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yukioos · 10 days ago

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YUKI I HAVE AN IDEA!

What if reader and shoto are arranged married for quirk stuff. They are aware due to both sides of family. What’s awkward was THEY WERE CLASSMATES AJAJAJJAJAJA pls, this is funnier in my head.

when you’re in an arranged marriage with shoto todoroki, your old classmate from UA

when you were informed you had an arranged marriage with shoto todoroki, you were confused until your father told you it was because of quirk marriage.

unfortunately, it happened to both your father and shoto’s father, as you knew him from UA. you already knew much about his past, how his quirks work and how he uses them, which attacks of his are stronger and which are weaker, so maybe it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

you weren’t necessarily devastated, just a little surprised, as you hadn’t seen him in a year or so. when shoto was told he would wed you, he wasn’t too ecstatic either, not wanting to have to make a ‘perfect child’ like what his father tried to do. but he remembered your name, the memories flooding back from UA and from the war you almost lost each other in.

but your father wanted you to spend time with shoto so the two of you could get used to each other, a bit sweeter on his part. surely, the hangout wouldn’t be too awkward, after all, you were friends-ish back in high school!

oh, you couldn’t have been more wrong.

you arrive at the todoroki residence with your father for dinner, walking in with formal clothes and jewelry on. when he rings the doorbell, you stand behind him, and shoto’s father, endeavor, answers the doorbell immediately with a smile on his face.

he greets your father and opens the door for him, “mr. l/n, i’m glad you could make it!” his smile slightly falters, “where’s the girl?”

you tilt your head and peek over your father’s shoulder with piercing eyes, staring into endeavor’s now softer ones. he grins as the two of you walk in, and he places a warm hand on your shoulder, leading you further into the house, more to the dining table.

there, you see shoto sitting at the table with food methodically scattered across it, and he taps his hand against his thighs, waiting for you. once he hears the thumping of feet coming towards him, he turns his head but doesn’t stand up or greet his father, nor yours, but he sends you a slight smile. he wouldn’t admit it, but he missed you dearly.

so you sit across from him, and your fathers sit across from each other, starting a conversation but not inviting you two in. you roll your eyes and try to avoid eye contact, feeling yourself become sweatier and more nervous by every passing second. he was still intimidating.

you grab some food and put it on your plate, and shoto quickly does the same, as he was waiting for you to grab the food first. you begin to eat with your chopsticks, and chew quickly, supposing fuyumi made the food, as she did back in high school.

but you feel eyes looking at you, so you sigh and look at your father, who has a disapproving look on his face. he scolds, “y/n, you know the men are supposed to eat first.”

you raise an eyebrow in confusion and shake your head, “since when is that a rule?”

your father continues staring at you before giving a forced smile to endeavor, “i apologize for her behavior, i don’t know what's gotten into her lately.”

they continue their conversation, and you politely ask shoto, “where’s the bathroom?”

he eagerly replies, “i’ll show you,” and stands up from his seat, placing his napkin on the table and leading you down numerous hallways to the bathroom.

you break the comfortable silence, “it’s kinda weird seeing you again, shoto. sorry we lost contact after high school, i got really busy.”

he pauses, “it’s alright,” he tries to make up something, “i got busy too.” it wasn’t a total lie, but he thinks he could’ve managed keeping a relationship with you while doing hero work.

you nod, and he puts out a hand, referring to the bathroom, and you thank him, go to the bathroom, and you don’t hear the footsteps that trail in the hallway.

toya keeps his hands in his pockets, then asks, “why are you standing outside the door, weirdo?”

a soft smile appears on shoto’s face. he speaks, “y/n’s in there,” then raises an eyebrow when toya doesn’t immediately respond, “the earth-wind girl.”

toya lets out an ‘ohh’ and tilts his head, “what’s she doing here?”

shoto’s eyes slightly widen at his brother’s confusion. how the hell did he not know about his marriage? he blurts out, “dad arranged us to get married.”

toya’s eyes widen, and suddenly there’s a darkness within them. he balls up his fists and asks, “history repeats itself, huh? that bastard isn’t any different from a couple of years ago.” he pauses, eyes becoming a bit more teasing, “what are your thoughts on her? on your marriage?”

shoto takes a second to think about it, looking up at the ceiling. he softly replies, “i don’t want to get married to her for the sole purpose of having a multi-quirk child,” he hesitates saying something, but eventually opens his mouth, “but i’m not totally against marrying her. she knows how to handle herself and is good around children, plus she’s smart, has a great personality.” toya’s eyebrow raises, and he grins, but shoto shakes his head, “i remember that from my high school years.”

he then realizes that toya isn’t fully looking at him, but rather behind him, at you.

you came out of the bathroom a few minutes ago, and shoto didn’t even notice.

in my mind toya is rehabilitated and goes to therapy so he’s back home w his siblings and parents. thought it’d be fun and maybe a lil cute to add him bc i miss him so much, thank you so much for requesting this. it was pretty cute to make

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wendichester · 2 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ fbi, open up!

summary. the fbi shows up at your door. these agents are a little... unconventional.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x civil!reader genre. idek. just weird

wordcount. 736

notes / warnings. trauma and early seasons typical dean winchester flirting. beware.

You don’t even get the door halfway open before a badge flashes in your face.

“FBI,” the taller one says, all business. He’s got that too-handsome-to-trust kind of face—sharp jaw, kind eyes, hair that’s one shake away from a shampoo commercial.

The other one’s already sizing you up, less polite about it. His badge lowers slower. “Agent Bonham,” he adds, smirking. “This is my partner, Agent Allman.”

You blink. “Like... the Allman Brothers?”

Agent Bonham—clearly the cockier one—winks. “Big fans.”

You lean on the doorframe, still in your pajamas, coffee half-made in the kitchen, murder still raw in your mind. “Right. The FBI’s really sending classic rock stans door to door now?”

Agent Allman—Sam, according to the badge he flashed—gives his partner a look. You file it away as interesting, not incriminating. Yet.

“We just need to ask a few questions,” Sam says, voice calm, like he’s afraid you might bolt. He’s not wrong.

You step aside. “If it gets you out of the hallway before Mrs. Crenshaw across the hall calls the HOA about ‘suspicious men,’ go for it.”

They walk in. Dean—aka Agent Bonham, which you're almost 100% sure is under a fake name—starts nosing around like he owns the place. Sam stays close to the door, watching you like he’s already piecing you together.

“I already talked to the cops,” you say, flopping onto the couch. “Said everything I knew.”

“Humor us,” Sam replies. And the way he says it... it doesn’t sound like protocol. It sounds like concern. Or curiosity. Or both.

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Fine. My boss—Greg—was a nightmare. Walked around like he was untouchable. Screamed at interns, made everyone miserable. So yeah, not exactly mourning him.”

Dean raises a brow. “So you don’t miss him.”

“About as much as I miss dial-up internet.”

He snorts. Sam’s lips twitch but don’t crack a smile.

“But,” you add, voice dropping as the memory crawls its way back to the front of your mind, “what I saw... it wasn’t right.”

Dean straightens a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say slowly, as if saying it out loud makes it sound crazier, “I saw something pull him out of his office. Something tall. Human-shaped. But the sounds it made—”

You pause, trying to find the words that don’t make you sound insane. “They weren’t normal.”

Sam leans in, eyes soft. “What kind of sounds?”

“Like... clicking. Bones snapping. Wet breathing. Like a person with a broken rib cage trying to growl.” You shiver. “It didn’t talk. Not exactly. But it wasn’t quiet either.”

The agents exchange a look. Quick. Subtle. But definitely something.

You catch it. Your stomach knots. “You’ve heard that before?”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes again. Sam gives you a careful shrug. “We’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Okay, well, I’m not saying it was some... demon monster whatever, alright? I’m just saying... it was weird. And I’m still trying to convince myself it had a really bad cold and I was in shock. That’s all.”

Dean gives a low whistle. “That’s some shock.”

“You weren’t there,” you shoot back.

There’s a silence. Not awkward. Just loaded.

Then Dean, ever the charmer, drops onto the arm of the couch. “So, you got a boyfriend who can vouch for you that night? Alibis are stronger when they come from someone who doesn’t sleep in your succulent shelf.”

You raise a brow. “That’s your opener? Really?”

Sam coughs. You glance at him, and he looks away—but not fast enough to hide the smirk threatening his lips.

You point between them. “Do all FBI agents flirt with witnesses?”

“Only the hot ones,” Dean says, deadpan.

Sam mutters, “Unbelievable.”

You laugh—finally. The sound feels foreign in your throat, like it doesn’t quite belong yet. But it’s there.

Dean winks. “Hey, if you remember anything else, call us. Day or night. Especially night.”

You snort. “That sounded less FBI, more Tinder.”

But when Sam hands you the card, his fingers brush yours. Just a little. Just enough.

He doesn’t say much, but the look he gives you? It sticks.

And you? You’re still not convinced the thing you saw was real. Still clinging to logic. But something about them feels just as strange.

You watch them go, heart racing a little faster than you’d like.

You want to believe it’s just adrenaline.

But part of you—small, scared, stubborn—knows better.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #sam winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #sam winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #sam winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

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whirlybirbs · 4 months ago

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— MOONBEAM ; SANEMI ; 実弥

summary: you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you? pairing: sanemi shinazugawa / f!reader ; retired hashira word count: 4.7k tags: rated t+, mutual pining, drinking games, romanticization of everything in sight, sun and moon tropes, reader is a hashira, reader is missing her arm, cool prosthetics are my shit, sanemi can be nice when he wants, sanemi has no idea how to be touched, ranging hashira appearances for comedic impact a/n: i love this eyebrow-less fuck. let him be kissed. and pegged, probably.

"Another round."

Someone is going to die tonight.

Someone is definitely going to die tonight, and no one even seems remotely concerned aside from Tanjiro Kamado, the designated sake pourer.

H-He shouldn't even be here!

Wrong place, wrong time, but Mr. Shinazugawa might kill him if he said no to the barked order of fetching sake for the drinking game.

I mean — sure, sure. You're both Hashiras. Or, well, you were a Hashira. The Light Hashira. The Light Hashira who was forcefully retired as of last year due to losing your right arm facing down an Upper Moon.

The entire room is packed with fellow rank-and-file members, and with each downed glass of sake, there's a raucous roar of cheers.

Sanemi Shinazugawa thought this was going to be an easy win.

After all, you're little Miss Perfect. Delicate and polite and demure, and always so well-mannered, and oh so soft-spoken.

You may be retired, but you still serve the Demon Slayer Corp, working to rehab injuries just like your own. Your estate is the secondary stop after the Butterfly Mansion for many members who have lost limbs — your prosthetics are state-of-the-art. The custom, mobility aids have changed the lives of men and women who thought they'd never bounce back.

It's beautiful, really.

Just like you, Sanemi laments.

Your silver kimono is faultlessly pressed; the wisteria blossoms embroidered into your obi glimmer in the lantern light of the dining hall. That wisteria hairpin keeping your hair up and out of your face makes his stomach churn. He wants to yank it out of your hair and throw it across the room. He wants to see you... undone. Any less perfect than usual.

It's driving him insane.

You're on your fifth cup of sake. You hold the bottom, tilt it back, and finish it with a slow, thankful nod directed toward Tanjiro. The ceramic prosthetic of your right arm tinkers gently against the cup. Delicate. Poised. Perfect.

Sanemi's lip snarls.

"Oh come on—"

"Another round, if you would, Mr. Kamado."

You slip Sanemi a leveled look through heavy lashes.

The Wind Hashira is drunk. There's no denying it. You can see the hot flush creeping up his chest, peeking out from the top of his undone uniform. There are his scars, and then there is a flush. It's cute.

He's always been cute.

More than cute, recently. Handsome. Insufferable in every single way possible, but handsome.

Rumor has it he's quite the gentleman, too, if you believe the girls over at the Butterfly Mansion. The youngest three seem partial to him — hailing him with an unbridled sense of respect (and infatuation).

"You've gotta be kidding me," he grits out as he runs a calloused palm down his face; he's sweating. He's hot. It's hot in here. Maybe it's the sake. Whatever. Sanemi lets out an exhausted sigh, "There's no way."

There's a little crack — a tiny, sliver of a crack in your usual placid composure. Sanemi swears he sees a smirk. It's gone before his hazy vision can memorize it.

"Shinazugawa," you breathe as Tanjiro worriedly pours another cup of sake for you both; your voice is punctuated with repose that dares to lightly mock, "Are you saying you can't continue?"

There's an edge to your voice — a slight slur. The only indication that you have been keeping up, drink-to-drink with him.

The room coos a goading little cheer. They egg him on.

Sanemi's eyes narrow dangerously. His eyelashes are quite pretty, you muse. The whole of him is. Scarred and rugged and always so tough...

"Oh, please. You think I'm going to tap out?" he shirks, slamming back the freshly poured sake with reckless abandon. Best to go fast. If he slows down, it's all going to catch up to him. That's five. You're both tied, "I'm not losing to you."

Your cup pauses, right about to meet painted lips. There's the smirk again. Then:

"Break it up! Curfew started ten minutes ago!"

You recognize it as Obanai's voice.

Sanemi's eyes flick to your face, then to the door beyond the gaggle of swordsmen and Kakushi. You're pouting. The interruption has brought a wave of groans and chattered disappointment.

Sanemi grits his jaw. You mirror his expression.

He wasn't done.

You weren't done.

You both concede with scowls on your face.

No one died.

Which is great!

Except that was before, and this is now. Tanjiro winces sharply at the escalating volume of Mr. Shinazugawa's voice across the courtyard.

"Rematch!" he's shouting at you as you cross the courtyard; a picture of elegance and grace. You've got a large wooden box in your arms. No doubt the delivery of a new prosthetic.

You glide across the gravel, head held high.

Perfect. Even in this fuckin' heat.

Sanemi's jacket is in the grass — every recruit around him is winded. Seems they've begun another training regime. The summer heat beats down your neck as you rake your eyes across his figure. You watch a bead of sweat run down his temple.

"Name the place, Shinazugawa," you throw his way flippantly; Tanjiro can see you're not afraid of Sanemi and it's confusing, "You'll have your rematch."

"Tonight. Same place. M' not loosin' this time, Lady Hashira."

He hates your laugh. He hates how fucking pretty it is — how soft and light it is, like a bell, like a breeze against his skin.

Fuck.

You're so pretty. So kind — so... fuckfuckfuck.

Tanjiro is definitely going to die. Mr. Shinazugawa has never gone this hard on them before, like, ever. This is bad. This is so bad. A wooden sword strike rattles the bones in his hands, pain echoing up his wrists, as he blocks a whirlwind of frustrated attacks.

He's going to die.

Obanai figures this is exactly how this would go.

It is Sanemi after all. The Wind Hashira is worse than himself. At least he can talk to Mitsuri without acting like it was the world's biggest inconvenience...

Sanemi is not exactly subtle. The pent-up frustration is—

Oh.

Oh, you're into it.

Sanemi misses it, but Obanai is watching the rematch from the far table — he was trying his best to mind his business as he eats. The Serpent Hashira can see the way your eyes linger on the Wind Hashira whenever he might not be looking.

Sanemi tips his head back, as he downs his cup of sake. Obanai notices your gaze.

There's something heavy about the way you take Shinazugawa in. Something... adoring.

Well, shit.

Tanjiro Kamado's voice wavers as he throws a leg over the bench and settles to sit beside Obanai.

"Are you sure... this is allowed?" the auburn-haired swordsman laughs nervously as he clutches the designated sake refill bottle, "I mean curfew is soon—"

"Did I say you could sit here?"

Great.

He's going to die.

And this time it's Obanai's stare that's going to do it.

Giyu is the one to enforce the curfew that night. It ends the same. Five drinks even. Sanemi almost kills the Water Hashira, and you smirk as you gather yourself up and retire for the evening.

Giyu doesn't get it.

"Why entertain this?" he asks the next morning, juggling the large order of birch wood in his arms; you'd asked for his help, and truth be told he was always partial to you. You were kind and easy to talk to. Giyu's voice is level, "He's a brute."

You have a large box in your arms — your second piece of the week. This time, a knee-jointed leg prosthetic made from boxwood. It's for that young swordsman, Hime.

"I don't mind him," you offer lightly.

Giyu doesn't get it.

"He's loud," he challenges.

"He has a nice voice," you muse back, falling in step with the Water Hashira.

"He's rude."

"He cares not what others think of him."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" Giyu shirks, his lip curling a bit in distaste.

"I think so," you softly reply, slipping Giyu a sly look, "I find it charming."

"Is that what this is about, then?" he asks suddenly, almost tripping over his own feet. The gravel beneath his feet crunches, "Finding him... charming?"

"...And what if it is?"

Giyu really doesn't fucking get it.

The Water Hashira is quiet for a long time after that, but the silence is comfortable. You don't mind it. It's just the sounds of summer along the path and the soft footfalls of their steps.

Then:

"He likes red bean paste mochi," Giyu mutters, "Tanjiro told me."

The parcel lands on his lap.

He's trying to meditate. He's trying to think about anything other than you — anything other than your smile, your laugh, the way you wear your hair, or the way you say his name.

Irritation cracks his placid expression.

His lavender eyes are still shut.

His lips curl into a snarl. "Do you mind?"

"A little something," comes your soft voice; you're standing before him, your hands clasped in front of you. Oh so proper, "for our next rematch."

Sanemi's eyes fly open.

The sun is like a halo around your silhouette. Framed by blue sky, it's like staring at an angel. You're so fucking beautiful, it feels like someone's rammed his very own nichirin right through his heart.

He swallows roughly.

"...What is this?" he grovels hoarsely.

Skepticism softens into a fading sense of annoyance. Sanemi's eyes flick downward, eyeing the meticulously wrapped parcel on his lap. The handkerchief around the bento is... yours. It's clearly a scrap from your old Haori. He'd know the pattern anywhere. In the dark, even. In his dreams, always.

"Red bean mochi," you say slowly, tilting your head; your voice is coaxing, "Is that not your favorite...?"

You swear his eyes widen a mile.

What a pretty sight.

Sanemi's lip twitches. He's hesitant to reach out and even touch the box. "...Who told you?"

You shrug. Your expression is light and playful. "Would it matter?"

"I need to know who I should kill," he grits out.

"If you don't want it—"

Sanemi snatches the box up. You'll have to pry it from his cold, dead hands. Handmade, fresh red bean paste mochis? From you? He'd rather die than give this up.

You wet your lips, the gesture an attempt to hide your growing grin. You drop your gaze and idly fiddle with a sleeve.

There's a tense moment of silence. Then, his voice rumbles out like a summer thunderstorm:

"Tonight. Rematch."

"Same time?" you ask brightly, already beginning to walk backward down the path.

Sanemi watches, his eyes glued to your face. "I'm going to win."

"You can try, Sanemi Shinazugawa."

You might lose.

You — ha!

You might just lose.

You decidedly blame Mitsuri and Shinobu. They're laughing — and pouring a lot more than poor Tanjiro did. You aren't even that angry about it, because Sanemi looks so damn proud of himself and it's adorable.

Your tongue is loose. Your posture is slipping.

Sanemi's never seen something hotter.

He's going to suffer for this tomorrow — he knows that. He's on his seventh cup, his smirk mingling by the edge of the sake as you drop your head and giggle at something Mitsuri says.

Your eyes find his. You look so... beautiful.

The other Hashira have stolen their sips from the jug. Not that either of you mind. You're both locked in your own little game. The others have drifted out to the engawa, sitting in the warm summer evening air.

Stolen glances between you both bleed into decidedly light banter.

"You're slipping," he chirps; his expression betrays his words. He's gone soft, "Keep up."

You lean forward onto the table, chin propped up in your hand. You lazily finish the sake in your cup while raking your eyes across his chest and neck and shoulders and face. All of him.

Openly.

"Haven't you heard the story of the tortoise and the hare, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects as gently as a man like Sanemi can, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when your smile cracks just a little bit wider, a little bit looser.

The ceramic cup tinkers against the wooden table as you place it down.

"Sanemi," you sigh back — testing the sound of it — and he wonders if this is some sort of dream. You let your head lull to the other side as you take another sip, "Right."

He lifts his drink to his lips. He hesitates for a second; you trace the line of his jaw with your eyes.

"Thank you," he says suddenly — and your expression clouds with momentary confusion. That's how he knows you're drunk. You're usually so sharp, so fast. Your wit is like the crack of a whip. Sanemi clarifies before downing his seventh cup, "For the mochi."

Fucking hell.

That smile.

He's never seen someone so fuckin' beautiful before. Light Hashira be damned. You're an angel. You're the sort of woman men throw themselves on their swords for. He gets it. He'd rage a thousand wars if it meant a kiss. He'd even take a slap. Maybe a punch. Anything.

Fuck.

Make him bleed.

You sway a bit as he places his empty cup down sharply.

"Were they good?"

"Best I've ever had," he admits; he's being honest.

You feel like you're in battle again. There's an adrenaline rush beneath your skin. Seeing him so... soft. Maybe the girls had a point. Maybe he is a gentleman when he wants to be. Sanemi is being sweet. Must be the sake.

You let that lovely realization sit in your chest for a moment longer before dragging your eyes away from the Wind Hashira.

Shinobu is nowhere to be found.

Mitsuri has relieved herself from her role as designated inebriatior.

She's on the engawa, enjoying the breeze, fingers inching close to Obanai's. The other Hashira — Giyu and Rengoku and Tengen included — seem more interested in the stars hanging in the warm evening air than the competition beyond the open sliding doors.

He clears his throat. You draw your attention back to him.

He's been watching you.

"Do you concede?"

"No, not yet," you admit. Your chin is perched on your hand again, "I suppose I still have another drink in me."

You watch as he moves, then. He stands and moves across the room to fetch the jug of sake perched by the door. You follow him with your eyes, tracing the line of his figure. He moves with less grace and with more carelessness. The jug swings from his fingers by the twine handle as he returns to your side.

He settles on his knees to your left.

Sanemi's grin is devilish. Sharp. Handsome. His ashen hair falls in his eyes as he pours himself his next round. "Now, now, Lady Hashira, only one?"

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your neck. His voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Shinazugawa leans, scarred knuckles hesitating to pour your eighth cup. His scarred brow quirks in a quiet challenge. He stills himself and waits for your reply, only to smirk when you lazily wave a porcelain hand his way. Go on.

"Perhaps two with the way you pour," you bite, eyeing the conservative amount of sake that spills into your ceramic cup, "Trying to spare me a loss?"

"Mind your mouth," he warns, rattling the near-empty jug. He tosses his cup back easily before settling back on his haunches. He snaps the cup down on the table and exhales.

Sanemi feels exposed. Moving closer was a bold move.

It's the way you're looking at him.

He watches as a piece of hair falls from your meticulous up-do — undone by the heat and drink — and he feels his entire chest lurch with need.

You're smiling in that honeyed way as you take a slow sip of this round's cup. Your words are slow like molasses on your tongue. "...We never settled on the stakes of this bet, Shinazugawa."

Sanemi is staring at that piece of hair kissing your cheekbone. His expression is less intense than usual, but there's still a burn there. However, it is not rage nor ire. It's something else — something that you're too blind and sake-adled to name.

"Your hairpin."

He answers it easily without pause or hesitation.

Your painted lips quirk as your eyes flash to his. He sees a question flash behind your eyes but you allow it to slip by, unasked. You watch him cross his wide arms over his chest as if to shield himself from any ill reaction.

Without a word, Sanemi watches you tug the long, silver hairpin from your hair.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He's never seen you like this before — never, not even in battle. Your hair tumbles free in mussed strands wanting to bend and bow in the humid summer air.

Sanemi's mouth runs dry as you slip the metal pin between your fingers and offer it. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and you sway a bit as you hand it over.

"Does this mean I've won?" he croaks. His calloused fingers brush yours as he takes the pin into his hands. It's heavier than he anticipated. The intricate amythest wisteria ornaments tinker in his palm as he turns it over.

You tip the last sip of sake back down your throat.

Then, you shake your head no.

"Had you asked," you slip out, dotingly pouring him yet another cup; you mirror the action and fill your own, "I would have simply given it to you."

Sanemi swallows.

You watch him as you eye your ninth cup.

You're drunk. Very drunk. Drunk enough that you fail to see the slack-jawed awe sucker-punched across Sanemi's face.

"What will you ask of me, then?" he dares to utter, realizing that this game ended a long time ago — that this is no longer about winning. Maybe it was never about winning at all, Sanemi realizes rather suddenly, but he doesn't dare linger on the thought you may just enjoy his company.

No one enjoys his company.

He is a bastard. He is a brute. He is horrible and crude and scathingly stubborn. He is not kind, well-spoken, or patient. He's none of the things he sees in you. He is ever bit your opposite — you are the light that breaks through the clouds, and he is the wind that bites.

The idea of drinking another cup of sake makes his head swim.

"...Truthfully? I had not thought that far."

Your voice is small. Sanemi watches the way your porcelain hand stills against the cup. The confession stirs those white-hot feelings in his chest again. He barks out a rough laugh that sounds more like a wheeze than anything.

Then, he pushes his cup across the table. Your eyes widen, and Sanemi is shocked to realize his pride allows him this.

He concedes.

He has his prize, after all. He tucks your hairpin into his jacket, in a pocket beside his heart, before rapping his knuckles upon the wood of the table.

The Wind Hashira lacks his usual amount of grace as he stumbles to his feet.

He bends like a birch in the wind, then pushes that strand of hair from your cheek.

"Think on it, then, Lady Hashira," he rasps, "You win."

Tanjiro isn't the only one who notices that Mr. Shinazugawa has been in a better mood lately.

Training hasn't been nearly as disastrous. The Wind Hashira has even begun offering pointers rather than beaten-in instruction. The ashen-haired man has some sort of reason for being... gentler. It's almost as if his mind is elsewhere.

Obanai notices, which means Mitsuri pries it out of him, which means Shinobu is told over tea, which means Tengen hears about it from Rengoku who hears it from the three youngest Butterfly Mansion servants and proceeds to tell Tokito one evening in the onsen.

The steam hangs heavy in the air, and Giyu's head is tipped back against the cool stone.

Tokito, dipped low and deep to nearly his nose in the baths, listens with interest to Tengen babble on. The Sound Hashira is stumped.

"I mean, c'mon, I love him, but the guy is never in a good mood," Uzui mutters as he flicks at a drifting maple leaf atop the water, "And suddenly it's sunshine and rainbows?"

"Hardly," Tokito murmurs.

Rengoku wrinkles his nose and agrees with the Mist Hashira. "I do not believe sunshine and rainbows are within Shinazugawa's purview."

"I'm being hyperbolic," Tengen stresses.

Giyu sighs loudly.

The heads of those present turn towards him owlishly.

He doesn't even open his eyes as he speaks.

"It's her," he states plainly, "Our Lady Light Hashira."

And it is, isn't it?

It becomes painfully apparent.

Even Kagaya Ubuyashiki, whose eyes may not see as they once did, notices — he can feel the weight of something sweet in the air when he calls the Hashira together for a meeting in the early afternoon.

...It makes him smile.

A bird chirps and the sound of a breeze slips through the leaves in the courtyard. The sun is hot on the curve of your knee, beneath your kimono.

You are in the back of the room, hands folded neatly in your lap.

Your hair hangs across your shoulders.

Your eyes have not once left Sanemi's back.

He sits rigid and perfect, his nichirin laid before him.

And then, as the meeting breaks, he dares turn his cheek. Lavender eyes connect with yours only for a second. Then, the room moves, but you stay there on that floor, watching him move gracefully as he sheathes his sword. His jacket parts and you spy the ornament of wisteria flash beneath his breast pocket.

Your breath catches.

The others pretend not to see as he steps down from the engawa, turning his attention to you once more as he squints in the sun.

"Have you decided?" he asks.

"No," you reply softly, poised as usual.

Sanemi snorts through his nose like a bull; his words may be grating but his tone betrays it. "Fine then. Be indecisive."

The others pretend not to see his smile, nor the bashful way you duck your head as he retreats towards the grass where the recruits have gathered.

But, Kagaya Ubuyashiki needs not to pretend.

He smiles.

He finds you in the garden, after dinner.

You've made a habit of walking the quiet paths in the evenings while the Ubuyashiki Mansion is quiet and calm. Here, while the sun slips away and the moon chases her kiss, you can linger among the wisteria and their weeping blooms.

Your getas still upon the gravel.

"I've decided, I think."

Your voice is softer than the petals that drift through the air.

Sanemi, from behind the largest tree, steps into view.

His arms are crossed. He is without his nichirin.

He ambles closer, his attention drifting to the sky seeped in reds and pinks and purples. The moon is full, and it spills out gilded light that makes your silver kimono glow. You look as if you belong here — among the beauty and calm and peace.

"Yea?" he rasps in reply, realizing you've turned on your heel to face him fully, "Go on then, Lady Hashira. I'm not a patient man. I've waited long enough."

His words lack any sort of real bite.

(He would wait a thousand years more if it meant hearing you ask of him anything. He'd do it, too. Over and over, as many times as you ask. Anything. For you.)

You venture closer. His eyes are still turned to the sky and the wisteria petals that swirl like clouds.

You spy your hairpin.

Wordlessly, you reach for it.

His hand snatches your wrist and halts it — at first, the movement is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a touch from another can be, what it's like. You exhale, and his calloused fingers loosen their hold. He sets his jaw, and his thumb ghosts along your wrist in silent apology.

Then, you smile.

And you slip your hand down and into his own.

And, fucking shit, Sanemi doesn't know what the fuck to do with himself with you take one step closer. There's a small voice in the back of his mind telling him to fucking run, telling him to escape this fate — because he's already in too deep, isn't he? He's drowning, and now you're holding his hand. You're going to be the fucking death of him.

"Is this," he swallows tightly, "What you decided on?"

Hand holding?

"Am I allowed to ask for more, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects under his breath, his pupils bouncing from your eyes to your mouth. It isn't an answer.

You take another step forward, and your smile is slow.

"Sanemi," you nod and rectify yourself as you look up at the Hashira, "Am I?"

He looks terrified — and then your porcelain palm touches his cheek.

"I told you," you swear his voice shakes as he turns his cheek and pulls away, "I am not a patient man—"

"A kiss."

Lavender eyes widen, and Sanemi swears he fuckin' dreamt it.

There's a beat of apprehension — like you're both staring down the precipice. Like you're both one step from hurdling head-first into the crashing waves below. There's only one moment of it though, and it's long enough for both of your breaths to be stolen by the leap.

He knocks the wind out of you.

You suppose there's something poetic about that, him being the Wind Hashira and all.

At first, the kiss is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a kiss from another can be, what it's like.

It's desperate, you realize, as Sanemi's calloused hands thread themselves to cradle your face. His teeth knock yours and his nose butts your own and you all but gasp as you stagger on your getas. It doesn't matter, because you're in his hold — and he won't let you fall.

Not now, not ever.

One step backward, and then another. And another.

Your back meets the bark of the wisteria.

The moon finally kisses the sun.

His chest heaves as his hand lands above your head, bracing himself over you. His other hand doesn't dare leave your cheek. It threatens to creep into your hair, to wind your further, to see you undone.

When he pulls his eyes open, he realizes he has achieved it.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Your kimono has slipped further down your shoulder, your obi loosened by the act of being pinned to the tree. Your hair is mussed, your lips parted and near bruised.

To Sanemi, you're more perfect than you've ever looked like this.

He kisses you again.

And this time, it's nearly chaste.

You sigh into the kiss, and your fingers shake as they come to settle over the patch of bare, scarred skin on his chest.

His lips are nimble and the pad of his thumb traces the curve of your cheek. It's a gentleness you never thought possible of Sanemi Shinazugawa. You never expected it.

He is like the wind, then.

Biting and harsh, or soft and beautiful.

You kiss him for a long time, there, beneath the wisterias in the growing dark — like teenagers, like these were moments you were never afforded. There are hardly any words shared, only breathless little laughs between bitten lips and wandering hands.

It's when the lanterns are lit that Sanemi finally pulls himself away.

You're smiling — and you're a mess.

Soft and disheveled and twining your fingers with his.

That's when someone's voice cuts across the courtyard, calling for curfew.

#[ birbs writes ]#kny x reader #kny imagine #sanemi x reader #sanemi x you #sanemi x y/n #sanemi shinaguzawa #shinaguzawa x reader #demon slayer imagine #demon slayer x reader #sanemi imagine #hashira imagine #sanemi shinazugawa x reader

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5sospenguinqueen · 4 months ago

Text

Please, Please, Please | Max Verstappen x Singer! Reader

Summary: What do you do when your ex-girlfriend moves on with another guy? Become needy and pathetic. But, when the guy brings you to tears, Max knows it's his time to save you from further heartbreak.

Warnings: barry keogan (i couldn't find any other men with her that worked), swearing, toxic relationships, pathetic max

Requested: yes by many of you on the previous part

Faceclaim: Sabrina Carpenter (she was used on the last one and yes, she's used a lot but I stole her song and her job so I'm also stealing her face)

F1 Masterlist

prev. || next.

part 4 will be the last part so it may seem a bit rushed but i didn’t plan anything else. sorry! these just seem to be getting worse as well, so i’m also sorry about that

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maxverstappen1 just posted

liked by danielricciardo, liamlawson30 and others

maxverstappen1 a good effort from the team to start on the front row tomorrow 💪 let’s keep pushing tomorrow 🇺🇸

6,633 comments

user1 twitter is claiming that max and kelly broke up

user2 okay but i actually can’t function until i know if max is free from kelly once more

user3 max please tell us if you and kelly have broken up

user4 i need max and kelly to be done forever this time

user5 is it true that you broke up with kelly?

→ maxverstappen1 yes. now can we focus on the race

→ user6 @/yn_ln this means you can give him another chance

→ user7 why would she want to after he ran back to kelly

(comments have been limited)

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yn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, actorbf and others

yn_ln surprise! if you have any questions, you can refer to my new single please, please, please 💋

13,850 comments

user8 the two of them are so cute

jennaortega i’ll give you all the kisses

→ user9 i wouldn’t. not with all the men she goes through

→ oscarpiastri whoa now, there’s no need for that

user10 don’t get me wrong. i’m loving all the new music. but my heart can’t handle all the new layers to this drama

landonorris okay, little miss hollywood. that music video just proved you’d never do well in a film

→ yn_ln oi, i act better than you do, mr hilton

→ hilton we’d be happy to have you both

user11 ew, so she went from a hot motorsport driver to a subpar actor?

user12 wait, what? this wasn’t supposed to happen. she’s gone off script. max is single now, they were meant to be getting back together

→ user13 she’s not his back-up plan. plus she’s way out of his league

user14 don’t you think you might be putting strain on her new relationship? i doubt her new guy likes to see everyone preferring the old guy

→ user15 hopefully that means he’ll leave and we can get her and max back

user16 has anyone checked on max?

(comments have been turned off)

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yn_ln just posted

liked by charles_leclerc, verstappencom and others

yn_ln how to lose a cake in 10 minutes

16,334 comments

alexandrasaintmleux the most beautiful birthday girl

→ francisca.cgomes this dress is going to live rent free in my head

→ yn_ln thank you for letting me show you both twenty different dresses

→ alexandrasaintmleux just wish you were taller so we could steal some of them

→ yn_ln can’t believe you’d do this to me on the day of my birth

→ oscarpiastri technically your birthday is tomorrow. this was just your birthday party

→ yn_ln thin fucking ice, piastri

user1 guys guys guys. verstappencom liked this. i repeat verstappencom liked this

→ user2 okay but that’s not max

→ user1 but it’s an advocate for max so

landonorris dicaprio wouldn’t want you anyway. you’re too short

→ yn_ln i’ll make my boyfriend fight you

→ landonorris i’m not scared of your polly pocket boyfriend

→ mclaren you can’t say stuff like this publicly, lan

→ user3 i swear none of them actually like her boyfriend

→ user4 showing their support for max. he’s the only person who matches her beauty

user5 no but the hand in the dress is somehow cute and hot

→ user6 not with that guy. it should be max

redbullracing happy birthday to our favourite popstar

replies

user7 what do you mean she had to pay for her own birthday meal on her birthday because her boyfriend wouldn’t

→ user8 not even wouldn’t but flat out refused

→ user9 streets are saying it’s because he’s broke. not exactly like he’s raking in the job offers

user10 so this man is lucky enough to get a chance with THE y/n l/n, then he refuses to pay for her dinner, and then he yells at her?? all on her birthday???

→ user11 he’s punching above his weight and clearly that angers him

→ user12 especially with the way she looked in that yellow sparkly dress today

user13 someone clearly isn’t very smart. she writes a song for him - the first one she’s written recently that isn’t about max - and he does exactly what the song asks him not to do

→ user14 how dare he try to embarrass our queen by yelling at her in front of so many people

→ user15 i’m starting to question if our girl does have good judgement. how could two men do this to her?

→ user16 definitely doesn’t have good taste

user17 the audacity to yell at her in a restaurant of people, and then continue to do so after you were asked to leave because you were yelling at her

user18 and if i said i saw max verstappen pass them in the street, stop and turn, and start defending her, then what?

→ user18 he was literally yelling at this man whilst holding a crying y/n behind him, and rubbing her arm soothingly

→ user19 we’d say you’re full of shit and have no tangible proof

→ user20 this could be true because he was hanging out with charles and some of the drivers. and i just know alex sm got on the phone to her boyf and begged him to send the love of y/n’s life to save her

→ user19 pics or it didn’t happen

maxverstappen1 posted a new story yn_ln posted a new story

landonorris replied to maxverstappen1 i recognise the birthday girl's dress

landonorris replied to yn_ln who’s the 3rd person 👀 → wait why wasn’t I invited

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requests open

tag list

@omgsuperstarg @seonghwaexile @evie-119 @alejandrablacklupin @nina-or-anna-or-nora @shelbyteller @raynetargaryan2 @astroniii @raizelchrysanderoctavius @azuramicah @seasonswinter @chaoswithus @casey1-2007 @chemiru @strengthandstay @ivanag1rl@anayaverse @formulaal @ellelabelle @yara011 @callsignwidow @freyathehuntress @floweringlee @isagrace22 @sunny44 @lottalove4evelyn @danielshoe @paucubarsisimp @monacosprince @stereading @hoeforsirius @anilovessadbooks @armystay89 @cassofheartsss

sorry if i missed anyone. it wouldn't let me tag some of y'all

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grimestime27 · 5 months ago

Text

Marry Me

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader

Warnings: Mostly fluff

Set Pre Whisperers.

I think I made Daryl a little OOC but he definitely is becoming more soft as seasons continue on. ❤️

Rick was missing, presumably dead. Michonne was broken. Daryl was a shell of himself. Everything was wrong. The group was split again. You and Daryl had decided to stay in Alexandria, but Ezekiel and Carol had offered you all a place at the Kingdom. Everyday, Daryl had went to look for any sign of Rick—living or dead. With no luck, he returned every night to let Michonne know nothing had changed.

Part of Michonne was relieved—knowing Daryl hadn’t found a body or a walker of her “husband”. It was hard watching her everyday with Judith, knowing Rick wouldn’t come home to see her or his daughter again. Carol and Ezekiel had gotten married with a brief ceremony in the Kingdom, Father Gabriel officiating. It was bittersweet, Michonne leaving halfway through the ceremony.

You knew why—it made her think of what she had lost. Carol had asked you and Daryl to be part of the ceremony. Daryl smiled at you from behind Ezekiel and you wondered for a moment if you all could ever have a future like this. It seemed very unlikely. Carol suggested you all stay the night in the Kingdom before returning to Alexandria. Somewhat reluctantly, you both agreed for the sake of she and Ezekiel.

They gave you a private room. Daryl locked the door softly as you began stripping your clothes off and leaving you only in your bra and panties.

“It was a nice ceremony.”, you began.

Daryl turned around quickly, eyeing you up and down.

You knew just how to get to the archer’s heart.

“Yeah.”, he replied. “I never thought she’d fall in love with anyone.”

You smirked softly. “We all are full of surprises.”

Daryl smiled softly before coming over and taking you in his arms. He smelled of his own musk and wilderness, but you didn’t mind. It felt safe—it was home. He kissed the top of your head, taking in the embrace. There were times he wasn’t sure if he would ever get this again. Life was too short. And Daryl knew it.

“Yeah….”, Daryl began and it seemed like he had something else on his mind.

You pulled back softly. “What’s wrong?”

“Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

“Us.”

Your face crinkled in confusion. “What about us?”

Daryl sighed. Words had never came easy to him. As a child, he wasn’t properly taught how to communicate and show his emotions. His dad highly discouraged it, beating him and Merle if they cried or showed any sliver of emotion. Their father had taught them that it wasn’t manly to show emotions. Men were meant to be strong and show no weakness.

He was trying to break the cycle. You had taught him he could be vulnerable with you. You were his safe space.

“Daryl?”, you brought him out of his deep thought.

“Sorry,”, he sighed. “Just this whole thing with Carol and Ezekiel has me thinkin’…..”

You eyed him, encouraging him to continue.

“Could we have somethin’ like that?”

“Like being married?”

Daryl sighed softly. “Yeah. I mean if you think ’s not for us—”

You interrupted him. “I think we could.”

Daryl’s eyes softly looked into yours. “Would ya…want to marry me? Become Mrs. Dixon?”

“Are you officially asking me to marry you?”

Daryl smiled softly before letting you go of you and digging in his pocket, pulling out a ring. “Yeah, Carol helped me find this.”

“Daryl…..”

“Will ya marry me and be Mrs. Dixon?”

He got down on one knee, something he never thought he would ever do. But things change.

“Yes, Daryl. A thousand times, yes.”, you began smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, happy tears beginning to form in your eyes.

Daryl slid the ring on your finger nervously, getting off his knee and taking you in a tight embrace before you both shared a kiss. You both pulled away, looking into each other’s eyes before kissing again.

“Well, I guess we need to talk to Father Gabriel to officiate another wedding.”, you smirked as you both broke the kiss.

“Guess so. How about we celebrate Mrs. Dixon?”, he smirked as he swooped you up in his arms, causing you to giggle as he carried you to the bed.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #the walking dead #rick grimes #daryl twd #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon imagine

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murdockparker · 1 year ago

Text

Of the Same Mind

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A mutual distaste in a certain author—should he even have the grace to be called that—leads to an unexpected meeting.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: mentions of drinking/alcohol, pregnancy, fluff, time skip

A/N: a cute lil request! made me actually read a little Byron myself to get the gist! and it wasn't that terrible I'm so sorry to disappoint

Dull.

Everything was dull. What was supposed to be the social event of the season was shortened due to poor weather—an outdoors event of sorts, it seemed, Benedict really didn’t pay his mother much attention when she explained the whole ordeal. Thus, half of the ton was crammed into Lord Whitehill’s home instead of his luscious grounds, all due to the pouring rain. Most conversation was boring, most of the ladies were whining about the rain, the men whining about their whining wives and daughters.

At least the drinks were good.

“…seriously think that fodder is worth your breath?”

Benedict’s ears perked up, focusing on a conversation that was decidedly not about the current weather. A breath of fresh air.

“I-I did not mean to insult you, miss,” a young gentleman sputtered, his face rosy red. “I only meant to indulge you in poetry of the highest regard—”

“If that was your intention, you would have chosen from a finer list of poets. Byron?” The lady nearly laughed out loud. “Byron is the bottom of the barrel, as it were, so your intention was ill-placed.”

“Byron is a well-regarded poet—”

“By who? Chamber pots?”

Benedict nearly spat out his drink. The action alone brought the attention of the arguing couple to him—both sets of eyes trained on the tall Bridgerton at once. “Oh,” he fake coughed, “it seems the drink went down the wrong way, please, forgive me.”

The man—who Benedict now recognized as Lord Whitehill’s son—scoffed. “Bridgerton. You are well versed in the arts, are you not?”

Benedict nodded. “I dabble.”

“Would you please explain to Miss (Y/L/N) that Byron is a novel poet,” Mr. Whitehill asked, “and that she should be flattered I recited poetry for her, regardless of the poet?”

Miss (Y/L/N). So that was the lady’s name.

“But that would be lying, Whitehill,” Benedict gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “And I am ever a gentleman, raised to never lie, especially to a fine lady such as Miss (Y/L/N).”

She smiled at that.

“You do not agree?”

“Oh I certainly agree with Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict said quickly, setting his glass down. “Byron is a mockery to the art—meaningless words and jaunty titles, why, I tried to read his latest and it put me right to sleep.”

“I fear I had the same reaction,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, turning to Benedict in earnest. “Right before I decided to throw it to the flames.”

They both laughed.

“Imbeciles, the both of you,” Mr. Whitehill said, pushing past the newly acquainted pair. “Keep insulting me like that and I’ll have my father throw the both of you out into the storm.”

“Mr. Whitehill,” Miss (Y/L/N) said softly, her eyes melting into puddles of apology. “I fear we were not insulting you, but rather your taste in poets. I also fear there is a stark difference in that, for if I were to insult you, I’d make a more fitting jab, more educated in that regard.”

The shorter gentleman stormed off, steam nearly pouring from his ears. Benedict laughed.

“I must say, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict leaned down. “You have quite the sharp tongue.”

“I am known to be rather well spoken,” she beamed, standing a little straighter. “Perhaps it is my taste in literature?”

“For that, I believe we are in agreement,” Benedict said, grabbing a fresh glass from the table beside him. “May I offer the lady a beverage?”

“Only if you decide to share whatever’s in that pocket of yours,” she pointed to his chest. Benedict’s ears went pink. “Do not think I did not see you pour an added flavoring into the lemonade—it seems impolite that you would neglect to share.”

“It would be impolite,” Benedict said, carefully pulling his flask out of his coat. “I am surprised you saw that, though, given the crowded room.”

“You are a tall man, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, taking the glass from his hand. Benedict poured a healthy amount of clear liquor into her cup before adding the rest to his own. “I would have found it hard to ignore you.”

“Your first season? I presume?”

“Technically,” she said, looking up into his blue eyes. “My family, we just moved to Mayfair. My father came into some money and relocated us here this year, my brother is set to study at Eton in the fall.”

“And you?”

“I am now expected to marry a rich and eligible bachelor,” she laughed into her glass. “Which I really have no problem doing, save for the fact that gentleman is nothing like Mr. Whitehill.”

“Mr. Whitehill is rather rich,” Benedict smirked. “Would that not placate you?”

“And listen to him dribble about Byron? Perish that thought,” she said. “When I do marry, I expect my husband to be of the same mind, a similar taste in the arts.”

“You know,” Benedict nearly whispered, “that is an admirable thought. But how will you find this man?”

She looked him up and down, quickly and all at once, returning to drink from her glass.

“I suppose I will know when I find him,” she smirked.

Benedict smiled back. “Well, please let me know when you do, I feel rather invested in your prospects.”

“You will be the first to know, I assure you,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, nodding her head. “But, if I may be so bold, if you are not currently preoccupied, would you care to further our discussion on Byron? It is hard to find someone who agrees with such a… contrasting opinion of the poet.”

“Why, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict finished his glass, offering his arm, “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

—

The gardens on the property were lovely, so lush and full of life. She made good on her promise to keep them well maintained, only keeping the finest blooms and plants in their care. It was always the perfect place to spend time on days like today, sunny, a gentle breeze.

They had given the governess a day off, her mother had fallen ill, it was the least the Bridgertons could do for her.

“Mother!”

The lady looked up from her book, eyes meeting with her eldest daughter. Blue eyes, just like her father.

“Yes, darling?”

“Might I go inside to grab other books? Aunt Eloise recently sent some to Father and I want to read them.”

The lady gave her daughter a trying look. “Do you not think they may be above your comprehension level, my love? They were intended for your father, after all.”

“No need,” a looming voice bellowed. “I have them right here.”

She didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to. “Benedict, I thought you were spending time in the studio this afternoon.”

“And miss spending time with my darling wife and children?” Benedict grinned, the crooked way she fell in love with. “That seems foolish on my part.”

“Father!” Their eldest exclaimed, running over to the tallest Bridgerton. “You brought the books?”

“Indeed,” Benedict nodded, handing the parcel off to his daughter. “Aunt Eloise thought we may have better use of these than her and Phillip do.”

Their daughter lit up with excitement—ever the reader, she was. It took a village to keep their library stocked with appropriate books for her age, but she was quickly out-reading her entire family’s collection. “Thank you, Father!”

“Well,” Benedict said modestly, “you must write to your Aunt Eloise and thank her, I had little to do with such a gift.”

“What about me, papa?”

Their son, only a few years younger than their daughter came bounding up past his escaping sister, clearly having been playing in the mud. “Do I have any gifts from auntie?”

(Y/N) opened her arms. “Not this time, sweetheart, but come here, let mama wipe that dirt off of your nose—”

“No!” He exclaimed, turning from his mother. “Dirt makes me ruggable—like Uncle Colin!”

“Rugged,” Benedict corrected gently. “And, no, dirt makes you dirty. You need to stop spending so much time with Colin…”

“Once baby brother is here I will,” their son nodded, putting both hands on his hips, looking down at his sitting mother.

“Oh darling,” (Y/N) said, trying to raise to her feet. Benedict quickly offered his hands, pulling her up. “Baby will not be here for a few more months.”

“Then more time with Uncle Colin!”

Benedict and (Y/N) sighed, watching their adventurous son run back to the mud. “We must write Colin, tell him of the monster he has created.”

“Our eldest is such an easygoing flower,” Benedict said, noting how she was carefully skimming through the various books on her lap. “Our son tests our patience.”

“And how do you think this one will be?” (Y/N) asked, placing his hand on her swelling stomach. She only had two or so more months until the delivery, if she had been correct on the conception. The latest Bridgerton wedding seemed to be the culprit, stolen kisses and a romantic rendezvous to the greenhouse away from the party—it was a perfect recipe for baby number three. “Calm and collected? Devilish and adventurous?”

“I pray they are just like their mother,” Benedict rubbed her belly affectionately. “And perhaps a bit more behaved than their brother… I suppose I should also write my mother an apology.”

“Whatever for?”

“I reckon my brothers and I acted much like our son,” Benedict said sheepishly. “Acting like Bridgerton boys, I am afraid.”

“As if that is the only explanation,” she giggled, leaning into his side. “But I am sure your mother would appreciate such a gesture. Perhaps you should send her a bouquet from our garden, too?”

“An excellent idea, my love,” Benedict said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “What a brilliant mind you have.”

“Father, Mother!” Their daughter called out, waving them towards her. “Aunt Eloise sent a book by an author I have never heard of before.”

“Oh?” Benedict quirked his brow, walking with his wife over to her. “And what author may that be?”

“A Lord Byron,” she said, showing the book with a deep brown cover to her parents. Benedict scooped the tome quickly from his daughter’s grasp, holding it close to his chest.

“And you shall never read such filth,” Benedict said seriously.

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) laughed. “Perhaps we should allow our daughter to expand her mind—come to her own conclusions on the matter? Surely Aunt Eloise meant the gift in kind.”

“Aunt Eloise clearly meant to send it as a cruel prank,” Benedict corrected.

“What is so wrong with that author, Father?”

“A shorter conversation would be what is not wrong with this author,” Benedict said, turning to call his son. The little boy ran over to his father’s side, ever eager. “Take this and bury it, preferably far away from here.” His wife could not stop her laughter, watching their son hurriedly run over to the new rose bushes, making good work at digging a deep enough hole for the book. “You,” Benedict pointed at the girl, “are forbidden to read anything written by that lowly man.”

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) admonished, trying hard to stop her laughter, “forbidding her from reading seems silly—”

“Are we not of the same mind on Byron?” Benedict asked. “I rather think that is how we met, is it not, dearest wife?”

She pursed her lips, fighting a smile. “We are.”

“Besides,” Benedict stood a little straighter, “the roses could use a bit more sustenance.”

She could only roll her eyes.

#Bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton x Reader #Benedict Bridgerton #Bridgerton x Reader #bridgerton imagines #if this title has been used before i apologize!#still not sure if I'm digging the whole... photo thing with the post #but it's cute no?

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cryinggirlnamedhelen · 1 month ago

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without ever touching his skin, how can i be guilty as sin?

synopsis ; you weren’t technically doing anything wrong, right? especially not when your fiance was doing the exact same thing.

cw ; afab!reader, emotional cheating, swearing, aged up characters (reader, reo, and nagi are in their 20s) thoughts of sex, mentions of poly, nagi is a nonchalant little fuck

now playing ; guilty as sin by taylor swift

you and reo were the perfect couple.

childhood sweethearts, both part of wealthy families, both always the top of the class, both so beautiful that it blinded one’s eyes just looking at them together. engaged and soon to be married, and always seeming to know exactly what to say in interviews.

everyone loved you and reo. there was no denying it. reo’s fame came much less from being the ceo of the infinitely wealthy mikage corporation, but much more from being an extremely loyal man to his fiancee. edits of you both had millions of likes, with numerous comments of “may this love find me” or similar sentiments.

you were both always stuck together like glue. holding hands and showering the other in affection or just being in each other’s presence. no one ever doubted you were both in love, not even the miserable strangers online who commented “pr relationship” on every celebrity couple’s tiktok.

until you both met nagi seishiro.

nagi was, well, for you at least, refreshing to be around. he never automatically assumed anything or you or reo or the both of you as a pair. he was always calm and tranquil about everything, no matter what you told him. he never bugged into you or reo’s business, and you really felt like you could tell him anything.

you could tell him when you felt as if reo was being overbearing. you could tell him about the times when reo was angry at you for being around other men, even if it was for school or work. you could tell him about your frustrations at reo and how he uses money to “solve” anything, as if trying to purchase your forgiveness.

and nagi just listened. occasional comments such as “wow” or “yeah”, but he usually just stayed quiet and played on his console. but at the end of every venting session, he always gave, at least attempted to give, you advice. it honestly got to a point where you trusted nagi more than you did reo.

“y’know, i can’t believe it. he does it every damn time. i get mad at him, and suddenly, he goes out for a few hours and comes back with a dozen pieces of jewelry and sends me a few million yen. i get that he wants my forgiveness, but what the fuck? it’s like he’s trying to buy my love. it’s not even cute anymore, considering how this is like, his 80th time doing it.”

nagi hummed, tapping away on his console. “well, talk to him about it.”

“i do! all the time! but he never listens. just sighs and says ‘i do this because i love you’”

nagi hummed again. “good luck then.” you stared at him, eyes trailing to his lips. he looked so beautiful, sitting here on your bed, in your room. you shouldn’t think like this; you can’t. not when your wedding with his best friend is only in three months. but you can’t help it; he makes you feel safer than reo does after all.

“miss (l/n), mr mikage has returned from his conference.” your heart dropped at the maid’s words, sighing. you turned towards nagi, who sat there limply, pressing away at the buttons on his console.

“okay. i’ll see you later, nagi.”

you still loved reo. of course you did. you would have called off this marriage long ago if you didn’t. but your love for nagi still overtook your love for reo.

reo was never sure whether you or nagi was more important.

he loved you, obviously. he wouldn’t have wanted to marry you in the first place if he didn’t. he’d be willing to spend every single penny and second of his life for you if you had asked him to. but at the same time, he can’t help but feel like a terrible future husband.

you were his one true love, the love of his life. but nagi was his treasure, the treasure of his life. both were irreplaceable, and reo wanted to live his life out with both of you. but at the same time, he always felt so thrilled whenever he was with nagi. but whenever he was with you…yes, he felt warm, but the sensation was dull compared to how he felt around nagi.

he’s known you since age 4, but these days, reo doesn’t even know how to behave around you anymore. not when most of his thoughts are consumed by nagi. his thoughts are 65 percent nagi, 25 percent you, and 10 percent stocks and business.

he doesn’t even know how to properly apologize or talk to you anymore. all he can do is go to the mall and buy you some jewelry and expensive goods and leave them in your room. does he feel bad? yes. but he doesn’t know how to act. with nagi, spoiling him with gifts and games work perfectly. but not with you.

nagi never got mad at him. never gave him the silent treatment. reo felt as if he could confide anything in nagi, and he knew you felt the same around nagi as well. he saw the way you looked at him; it was the same way that you looked at reo so many years ago, before you both met nagi, but so much more intense. you never looked at reo this way.

reo’s considered being in a polyamory relationship with you and nagi, but that would be far too controversial and might bring the company down from the drama. so it’s best to just stay quiet and love both you and nagi all the same.

reo balanced a soccer ball on his knee as he sat in his leather black chair, eyes fixated on the ball. nagi sat next to him, playing on his phone mindlessly.

“i think she hates me.”

“that sucks.”

reo sent nagi a short-lived glare before looking down and sighing. the soccer ball glided to reo’s foot, and reo shot it right to nagi’s head. “you’re not helping.” nagi made a derp like face and shrugged.

“you know what we should really do? run away for a few weeks and just live together. just us two.” reo mumbled mindlessly, now twirling an elegant ballpoint pane around his fingers.

“(y/n) would get mad at us.”

“yeah.”

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thetxtdevil · 9 months ago

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Scrub Nurse *TXT's Anatomy*

Nurse!Yeonjun x Doctor!Reader

summary: After the nurse makes you look like a fool in surgery in your opinion, you get into an argument that leads to the nurse putting you into your place.

content: smut, hospital setting (if you don't like anything correlating to blood and anything medical don't read), descriptions of surgery, dom.yeonjun, sub.fem.reader, pinning, restraining, spanking, doggy style, manhandling, and the slightest dacryphilia ?, public sex? kinda

word count: 2.2k

au note: took my sweet time with this one hope you like it, and credit to @aduh0308 for help/support.

A metronome of an EKG echoes through the quiet sterile room, the environment is properly lit, agonizingly bright, but perfect to focus on the patient in front of you. The silence of the room is broken by the first words “Alright everybody we have a Mr. Johnson, a 65 year old, white male presenting with a lovely pulmonary embolism, now let's get this clot out shall we?”

You turn your head to your scrub nurse, glancing down the man’s hand already hovering over the iodine packet and sponge. Your palm reaches out above the patient, “Iodine please, Yeonjun.” The solution lands in your hands firmly, not a chance for it to slip and fall out of the sterile field. That’s how good the scrub nurse was, Yeonjun, the whole surgical staff’s favorite. He has been a scrub nurse ever since he graduated nursing school, long before your surgical internship. Never missed a shift, never made a mistake, always a trustworthy coworker, and there was no way you were going to deny it. You also couldn’t deny that he was unbelievably handsome, his warm brown eyes squint signifying a smile under the surgical mask, little dark hair flipping up from under his white and black starry scrub cap.

Yeonjun is smart, handsome, kind, but also a man-whore. First day of internship rumors circulated in your small group that he hooked up with everybody. You’d roll your eyes and deny the fact, first, that's none of their business, second, we’re all too professional to be hooking up with our coworkers and “doing it” in the hospital. Oh how wrong you were, when little innocent surgeon wannabe you walks into a supply closet to witness your surgical resident getting fucked dumb by none other than, Nurse Yeonjun.

It was a hard pill to swallow because he wasn’t the only one. Not only did you have to learn the extensive material of saving lives but you also had to dodge the overly attractive men working with you. You didn’t know if it was all the sad deaths or the burnout but you felt like they were everywhere fucking everybody. You soon learn that's the way of a hospital, a business that wants your money, employees that work until they are their own cause of death, and it is a building full of horny people.

You bite your lip in concentration and the fact that the man who you’ve seen his naked ass a few too many times is standing so close. Eyes locked on the open chest of the patient, your skilled eyes can easily identify the pulmonary artery and the exact spot of the clot. One by one a tool is given to you, “Yank-” the suctioning tool is already in your grasp.

You look at the man, “The yankauer, Doctor” he says as you know that he has a smirk under that mask.

“Getting a little ahead of yourself aren’t you?” you say looking back into the cavity suctioning out the loose embolus.

“No doctor, ok maybe a little.”

“Are you bored of me, nurse?” Yeonjun’s eyebrow quirks up when you exaggerate his title. He leaves the conversation at that so you can continue to focus on the surgery. The clot was removed, blood flow restored, the chest cavity was put back into place and it was now time to close the incision site. “Staples.” Yeonjun says with the item waiting in his hand.

“No, no I want sutures.” Yeonjun shifts on his feet and stares at you. With a little nudge forward of the tool you stare at the item contemplating. Suddenly you feel your feet ache from hours of standing your brain trying to tell you to go for the faster option in front of you. This is a big incision and the healing rate is quicker if staples are used. Rolling your eyes, your gloved hand stretches out, “staples.”

%%%

You’re sitting down outside the operating rooms, taking your little sterile booties off. You couldn’t help but stare at your scrub nurse, perfect posture at the rolling desk-cart, already chewing his habit gum while charting. You didn’t like how he was telling you what tools you needed in surgery, irritated at each crack of bubble and his sharp jaw clenching at every chew, but you again couldn’t deny how handsome he looked. Picking yourself off the bench grabbing your white coat on the way to Nurse Yeonjun. His hair in his face looking through his eyelashes sees you in front of him all the while a big pink bubble pops. Taking a deep breath for encouragement you ask, “so do you want to grab a drink after the next operation?”

“Thanks for asking but I’m meeting with the other scrub nurses”

“Ah yes you nurses always like to stick together” you say as you pick at the ridges of the desk, annoyed, “and always have to prove themselves better than doctors.”

Another gum bubble pops, Yeonjun leans over the desktop getting closer to you, “Aw does precious not like that I know how to do her job better?”

You straighten your posture trying to look bigger than the man, “That’s doctor to you” Yeonjun rolls his eyes, “now nurse I want you to get this surgery prepared in time”

“Well doctor princess, I’ll do that for you if you show your nurses a little more respect.”

You’re shaking of anger at his low judgment, the man smirks looking around the room. Your eyes follow to find out that everybody’s attention is on you two. Yeonjun logs out of the computer, spitting his gum out in the trash, before grabbing your wrist dragging you to the nearest empty on-call room. “W-what are you do-ah” you words interrupted by gasp as Yeonjun pushes you into the door.

“I’ve seen more than your little doctor eyes have seen, I might not have many years of education but I have the experience” Yeonjun spits his words, face so close, one hand on your waist while the other locks the door behind you.

“I’ve gone through years of school to not get orders from a nurse.” The nurse scoffs, “We’ll see about that.”

Yeonjun’s plush lips crash into yours so rushed and harsh your head bangs on the wooden door. He tugs away your scrub cap, unraveling your hair at the same time. You squirm at the feeling of the man’s hands finding their way under all your layers of clothing to rub the soft skin of your waist. Your hands reach up to drag your fingers through Yeonjun’s hair but he was not letting that happen. His big hands grab both arms, pinning them over your head making you squirm more as he grinds his half hard dick against your core.

“I know what you say about me,” you whine out of confusion, his lips grazing yours as he speaks, “words get around fast around here, words like you calling me a man-whore.” You would feel embarrassed but it was hard when his soft lips felt so nice on your neck while his cock so easily felt thanks to the thin material of the scrub pants. “But I know those words don’t mean shit especially when I see you drooling over me,” your half lidded eyes look into his dark ones, “just like that precious, even when you’re in someone else’s heart you look at me like you want me to fuck you right there.”

One hand still pinning your hands as the other slips under your seafoam green pants. His long fingers slip into your panties making your hips jut out. Yeonjun hisses when he feels your smooth slick making it easy to slide a finger in your cunt. Moans muffled by his lips as his fingers stretch you out and curl making your legs weak. So weak that your knees actually buckle, stumbling a bit before catching yourself. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Yeonjun, “what’s the matter pretty, can’t handle a few fingers in your cunt.”

“I-its the ah- long surgery” you try to deny the fact that the nurse has you melting.

“If that's so, let me put you in a different position.”

Yeonjun’s fingers slip out of your folds to be pushed into his mouth. You’d admire the filthy sight before but his other hand had you whipping around to the uncomfortable cots. The springs squeak as you fall into the cushion, looking up at the man watching as his fingers pop out of his mouth. He tugs the green scrub top over your head, “so a pretty surgeon can’t handle my fingers standing up but she can stand for hours on end, that’s cute,” he kisses your shoulder as his hand unhooks your bra, “wonder if you’ll be able to stand after I’m done with you.”

Your heart rate was pulsating, if you were hooked up to a heart monitor they surely would call an emergency code blue on you. Yeonjun knows it too, studying your body, noticing your rise of breathing rate and his lips on your neck could clearly feel your carotid pulse heightened. Taking your bottoms off, he smiles at the big damp patch on your underwear slipping them off to meet your pants on the floor. “Flip over, ass up,” you do what he said, losing the battle of superiority quickly much to Yeonjun’s surprise, but he wasn’t complaining. Taking off his clothes, he licks his red lips appreciating the sight of your plump ass and pussy patiently waiting for him. His hand slides up your inner thigh, listening closely to your whimpers as his finger tips touch your wet folds once more. You bite your lip trying to stop yourself from telling Yeonjun to do something instead you move your hips against his fingers.

“Be patient” he hisses as he slaps your cunt, you cry out from the sensitivity, “aren’t good doctors supposed to be patient?” You whine, Yeonjun’s fingers tease your folds making you wetter to the point your dripping down your thighs. His other hand grazes your ass cheek, gripping them to spread you open every now and then. Yeonjun couldn’t deny that you were also one of the most attractive coworkers. He actually has been wanting to see you like this for awhile ever since you caught him during your internship. It was common for doctors to downgrade the nurses and he has learned to ignore it, but he took it as a chance to get you riled up. Looking at your ass then to your face, your neck stretching so your eyes can meet his, pleading, “Please Yeonjun.” Yeonjun reaches next to your head into the drawers knowing all too well that there was a convenient box of condoms in it. You lick your lips watching the man slide the condom on his stiff pink dick. You gasp again when he smacks your ass before positioning himself. Face falling into the flat pillow as Yeonjun pushes his fat cock slowly into you, stretching your hole deliciously, agonizingly.

“Mmm- more” your muffle getting another slap on your cheek. Yeonjun’s head was thrown back relishing in the feeling of your tight pussy around him, “so needy n’ so tight.” His slow movements quicken into your core making the cot’s springs squeak as loud as your moaning, head bobbing as the cheap bed moves in its spot. He leans over pecking your shoulder, “making me think you don’t do this often” he chuckles, “no wonder you’re so tense.”

You felt more tense right now since his dick was pounding harshly into you. Your insides were rearranged so much so you didn’t realize how loud you were being. "Gonna fuck you til you can't even remember your name, let alone operate like you're supposed to." Everything in your body felt like it was burning the stretch of your cunt, the friction of your folds, the teasing rubs of his hands on your ass. Each groan and hiss he made had you clenching around him. You whine, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten, “J-jun ‘m cummin.”

“Hmm I don’t know if I should let you.” he teases knowing there’s no way you could hold yourself back.

“Please, oh god- please” you scream out stretching your neck again to show your teary eyes. Yeonjun’s eyes roll back loving how fucked you looked. You came on his cock before he could say anything else resulting in Yeonjun thrusting hard to reach his high cumming into the wrap. “Shit” you both say in unison and collapse on the small bed close to its breaking point.

Yeonjun kisses your shoulder once again slipping out of you, throwing away the dirty condom. You rolled onto your back brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. Stunned by a passionate kiss on the lips by Yeonjun, “We should do this again sometime, Doctor.”

“I’ll put that in your orders, Nurse Yeonjun.”

%%%

Later that night Yeonjun stands in the operating room waiting for the surgeon to arrive at the table. He looks over his perfectly placed tools checking yet knowing he has everything in place for the surgery. The quiet room is disturbed by the air tight door opening by the surgeon. You walk in with clean hands, Yeonjun’s eyes scan your form as you dress into a gown and glove. It was dark in the room for the type of surgery but he still noticed the slight limp in your strut. Only he knew why you were in a bit discomfort, well, him and the others that were around the on-call room.

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling

#txt devil #txt hard thoughts #txt imagines #txt hard hours #txt x reader #txt x you #txt smut #txt x y/n #yeonjun smut #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun hard thoughts #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun x y/n #yeonjun x you #nurse!txt #choi yeonjun x reader #choi yeonjun x you #yeonjun imagines

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