy you felt, in this moment… there is nothing more you wish for, maybe more free time, but you´re not gonna push Fury´s buttons. Not yet at least

Each morning from that moment the first thing you registered was warmth. The second was the scent of Natasha, something sweet and faintly floral, mixed with the crispness of freshly washed sheets. The third was movement. Something was shifting beside you, and before you could even react, a hand brushed over your hair, fingers lightly threading through it.

"Mhm," you grumbled, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

A chuckle, "good morning, sweetheart."

You groaned in response, curling further into the blankets.

"Come on, wake up." Natasha’s voice was far too cheerful for this time of day.

You pried one eye open, glaring at her, or at least, attempting to. It probably looked more like a squint. "It’s six in the morning."

"It is."

"Six, Natasha." Ugh. How you hated mornings, early mornings to be exact.

"I heard you the first time."

You groaned again, flopping onto your back and rubbing your face. "This is cruel. I thought you liked me."

Natasha laughed, stretching her arms above her head, the muscles in her back flexing beneath the soft fabric of her tank top. "I do like you."

You pouted up at her. "Then why are you waking me up at an ungodly hour?"

She grinned, leaning on her elbow beside you. "Because you’re adorable when you’re grumpy."

You narrowed your eyes at her, "I hate you." And you mumble something else.

"No, you don’t," she poked your cheek. "But everyone should see this. Our lovely, happy, kind little sunshine is currently wishing me all the worst just because I woke her up."

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "That is not true," maybe it was… a little.

"Oh?" Natasha teased, nudging you playfully. "What was it you just mumbled? Something about me rotting in hell?"

You peeked at her through your fingers, "…maybe."

She laughed, and God, it was the best sound in the world. Even though it´s six in the morning, you don´t really mind the reason you´re awake now.

"You’re an agent, baby," she said, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Not in the next five minutes," you mumbled, reaching for her hand and intertwining your fingers with hers, "Cuddles?"

Natasha let out a dramatic sigh, "fine, but only for five minutes."

You grinned sleepily, tugging her down into your arms. She didn’t resist, in fact, she melted into you, resting her head against your chest, her fingers idly tracing shapes against your arm.

"This is nice," she murmured.

You hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of her head, "told you."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Alright, I’ll admit it. You might have been right."

"Might have been?" You smirked at her.

She sighed, "alright, fine, you were right."

You grinned triumphantly, hugging her tighter. Natasha chuckled, tilting her head up to look at you. Her green eyes softened, and she reached up to brush her thumb over your cheek.

"I love you," she murmured.

Oh my god.

For a moment, all you could do was stare. Your sleep-addled brain scrambled to catch up, to process that Natasha Romanoff had just said I love you for the first time. The room was still, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustling of the sheets as Natasha shifted slightly beside you. Your heart pounded against your ribs, like it knew the weight of those words before your brain could fully register them. She had said it so softly, so easily, like she wasn’t even afraid of it. Like it wasn’t some impossible, unreachable thing.

Natasha looked at you, her green eyes searching yours, and for the second time ever, she looked nervous. Like she thought maybe she had messed up. Like she thought maybe you wouldn’t say it back. Which was insane, because of course you would.

Of course, you did.

"Say it again," you whispered, barely realizing the words had left your mouth.

Natasha blinked. "What?"

"Say it again." Your voice was a little stronger this time, but still breathless, like you’d just been hit with a wave of something so big it knocked the air from your lungs.

Natasha's lips twitched into the faintest smile. And then quieter, but with no less certainty-

"I love you."

Something in your chest burst. You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before grabbing her face and kissing her senseless. Natasha let out a surprised sound but melted into it instantly, her arms winding around your waist as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. When you finally pulled back, just enough to look at her, you were grinning like an absolute fool.

"You-" You shook your head, pressing another quick kiss to her lips, "you love me."

"I do." Natasha’s voice was amused now, a little lighter, a little happier.

"You love me," you repeated, as if testing the words in your mouth.

Natasha chuckled. "Is that really so surprising?"

"Yes! No! I mean-" You laughed again, completely overwhelmed, "I just- God, I love you so much."

Natasha's expression softened, and you swore you saw her eyes shine just a little. "Yeah?" she murmured.

"Yeah," you breathed. "So much."

She smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, even though you were already lying down.

Since Natasha had told you she loved you, everything had been amazing. She had never been an overly affectionate person before, but now? Now she was. She kissed you in the hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.. She pulled you into her lap when you both sat on the couch, arms wrapped around you like she needed to physically anchor herself to you. She always, always held your hand whenever you were walking together.

She made you feel loved. And in return, you loved her hard. You loved her with your touch, with the way you reached for her first thing in the morning, still groggy but always needing her close. You loved her with your words, whispering soft things against her skin late at night, telling her all the reasons she was good, she was worthy. You loved her with your patience, never pushing when she got quiet, never demanding more than she was ready to give.

But still…

Still, something lingered in her.

Although things were better, although she had you and people were being nicer, there was something inside her that just wouldn't settle. A restlessness. Some nights, when you were fast asleep, Natasha would sit at the edge of the bed and just watch you. She would grip the blanket tight in her fists, pressing the fabric to her face just so she could smell you, so she could drown herself in something warm, something real.

She didn’t know why she did it. Or maybe she did.

Maybe it was because she was still trying to believe it.

Trying to believe that this was real. That you were real. That the love you gave her wasn’t something temporary, wasn’t something that would be ripped away the moment she blinked too long. She wanted to believe she belonged here. That this - this bed, this warmth, this person - was home.

But… what was home, really?

The Red Room? Moscow? The cold walls of S.H.I.E.L.D.? The battlefield?

Was she the assassin, the spy, the Black Widow capable of having a home?

Sometimes, she would stare at you, watching the way your lips would part slightly when you slept, the way your brows would furrow if she shifted too much.

And she would wonder… does she love the real me?

The real her. The one with blood-stained hands. The one who had taken lives, who had done horrible things. The one who, despite everything, still questioned whether she was anything more than a killer. Maybe you loved the version of her that you saw. The one who teased you in the mornings, who kissed you breathless in empty hallways, who pulled you into her arms without hesitation.

Maybe you loved that Natasha.

But what about the other one?

What about the Natasha who had once followed orders without question? The Natasha who had ended lives with a steady hand and an empty heart? The Natasha who still, even now, sometimes felt like she was nothing more than a weapon?

Did you love her, too?

Would you still love her if you knew, if you really knew, what she had done?

She didn't know. And she was scared to find out.

So after some time she just thought that faking till you make it sounded like a great idea. It started small. The lingering glances. The playful smirks. The way Natasha would lean in just a little too close when someone was talking to her, her eyes sharp and inviting in a way that made people stumble over their words.

At first, you brushed it off.

You knew Natasha. You knew she wasn’t the type to cheat, not even close. But it was hard to ignore how much she entertained it. The winks she threw back. The way she’d chuckle at comments that were a little too flirtatious. The way she let people’s hands linger on her arm or shoulder when they spoke.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just her way of fitting in, showing people she wasn’t the cold, untouchable Black Widow they once thought she was.

And you got it. You did. For so long, she had felt unwanted, feared, alone.

And now, for the first time, people were seeing her differently. They were choosing her. Not because she was a weapon or a threat, but because they liked her.

And it made her feel… valued.

So you let it go.

Until you couldn’t.

It was one night in your shared room, Natasha sitting at the small desk while cleaning one of her knives, humming softly to herself. You sat on the bed, playing with the hem of your shirt, thoughts swirling too fast in your mind.

"Nat?"

She hummed in response but didn’t look up.

You took a breath. "I love you."

That made her pause. Her hands stilled, and she turned her head to look at you, brows furrowing slightly. "I know," she said softly with a small smile.

But you weren’t really saying it to her. You were saying it to yourself. Like some kind of reassurance. A desperate attempt to convince yourself that everything was okay. That she loved you… that she wanted you.

That this didn’t mean anything. Because it didn’t, right? But still, something gnawed at you. Something bitter and heavy, curling in your stomach, whispering thoughts you didn’t want to listen to.

Am I enough?

Maybe the others were more fun. Maybe they weren’t as serious. Maybe they made her laugh more.Maybe they didn’t come with the weight of whispered confessions in the dark, the burden of knowing all her scars, inside and out. Maybe it was easier with them.

Maybe-

"Hey," Natasha’s voice pulled you back, soft but firm. She was kneeling in front of you now, her hands gently resting on your thighs, brows drawn together in concern, "what’s wrong?”

You swallowed, shaking your head, "nothing."

She didn’t believe you. Of course, she didn’t. She tilted her head slightly, studying you the way she did when analyzing an opponent in a fight, like she was picking apart every little movement, every hesitation, every weakness. "Talk to me," she said quietly.

And you wanted to. You really wanted to.

But how could you?

How could you tell her that while she was struggling with believing she belonged, you were struggling with believing you were enough? You sighed, rubbing your palms over your face. "It’s nothing serious. I’ve just been overthinking a lot."

Natasha didn’t move from her spot in front of you, still kneeling, her hands now tracing slow circles over your thighs. "Overthinking what?"

You hesitated. You weren’t lying, not really. But you weren’t saying everything either. Because if you did, if you voiced all the thoughts racing through your mind it might make them real.

So instead, you forced a small smile, shaking your head. "Just… if what I’m doing now is enough."

Natasha’s brows furrowed. "Enough?"

You exhaled, "like… as an agent, as a person, in-" Your voice wavered. "In us." It slipped out.

Her grip on you tightened slightly. "Of course, you’re enough." And the way she said it, so fiercely, so certainly, made your chest ache. She shifted, lifting herself up to sit beside you on the bed, her hand finding yours. "What’s making you feel this way?"

You shrugged, staring down at your intertwined fingers. "I don’t know. I think it’s just… everything."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the gears turning in her head, the way her mind dissected every little piece of information you gave her. Finally, she sighed, leaning in and pressing her lips softly to your temple. "I love you," she murmured against your skin.

It sent a warmth through your chest, but it didn’t erase the lingering thoughts completely.

And maybe Natasha knew that.

Maybe that’s why, as she pulled back, she searched your face so intently, as if trying to see past whatever walls you were keeping up.

But then something shifted in her own expression. Something almost unreadable. She glanced away, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when you realized-

She was thinking, too.

Overthinking.

You squeezed her hand. "Nat?"

She didn’t answer right away, staring at a spot on the floor like it had the answers to something she didn’t even know how to ask. "I just…" she started, but then shook her head, letting out a quiet laugh that lacked any humor.

"Now you’re overthinking," you pointed out gently.

Natasha exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, well… you’re not the only one who does it."

Your brows knit together. "What are you overthinking?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. And for the first time in a while, Natasha looked uncertain. She was always so sure, so sharp, so steady. But now, there was something hesitant in the way she held herself. Like she wasn’t sure if she was standing on solid ground anymore.

You turned to face her fully, giving her the same patience she had given you. "Talk to me."

She scoffed softly, "that’s my line."

You smiled, nudging her lightly, "it can be mine, too."

Natasha sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I just…” She swallowed, "I´m not sure if I fit in."

Your breath hitched. "What?"

She ran a hand through her hair, her voice quieter now. “I mean, what if people like the fun me, not the weird killer one, but the one that´s…” she gestured vaguely, "normal."

Your chest tightened. "Nat-" You stared at her, heart aching. Because you understood. You understood the weight she carried, the doubt that gnawed at her, the fear of being seen as something she wasn’t sure she could escape. "People like you for who you are, right now. They enjoy your presence, I enjoy your presence. All the time."

To you, there was no version of Natasha to love. There was just her. And maybe… maybe you both needed to figure that out together. So after your talk you just spend cuddling tighter than usual, not talking at all, just enjoying your time together.

Over the days, Natasha had been even more open to others, for some reason, which didn´t help you with the "overthinking" part. It wasn’t just the occasional banter anymore, it was something more. The teasing smirks, the way she leaned in just a little too close when speaking, the way her fingers ghosted over arms, her laugh coming a little softer, a little sweeter.

You wanted to understand this, but the only think you could do was to stend back and watch. She joked with Maria Hill in the training center, standing a little too close, her fingers lingering on Maria’s wrist just a beat longer than necessary as they laughed about something. You weren’t even sure what had been said, but it didn’t really matter. It was the pattern that was beginning to form. It wasn’t just Maria. Natasha was always surrounded by someone now, their attention drawn to her like moths to a flame. And she let them. Agents who barely looked at her months ago now jumped at the chance to train with her, to sit with her in the cafeteria, to find excuses to be near her.

And Natasha? She basked in it.

You didn´t said anything… but days turned to weeks, and it never stopped. If anything it got worse.

It was after training when you finally said something. The adrenaline still thrummed in your veins from sparring, your muscles sore in the best way, but all of it was overshadowed by the tight knot in your chest.

Natasha was drinking from her water bottle, wiping sweat from her forehead when you finally broke the silence.

"The flirting is too much."

She froze mid-motion, brow raising slightly as she looked at you, "wha- baby, you know I would never"

"I know," you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I know you wouldn’t do anything, but… I just don’t like them thinking they have a chance, you know?"

For a second, something flickered in Natasha’s expression, something uncertain, but then it was gone, replaced with that easy, confident smirk that had charmed so many people lately.

"You’re the only girl in my sight," she murmured, stepping closer, her voice dropping into something lower, something smoother. Your lips pressed into a thin line. She was doing it again. The charming words, the flirtation, the teasing little game she played when things got too close, too real. And then her fingers traced down your arm, light, deliberate, the heat of her touch sending shivers up your spine.

"You don’t need to worry," she whispered, pressing a kiss just below your ear. "I only want you."

You wanted to stay firm. You wanted to keep pushing, to tell her that wasn’t the point. But then her hands were on you, guiding, coaxing, pulling you into her orbit like she always did. Natasha had always been a master of control, of knowing exactly what to say, what to do, to pull someone under. And she knew exactly how to make you forget.

Natasha led you through the hallways of the compound, her fingers interlaced with yours, her touch grounding, magnetic. You weren’t fighting it anymore. Maybe you should have. Maybe you should have pressed harder, but right now, in this moment, you just wanted her.

"Our room," she murmured, glancing at you from the corner of her eye, a small smirk playing at her lips, "we can shower together." Her voice was low, inviting, and there was no point in pretending you didn’t want that too.

By the time you reached her room, Natasha was already peeling off her shirt, throwing it onto the chair in the corner without care. She turned back to you, stepping close, her fingers immediately finding your waist, tracing over your skin like she needed to remind herself you were real.

She kissed you - slow, deliberate, her lips moving over yours like she had all the time in the world. And then she whispered against your lips, "You’re mine." Her hands slid up, her palms warm against your skin.

"I’m yours," she murmured, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. "You’re amazing." The words kept coming, soft and steady, an anchor against the storm of thoughts that had been brewing in your mind for weeks. "You’re everything," she breathed.

Your fingers curled against her back, holding onto her, feeling the way her muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to hold onto these words and let them fill the cracks that had started to form inside you.

Natasha rested her forehead against yours, her hands still tracing slow, soothing patterns against your sides. "No overthinking. Not right now," she whispered. "Just me and you."

She kissed you again, and for a little while, you let yourself believe her.

The steam curled around both of you, thick and warm, as the water cascaded down, soaking into your skin. Natasha’s hands never left you, not for a second. They traced along your arms, your waist, the curve of your back, as if she was mapping you out, committing you to memory, ensuring you were still here, still hers.

The shower wasn’t just a shower… it was something else entirely. A quiet space where the world didn’t exist, where doubts couldn’t reach, where words weren’t needed because her touch spoke louder than anything she could say.

Her forehead pressed against yours, water dripping between you, and she whispered it again, "I love you". Over and over again. It was reverent, almost fragile, like she was convincing herself just as much as she was convincing you.

Your hands found her, fingers threading through damp strands of red as she kissed you, deep and slow, like she was breathing you in. Every touch, every movement, felt like a plea - don’t doubt me, don’t doubt this, don’t leave.

She held you like you were something precious. Like you were something she wasn’t sure she deserved but was too afraid to let go of. Her lips brushed over your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin as she murmured, "you´re everything to me."

The weight of those words settled deep in your chest. She didn’t say it often, definetly not like this. Not stripped down to its rawest form, with no teasing, no distractions. Just her, open and vulnerable, asking for something she didn’t quite know how to name. So you gave it to her.

Your fingers trailed along her spine, tracing invisible lines over old scars, new ones, the history of everything she had endured and survived. "I love you too, so much," you whispered, barely audible over the steady rush of water.

Natasha exhaled, a shaky breath against your skin, and then she held you tighter, as if grounding herself in your warmth. She kissed you again, not rushed, not desperate. Just deep. Meaningful. Like she was pouring everything into it, everything she didn’t know how to say.

taglist: @starrycherie, @esposadejoyhuerta

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Fear

When you encounter a perceived threat, your brain thinks you are in danger and attempts to keep you safe through a fight-flight-freeze response. Sometimes, it is lifesaving; other times, it is incorrect or a poor match for the situation, for example:

Hearing a loud noise in the middle of the night

Jumping out of the way of a speeding vehicle

Feeling scared when walking down a dark alley

Being asked to give an impromptu speech

The following psychological threat examples may not result from the object or event itself (e.g., public speaking, social situations, or spiders) but from being afraid of the experience of anxiety associated with it (McCabe & Milosevic, 2015):

Panic attacks. Panic attacks can be part of the fear response in anxiety disorders and are sometimes associated with anxiety over losing control, dying, or “going crazy.” They can occur in threat-free situations.

Anxiety sensitivity. The fear of fear can result from the belief that the sensations (e.g., racing heart, rapid breathing, and sweating) signal imminent physical, psychological, and social harm.

Agliophobia. Agliophobia is the fear of pain or suffering in the short or long term. This condition can lead to extreme reactions, such as escaping or avoiding situations with even the slightest chance of injury. It is less about the pain itself and more about its anticipation (for example, a fear of needles).

Social anxiety disorder. This involves the fear of being judged or evaluated in social or performance situations, such as during interviews or when presenting. The anxiety or avoidance behavior associated with this fear can significantly impair quality of life.

The event itself is less important than the individual’s perception, impacted by knowledge, experiences, and expectations.

When the hypothalamus sends its distress signal through the autonomic nerves to the adrenal glands, the hormone epinephrine (adrenaline) is pumped into the bloodstream, resulting in (Harvard Health Publishing, 2020; Nunez, 2020):

Heartbeat speeds up, pushing more blood and oxygen to the muscles and other vital organs. During a freeze response, heart rate may slow.

Pulse and blood pressure increase.

Breathing speeds up to get more oxygen into the blood. During a freeze response, breathing may be interrupted or restricted.

Small airways in the lungs open wide.

Increased oxygen to the brain leads to increased alertness and sharpened senses.

Pupils may dilate to let in additional light, and hearing improves.

More blood sugar (glucose) and fats are released into the bloodstream to supply extra energy.

Ongoing perception of threat leads to further release of adrenaline and cortisol.

Skin may get cold or sweat, as can hands and feet.

Pain perception may reduce.

Once the perceived threat is over, the parasympathetic system begins to dampen the stress response.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[strawberryasbestos]

The quirk apprehension test was... weird? Right?

The more and more you go over the quirk apprehension test the more you notice how it... doesn't actually apprehend anyone's quirks. At all. Especially when compared to the Training Camp Arc that's specifically built around improving and, yknow, apprehending the strengths, weaknesses and limitations of everyone's individual quirks.

As one of the first high-stakes events at UA the quirk apprehension test isn't there to actually evaluate or rank the class' quirks, but to create a moment of tension and anxiety for Deku's future as a hero, and to highlight how much work he has ahead of him to keep pace with his classmates. Sure, okay, cool.

EXCEPT! THE! SCORES! MAKE! NO! SENSE!!!

( Yes okay I understand the point for the test wasn't to actually properly reflect the specific skill-sets of class 1-A, I know this. But. )

Not only does the test severely limit their ability to show off what their quirks can actually do, but for a lot of them they're just... totally incompatible. Sure, some of them have been training a long time before UA, so they should have high scores anyway, and yeah some of them have quirks that naturally lend themselves to getting high scores in these areas. Sure! But!

But.

Deku should not have been in 20th. At all. There's plenty of people who did little-to-no training before UA, have quirks that don't have the kind of physicality that's helpful in these circumstances, and in a lot of ways would actively hinder them!

For many, unless you choose to sabotage your competitors, which would get you a higher score by comparison but utterly wreck the idea of teamwork and untiy, their quirks are either totally irrelevant to the task or actively detrimental. I don't say this to shit on any of the characters, just to point out that:

1. The test set up is bogus (and I'm astounded that Aizawa would set up something that's so biased against non-physical quirks, when his own would be totally useless without choosing to sabotage others)

2. Deku was active, fit, in good shape, and more than capable of getting above-average scores on almost all categories without using OFA

3. Compared to some other members of the class who had either detrimental or non-physical quirks, and also did very little physical training, he SHOULD have ranked higher than 20th at the BARE MINIMUM

So, having spent a good while talking it over with @chilchucks-timbs we created an in depth chart ranking the 1A students in each of the 8 listed tests, using the (very VERY few) recorded canon scores and common sense and logic to fill in the gaps.

Below is a chart of the final scores:

Left: Our final top 20 ranking, with scores across all 8 tests tallied and organised lowest to highest (think golf rules)

Center: The same top 20, but this time colour matched to the canon rankings, and accompanied by averages

Right: The canon top 20, colour coded

We tallied the final marks only after going through each physical test one by one and debating the outcomes individually.

Below is a breakdown of each of the rankings for all 8 physical tests:

Most of our choices were based on 2 questions we applied to very category: who would be able to apply their quirk the best in this scenario, and who would perform/be hindered by their quirks the worst. Working from there, we filled in the blanks.

The biggest conclusions we drew are:

While he's shown to struggle with flexibility, Deku has proven over and over during his training montage that he's fit, active, strong, exercises to excess, and can certainly maintain a long distance run. Steadily ranking around the halfway mark of the class by topping those who can't apply their quirks to the task, combined with second place in the ball throw, there's no CHANCE he would end up in 20th place. Free my boy he did a good job he didn't deserve that.

Yaoyorozu really has the most versatile quirk that's applicable to ANY situation and she absolutely deserves to retain her 1st place position.

Asui achieving only 13th place in the canon ranking is baffling. BAFFLING. Her quirk is entirely physical and lends itself utterly to these speicifc types of tests. 13th??? THIRTEENTH??!??! When her entire quirk is hopping jumping moving??? Madness. Absolutely madness.

Bakugo maintains 3rd place either way because he really is That Bitch

Using Todoroki as an example, I think Horikoshi built his final ranking based on vibes and based on quirks. By looking at the canon ranking versus ours, I think it's quite clear that he rated them based on his own perception of their quirk strength as a whole within the context of the entire story - not how they would perform in this specific circumstance. Todoroki, who at this point, while highly trained, is still refusing to use his fire and can't actually use just his ice for very much of these tests. Side steps? Seated toe-touch?? What could ice from one half of his body POSSIBLY add to those scores? Enough to bring him to 2nd place? Not on your life

Iida stays in 4th place, all-rounder king and legend

Ashido is a similar case to Asui - how can someone with such a physically-focused quirk AND a canonically physical lifestyle rank in at 9th? Even then, her agility and speed can only take her so far HOW did she overtake Asui in the final canon ranking? How could acid possibly trump frog in jumping or side stepping?

Horikoshi has a very clear bias towards strength-type quirks that (excluding Asui) dominates among males students. Characters who are larger, stronger, an have bigger builds are ranking higher in these tests DESPITE the fact that, for a lot of them, they'd either be hindered (seated toe-touch if they're too stocky to have much flexibility, the long-distance run in their larger builds work against their stamina and endurance, etc.). Being strong doesn't make you fast, or agile, or flexible, and a lot of them shouldn't be as highly ranked as they are when other quirks are more applicable in those circumstances.

Sad to say but Koda is ranking 20th overall. Koda's quirk doesn't lend itself to ANY of these tests (unless he chose to summon animals to actively detract from his classmates scores to bring his own up by comparison) and his quirk has given him a stocky, heavy, inflexible build that would hinder him greatly in any of the tests that need speed, agility and flexibility. Despite doing well in some tests, overall his quirk wasn't able to help him AT ALL in any of these tests, and by comparison he's sunk to 20th in the end.

While there really aren't enough girls actually in the class (the first red flag) to be able to draw a clear conclusion on the final canon rankings having an extreme gender bias, I've still included a gendered breakdown because you can see just how clearly and aggressively Asui and Mina were nerfed for absolutely no logical reason.

Most of the tests' 20th place were between Koda and Mineta, based on how their physical builds would work against them in different tests (Koda would have more physical reach for jumping, running, etc. than Mineta's absurdly short build, and Koda's stockiness and inflexibility would hinder him). I know we all love to put Mineta in last place overall, but unfortunately he did absolutely kill the repeated side steps and there's no arguing with it, and despite coming in 20th more than anyone else, one 1st place score is enough to drag him out of 20th overall. (Which, again, further reinforces our argument that Deku never should have been in 20th place after managing to snag a 2nd place score in just one of these tests, even if he did perform poorly in all other physical tests. Which he didn't. At all.)

One last time, I'd really like to reiterate that these apprehension tests are straight up unfair to those without physical quirks. Koda, Jirou, Hakagure and Kaminari specifically cannot use their quirks to physically agment their own body or their movement in any way - even if they're incredibly valuable in the contexts of a physical fight, espionage, or search and rescue work. Jirou and Kaminari in particular likely did well at the entrance exam against robots, while Koda and Hakagure could do excellent work in the future as underground and search and rescue heroes. I simply cannot believe that Aizawa would use this as a useful measurement of these kids' quirks and abilities.

You cannot seriously try and convince me that DEKU has poorer running endurance, grip strength, etc. than his classmates that DON'T have physically augmented quirks, after spending months proving it to us through his intense training regimen. Mineta? Hakagure? Jirou? Kaminari? Aoyama?? You think he has a weaker grip strength than foppish waifish fancyboy Aoyama?? After dragging around piles of scrap by HAND?!? MADNESS. Madness. Even if he didn't score as well as we think he would, coming out on top of those guys (which he UNQUESTIONABLY would) combined with a 2nd place ball throw score he CAN'T place 20th overall. That's! That's not how numbers work! It just doesn't work like that!!!!

Someone could absolutely argue that Aizawa put the test together to see who puts in the physical effort to improve themselves outside of their quirk as well as being able to use it creatively - but honestly I don't buy it. At the end of the day, I know this was just a plot point to further Deku's motivation and contrast his own power level compared to his peers, and I know its not that serious, but we really enjoyed trying to fugure out how it would all shake out if the quirk apprehension tests were given some more realistic thoughts.

If you disagree with any of the rankings do feel free to comment, I think a lot of us probably have different ideas on how someone might creatively apply 1A's quirks in this scenario, and I'm hardly about to declare myself the final authority on the topic.

[babygurlaura]

REDESIGNING THE ACADEMY

STRUCTURE IN NARUTO

Honestly at times felt we should have seen more of Naruto academy days and think more could have been done showcasing how the ninja system works within Konoha which is a militarized system.

This is essentially apart of my naruto rewrite which creates a system for how ninjas are evaluated and taught within the academy. To start off we’ll start off with the entrance exam into the academy. We know from Shikamaru that you can decide whether or not you want to become a ninja. And also how a lot of ninjas who come from established clans are already taught basic and sometimes advance techniques. So with the idea of an entrance exam it’s meant to essentially evaluate the students ability and place them into the track course that’s fits their skill set.

Entrance Exam: Initial Placement Based on Ability

Purpose: Sort students into tiers or tracks based on their existing skill sets. This allows the narrative to reflect why clan children (like Sasuke, Neji, or Ino) are often more advanced due to family training.

Criteria: Intelligence (strategy, problem-solving), combat aptitude (sparring or basic taijutsu forms), chakra control, and maybe even psychological profiling (to match with senseis later).

Outcome: Students are placed into Track A (advanced), Track B (standard), or Track C (remedial) classes—or more tiers if needed.

Narrative Benefit: Shows Naruto’s underdog status isn’t just social—it’s systemic. He likely tested low due to a lack of home training or emotional instability, so he starts at the bottom tier.

Let’s now proceed with how these classes are leveled and the overall structure. There would be general classes such as history or math it makes sense in the grand scheme seeing the amount of propaganda that takes place within Konoha. But also these general courses would be utilized in strategy, mission planning and so on.

* side note Iruka would be placed as homeroom teacher who looks over all the students files and handles their evaluations *

now onto the tracks.

Shinobi Skill Tracks (Specialized Tiers)

Based on entrance exam results and ongoing evaluations, students are placed into Skill Tracks, each one tailored to their progress:

Track A (Advanced): Clan kids or prodigies like Sasuke, Shikamaru, Neji, Ino, etc.

Track B (Standard): Average students like Kiba, Hinata, and Choji.

Track C (Remedial/Development): Students like Naruto, who struggle with chakra control or combat due to a lack of prior training or trauma.

Track A: Advanced Track (Clan Prodigies & High Aptitude)

Track B: Standard Track (Average Performers with Growth Potential)

Track C: Developmental Track (Late Bloomers & Undertrained)

* side note Tenten was originally placed in track c but after further evaluation felt Track B was more suited for her but i have yet to make that adjustment cause i be working a lot *

One thing I plan on implementing into the academy would be practical mission simulations centered on team work, problem solving, leadership, stamina, and emotional maturity.

The format is basically three students, one from each track placed into a group with a professor often times Iruka to evaluate their teamwork skills mainly.

Always felt like these missions worked based for the academy as practical missions centered around teaching team work and so on.

Narrative Use:

Naruto repeatedly fails missions not because he’s uncooperative, but because others sabotage, ignore, or abandon him, reinforcing his isolation.

Iruka could witness this firsthand, shifting his attitude from skeptical to supportive.

Also for further clarification when it comes to the Track courses it’s a flexible system, students are able to “test into” specific Track A classes while still being officially enrolled in Track B or C. This allows for strength-based specialization and highlights individual talent rather than purely clan status.

How It Works:

Access Type | Requirement | Example Classes

Full Track A Enrollment

Consistently high evaluations across all areas

Sasuke, Neji, Shino, Ino

Partial Track A Access

High scores in specific subjects (written or practical)

Sakura (Genjutsu & Strategy), Shikamaru (Tactics)

Audit Access

Permission from the instructor + a qualifying project

Rock Lee (Taijutsu Theory), Hinata (Chakra Control)

======================================

Lastly how the students are evaluated and how they graduate.

For this purpose there are three evaluations, the first being one that’s done to permit you into the academy and see where your skill set lies. The second being the mid academy evaluation.

Mid-Academy Evaluation: Class Advancement or Early Graduation Eligibility

Purpose: Assess progress and see who is eligible to move up a class tier or skip ahead to graduation training.

Example: Itachi likely tested into Tier 1 from the start, and during his Mid-Evaluation, his Genjutsu proficiency and advanced battle sense flagged him as ready for early genin status.

This also adds stakes—students who don’t progress may be held back or even washed out of the Academy.

Pre-Graduation Evaluation: Readiness Check

This could be the equivalent of what Naruto kept failing—not the final “you pass or fail” moment, but an indicator of whether you're ready for the true graduation exam.

It would include:

Teamwork simulations

Mission mock-ups

Ninjutsu, Genjutsu, Taijutsu grading

Chakra nature, aptitude or potential

Graduation Exam: A Cumulative Test

Each class has a specific "Final Jutsu" (like Naruto’s class using Shadow Clones). It allows the exam to vary depending on the needs of the era, the teacher’s design, or even the village’s political state.

For Naruto’s class:

Passing would mean being able to safely and successfully use a multi-clone jutsu and complete a small mission simulation (like rescuing a “hostage” or retrieving a scroll).

Naruto fails this not just because he struggles with the technique, but because of chakra control and inconsistency, again reinforcing why the "failures" are more holistic than just one jutsu.

======================================

That’s all for my Ninja academy redesign I have made some example schedules for some of the Konoha 11 which shows how the tracks work and what classes they’d be place into. But i hope you liked my lil rambling and concept. This is honestly the most structured i’ve been with my post besides my Uzumaki OC.

[xinfinityl0ve17]

“People used to say we were heretical or something.”

“Rock is freedom.”

“Maybe Malice Mizer is pure rock in the sense that it breaks definitions.”

— So, you guys really got criticized a lot, huh?

Közi: Oh yeah, it was intense.

Mana: I often heard rumors like, “He hasn’t played guitar recently? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

Közi: And I’d be like, what exactly is so dangerous about that?

Mana: Rock is supposed to be about freedom, right? I mean, as long as it's for the sake of expression, I think it's fine to do anything. So the fact that people even think that’s “dangerous” I find that mentality itself kind of dangerous.

Közi: Exactly. So in that sense, what people call “rock” sometimes isn’t rock at all. Even if there’s something out there saying “this is what rock is,” I think real rock is about breaking that definition. That’s why I think Malice Mizer might actually be pure rock.

— Yeah, definitely in spirit.

Mana: Seriously, the feedback from live show surveys used to be so harsh. Like, “He doesn’t even play guitar anymore, he’s just happy wearing dresses, right?” I got told stuff like that. A lot.

— Whoa, that’s really rude.

Közi: Yeah, and when people who thought like that left, we didn’t try to stop them. But it was sad to be judged on just that one thing.

Mana: But who knows, maybe that same person who left back then is re-evaluating things now (lol).

Közi: Honestly, people tend to have such a narrow view of things , not just with music, but with everything.

— But at the time, you were desperately trying to express something through music. Still very much musicians then (lol). So, was the concept Mana had in mind back then already the foundation for Malice Mizer?

Közi: Yeah, it was. And that concept hasn’t really changed, even now. The name “Malice Mizer” comes from the idea of “malice and misery” , expressing the malice that lies deep within humans, theatricality, and the unpredictability of life.

Back then, we hadn’t developed the kind of staging we do now. We were closer to a traditional band, really. The music had classical influences, and we had twin guitars. Gradually we added in more theatrical elements. Even now, we’re still experimental , but back then, it was all trial and error.

— Were there any other bands at the time expressing themselves in such a comprehensive, theatrical way?

Mana: Well, we were part of the visual kei scene, sure, but I don’t think there were any others doing it quite like us. Probably not. There’s often this idea of “this is what a band should be,” but we really wanted to break that and create something new.

— So that was your youth…

Mana: Then I moved to Tokyo and became a madam (laughs).

— And that’s when you met Közi, during your “madam era.”

Közi: Yeah, Mana already had a well-defined style. I just kind of slipped into it. I thought, “Hey maybe we can create something really intricate together.”

— Did you listen to demo tapes back then?

Közi: Yeah. I also saw a video of Mana’s old band in Osaka. He was playing guitar like a rock , totally still (laughs).

Mana: Back then, it was all about the playing. I was still pretty inexperienced. I didn’t have any concept of staging or performance , it was just about the sound.

ESP Jeune Fille J:F-450

The model name is French for “young girl.” Its striking see-through blue finish matched beautifully with the elegant dresses it was paired with. From the logo on the headstock to the detailed position markers, every element reflects thoughtful design.

ESP Aka-Uzu-kun AW-550

With a see-through red finish that evokes the passion of youthful blood, this model features intricate inlays that seem to wrap around the body, and a swirling motif that gives it a sense of refined elegance. The name “Aka-Uzu-kun” carries a distinctly Japanese charm.

GIGS 1998

[frozenparadize]

yet another chuuatsu crack-with-feelings idea

accidental fake date AU

We know from Kajii & Kyoka train ambush that Akutagawa was not the only one Mafia send on were-tiger bounty hunt. So, AU where Chuuya came back from abroad earlier and Mori gave him a go at capturing Atsushi.

And Chuuya of course would want to do it in full blazing glory of one-man front attack. Agency building is just arould the corner - when he stumbles over Atsushi coming home from work, literally walking into him.

Chuuya is taken aback with how polite, sweet and gorgeous Atsushi is - and how he senses no danger whatsoever. Now, the twistXD Chuuya thinks Dazai spilled the beans about every Mafia member' identity he knows, and after first attack Atsushi would be clued in, too. But - Agency is a beautiful mess, and no one gave Atsushi power point presentation yet. He has no idea he just crashed into Mafia Executive.

Chuuya thinks otherwise. This is Dazai protege after all, if he acts as if he doesn't know who Chuuya is that has to be on purpose, right? So he decides fine, this is a ploy of some sort. I'll play along, let's see what you've got. And he resumes the conversation as if they were just two people meeting by chance.

Chuuya tries a little flirting, simply to throw Atsushi off the game he thinks he's playing. But Atsushi just takes it as the truth. Bashful, yet so greedy for everything good in his life, and this graceful, fascinating man flirting with him? Even if its teasing, Atsushi responds. One thing to another, and Chuuya finds himself getting Atsushi on a date.

Fancy place of Chuuya's choice, of course, and he wishes Agency were-tiger would show his hand in this, finally, but he's just so earnest. For the first time in a restaurant like this, palpable awkwardness he tries to keep hidden, and Chuuya ought to revel in this, pick at this more to get him to break the charade, but damn it, he wants to put the guy at ease. Then the conversation, the way they fit - it plays better than it should, it just gets Chuuya deeper. He forgets at times this is work, and Atsushi is his mark who's pretending he doesn't know this, no matter how genuine feel his quiet smiles, his catching mix of self-deprecating remarks and sharp flashes of sass.

They stand at the pavement near the alley outside of restaurant when Mafia car is pulling up and Chuuya gets inside befoore reaching out to Atsushi. 'What are you doing?' Atsusghi asks, voice dropped almost to a whisper while he already takes the offered hand. And Chuuya has to fight trough his stolen breath, his missed heart beat while he feels Atsushi's trusting touch, how his pulse is quickened where the fingertips brush tender wrist skin right under the glove.

'Ah - Abducting you.'

The best performance of being sure and suave he ever gave. To match the portrayal of gentle naive he's been treated to.

Atsushi is pulled into the car with more force than both expected, falls over Chuuya and takes this as an invitation, gives in to a pull this man has over him already, captivating beyond anything he ever knew, Atsushi just - surges forward. The kiss is sudden, a little askew, open, lovely, giving - too good to be a lie. It gets Chuuya to melt for a second and then gets him angry. How can someone look and feel like this, this sincere, and be this shrewd at pretending?

Click if a switchblade ovening, cold under Atsushi's collarbone.

'You can drop the act now. I got you. What's the plan? Did that bandaged bastard replace the driver? Is he behind the fucking wheel - '

'W-what plan?'

The hurt, confusion - betrayal on Atsushi's face is too real. This has no point to be happening, Chuuya tries to re-evaluate everything but there was no way he really, truly didn't...

'Your Agency' plan to stop your abduction tonight?! The reason while you act all sweet as if you don't know I'm Mafia Executive.'

Now there's no confusion reflected in his chromatic eyes. Only hurt left, but then - anger, too, flurry, wounded.

'So... you played me? All this evening...'

Atsushi makes a move to break out of the car, and Chuuya darts to stop him, and now it's not even because he has to complete the mission, it's because realization sets it - he massively fucked all this up. But this is where the claws come out, because Atsushi really, really wants to get out of this car and away from this man. The car door is torn open, the brakes are hit, Mafia driver prays for his life - while Chuuya keeps pursuit through the streets, fresh scratches sting only adds up to the mix of feelings.

He was already half-taken by Atsushi's soft side, even when he thought it's played up. And now he knows it wasn't, and during the ensuing fight Chuuya just gets deeper into the trouble because now there's this thrill of unexpirienced but so strong and swift opponent. And deep under - the guilt because he wasn't honest with Atsushi, he was so sure he was the one being led on, he ignored everything that proved him wrong.

Maybe this is what does Chuuya in, really, when he lets Atsushi escape - not dealing much of damage beyond few bruises, and not really injured himself, either. He tells himself it was because they were fighting in living city area. He tells himself it was because it wasn't honest fight, anyway.

Maybe Chuuya can seizure the chance of rematch. Or better still, a chance to explain to Atsushi that awful, dumb misunderstanding.

All along I thought you knew who I was.

How would you look at me now when you do know?

[doumadono]

A/N: this small thing drew inspiration from a recent conversation I had with my wonderful @indignant-alpaca, delving into the common struggles faced by students across various disciplines. Despite our diverse fields of study, we all encounter similar challenges sooner or later. Drawing from my own experiences, I decided to craft a variation focused on enhancing the learning process, using one of my favorite characters, Bakugo, as a source of inspiration 💣

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

In class

Be actively involved in class discussions and activities. Katsuki would assertively participate, ensuring he grasps concepts firsthand.

Treat each class as a competition to stay engaged. Challenge yourself to excel, just like Bakugo's competitive spirit drives him to be the best hero.

Don't hesitate to ask questions when you're unclear. Katsuki would demand clarity, and you should too! It's a proactive approach to understanding the material.

Observe and analyze the teacher's explanations and demonstrations. Katsuki assesses his opponents' moves; similarly, analyze the "moves" in your lessons for a deeper understanding.

Take dynamic and concise notes. Katsuki strategizes in the heat of battle, and your notes should capture essential information for later review.

Studying

Approach your study sessions with intensity and focus. Katsuki's training is high-intensity, and your studies should match that energy.

Divide your study time into focused blocks for specific subjects. Master each "arc" before moving on to the next, just like Katsuki hones specific skills.

Work on problem-solving exercises regularly. Katsuki tackles various challenges, and you should too. Practical application reinforces theoretical knowledge.

Utilize interactive study methods. Katsuki learns by doing, and hands-on activities or simulations can enhance your understanding of complex topics.

Plan your study sessions strategically, focusing on high-priority subjects during peak concentration times. This approach mirrors Katsuki's tactical approach to hero battles.

Channel your inner hero by immersing yourself completely in the subject matter, just as Katsuki immerses himself in his battles.

Break down complex topics into smaller components for in-depth understanding, similar to how Katsuki analyzes quirks of his opponents to identify their weaknesses.

Learning attitude

Cultivate a hero's mindset. Set ambitious goals and view your studies as a heroic journey toward self-improvement.

Develop resilience in the face of challenges. Katsuki faces setbacks but emerges stronger. Treat academic difficulties as opportunities for growth.

Believe in your capabilities. Katsuki exudes confidence, and a strong belief in your abilities can positively impact your academic performance.

Be flexible in your approach to learning. Katsuki adapts his fighting style, and similarly, adapt your study techniques to different subjects or challenges.

Regularly reflect on your progress. Katsuki analyzes his battles for improvement; evaluate your academic journey to identify areas for growth.

Learning, Bakugo-style, means embracing the fact that doubters will always exist, no matter your achievements. Instead of seeking external validation, channel that energy into mastering your skills and gaining knowledge for your own growth. The focus should be on personal improvement and the satisfaction that comes from overcoming challenges, rather than proving yourself to others.

Periodically review past material to reinforce your knowledge. Katsuki often reflects on his battles to improve his combat strategy. Apply this concept to your studies for a solid foundation.

Test yourself regularly to identify weak points. Katsuki constantly challenges himself in battles to enhance his abilities. Use quizzes to gauge your progress and strengthen areas where you struggle.

Develop mental resilience to overcome setbacks. Katsuki faces defeats but bounces back stronger. Treat failures as stepping stones, learning from them to improve and move forward.

[sweetdreams1994]

Chapter 6: Plans.

Summary

As a hardworking trainee, you’ve spent years pushing yourself to debut. When the final evaluation comes, you’re chosen as the sole candidate—but what you don’t realize is that your fate was already sealed. BTS, the seven men you idolized, manipulated everything to make sure you were theirs.

At first, their attention feels like a blessing to aid you as a trainee. Then, it becomes suffocating. Their possessiveness turns them against each other, each one willing to destroy the others just to have you alone.

⚠️ Content Warnings: ⚠️

Intense competition & high pressure, verbal & emotional manipulation, psychological stress & anxiety, favoritism & corruption, Strong language, detailed smut, y/n is 18+, drugging

After five weeks of staying with the boys and constant training, it was your most important meeting with HYBE yet, your debut schedule.

The conference room at HYBE was thick with tension. You sat at the far end of the long, polished table, Yoongi beside you, his fingers tapping impatiently against the wood. His usual calm demeanor was laced with an edge of concern, but you were too distracted to acknowledge it. Across from you, Namjoon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes studying everyone in the room. Jimin and Taehyung flanked him, their gazes fixed on you—intense, but not in a way that unsettled you. It was just… familiar. You trusted them.

To your left, Hoseok and Jin sat quietly, both of them giving off a different vibe. Hoseok's smile was absent, a rare seriousness shadowing his expression. Jin, as always, was calm, his eyes not leaving you for long as if silently assessing your reactions.

A staff member stood at the head of the table, his voice breaking the silence. “We’ve decided to push up the debut. It was originally scheduled for later, but we believe the timing is right now. You’ll be performing on Inkigayo.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the suddenness of it taking you off guard. You opened your mouth to speak, but Yoongi cut you off, his tone firm, though gentle. “Soon. I know. You’re ready.”

His words, though confident, seemed to carry a weight you hadn’t anticipated. You glanced at him, his eyes softening as he met your gaze. There was something protective in the way he looked at you, and for a brief moment, you felt comforted. Yoongi had always been there for you, pushing you to be your best, guiding you through every step of this journey. He saw the potential in you when you couldn’t see it in yourself. This felt like his way of giving you something to hold onto, something to keep you grounded.

You didn’t suspect anything was amiss. Not with him. Not with any of them. You had always trusted them—trusted them—because they were family, right?

Namjoon’s lips curled into a small smirk, breaking your thoughts. “You look surprised,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t think you’d be debuting so soon, huh?”

You shook your head, offering him a small smile. "No, just a little shocked," you admitted, your tone light. It was a big change, but you didn’t feel *scared*. You had Yoongi’s faith in you. That should have been enough. 

Jimin, ever the tease, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “I hope you’re ready for the spotlight. It’s a lot to take in, but you’ve always been strong. Right?” His voice was playful, but there was something about the way he watched you that made you feel… seen. Really seen. “I know you’ve got this.”

You nodded, your confidence growing with his encouragement. “I’ll be fine. I trust you all,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to anyone else.

Taehyung gave a low chuckle, his gaze flickering between you and the others. “You’ve got it in you. It’s going to be amazing. But we all know the pressure’s going to hit hard. Are you ready for that?” His tone was casual, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t match the carefree words. He was so sure of you. 

But there was a lingering uncertainty building inside you, something small but growing. You couldn’t place it. 

Suddenly, Hoseok spoke up, his usual cheerfulness absent. “This feels rushed,” he said, his voice quieter but firm. “She needs time. We can’t just push her like this.” His eyes flickered toward Yoongi, but his concern was aimed at you. You appreciated it—he cared. “We’re talking about her debut. It’s not something we should rush into.”

You turned to Hoseok, grateful for his voice of reason. “I know it’s fast, but I feel ready,” you said. You glanced at Yoongi, looking for reassurance, and he gave you a soft nod, his hand briefly brushing against yours under the table. His touch was warm, grounding, and for a moment, it made you forget the rising doubt.

Jin, too, looked at you, his expression calm yet thoughtful. “I agree with Hoseok,” he said, his tone soothing but concerned. “We’re pushing you into this, and I don’t know if it’s the right move. You’ve always had your time to adjust. This is happening too fast. We can’t ignore the impact it might have on her.” 

You met Jin’s gaze, but you were torn. You knew they cared about you. You knew they wanted the best for you, just like Yoongi did. But they were all in this together, right?

Namjoon’s smirk faded, and for a moment, his gaze hardened, his fingers tapping slowly against the table. “Everyone’s worried about her well-being, but what about the bigger picture? This is her chance. We all know she’s ready.” He glanced at Jimin and Taehyung, and they exchanged a look—one that was almost too synchronized to be accidental.

Jimin’s eyes flickered to you, and he leaned forward again, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “This isn’t just about her. It’s about us, too. We’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. Don’t we all deserve to see this through? To be the ones who help her rise?” His gaze softened, but there was an unspoken pressure in his words.

Taehyung’s eyes were locked onto you now, his smile a little too sharp. “We’ve always been by your side. Don’t forget that.” His voice was quiet but firm. “There’s no going back from here.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. They all looked at you as if they were waiting for something—something you weren’t sure you could give. You trusted them. You did. But now, in the midst of their divided opinions, a seed of uncertainty began to grow in your chest. 

Yoongi, sensing the shift in the room, leaned in, his voice softer but steady. “I know it’s a lot. But I believe in you. You’ve got this. We all do.”

You wanted to believe that—you did. But the weight of their expectations, their divided stances, and the way their eyes lingered on you, it was starting to feel like too much. You weren’t sure if you were ready. Were they doing this because they believed in you? Or because they wanted to control the situation, control you?

Your gaze shifted between them all, the warmth from Yoongi’s comforting words battling with the cold reality that maybe… just maybe, this wasn’t just about your debut. 

“Are you really ready?” Taehyung’s voice cut through your thoughts, a little too soft, too knowing.

You didn’t know how to answer. And that scared you more than anything.

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

​​The steam curled around you as you stepped out of the shower, droplets tracing slow paths down your flushed skin. The warmth of the bathroom clung to you, a stark contrast to the lingering chill just beyond the door. Exhaustion settled deep in your bones—between vocal lessons, the suffocating presence of Jimin and Taehyung, and the weight of expectations pressing down on you, you felt drained.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your damp hair before reaching for your change of clothes. You were eager to rid yourself of the heavy fatigue that clung to you like a second skin.

Then, something shifted.

A presence.

You froze. The sensation of being watched slithered down your spine, making your fingers hesitate over the fabric of your shirt. Your breath hitched. Slowly, cautiously, you turned toward the door.

It wasn’t fully shut.

A slow, agonizing creak echoed through the humid air as the door edged open a fraction more.

And standing there, frozen in place like a predator caught in the moment before pouncing, was Min Yoongi .

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Y-Yoon—”

His name barely made it past your lips before you noticed it—the look in his eyes. Dark, unfathomable, intense. His gaze trailed over your exposed skin, drinking in every detail, every curve, every water droplet sliding down your shoulder. His lips parted slightly, but he made no move to step back.

Instead, his fingers curled into tight fists at his sides.

“You shouldn’t leave the door open,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, quieter, yet somehow heavy enough to press against you.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your towel, gripping it like a lifeline. “I—I didn’t realize—”

He pushed the door open fully, stepping inside without hesitation. The overwhelming warmth of his presence made the already humid room feel stifling.

“Didn’t realize?” His head tilted, studying you, his expression unreadable. “Or did you want me to see you like this?”

Your breath caught.

The accusation sent a sharp jolt through you, shame and confusion mingling beneath your skin. “I—”

Before you could form a coherent thought, he was closer. So close that you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw tightened, as if restraining something barely contained beneath the surface.

A shaky breath escaped you as his fingertips brushed your collarbone—light, teasing, barely there. But the contact burned.

His touch traced lower, following the curve of your damp skin beneath the towel, ghosting over the fabric in an agonizingly slow descent.

“You really don’t understand what you do to me, do you?”

His voice was softer now, almost a whisper, but laced with something that sent a shiver through you.

Then, his fingers dipped lower.

Beneath the towel.

Over the delicate swell of your breast.

A slow exhale left him, his eyes darkening further as he felt the warmth of your skin against his palm. He pressed his chest against your heaving one, neck bending to look down into your wide eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful, pretty, you know, the first time I saw you I wanted to take you right there. The way you smiled made me weak. But now the way you tremble makes me feral.”

He grasped the back of your neck, aggressively pulling your ear to his mouth.

“And all l want to do is look into those wide eyes as you choke on my cock.”

Something in this made you falter, wetness other than water collecting between your legs. 

You were a deer caught in headlights. 

“Now you have two choices: make your sunbaenim happy and do what your told, or run away and disappoint me. I know my good girl wouldn’t want to disappoint me, right? After all, I chose her, and only her to debut. To work with me, hm?”

With this, Yoongi's hand lightly grasped your hair and led you down to your knees, hands releasing from your towel and allowing it to fall to the floor, revealing yourself to him.

Yoongi’s grasp on your hair weakened at the sight of your naked form, eyes reveling in the sight of water droplets trickling in between your breasts and your hands resting between your bare thighs. 

“I knew you were my good girl.”

Yoongi’s slender eyes were penetrating yours as you looked up at him in desperation, looking for any sort of relief from the feeling running through your body. 

Your delicate hands reach up for Yoongi’s belt, his hand petting your hair as you undo the clasp and pull down his pants, hands pulling out his erection from his boxers. 

You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting, but the sight of the large almost overwhelming extremity wasn’t it. But to be quite honest, you didn’t care. 

Yoongi’s head lolled back at your first contact with his member, your hands fondling it with inexperience. 

Nonetheless, he quickly guided your mouth to his cock, hips gently thrusting into you mouth and hand pushing your mouth further onto it. Your eyes began to water as his thrusts hastened, your mouth being used as a fuck doll. 

Yoongi let out the most animalistic sounds you’d ever heard, eyes closing and mouth parting. 

“You’re doing so well baby, your mouth fits me perfectly doesn’t it?”

At the sound of his praise you couldn’t help but let your hand fall between you legs, rubbing your clit in hope of any friction to relieve the building tension. 

“-Uh uh no baby don’t do that no no no that’s not your job, that’s mine”.

Yoongi quickly rips your face from his cock, a strand of saliva connecting your swollen lips and his cock.

He grabs you by your waist and throws you backwards onto your bed, eyes blown wide as he ravishes your jaw and neck with kisses and bites.

“Yoongi, please, please”

His cock rubs against your bare pussy as you whine for him, sounds filling the room with desperation. He buries his face into your neck as he resists plunging into you, his frame overwhelming yours. 

He pulls back and lifts your hips onto his, his cock aligned with your pussy. 

Looking at him he was like a god, straight black hair slicked back, pale skin shimmering under the droplets of your mixed sweat and his chest heaving with his lips parted. 

“Yoongi we can’t-” You frantically exclaimed as you realized what he was about to do. 

“Shhhhh baby don’t worry daddy’s got you”

You tightened your thighs together around his dick as he pushed upward, his cock rubbing directly against your pussy as he thrust back and forth quickly. 

“Namjoon could never do this right? You wouldn’t let him? You save this cunt for me only right?”

“Yes yes, only you Yoongi, only you this cunt is yours”

At this your back arched as Yoongi kept sliding up and down against you feverishly, groaning at your words and making both of you finish together and Yoongi relax his weight on top of you.

I knew she loved me too. Now everyone else will too. 

Authors note: This is extremelyyyy unedited sorry :(

Taglist:

@misbangtan @knjkitten @mystica1whore

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Sparring Matches

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Summary: The BAU undergoes PT evaluations, that includes sparring matches. And in the ring will be the secret couple, tipping off the rest of the team.

Warnings: Canon level violence secret relationship, slight suggestive language

Word Count: 2.7k

Masterlist

The BAU were all sat in the bullpen trying to get work done when their Unit Chief, and Y/N’s secret boyfriend, walked out of his office, overseeing his team. “I have some bad news,” he announced, catching everyone’s attention.

“Another case?” Rossi guessed, coming out of his own office.

“No, the new Section Chief wants us to perform physical evaluations.” That earned groans from Spencer and Garcia. Meanwhile Derek and Emily were already placing bets about how each other would perform in each activity.

“But we haven’t had to do physical training in years because of field hours!” Reid protested.

Internally Aaron chucked at the doctor’s childlike protest, reminding him of Jack when he didn’t want to do something. “I’m sorry but he’s insistent and won’t be allowing waivers for any of you… except Rossi as well as Garcia because she’s never in the field.”

“Whoo!” she cheered, earning another groan from Spencer.

“And due to a recent incident… we will also be evaluated in hand to hand combat.” Everyone on the team turned to look at Y/N.

“He snuck up on me!” she defended for the millionth time. “I still beat him.”

“Still got a broken rib out of it,” Derek informed tauntingly.

“You’re one to talk,” she scoffed. “You throw yourself through doors even if they’re unlocked.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see who fairs better in the ring.”

Before Y/N could get another jab in her boyfriend spoke. “Seeing as we are one of the most hands on units the Section Leader wants us to compete with each other so he can get an idea of our capabilities and because we are the most evenly matched. Thank you,” he dismissed, promptly walking back into his office so he didn’t have to witness anymore bickering. As much as Aaron loved the team, especially Y/N, he didn’t enjoy their bickering for prolonged periods of time.

Later that night at home, Aaron and Y/N were discussing the upcoming PT tests. “Why does he want us to fight each other?” she asked, plating their dinners.

“He said that based on reports we end up in physical combat a little too often,” he answered, setting the table. “He said that if we struggle too much then he’ll make it mandatory for us to have SWAT more often and no one will be allowed to move in on an unsub without SWAT presence.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Y/N cried, carrying over the food. “Stupid bureaucrats thinking their ideas are god’s gift to the FBI without even being in the field within the past five years.”

Aaron chucked, taking his seat across from her. “Well an evaluation isn’t too bad of an idea considering…” his voice trailed off as both recalled the weeks Y/N spent lying in bed waiting for her rib to mend itself enough so she could walk.

Y/N blushed, always getting intensely embarrassed whenever anyone brought that up. “He was twice my size and snuck up on me. And then I still managed to pin him with a broken rib,” she pointed out.

“Yes you did,” Aaron agreed, admiring her scowl.

“So do you know who will be fighting who?”

“Yes, it’s a mix of someone you’re fairly evenly matched with and someone who’s very different. You and Prentiss will spar, as will JJ and Reid, then I’ll be against Morgan. As for the opposites I believe it will be Prentiss and Reid, JJ and Morgan, and then you and I?”

“You and I will spar?”

“Yes, don’t worry I won’t blindside you,” he chuckled.

“Oh I’m not worried about that,” she smirked coyly. “I’m a bit younger than you, a bit more spry if you will.”

“Well I don’t know that I can call you younger considering you just used the word ‘spry.’ Besides it’s not a competition.”

“Sure,” she hummed sarcastically.

That only egged on the normally cool Unit Chief. He put his utensils down, forgetting his meal before hardening his expression. The same look he gave the team when he needed them to stop behaving like children, causing Y/N to squirm. “I guarantee you I’ll have you pinned by the end of it. I’ve never had difficulty pinning you before.” Y/N choked on the sip of wine she was drinking at that comment. Before she could say anything her boyfriend was at her side with a napkin. “Be careful, Y/N,” he said slyly, bringing the napkin under her chin. She stared at him in disbelief at his ostentatiousness as he backed away, trailing the napkin across her skin with a smirk.

~

After a week of intense sexual tension it was sparring day. Everyone was stretching in the FBI wrestling room except for Spencer who looked like he’d pass out. “Don’t worry Spence, I’ll go easy on you tomorrow,” Emily smirked.

He looked dissatisfied but took it with a sarcastic “Thanks.”

JJ and Spencer were the first to get in the circle but as soon as the whistle blew and JJ started advancing at him he dropped to the ground. “I yield,” he pled, raising his hands.

“C’mon pretty boy, you gotta do better than that,” Derek called. But Reid was completely unwilling to fight if there was no real danger so JJ was declared the winner.

Next up were Y/N and Emily. “Be careful, Y/N. I’m kind of infamous for hand to hand combat,” Emily bragged.

“I was a marine for four years,” Y/N shrugged arrogantly.

“Whoo girl fight,” Derek jeered from the sidelines.

“Shut up, Derek,” both women called, not moving their gazes from each other.

Also from the sidelines Aaron was resisting the urge to tell Prentiss to go easy on Y/N. Not only would it infuriate Y/N, it would clue the team into their relationship. Hiding a relationship from profilers was difficult but so far Aaron felt that they had managed. As the whistle was blown, Aaron watched in mild horror, keeping his expression hardened, as his girlfriend fought another very highly trained FBI agent.

Derek and Reid came to their boss’ side. “My money’s on Prentiss, she’s stronger,” Derek bet.

Aaron stayed silent, worried he’d betray some sensitive information while being so focused on the fight. Fortunately for him, Reid chimed in with his analysis. “While Emily was a part of Interpol, a very specialized group of agents, Y/N’s younger and more agile. Her training in the marines, while not having as much focus on hand to hand combat, will help her and I’d argue makes her stronger than Emily considering the amount of carbo loading they do.”

Before Morgan could disagree Aaron watched as Y/N pinned Prentiss by literally sitting on her back and pulling Emily’s arm behind her back up in the air. When the whistle blew, declaring Y/N the winner she simply stood up, helped her teammate stand, and went to the bench for her water bottle without a word, not wanting to humiliate her teammate anymore.

Next it was Aaron and Derek stepping onto the mat. Y/N watched them with unwavering eyes, hoping her expression wasn’t too worried. Aaron was tough, he got into more than his fair share of scraps with unsubs and he was still strong and fit. But Derek was well… Derek. He practically lived at the gym when we weren’t on missions and had the most takedowns on the team, preferring to throw himself at the unsub rather than shoot.

Y/N forced herself to look away from the mat, turning her attention to JJ who was approaching. “This should be interesting,” she commented, observing the flurry of fists.

Y/N hummed in agreement, busying herself with the objects in her bag. “Yeah but Derek’s got him. Hotch is tough but Derek’s favorite pastime is taking down unsubs.” Looking up Y/N couldn’t help but cringe as Derek landed a punch on Aaron’s face but he took it like a champ, barely even flinching before pushing Derek back.

The match was long and bitter but it ended with Morgan pinning his boss to the mat. Both were exhausted with labored breaths as the whistle blew. The second it did, Derek moved off of Aaron, sitting at his side trying to catch his breath. Emily went over to Morgan, leaving Y/N the opportunity to go over to her boyfriend without making it too obvious.

“C’mon,” she said as casually as possible, helping him off the mat. Helping him over to the bench she brought him his water bottle, as did Emily for Morgan.

“We’ll continue onto the next portion tomorrow,” the ref informed us before taking his leave.

At Aaron’s house, Y/N was trying to treat his cuts and bruises as best she could. “Are you sure you’re up to sparring tomorrow?” she asked, placing an ice pack against his bruised jaw.

“I’m fine, just some superficial cuts and bruises,” he dismissed.

“Still that was pretty brutal, I could hardly watch.”

Aaron took the cold compress she had been using on him earlier, pressing it to her visibly bruised collarbone. “Was hard to watch you too,” he murmured, feeling a little embarrassed about being so sentimental and protective.

Y/N smiled softly, trying her best to hide it so her boyfriend wouldn’t get too embarrassed. “Let’s get you to bed,” she suggested, helping him up. “This is the longest we’ve gone without a case in a while. You should enjoy it.”

“By sleeping?”

“Yes, sleep is one of my favorite things.”

~

By the next morning Aaron’s face was mostly healed and it was time for the other sparring matches. First up: JJ and Morgan.

While JJ was far more agile and quicker than Derek, all it took was him getting a grip on her and she was pinned.

Next up were Reid and Prentiss. Spencer didn’t immediately collapse but after she swept his leg he never got back up.

And finally it was the two secret lovers. “Don’t worry, L/N, I won’t blindside you,” Aaron smirked just like he did when he first told her they’d be fighting. This was also the first instance of teasing the team had ever seen from their stoic boss.

“You couldn’t move fast enough,” Y/N sneered in return.

With the blow of the whistle both advanced, trying to gain the upper hand. As Aaron tried to grab Y/N she dropped down, kicking him in the legs. It wasn’t enough to knock him down though, only sending him stumbling a few steps. As Y/N was scrambling up, Aaron had already regained his footing. Approaching her again he grabbed her wrist giving him the opportunity to punch her in the face but he hesitated, not wanting to hit a woman much less the woman he loved. His hesitation gave her enough time to twist her arm from his grip. Taking the opportunity once again, she kicked at his legs, sending him sprawling on the ground. She then straddled his abdomen, smirking in victory. But Aaron wasn’t done yet, easily flipped her so now she laid on the mat with him straddling her hips. He watched in amusement as her eyes widened in shock and she tried to struggle free but it was no use seeing as Aaron was twice her size.

The whistle blew again bringing both back to the present. Keenly aware of the position they were in in front of the entire team, Aaron immediately scrambled up onto his feet. Reaching a friendly, professional hand down, he helped Y/N up. “Good match,” he said awkwardly before scurrying off to the bench where his water bottle sat.

Y/N took a second to catch her breath, trying to figure out what would be the least awkward and obvious next move. Fortunately for her, JJ was already bringing her her water bottle. “Thanks,” she wheezed.

“Yeah, how’re you feeling?” JJ sympathized, also just having taken a bit of a beating.

“Aside from having the wind knocked out of me? Fine. I’ll just need a few minutes,” Y/N coughed out.

On the other side of the gym Derek had the biggest grin on his face, very much enjoying teasing his boss. “That was quite the match. Interesting method of pinning L/N.”

Hotch was trying to quickly think of a way to dismiss Morgan without drawing too much attention to him and Y/N. So he just gave him the stern Unit Chief look that instantly shut everyone up. “That’s not appropriate,” was all he said before exiting towards the locker rooms, eager to be back in the safe authority of his suits.

On his way out it took most of his willpower not to think too much about the way he had his girlfriend pinned.

~

The sound of Aaron’s ringtone jolted the two FBI agents up. Aaron grabbed the phone from his nightstand, keeping an arm wrapped around Y/N as she pulled the sheets tighter, cuddling into his chest. She let out a soft groan at being woken up as Aaron answered it. “Hello?” he answered in his groggy morning voice. After a few seconds of muffled information from Garcia he spoke again. “Okay call the rest of the team. I’ll be right there.”

“Another case?” Y/N asked, not even thinking.

“Yeah, sounds like a serial killer in SoHo,” Aaron informed as he hung up. Realizing what just happened he cursed. “Shit.”

“What?” Y/N asked, still gaining her bearings.

“I hadn’t hung up yet.”

“Shit,” Y/N cursed as well. “Okay it’s fine, if anyone says anything you fell asleep on the couch with Jack.”

“Yeah, okay,” Aaron agreed beginning to get dressed in the dark.

Y/N’s phone then went off. “Hello?” she answered, already knowing who would be on the other line.

“Good news, we’re going to New York City, bad news there’s a serial killer,” Penelope announced.

“Okay, I’ll-”

“Ow!” Aaron deep yell and a crash cut Y/N off.

“Was that Hotch?” Penelope gasped in shock.

“No!” Y/N answered too quickly. “Uh no,” she tried to answer more nonchalantly, “it was a guy but definitely not Hotch.” She cringed at her words.

“Ooh details,” Garcia begged.

“Another time,” she promised. “I have to get dressed. See you in 15.” And with that she hung up. She groaned, throwing herself back onto the pillows. “They’re definitely going to figure it out. I don’t have my car and I live on the other side of town we won’t make it.”

“We’ll walk in a few minutes separated. We still have plausible deniability,” Aaron tried to soothe Y/N. “It’ll be fine.”

“You’re surprisingly calm about this,” she observed, getting up to find her clothes.

“Would it be such a bad thing if they found out?” he asked shyly.

“No,” she answered, “not the team. I worry about the Section Chief and others.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it if I have to,” Aaron promised, wrapping his girlfriend in his arms before pressing a kiss to her temple.

Once they pulled into one of the far parking lots, the couple scoped out the other cars as best they could from their seats. “I think we’re good,” Y/N informed. “Follow me in like 3 minutes later?”

Aaron nodded as Y/N opened her door but the second she opened the door, Derek’s car pulled up with Garcia in the passenger seat. “I knew that was Hotch’s voice!” she yelled.

The couple groaned. “Not a word to anyone outside the team, got it?” Y/N immediately demanded.

“Of course, of course,” Derek promised.

“When did you know?” Aaron asked.

“We all had our suspicions but we knew during your sparring match. You were way too comfortable sitting on top of each other. And then my lovely Ms. Garcia’s phone calls confirmed you spent the night together,” Derek smirked.

Meanwhile Garcia was already group calling Emily, Spencer, JJ, and Rossi. “Hotch and L/N confirmed,” she squealed.

Masterlist

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Lunar Distance

It's distant, but it's her. That humming.

This one doesn't know why she always hums. It's a song from a movie she's shown this one, about a mother that turns children into dolls. It's considered a few reasons why. Maybe she's trying to call this one a child?

It's getting louder, closer. She's approaching the sun room. She's not trying to cause a reaction, she knows this one is in here, she must. She's tried that once before, getting its attention by surprise. She saw that this one couldn't be trusted to handle even a situation so simple as a greeting.

There's a resigned thankfulness in the one that it doesn't need to fear the surprise. To be reminded. But that just makes it wonder why a witch, the ultimate realization of arcane might, would bother. For all this one knows, she shadows it silently, only humming when she needs herself known. What could her motive be?

She's here.

It shouldn't wait for her to make herself known, good dolls are much more proactive. It sets its duster aside, careful not to bend the wires or fray the feathers, as it does a curtsy towards its Miss. "How may this one be useful to you, Miss?"

She doesn't seem surprised. This one has met expectations. "You've been doing a wonderful job around the manor, Luna." She speaks with the cadence of a mother to child. She wants to make especially sure this one understands every word, despite its evident lack of capability. "Would you like to join me for some tea? It's been a while since your last break."

This one freezes. It looks to the duster, then back to its witch.

This one can't accept. It can't rest, not now. She couldn't accept that. She must be testing this one's commitment, its performance and its dutiful nature. Of course, as it was only recently obtained, she must be evaluating it.

"This one is very complemented that you would offer, Miss. It would be an honour for a doll such as this one to spend time with you." As it bows, it hopes that the witch doesn't notice its grip tightening on its dress, a self-soothing weakness. Its words are practised and polite, but choppy and hesitant, despite its best efforts.

Please, please don't be mad.

"But this one would like to decline. It would be..." No, no, bad doll, focus on its words and don't stumble like that again. It's talking to a witch. "Um, this one would find it unbecoming to accept such a thing when it has not finished its work. This one has only just begun to-"

"Luna?" up like prey, staring down the barrel of a gun. What is that expression? It's a smile, but is it pitying? Malicious? Entertained by this one's failure? "Yes Miss." It took too long to answer.

The witch gave a light sigh. Why? Why? "Good dolls need their tea. I am telling you to take a break."

Oh. It failed again. This wasn't a test, and it simply chose to disobey a direct order.

"Yes Miss, of course Miss, this one is very sorry Miss." It curtsies again, speaking quickly. "Good dolls need to maintain optimal performance for their witch. This one is deeply sorry for neglecting its duties."

The witch has another look. The same look. She has to be planning something after that stunt. "You don't need to apologize that much. I just want to make sure you're taken care of."

"Yes Miss, thank you Miss." This one curtsies again. Is it doing enough to show its gratitude? It can't step out of line. Perhaps it's too much, and this one is annoying her.

"Come with me, I'll make the tea this time." The witch turns away, hesitating long enough to beckon the doll along. No, no, how dare this one even let her suggest that. It's the doll, it has to do the work, but it can't defy a witch, not again.

It hurries along, marching to match its witch's mellow pace. "Is... that a command, Miss? A good doll need to provide service to its witch, and this one needs to be a good doll." It speaks tersely.

"Yes, it is a command. Please, rest and reward yourself after a job well done."

It failed again. If it was a good doll, it would've been obedient on its own, without needing to burden her with the clarification. Surely now it's crossed a line.

Luna bows its head as much as it can while keeping pace. "Yes Miss, this doll is very thankful Miss."

. . . . .

Eyes forward, knees together, legs angled, ankles crossed, shoulders flat, back straight, hands on lap, polite smile.

The witch gently pours this one the first cup. Bad doll. Greedy, negligent of its duties, disrespectful of its witch's presence. "You can relax if you'd like to. I give you permission."

"Yes Miss, thank you Miss." it says reflexively. That could mean anything. This one can't, it shouldn't, good dolls are obedient and presentable and demure and docile and pretty. It wasn't before, but surely this one had to be a test. It's being tempted, to see if it would dare to step out of line. "This one is perfectly comfortable as it is, Miss."

She sighed again. It failed again. Again and again and again.

The witch leans forward, resting her hands together on the table. She's so tall, so confident, so much. She could kill this one in a thousand ways.

She's preparing for something. She has to be. Surely this is the moment where the anticipation breaks and this one is finally punished. She has yet to do anything punitive, so it has no idea what to expect. Perhaps it will be something as simple as being placed in the corner, forbidden from stillness, trapped in a painful awareness. That was a common punishment for new recruits, and perhaps Miss will look past its experience and treat-

"I'm worried about you, Luna."

It. Is a little caught off guard.

"I can't tell what you're thinking, but you always seem so... tense. You're never proud of yourself, you don't drink nearly enough tea, and you always look so scared whenever you see me."

This one made its witch worry. Another failure.

"I know it's a lot to ask you to trust me, especially after everything that happened with... your other witch." This one knows that look. That has to be pity. "So... all I can do is promise that I want nothing but the best for you. You deserve to be the happiest doll in the world, and I want to do whatever I can for you."

"This one trusts you, Miss." Clear, direct, serious. It doesn't waste time, but it remains respectful, as a witch deserves.

The witch seems... forlorn? Disappointed? She must be disappointed.

"...I believe you, Luna." Disappointment, clearly. She can't even bare to look at this one. After all the sadness and disappointment it's forced upon her, so much is to be expected. "Please, drink your tea. I don't want it to get cold."

"Yes Miss, thank you Miss, this one is very grateful Miss." This one takes only a second to look around for a napkin, in order to adhere to proper curtsy. Seeing that none are provided, it concludes that dolls are simply not expected to spill their tea, just as every other time with Miss. It grabs the teacup handle between its fingers as it brings the saucer up to chest height, lifting it and taking a gentle yet thankful sip. It uses its little finger, not outstretched uselessly, but instead to cushion the impact of the teacup with the saucer so it doesn't make such a bothersome noise. As perfect as it can manage.

...why does she still look so upset? This one did everything right that time, right? It spoke just as it is supposed to speak, acted just as it was supposed to act, and it still wasn't enough.

Is this one really that broken?

[chi-chistuff]

Chapter 1

Tides of Honor and Thunder

Kamisato Ayato x F!Reader

warnings in this chapter: none

wc: tba!

Summary: In an effort to strengthen diplomatic ties between Fontaine and Inazuma, a political marriage is arranged between Ayato Kamisato, the disciplined and highborn head of the Kamisato Clan, and Y/N, the sharp and proud daughter of a prestigious family from Fontaine.

The summer rain came suddenly in Inazuma—an elegant downpour cascading over the tiled roofs of the Kamisato Estate. Thunder rolled in the distance, quiet but constant, like a warning drum in the clouds.

Ayato Kamisato stood near the wide veranda, his posture perfect as always. The tea in his porcelain cup remained untouched, its warmth irrelevant. His silver-blue eyes were fixed on the gate below, watching as a foreign carriage pulled through the estate entrance. Fontaine’s sigil—sleek and elaborate—was emblazoned on its side.

“She’s here,” he muttered.

“She’s not a threat, Ayato,” Ayaka said beside him gently. “You’re both still young. There’s time to—”

“I don’t need time,” he interrupted. “I need her to understand her place.”

His sister frowned, but said nothing. He rarely spoke with such ice unless something had truly unsettled him. And in truth, the thought of being betrothed to someone he’d never met—someone from another nation—made Ayato bristle. Especially someone from Fontaine, the land of law and spectacle. It felt like a performance, not a union.

Below, the carriage door opened with a soft creak.

And out stepped You.

Wearing cloak of dark teal, the fabric trimmed in golden embroidery. Your eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the estate like a tactician evaluating a battlefield. Even soaked by rain, You walked with elegance—not Inazuman grace, but Fontaine’s poised pride. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.

Ayato narrowed his eyes.

When they were finally introduced in the main hall, offered a stiff curtsy, the bare minimum of respect.

“A pleasure,” You spoke dryly. “Lord Ayato, is it? You’re... shorter than I expected.”

Ayato arched an eyebrow. “And you’re louder than I’d hoped.”

The silence that followed was thick and awkward. From the side, Ayaka coughed into the sleeve of her kimono to stifle a laugh. You tilted your head. “I was told I’d be welcomed. This feels more like an interrogation.”

“You’re not on trial,” Ayato said coolly, “though perhaps someone from Fontaine finds comfort in that setting.”

Your smile was sweet—and utterly false. “If I wanted comfort, I wouldn’t have come to Inazuma.”

So she doesn’t want to be here either, he realized, and somehow, that annoyed him more.

Over the next few days, the estate buzzed with preparations: dinners, official visits, formal photographs. All efforts to present the betrothal as harmonious, a strong alliance between two nations. But behind the closed doors of the Kamisato residence, the two future spouses did everything but get along.

“You read too many reports and not enough books,” You said one morning, passing by his study. “Your conversation is dry as old rice.”

Ayato didn’t look up from his scrolls. “If you’re seeking entertainment, perhaps Fontaine’s theater troupes would be a better match than political unions.”

That night, You 'accidentally' insulted Inazuman poetry during a tea ceremony.

The next morning, Ayato ‘forgot’ to warn you that your ceremonial shoes weren’t suited for the garden’s slippery stones.

You slipped. He didn’t laugh—but only barely and yet, in moments when they weren’t actively trying to outwit or one-up each other, they would sometimes notice things.

Ayato noticed how you always placed your teacup with gentle precision, your manners drilled but not empty. He noticed how your eyes lingered on the sea when the clan passed the harbor, like you eyes are searching for something.

You noticed how Ayato spoke to servants—not curtly, but with firm respect. You saw the way he paused before answering, always weighing his words like a man who’d been held to standards since childhood.

One evening, just as twilight soaked the garden in purple hues, they crossed paths by accident. You stood at the koi pond, arms crossed, watching the fish swim aimlessly.

Ayato paused behind you. “Trouble finding your way?”

“No,” you said without turning. “Just needed somewhere that wasn’t... pretending.”

He stood beside you now. “We’re both pretending.”

Silence stretched between them.

“…What do you want out of this?” you finally asked.

Ayato didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed a golden koi, flickering beneath the water’s surface. “I want to keep Inazuma strong. That’s what my clan demands. What I want for myself… doesn’t matter.”

Your expression softened slightly. “And if I told you I wanted something real?”

He looked at you then. For the first time, without walls.

“I’d say you’re in the wrong story.”

You held his gaze. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just in the wrong chapter.”

Three days had passed since the koi pond.

Three long, quiet, tense days.

Neither Ayato nor you spoke of the exchange they shared beneath the twilight sky. You returned to your routines as if it had never happened. But the silence between you two wasn’t the same as before. It was no longer sharp-edged and venomous. It was... aware. Cautious.

You sat alone in the Kamisato courtyard one morning, sketching in a book you had brought from Fontaine. You pencil moved in soft, sweeping lines—shapes that vaguely resembled the koi pond, the garden, and a silhouette of someone that could only be Ayato, if one squinted.

"You draw?" came a voice behind you.

You jumped slightly, slamming the book closed before looking up.

Ayato stood a few feet away, arms crossed but face unreadable.

"And you sneak up on people now?" You snapped.

"I spoke. You were too distracted," he replied smoothly. "Didn’t think someone from Fontaine would lose awareness of her surroundings."

You rolled her eyes. "Didn’t think someone from Inazuma would care about my hobbies."

He hesitated—then sat down on the edge of the low stone wall across from You.

“I was told we’re to attend sword training together this afternoon,” he said at last.

“Wonderful,” You deadpanned. “You planning to disarm me emotionally or physically this time?”

He smirked. “I’ll let you choose.”

The training grounds were slick with morning dew, and the scent of damp grass mingled with polished steel.

Their instructor, a stern but fair swordswoman named Katsura, watched them from a distance, arms folded. “Begin.”

Wooden practice blades clashed.

Ayato was swift and precise—every move measured, his footwork honed from years of disciplined training.

You were unpredictable—your movements fluid, almost dancer-like, but with flashes of recklessness that threw Ayato off more than once.

They circled. Struck. Parried. Again and again.

"You’re holding back," You said between breaths.

"So are you." He replied

You lunged, and your blades locked.

Their faces were close—too close.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You whispered.

“Good,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I’d hate to be easy to read.” With a sharp pivot, he twisted and sent you stumbling—but you caught yourself before falling.

You laughed, breathless. “You almost smiled just now.”

He blinked. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did, Lord Ayato. How scandalous.”

He opened his mouth to retort—but then their instructor clapped her hands.

“Enough,” She called. “You’re both too emotional. Refocus or leave the field.”

You huffed, pushing damp strands from your face. “Guess that’s our cue.”

Both of you walked back toward the estate side by side, silent again—but this time it felt different. Like they had shared something neither could name.

Later that evening, You wandered into the estate library.

You weren't surprised to find Ayato already there, surrounded by scrolls and ink.

“You live in this place, don’t you?” you muttered, half-teasing.

He didn’t look up. “And you loiter like a bored noble’s daughter with too much time.”

“Touché,” you said, smirking.

You picked a book from the shelf—'History of Regional Trade Between Fontaine and Inazuma'— you pretended to read. In truth, your eyes kept drifting toward him. Toward the way his brow furrowed in concentration, or how he tapped the inkstone twice before writing.

He finally spoke.

“You asked me before what I wanted from this.” He set his brush down. “I still don’t know. But I think I’m beginning to care what you want.”

You closed the book slowly.

“What I want,” you said quietly, “is not to regret the life they chose for me.”

A beat passed.

“I’ll try,” Ayato said.

You looked at him, genuinely surprised. “To do what?”

“To make sure you don’t.”

Chapter one is finally finished huhu. Re-blogs are appreciated! Please, do not post on other applications without the authors consent. Tumblr layouts are from @sweetnusshoyo

[brynnewithane]

Kaiju No. 8 Light Novel: Closely Observed! Unit 3 [Translate]

This is an UNOFFICIAL TRANSLATION of the Light Novel Kaiju No. 8. The translation and proofreading were done by me. Since my bias is Hoshina, I only plan to translate his story.

Hoshina's chapter is split into six parts. The following post includes my translation of parts 1 and 2.

***The translation that follows is not translated from the original Japanese, but rather from Vietnamese to English. Since this is my first attempt translating literature and English is not my first language, if there are any parts that seem unnatural or out-of-place please feel free to point them out. I’m open for feedback!👾 ***There are some segments that I've referenced from the translation of Kaiju No. 8: B-Side posted on the Mangaplus website. ***Word count: 2725

Chapter 3: Vice-captain Soshiro Hoshina

[PART 1/6]

“Phew, alright…”

With a soft thud, Hoshina set the stack of papers down on the table and took a deep breath. In his hand was the report on Kikoru’s match from the day before. He was evaluating it, through the lens of a vice-captain.

“Who would’ve thought it’d take this long, huh.”

Finishing off the last sip of his now-cold coffee, Hoshina made his way out of the room. Although work hours were over, he still had other plans await. As he strode down the corridor, he spotted the Metro TV crew heading towards him.

“Director! How’s the filming coming along?

The director nodded in return, “It went pretty well, everyone has been very cooperative after all. Mr. Hoshina, would you mind if we get a few words from you?”

“Me? But I’ve already been around the block though.”

“Ha ha ha. No, I just wanted to ask about the rookies. All of the officers this year are really something. The performance that Officer Shinomiya did yesterday was truly remarkable.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause the West Tokyo entry exam was way tougher this year, probably the hardest we’ve ever had. Plus, there were way more standout talents than usual this time around."

“I see. But now I’m more curious.”

“Curious ‘bout what?”

“It’s about Officer Kafka Hibino. Compared to the others, his basic physical strength seems pretty lacking. Would you mind telling us why he’s accepted to the Defense Force?”

The director couldn't help but wonder; it was no surprise at all. For days Kafka had shown no significant improvement to the crew. Whether it was marksmanship or obstacle courses, he consistently ranked last.

“Of course, we don’t just recruit folks based on combat abilities, y’know? We take a lot of other factors into account too. One of the reasons we accepted Kafka Hibino is…

“Is…?”

“Comic relief!” Hoshina smirked.

“C, comic relief, sir?” Hearing such a response, the director’s eyes widened.

“Novelty, y’know? He’s entertaining does he not? The impulsiveness and silliness and all. I’ve never seen anyone with an unleashed combat power of 0% before, and despite being physically weak, he’s bursting with energy. Not to mention he’s completely oblivious to his true potential, so he kept ended up running around like a headless chicken on the field.”

“T, That’s quite the harsh evaluation…”

“But I don’t dislike dummies like him.”

“And why is that?”

“Back in the day…” Hoshina scratched his cheek. "I met someone who was just like that. This idiot was constantly told to give up on bein’ a member of the Defense Force, yet he just kept throwin’ himself into it, no matter what.”

“So there really was a recruit like that? What’s that officer doing now?”

“Beats me. He’s likely assigned to some other unit.” Hoshina flashed a brief smile as he started to walk off. “Oh right, I’m about to hold a private training session at the dojo. The rookies will be there too, you could drop by if you’re interested.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“Yaaaah!”

The soldiers’ exhort resonated throughout the wooden dojo. Apart from the outdoor training area, the Defense Force base also featured an indoor training room. Many officers would come here to train after dinner.

“My, my... It’s so crowded even during break time.” The director mumbled in admiration.

“This year’s rookies are really proactive.”

Hoshina was scanning around the dojo when he saw two individuals, both wearing armour(1), fighting intensely near the entrance. One of them caught an opening and leaped forward, swinging his bamboo sword(2) and striking his opponent. The victor removed his mask, revealing none other than Haruichi Izumo.

“Not bad Reno. Have you done kendo before?”

“I picked up a bit during middle school… But I couldn’t see that last strike of yours coming at all.” Reno, Haruichi’s opponent, also lifted off his mask and let out a sigh.

“Nah, you almost had me there too, man.” Haruichi smiled gently.

Nearby, a match took place between two individuals with distinctly different builds. One was a kendo expert senior, yet he was outmatched by his bulkier opponent who launched many heavy knocks from overhead.

“Woah that officer is really impressive. Is he a rookie too?”

“Maybe it’s hard for you to tell with a mask on like that, but it’s ‘she,’ not ‘he’, and yes she’s a rookie, her name is Hakua Igarashi.” Hoshina shook his head and replied to the director.

“Igarashi… Oh, is she the younger sister of Officer Jura from the Second Division?”

Igarashi Hakua is a promising rookie and Kikoru’s close friend.

As Hoshina looked around, a male officer approached. This young man had a muscular physique, piercing eyes, and tanned skin. He’s Aoi Kaguragi, a former member of Japan Ground Self-Defense Force.

“Vice-captain Hoshina, would you mind having a sparring match with me?”

“Sure thing, let’s have a match.”

Once clad in his armour, Hoshina got into a ready stance, facing Aoi. As the referee signalled to start the match, a palpable tension filled the air. Others instinctively paused, as their attention was drawn to the two of them as well.

The fight began with two swords sharply clashing. Attacking first was Aoi.

“Ha-yaaa!” Aoi shouted as he charged forward, instantly closing the gap. He moved with a speed that left amateurs struggling to keep pace.

Hoshina skillfully parried with his bamboo sword and countered back. Aoi’s attack was neutralised. The two returned to a standoff, maintaining their distance once again.

Hoshina took the initiative this time. In response, Aoi swung his sword, attempting to strike first. Seizing the opportunity, Hoshina deftly flicked Aoi's sword upward, breaching his defence. A loud “thud” rang out as Hoshina landed a perfect hit onto Aoi’s mask.

“Men strike! (3)” (Face hit)

The referee’s voice rang out. The two exchanged bows at each other as the match ended. Once their mask was removed, Aoi’s face was glistening with sweat, in stark contrast to Hoshina, who remained calm and composed.

“Thank you, sir… I will strive to improve even more.” Aoi said, earnestly bowing his head.

“Nah, you did great! You’ve got some serious talent, y’know.” Hoshina complimented. Aoi was a rising star in the Ground Self-Defense Force, with relatively good kendo skills; he could even be ranked among the top in the Third Division.

(The rookies this year sure are outstanding.)

Applause sprang out as people enjoyed the duel between two formidable figures. Meanwhile, at the dojo entrance, an entirely different kind of match was unfolding.

“Heeeyaaah!!”

A man stumbled forward, ferociously swinging his bamboo sword. His wide, sweeping motions were all over the place, making it easy for his opponent to dodge, counter, and raise his sword high before slamming it down with force.

“Gack!!??”

The hit landed with such power that the mask seemed as though it was about to shatter. The man dropped to one knee on the floor.

“Sure-kill attack: Iharu Blade! How’d you like the power of my strike, old man!?”

“W, why you! Take it easy on me, won’t ya!?” Kafka stood up, removing his mask.

“That was me going easy. Seriously, why are you so ‘green,’ old man?” Iharu tilted his head.

“Well duh, I’ve never practised kendo once in my entire life. So, everyone else has, even Ichikawa huh… I guess all the Defense Force recruits are pros at this stuff…”

“Since you have zero experience in kendo, I assume you chose judo instead, yes?” Reno approached, striking up a conversation with Kafka.

“Hm? Nope, I don’t know judo either.”

“Huh? You weren’t required to take any martial arts class?”

“What martial arts?”

“Didn’t they require you to take either judo or kendo in middle school?”

“What’re you talking about?”

As the conversation drifted off course, Hoshina tucked his mask under his arm and walked toward them.

“Martial arts were made mandatory after the curriculum reform, which is why y’see nearly all of our rookies this year have some sort of experience—except you, Kafka.

“What, is that how it is!? Grk, even this has a generation gap!” Kafka stood up abruptly, clenching his fists. “Damn it, that means I need to train way harder. Vice-captain Hoshina, could you please instruct me as well? Let’s have a match!”

“Vice-captain, could I request the same for myself?”

“Hey Reno! Tryin’ to one-up me, aren’t ya!? Count me in too, sir!”

“Iharu, that wasn’t my intention.”

Seeing the rookies got all excited, Hoshina nodded, “Alright then. I’ll take y’all on—line up!”

A sharp "Thwack!" echoed through the air.

“Gack!”

A sharp "Thwack!" echoed through the air.

“Gurk!”

A sharp "Thwack!" echoed through the air.

“Agh!”

“All righty practice over. Y’all need to work on your basic skills.”

Upon the dojo floor, three members of Kafka lay scattered, their skill levels markedly inferior to Hoshina’s. After a lengthy observation of the scene, the director made his way toward them.

“Impressive! It’s clear that no one can even come close to your skill with the blade, sir. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone hailing from one of the most renowned kaiju-slaying families in Kansai. Speaking of which, when you first enlisted, you weren’t here, were you? You were in Kansai, right sir?”

“Yeah, I got promoted by Captain Ashiro and transferred here.”

“I see! You must have been making a name for yourself since your early days then.”

“... That’s not the case at all.” Hoshina chuckled, looking a bit flustered.

This hesitancy of his somewhat confused the director.

“Vice-captain Hoshina.”

Hoshina shifted his attention when he heard a voice ring behind him. Kikoru stood there in her armour, her stern gaze peering through the mask.

“May I spar with you next, sir?”

“... ‘course.”

Raising her sword, Kikoru formed a ready stance. Judging by her form, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that her kendo technique was exceptionally polished. One could confidently assert that her skill was on par with Aoi’s.

(She's skilled in both firearms and swordplay. Truly astounding—a complete contrast from me.)

As Hoshina gazed at the rookies before him, memories of his own early days came flooding back—days before he joined the Third Division.

❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅

*NOTE:

(1) Here, they are wearing a type of protective gear specifically used in kendo known as bōgu (防具) or kendōgu (剣道具). Since I saw most Western websites tend to use the terms “bogu” or “kendo armour,” I decided to simply use the word “armour” here for a smoother reading.

(2) Similar to that, I’ve chosen to use the “bamboo sword” here to make it easier to understand even though the proper term for it is shinai (竹刀).

(3) Men strike (面打ち) in Kendo is one of the most fundamental and commonly used attacks aimed at the opponent’s head. Other primary strikes include kote (wrist), dō (torso), and tsuki (throat thrust).

❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅••❅───✧❅

[PART 2/6]

Hoshina was usually stationed in Kansai. However, on that day, he travelled to Tokyo for a meeting about a friendly kendo match with the Third Division, which was set to occur in a month. The kendo instructor of the Third Division was someone his father greatly respected, and a figure Hoshina had known since childhood.

“Sir, I’m glad to see you’re still doing well.”

“Not at all! I’m not as sharp as I used to be nowadays. I’ve been planning on stepping down as an instructor soon. So what do you say, Soshiro? Do you want to come and carry on my work?”

“Ha ha ha, I’ll consider it, sir.” Hoshina chuckled, quickly changing the subject.

Hoshina had received countless recommendations to become an instructor. Everyone in the Defense Force recognised his exceptional swordsmanship, yet they all believed it wasn’t suitable for practical combat. His father, superiors—everyone urged him to take on the role of a kendo instructor, suggesting he withdraw from the battlefield. Despite this, he still longed to remain on the front lines.

(I’m well aware… that my desires are selfish and stubborn.)

The meeting ended, and just as Hoshina was about to leave, he received a call from the general affairs office, informing him that the captain of the Third Division wanted to see him in the office.

(The captain? Wants to meet me?)

Even though Hoshina was completely perplexed, he had no choice but to go. Anxiously, he knocked on the captain’s office door.

“Come in,” a calm female voice replied.

As he opened the door and stepped inside, Hoshina was greeted by the sight of a young woman seated at the desk. It was Mina Ashiro, who had become the captain of the Third Division at a remarkably young age. The two were not far apart in age. He had seen her before, during the joint training sessions, but this was their first opportunity to talk directly.

“I apologize for interrupting you during your busy schedule. Soshiro Hoshina, at your service, ma’am.” Hoshina straightened his back and saluted to the captain.

“Third Division Captain, Mina Ashiro. I appreciate you stopping by.”

“Happy to do it, I have time to spare after all. I was planning to take a look around Tokyo for a bit before returning to base. Now then, what was it that you need me for, Captain?”

Ashiro turned her back, her gaze drifting toward the sombre sky beyond the window. 

“I’ve seen you in joint training before. Even from a distance, I can tell that your swordsmanship is exceptional.”

“Oh, thank you captain…”

(Why is she bringing that up all of a sudden?)

Hoshina couldn’t help but feel sceptical.

“Soshiro Hoshina, I heard that you’re a sword specialist.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

Hoshina could already sense what Ashiro was about to say. He let out a small sigh.

(Here it comes. She’s definitely going to tell me to give it up…)

The Third Division was in dire need of a new sword instructor during this time. It seemed that Ashiro would soon suggest that he leave the front lines and take on that role.

“I need your abilities. Will you join my force, Hoshina?” Ashiro said as she gently turned back to face him.

The gloomy sky gradually dispersed, and shafts of sunlight entered the room. Her gleaming eyes gazed directly into Hoshina’s.

“Huh…?” Caught off guard by the unexpected proposal, Hoshina felt as though his mind had gone blank.

“We cannot overlook the possibility that more powerful miniatured-size kaiju might emerge in the future. Also, unlike you, I’m awful with bladed weaponry. I wouldn’t even want to pick up a kitchen knife.”

(Okay but isn’t kitchen knives are a complete different matter…)

“When I pierce through the enemies, will you clear a path for me?”

“...”

No one had ever spoken to Hoshina like that, not even his father. He felt his heart racing intensely, unable to suppress the thought that, just by serving under her, maybe…  

(No, stop…)

Hoshina took a breath and exhaled slowly. He quickly regained his composure, and his heartbeat returned to a steady rhythm.  

(Don’t take it seriously; it’s just lip service. If I accept the offer, I’ll only become a laughingstock.) 

Since they were being courteous, one ought to return their gesture. That’s just how things should be done.

“I am truly honoured, but…”

Right after that, the shrill wail of the alarm echoed through the hallway.

“Excuse me, captain!” The door swung open as a bald officer rushed in. “We’ve received reports of a kaiju attack in Oume City. Miniature class, but there are large numbers of them, and over a dozen civilians were reported dead. About the details...”

Listening to the report, Ashiro nodded. “Understood. Ebina, rally the entire team, including those off-duty.”

“Roger!” Ebina responded promptly to the order. “Man, we’re still in the middle of restructuring the division and issues just kept cropping up.”

“We’re againsting the kaiju, they wouldn’t care less about our situation.”

Ashiro picked up the phone from the table and quickly issued orders. However, as she had just recently been promoted to captain, the chain of command was still in disarray. If they were to engage Kaiju, her unit would probably face a severe troop shortage. That was why she could stolidly make such a proposal.

“Captain Ashiro, I could head to the site as well if you will.”

“Wha!? You’re the guy who’s here for a business trip, right? You’re from a different division is it not?” Ebina frowned.

“I carried my suit and weapons. I can at least help with disposing of the yoju.”

“Yeah, but even so…”

Ashiro cut Ebina off. “Hoshina, as the captain of the Third Division, I’m asking for your aid. I’ll make sure to run it by your division as well.”

“Captain, are you sure about this!?” Ebina raised his voice. “Based on the kaiju’s estimated fortitude, this operation is going to be extremely dangerous.”

“He’s a close-combat specialist; he can definitely be able to help us a great deal. Isn’t that right, Hoshina?”

"Right." Hoshina nodded. "I'm the best there is when it comes to neutralising miniature kaiju."

────────────────────────────────────────────────

[sawamiyukiss]

2. Reputation Management: Soft Launch

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader. Fake Dating. Read Part One. Part Three.

Summary: You said yes to the PR relationship stunt. You expected the detailed contract, but no one warned you about the thirst traps that would fill your FYP or the heart fluttering first (fake) date that followed. Fluff. Angst. Smut. More to come! (No smut in this chapter) Part 2/8.

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

It had been two days since you last spoke with your manager. Your recent conversation about the PR relationship remained a constant at the back of your mind as you finished up your training for the day.

Brr. You get a text from one of your teammates.

Maki: Look at this 

You click the link. It’s a post-match clip interview of Ushijima. He’s wearing his team's uniform, a small towel on his neck. You can't help but to notice his wide shoulders and the way the white uniform top molds to his muscles. 

The interviewer asks him about the viral clip and if he’s seen the fan edits of their ship.

“I do not know what you mean by ship. But yes, I have met Y/N. She is a dedicated and strong athlete. I respect her work ethic and I look forward to seeing more of her.” Ushijima cuts straight to the point with a deep reply to the interviewer's invasive questioning.

His intense gaze at the camera and the way your name rolls off his tongue sends shivers to you. You watch the video three more times. His sincere answer about your work ethic catches you off guard. It made you feel a certain way.

It takes you a second, but you make up your mind.

You open the chat with your manager.

You: I’ll sign the contract

Her reply is instant and the contract is finalized that afternoon. You’re scheduled to meet with Ushijima and his team the next day.

That night, lying in bed with your phone dimmed to night mode, you find yourself doom scrolling through the ship tag on TikTok. #youshijima

The fans have managed to clip interactions and coincidences you had never noticed. Even worse, the captions and comments read “the power couple we didn't know we needed ” “literally why does this work so well? They’re both so hot I can’t even be mad”

You roll your eyes at the comments and continue scrolling.

Suddenly, it’s not about you two. 

The edits change and your For You Page is full of edits about him.

The videos get more and more creative as you scroll.

Videos of him from his matches, spiking a ball with brutal force and sweat gleaming on his neck. Ushijima lifting the hem of his Schweiden Adlers jersey to wipe his face, revealing solid abs.

You shift in your bed.

Then another, in slow motion, of him walking off the court with a clenched jaw, messy hair, and an intense gaze.

You pause on this frame, finger hovering over the screen just staring at the way his muscles flex and the visible veins of his arms.

Okay. Yeah. You get it now too.

You watch the frame linger for a moment longer before opening the comment section.

The comments are even more creative than the edits.  

“GET A LOAD OF THIS GUY? Your honor i’m trying "

“he’s so unintentionally hot it’s illegal.”

“my jaw dropped.. In preparation”

Ding. An email from your company disrupts your scrolling. You don’t know if to be relieved or annoyed.

Subject line: PR Relationship – Updated Guidelines & Timeline Fake date #1: Public café. Must be photographed. Social media launch: Soft launch (hand-holding, shared post). Official post: Coordinated captions + photo approval by PR team. Live Q&A: DATE TBD prior to filming for  Nation Sports Relay Performance reviews and Monthly evaluations DATE TBD

You sigh, leaning your head back against the bed frame. You decide this is the sign you needed to turn your phone off for the night. 

The night is short for you, too short. You barely get enough sleep. Before you know it, you’re sat in a chair with a makeup artist and a hair stylist. You’re quietly lost in thought as they do their job, trying to focus on the itinerary for the day.

But your thoughts keep circling back to him. His strong gaze, the way he spoke about you in his most recent interview, and his voice when he said your name.

And, of course, the stupid stupid TikTok thirst traps from the night before. You can’t deny the fluttering in your chest when you think about him.

Your nerves calm as they help you into your outfit. A blush, pink sweatshirt and a pleated white tennis-style skirt that hits just above your mid-thigh. The look is casual enough but perfectly calculated for your image. You can't help but stare at yourself in the mirror before leaving.

The café is busy when you arrive. Not entirely packed, but lively enough for a public first date.

You end up spotting him right away. He’s sat at a counter table facing one of the big windows that leads onto the busy street. His posture is perfectly straight and he’s wearing a black denim jacket over a simple white tee with his sleeves rolled up. 

You feel your heart thud in your chest as you approach him. He noticed you immediately. You lock gaze and it feels like the rush of the cafe slows down. 

“Hello,” he stands to greet you. “You look nice.”

Nothing flirtatious, but your heart beats a little faster at the way he pulls your chair out for you and hands you an iced americano.

Your favorite drink. Guess he did his research.

“Thanks,” you reply, sliding into the seat across from him. “You clean up nice too.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just a little, enough for you to notice.

The first few minutes are full of small talk. You ask if he’s been to this café before (no), if he likes coffee (yes), and if he’s ever done anything like this before (definitely not).

Every one of his replies is short and straight to the point.  You sip your drink and sigh softly, more to yourself than to him.

“This is soo weird,” you confess. 

Ushijima straightens up even more in his seat, if possible. “What is?”

You can't even look at him, your gaze is fixed on your drink. You fumble with the sticker on your cup. “All of it. The video that went viral, the email from last night, and the eyes that are definitely on us right now. God, even the fact that I had to be styled to look sweet and approachable.” 

He pauses for a moment, processing your words. “You seem approachable.” 

His reply is simple, but it frazzles you enough that you look away from your drink. 

You’re at a loss for words. “Huh?”

“It is a compliment.”

You let out a soft laugh . “Thanks? I think.” 

It’s your first genuine laugh of the day. 

He’s staring at you now. Like he's memorizing the curve of your mouth mid laugh or the way your eyes catch the light when you tilt your head. There’s something so painfully sincere about the way he looks at you. His gaze is intense but not overwhelming.

You feel a blush coming and force yourself to look away from him, glancing out the window. You notice two people with cameras standing across the street just as a bright flash hits your vision.

Then another. And another.

Ushijima turns his head to follow your gaze, then shifts his chair just enough to angle himself between you and the glass. He seems to read your body language well enough to notice your discomfort at the cameras.

Your breath catches in your throat.

When he meets your gaze again, his voice is calm and collected. “You don’t have to look at them. Just focus on me.”

It’s so much easier to do when he’s sitting this close. You can't help but admire how handsome he is. The sunlight hits just right, catching in his lashes and quietly lighting up his face.

Not just that, but the way he shifted to shield you without needing to ask. Purely instinct, saving you for a second time since you’ve known him. And for some reason, that’s hotter than any of the Tiktok edits you saw of him last night.

You steady your breath, forcing your gaze back to your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

🌸 ⋆｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ . 🌸 ⋆｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ 🌸 ⋆｡ﾟ｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ 🌸

🌷✨ More characters and stories coming soon! Thank you for reading! 🌸💌 Requests are Open! 💌🌸 Feel free to send in headcanon ideas, drabble requests, etc! 🎀✨

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