#slow burn and fast dodge

[erseac]

There need to be more fanfics where the characters are into photography. Not just because you can give everyone an EOS and then tag it as "fully Canon", but also so we can finally use the tag

"Lila Rossi's Lies Are Over-Exposed"

[sixeyesonathiel]

co-parenting? no. co-pettying.

pairing — single dad satoru x single mom reader

satoru is just trying to console his crying daughter over her tragic bangs—until he finds out the kid who roasted her is your son. petty parenting, unresolved feelings, and karmic bangs ensue.

a/n: in honor of me getting bangs again. pt 2 later ig

satoru gojo is seething.

not the explosive kind. no, this is a slow, bitter simmer—the kind only young single dads with too much pride, a permanently furrowed brow, and daughters crying over their butchered bangs can manage. he sits on the park bench like it personally offended him, ice cream in one hand, the other arm wrapped protectively around his daughter, who’s still sniffling beside him. the vanilla scoop is melting, forgotten, dripping onto his jeans. he doesn’t care. he’s glaring at the sandbox like it insulted his bloodline.

"and then he said i looked like a mushroom," she sobs again, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. her voice warbles. her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. her bangs—god. they're a battlefield. uneven, jagged, more suggestion than style. like she challenged a pair of safety scissors to a duel and the scissors didn’t even try.

satoru bends forward, crouching beside her like he’s about to deliver a sacred truth. his long fingers gently cup her tear-streaked face, the scar on his knuckle catching the sunlight as he exhales dramatically. "you are beautiful," he says, like he means it, like he’s declaring something holy. "you look like a high-fashion mushroom. like... couture fungus. like the kind of mushroom anna wintour would cry over."

his daughter hiccups through a giggle. small win.

he pushes her hair behind her ears, lets out a sigh that feels older than he is. he’s only twenty-two, but the weight in his shoulders says thirty-five. he ruffles her hair. "who was it?" he asks, too calm. that special, terrifyingly pleasant calm dads get when they’re about to ruin some six-year-old’s entire lineage.

"hiro," she says, almost sulking now. "he laughed and said i looked like a button mushroom. his mom picked him up after school. she gave me a candy and told me boys are dumb. she was really pretty."

hiro.

satoru blinks. that's your kid. he stares ahead, almost offended by the realization. the same hiro who offered his daughter a capri sun last week like he was proposing marriage. the same hiro who now, apparently, inherited your pettiness like it’s a family heirloom.

he remembers it all too well.

the way you stormed down the hallway in high school, bangs equally doomed, fire in your eyes, shouting at him for the fourth time that month. you always looked cutest when you were mad. he’d called you mushroom head and dodged a flying highlighter.

in his defense, he was sixteen and stupid and thought the way your face twisted in outrage was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. he was in love. tragically, stupidly in love. he just expressed it by emotionally terrorizing you every fourth period chemistry class.

now your six-year-old is carrying the baton like a prodigy. divine retribution, with extra glitter.

he sees you a few days later.

the playground buzzes with kids and shrieks and parents scrolling phones with mild exhaustion. you’re sitting on a low stone wall near the swings, sunglasses pushed into your hair, drink in hand, scrolling your phone with one finger and the smuggest smirk he’s ever seen. your earrings catch the late afternoon sun. your nails are fresh. you’re the picture of composed pettiness.

"gojo satoru," you say sweetly, like you’re greeting a man you’d happily watch trip over a lego.

the way your mouth curves around his name is criminal. he hates how much he notices that. hates how fast his ears burn. he adjusts the collar of his hoodie, trying to look unaffected.

he gives you a dry look. "heard your kid's been practicing stand-up comedy. at my daughter's expense."

you hum, tilting your head. "is that what we’re calling emotional resilience these days? because if he gets it from anyone, it’s me."

satoru eyes you. his hoodie’s stained with dried syrup, there’s a faint bruise on his temple—cabinet incident. his posture’s a little slumped, like sleep is a distant fantasy. he scratches the back of his neck. his fingers tap a silent beat against his thigh.

"he called her a mushroom."

"a cute mushroom," you counter, not missing a beat. "like, toad from mario. he’s a legend."

you sip your iced latte without breaking eye contact. he scowls.

"you taught him that."

"you say that like i wouldn’t weaponize shared trauma."

the corner of his mouth twitches. your words are sweet and soaked in petty, and it’s driving him insane. you’re too calm about it. too good at this.

"you’re enjoying this."

"oh, i’m thriving," you say, leaning back slightly, letting the breeze catch your shirt. "do you know how many years i waited for the universe to do this? it’s like my karmic investment finally matured."

his jaw ticks. "i was a kid. you were cute when you were homicidal."

you laugh, but there’s a bite to it. "i was feral, satoru. you made me snap a pencil with my bare hands."

"still the hottest thing i’ve seen."

the words slip. he bites the inside of his cheek too late. his eyes flick up, reading your face, then quickly dart away.

you blink, slowly. your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. then you scoff, shaking your head with a little smirk, like you’re filing that away for later.

hiro runs past then, thrusting a friendship bracelet toward satoru’s daughter. it’s neon pink, too tight, barely holding together. she takes it like it’s the crown jewels. behind them, someone’s kid faceplants into the mulch. a mom sighs deeply without looking up from her kindle.

"see?" you say, lifting your brows, voice light but smug. "my kid has more emotional intelligence than you did at seventeen."

"okay, that’s—"

"—true," you interrupt, standing. you stretch lazily, fingers laced above your head. your shirt rides up slightly, revealing a hint of skin. he notices. his eyes snap away too fast.

you glance down, lips curling with practiced sweetness. "how’s it feel? to be on the receiving end of the mushroom prophecy?"

"is this revenge?"

"no," you say, brushing invisible lint from your jeans. "this is me being a good mom. and maybe also petty. definitely petty."

and then—god—you wink. like this is your sitcom and he’s still the fool in love.

satoru groans, slumping on the bench, hands dragging down his face. beside him, his daughter is giggling, her butchered bangs fluttering as she tugs hiro toward the slides.

across from him, your laughter rings out—soft, wicked, triumphant. it curls through the air like the ghost of a grudge with perfect eyeliner, like the echo of a high school hallway where a boy once said "mushroom head" and a girl nearly committed homicide with a highlighter.

god. he’s losing a custody battle against karma. and karma’s wearing lip gloss.

he watches you walk away, heart pounding, throat tight. he never said it. maybe he never will. but god—you still do something to him.

and maybe that's the real punishment.

not the bangs. not the karma.

just the ache of wanting you, after all this time.

[ridingreeves]

𝖮𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖻𝖿𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗑 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

⚠︎︎ 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－explicit smut, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, weed use, fingering, choking (light), rough then tender, praise kink, age gap, daddy kink, possessive behavior, pet names,

𝖠／𝖭－𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈,”𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝖾 out. A𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌mut, 𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾. A𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿or😉

𝖵𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈

You swore it was just a pickup.

Quick text from Smoke:

“Pull up. Got some shit for you. Strong. Like me.”

Always so full of himself.

You threw on something quick—black shorts that barely covered anything and a white ribbed tank you weren’t wearing a bra under. Not to impress him. Just because it was hot out. That’s what you told yourself.

It was close to midnight when you pulled into the back lot of the old mechanic shop he ran his business out of. The lot was mostly empty, except for one car tucked in the far corner—a black Dodge Charger Hellcat with dark tint, chrome rims catching the moonlight.

You walked up slow, your slides hitting the pavement softly, heart thudding just a little too fast for a “casual” visit.

Driver’s window slid down.

Smoke looked at you from the shadows, leaning back in the seat like he hadn’t a care in the world. Low eyes, chain resting on his chest, blunt between his fingers.

When you walked up to Smoke’s car, he already had your blunt lit and seat reclined, like he’d been waiting for you all night. And maybe he had. That look in his eyes when you opened the passenger door said it all.

Low. Dark. Hungry.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered. “I was startin’ to think you ain’t want me no more.”

You smirked. “I came for the weed, old man. Not you.”

That gold-tooth grin of his flashed. “Mmhm. That why your nipples pokin’ through your lil’ shirt like that?”

You rolled your eyes—but still tugged the door open and climbed in.

Inside, it smelled like weed and leather, and cologne that cost more than your rent.

He passed you the blunt, and you took a long pull. The hit was smooth, but strong. Your lungs burned, head floating almost immediately.

“Shit,” you coughed, handing it back. “You weren’t lying.”

“‘Course I wasn’t.” He looked you over again, this time slower. “Now lemme see what else you came for.”

you passed him back the blunt. He took a long drag, settled back into the seat, and stared out the windshield.

You told yourself you weren’t gonna let it happen again. Not in the car. Not when you knew he could make you come just by talking.

But then his hand slid onto your thigh.

Not rushed. Just resting there. Warm and heavy like it belonged.

“You gone sit over there and act cute all night?” he murmured.

You turned in your seat, one leg folding up under you as you faced him, the leather creaking slightly under your movement. You reached over, hand sliding slow up his thigh.

“You always talkin’ like you got somethin’ to prove.”

Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just raised an eyebrow.

“I do got somethin’ to prove. And you touchin’ on it.”

You didn’t respond. Just slid your hand over his. Guided it higher. Past your bare thigh, up the curve of your hip, and right beneath the hem of your tiny shorts.

No panties.

You felt him tense, then exhale deep through his nose.

“Lil’ nasty,” he said, voice low. “You came outside like that?”

You turned your head, voice syrup-sweet. “You told me to come quick.”

The second you said it, he grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss—hard, wet, deep enough to make you dizzy. He kissed like he owned you. Tongue licking into your mouth, hand gripping your ass, pulling you closer until you were straddling him in the front seat.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “I missed this pussy.”

You settled on his lap, the denim of his jeans rough against the inside of your thighs. You could feel him—already thick, already hard.

His hand slid between your legs again, fingers teasing you open. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were.

“Damn. She always ready for me, huh?”

He chuckled low in his throat.

Your eyes fluttered shut when his middle finger pushed inside you, slow and thick. He curled it just right, like he knew your body. Like it was muscle memory.

“Keep takin’ that shit,” he said, watching you grind into his hand. “Look at you, fuckin’ yourself on my fingers like a good girl.”

You whimpered, hips rolling faster.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I got you.”

His voice. His voice made your body obey. Made you fall apart for him in that seat with just his hand buried inside you and his teeth grazing your throat. You clenched around his fingers, back arching as you came fast and hard.

“Mm. Look at you. You was missin’ me.”

You grind your hips against him, slow and deliberate. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You did.

Your mouth crashed into his, and it wasn’t soft. It was teeth, and heat, and him grabbing your ass with both hands, squeezing so tight you moaned into his mouth. His tongue slid past your lips, deep and messy, while your hips rolled against him.

When he broke the kiss, his voice was rough.

“Climb on, mama. Ride me like you mean it.”

You blinked, dazed. “Right here?”

He grabbed your jaw, made you look at him.

“You come to me damn near naked at midnight, sittin’ on my dick in the back of a dark-ass lot, and you got the nerve to be shy now?”

Your pussy clenched, and he felt it. Smirked. That knowing, cocky grin that made you wanna slap him and let him ruin your life.

“Come on,” he said again. “I wanna watch you while you fuck me.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You were on your knees, braced one hand on his chest, the other on the seat. You watched as he unzipped his pants, the heavy sound of his belt loosening making your stomach flip.

He pulled your panties to the side, ran two fingers down your slick folds, and groaned.

“Damn, baby… You drippin’. You need it that bad?”

“Smoke—please—”

He didn’t tease.

He pushed inside you in one deep stroke, and your head dropped forward with a loud moan. He was thick, stretching you open so slow it nearly hurt—but you loved it.

“So deep—” you moaned.

“I know. You takin’ it, though. You always do.”

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, deep inside you, palm on your lower back, watching your pussy pulse around him.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s mine. Every fuckin’ inch.”

“Fuck.” His hands gripped your hips hard. “Pussy still perfect. Grippin’ me like it missed me.”

You tried to respond, but all you could do was ride him. The car rocked with you, windows fogging as your thighs clapped against his. You reached one hand back to brace on his knee, trying to take all of him.

“That’s it, mama,” he groaned. “Take all this dick. You built for it.”

He leaned forward, palm sliding up your back, around your neck, fingers curling lightly at your throat.

“Who’s this pussy belong to?”

“You,” you gasped.

He tugged your head back against his shoulder, slowing his thrusts to grind deep. “Say it again.”

“You, Smoke—fuck, it’s yours—”

That earned you a slap to the ass, then another. You cried out, and he kissed your neck between spanks.

You were shaking. High, cock-drunk, toes curled, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he reached down and rubbed your clit in rough little circles.

Your body started to tremble.

“There she go,” he cooed. “Go ‘head, make a mess. Cream on this dick.”

“You gone let daddy come in this pretty pussy?”

“Yes—yes, Smoke, please—”

“Beg for it.”

“Please,” you cried. “Please fill me up—I want it—need it—”

He groaned. His pace turned mean, messy, punishing. You came again without warning, clenching around him, and he didn’t last long after that—burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a growl against your shoulder.

The car went still. His forehead pressed to your back. His hand rested heavy on your hip.

The car was silent except for the ticking of the engine and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Smoke leaned back, hands still on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your skin.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “That wasn’t what I planned.”

You were still face in his shoulder, giggling softly.

“You always say that.”

He pulled you back gently into his lap, kissed your shoulder. “Only ‘cause you got a way of throwin’ me off.”

“Uh huh.” You shifted, a little whimper leaving your mouth as he slid out of you.

He grabbed a hoodie from the back seat, putting it on you. Then lit another blunt, passed it to you with a look so soft it made your chest ache.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good. Let’s go get you fed before I take you to the house and fuck you right.”

@cremeful

@enchanthings

[luna-azzurra]

How To Write A Chase Scene

Before anyone takes off running, the reader needs to know why this matters. The chase can’t just be about two people running, it’s gotta have a reason. Is your hero sprinting for their life because the villain has a knife? Or maybe they’re chasing someone who just stole something valuable, and if they don’t catch them, it’s game over for everyone. Whatever the reason, make it clear early on. The higher the stakes, the more the reader will care about how this chase plays out. They’ll feel that surge of panic, knowing what’s on the line.

Sure, a chase scene is fast, people are running, dodging, maybe even falling. But not every second needs to be at full speed. If it’s too frantic from start to finish, the reader might get numb to the action. Instead, throw in some rhythm. Use quick, sharp sentences when things get intense, like someone stumbling or almost getting caught. But then slow it down for a second. Maybe they hit a dead end or pause to look around. Those brief moments of slow-down add suspense because they feel like the calm before the storm kicks up again.

Don’t let the setting just be a backdrop. The world around them should become a part of the chase. Maybe they’re tearing through a marketplace, dodging carts and knocking over tables, or sprinting down alleyways with trash cans crashing behind them. If they’re running through the woods, you’ve got low-hanging branches, roots, slippery mud, and the constant threat of tripping. Describing the environment makes the scene more vivid, but it also adds layers of tension. It’s not just two people running in a straight line, it’s two people trying to navigate through chaos.

Running isn’t easy, especially when you’re running for your life. This isn’t some smooth, graceful sprint where they look cool the whole time. Your character’s lungs should be burning, their legs aching, maybe their side starts to cramp. They’re gasping for air, barely holding it together. These details will remind the reader that this chase is taking a real toll. And the harder it gets for your character to keep going, the more the tension ramps up because the reader will wonder if they’ll actually make it.

Don’t make it too easy. The villain should almost catch your hero or the hero should almost grab the villain. But something happens last second to change the outcome. Maybe the villain’s fingers brush the hero’s coat as they sprint around a corner, but they manage to slip out of reach just in time. Or maybe your hero almost gets close enough to tackle the villain, but slips on some gravel, losing precious seconds.

And Don’t let the chase end in a way that feels too predictable. Whether your character gets away or is caught, it should be because of something clever. Maybe they spot a hiding place that’s almost impossible to notice, or they use their surroundings to mislead their pursuer. Or, the person chasing them pulls a fast one, Laying a trap, cutting off their escape route, or sending the hero down the wrong path. You want the end to feel earned, like it took quick thinking and ingenuity, not just dumb luck or fate.

[nomoredying]

watch your six

bodyguard!sevika x popstar!reader

age gap (9 years), unresolved feelings, cunnilingus, ex-military sevika, conversations, angst

you’re late. one of many nice things about being a star is that no one says why are you late or where have you been to you except your agent. not to your face, at least. you’re moving fast, balancing a black coffee in one hand and phone with dozens of scratches on its screen in the other, muttering half-sentences to yourself as you cross the hallway of the studio building. 

and of course the moment you look down at your phone just for a second you slam straight into something. someone.

a coffee splash. a grunt. a low, deep “watch it.”

you think of yourself as a quite tall person. still, you have to look up. a woman. broad, scar down her cheek, shoulders squared like a soldier. you blinks once. nod politely, apologise and forget her face the next second.

the interview goes well. mostly. they ask about the tour. the new album. the rumors. you dodge all the personal questions like you always do — with wit, with charm, with a sharp little smirk that fans love. press eats it up. pr training did not go to waste. 

“i’ll see you around, ally,” you wink at the host, as she gives you her thanks.

put your sunglasses back on and start walking, as your assistant says something about invitation to dinner. and there’s this woman again. just behind you. like it’s nothing. like you’re walking together. you’re body tenses as you slows down.

“can i help you?” a polite question, but your hostile tone makes it clear that it’s more of a fuck off.

“no,” the woman says, tone flat.

and you thought you didn’t need anger management classes.

you stare, “you’re following me.”

“technically,” the woman shrugs, “you’re walking. i’m just doing my job.”

“your—“ you see your driver arriving, “i don’t care,” sometimes that’s all you gotta say to weirdos around you, open the car door and get in.

…unless the weirdo climbs in after you to the front seat. 

you look at the woman, collecting all insulting words you know before your phone buzzes and you pick it up. it’s your agent, “don’t drive yet,” you say to gillian, the calmest woman in her fifties you’ve ever met, who also happens to be your driver.

“did you meet her?“ she asks, curious, “apparently, she was in the military. one of the best.” 

you’re genuinely confused, “what? who are you talking about?”

you hear her intentionally loud exhale. you can almost see her rubbing the bridge of her nose, “i told you this several times. security. bodyguard. personal. 24/7. label’s orders. everything for your safety.”

you look at the woman sitting on the front seat, “right. yes. good. bye.” 

“you know that vesper is thinking about buying an island and leaving everything behind,” gillian murmurs. 

sometimes you suspect that she and vesper — your agent — are in a secret marriage. by secret you mean they’re hiding it from you specifically. it’s not hard to picture them sitting in kitchen drinking tea on some sunday evening as they talk about giving you up.

“drive.” you roll your eyes. 

surprisingly, your schedule is clear as a day so you’re being drove right home.

you penthouse is on the 28th floor, big windows, soft light, old movie posters framed and hung on the walls — metropolis, amadeus, les diaboliques. there are records tucked between stacks of vinyl, a guitar signed by someone long dead, a candle that’s been burning for five hours. your home is your safe space. artsy and clean.

and now you have a shadow. a very intimidating one, if you’re honest. the woman — sevika, apparently — stands near the door.

you watch her, “you can stop that. no one’s gonna leap out of the wall.”

“standard procedure,” sevika says. then nods to the hallway. “where am i sleeping?”

you scoff, “you’re sleeping here?”

“contract says on-site.”

“oh god,” you drags your hand down your face, then point, “spare bedroom’s at the end of the hall. don’t touch my shit.”

sevika just lifts an eyebrow, says nothing, and walks down the hall.

you slumps onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. well, you knew what you were signing up to ten years ago, didn’t you? it all comes with a package. constant attention, money, anxiety. 

out-of-their-mind stalkers and personal bodyguards.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you’re walking home back from a little stroll you take to gather your thoughts. headphones on, instrumental playing. 

too loud, because you don’t hear a man calling you. he has to tap your shoulder so you finally look at him and take the heads off.

you recognise the face immediately. slightly rounded face, large eyes, full cheeks. fluffy blue hair. it’s peter. man in his twenties who says he’s been your fan ‘since forever’. you know him because past few years you’ve seen him almost on every public event you went. always in the front, with his big smile and a notebook he wants you to sign. you’re pretty sure he’s already got a collection of your autographs and selfies.

“hi! i’m sorry, i didn’t want to bother you. it’s crazy i’m meeting you here!” peter chuckles.

you raise your eyebrows, surprised, “it is crazy. do you live here?”

“no, but it doesn’t matter,” he brushes it off, “tell me, how are you? you look astonishing, really. really!”

“thank you. i’ve been okay. how about you?” 

peter starts rumbling, going on and on about him loving your new posts in instagram, going to gym every other day just like you, recommending you a movie he watched recently that he’s sure you’ll like, how he can’t wait for your new album, asking when will it be and if some crazy theory about it is true, and how he’s been wanting to approach you but got the courage to do so only now. 

wait, what?

you frown, “what do you mean? i don’t think we’ve personally met anywhere else.”

“well, no, you don’t see me, but i do. you know. on streets, shops, theatres.”

“no, i don’t know,” your heartbeat goes faster, “have you been following me, peter? what are you doing here?” you press. “you know where i live? what, you’ve got a stakeout somewhere near in case i get out of the house?” 

he looks at you, his puppy eyes widened in surprise, “no. i mean yes, i know where you live. but i would never rob you or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about! really, I’m more of an opposite,” peter’s voice absolutely innocent, as if you’re the crazy one.

it makes you frustrated. like the one thing missing in your life was a stalker.

“are you fucking crazy?” you rise your voice. people start looking, “get away from me.”

he doesn’t. no, he steps forward, raising his palm upward in a gesture people use to approach wild animals, “hey, hey. it’s okay.”

“didn’t you hear me? i said get from me!”

peter stops. he frowns, resentful, “don’t talk to me like that. why are you so unfriendly?”

god, sometimes you forget how people can be so…

“because you’re insane and i don’t want to see you anywhere near me.”

and that’s when he gets mad. and not in a i’m-not-your-fan-anymore way mad. no. he reaches in his bag and takes out a fucking gun. yes, you should’ve moved to finland.

“shut up! shut up! you don’t mean that!” he point the gun at you.

you can’t move, your body paralysed. you’ve imagined so many accidents that end up with your death but it’s the first time you might actually be close to that.

“why do you carry a gun?” the only thing you can squeeze out of yourself, your voice lacking any emotions.

“for you! don’t you understand? i want you to be safe.”

you can’t breathe.

“no. no. you’re insane. you need help. i’ll call the police.”

he laughs like a parent would laugh at something silly their toddler said.

“i always loved your humour,” peter takes another step forward. despite his smile, he doesn’t hesitate to hold the gun at your head.

“it’s not— i’m not joking.”

“really?” his smile turns upside down, “that’s too bad.”

and then the bullet goes right through you.

but you don’t feel it.

you wake up choking. 

skin clammy, shirt sticking to your back, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs. it takes you a second to breathe, another to focus. the room is dark. you’ve had this very dream since the day it happened. which isn’t a long time ago, but you would’ve thought you’d get used to it. 

in reality, he didn’t shot you. a stranger knocked him down when he pointed the gun at you. and now peter with cobalt-dyed hair has a restraining order and you have a bodyguard.

you hear footsteps. precise, not stumbling. you’re quick to stand up and grab the first thing within reach — a solid, aluminum bat on your bedside table. a gift from someone who thought it was funny. now you have a use for it. your grip tightens on the bat. you inch out of the bedroom, bare feet cold on the hardwood. go downstairs.

the kitchen light’s on. then you turn the corner, bat raised—

“you planning on bashing my head in?”

sevika’s voice is calm and a little dry. she’s standing at the sink, drinking from a tall glass of water, completely unfazed.

you lower the bat. breathe out. her pulse is a drum in her ears.

“…sorry.”

the older woman shrugs. leans back against the counter. “you looked ready to swing.��

“yeah, well. it’s been a week,” you set the bat on the counter gently and rub your eyes.

“couldn’t sleep?” sevika asks, not looking at you.

you shrug, “nightmare.”

sevika nods. she doesn’t need any further explanations. you watch the way her throat moves when she swallows another sip of water.

“you smoke?”

she glances over, like the question surprised her, “yes,”

“not in my house.”

you’re not sure why you’re saying this like there won’t be no time for setting the rules other than the middle of a night.

“noted.”

you press your lips together, “everybody’s scared of something, right?”

sevika raises her eyebrows at your words, but she doesn’t hesitate when she says, “yes.”

“well, how do you deal with being scared?” 

a beat, “you don’t. you just become better at hiding it,” she’s honest and you appreciate that.

“goodnight,” you murmur finally, already turning back toward the hall, “turn off the kitchen light when you’re done being mysterious.”

“yes, ma’am,” sevika replies, deadpan.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

your alarm goes off at 7:00 sharp.

you jolt awake, already halfway out of bed before your brain catches up. eyes unfocused, limbs moving like wet cement. slow. heavy. zombie mode. 

the mirror doesn’t lie. hair sticking out in every direction, bags under your eyes. you make a face at yourself and head to the shower. hot water helps. not enough, but a little.

a clean towel, robe, moisturiser you hate the smell of but love the results from. then clothes. you in something simple. all black. not really a fashion statement.

you're sipping lukewarm coffee straight from the pot when you hear it — dull, repetitive, thump.  you walk into the living room, still barefoot, to find sevika doing push-ups. muscles on her arms flexing with each rise and fall. they probably could snap you in half.

"is this your version of good morning?" you mumble, voice hoarse.

“want a turn?" she says without looking up. 

“pass.”

no time for breakfast. your assistant texts you twice before you even reach the elevator. something about a rescheduled interview, snacks on the way, new edits on the press release. you type k with your thumb and call the elevator.

sevika walks behind you. just a four calculated steps behind. 

the day begins at 8:15.

first — a studio lot, morning show. the one with the overly enthusiastic host and bright colors that make your brain hurt.

you sit in the chair. smile on. makeup hiding the fatigue. they ask you what inspired the album. you say something about duality and fame. they ask about the tour. you say you’re excited. they ask about the rumors. you say “which one?” and they laugh. it’s all performance. always has been.

in the corner, sevika stands near the exit. arms crossed. eyes sweeping.

you get a coffee afterwards. someone from the show hands it to you like they’re offering a gold medal. you drink half of it. hand the rest to your assistant.

“you could eat something,” sevika says, typing mid-step.

“and ruin my diet of caffeine and paranoia? she doesn’t laugh. not her style, you think. or maybe it’s like with teachers. if they all use same lines their teachers told them, bodyguards look at the nearest statue to train their poker face.

next stop: recording studio. final tweaks, final mixes.

your producer, lena, has been with you since day one. she’s brilliant, chain-smokes like a noir detective, and only speaks in half-sentences when she’s focused. 

“vocals on track four still feel..” she waves her hand vaguely.

“thin?” you offer.

“plastic,” she decides, “you’re not angry enough. go again.”

you do.

sevika waits outside the booth. eyes on the soundboard, unreadable. someone offers her a water bottle. she doesn’t take it.

you take a break at 1:00. something vaguely healthy in a plastic box. you eat three bites while reading over the promo schedule. your assistant hovers, “vesper says wear the green dress tonight. it photographs well.”

“i don’t own a green dress.”

“it’s already tailored for you.”

“fantastic.”

at some point during the day, you start to forget she’s there. sevika. not gone. just part of the pattern now. background. it’s surprising, really, considering that you’ve only known her for two days and already got used to her presence. there is something calming about it. 

but when you’re leaving the building and someone calls your name — someone too close, someone you don’t see right away — she’s already between you and them. you smell gunmetal and smoke.

it’s just a fan. overexcited. loud. sevika lets go the moment she sees that.

you end the day in a dressing room with too-bright lighting and a stylist who talks like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. you wear the green dress. it does photograph well. 

and when it’s all over, when the cameras are off and the lights go dim and the city starts folding into night, you get in the car and let your head rest back.

“home?” gillian asks from the front.

“please,” you say, half-asleep.

and as always, you fall asleep in the car.

it’s not graceful. your neck at a bad angle, jaw slack, mouth probably open. whatever. you’ve slept in worse places. gillian keeps the ride quiet.

your head knocks softly against the window as the car turns. outside, the city glows in its neon hush. inside, your breathing slows. limbs heavy. mind a blur. the green dress itches a little under your coat, but you’re too far gone to care.

gillian parks.

“we’re home,” she says softly, like she always does. you don’t move, “hey,” she tries again, just a bit louder. “you’re home, kid.”

nothing.

she waits, sighs. then leans back over the seat and gives your shoulder the gentlest tap-tap-tap. “kitten. wake up.”

gillian always tries waking you up softly. she knows how much you work and she knows you don’t sleep well enough, no matter what she tells you. her principle won’t let her go full tornado just yet. though you’re pretty sure that’s because she loves you, not because of her ‘principles’. 

“sleepytime’s over.”

still nothing. she shakes her head, clicks her tongue like an exasperated aunt. 

and then—

“wake up,” two words. said low, steady. a command.

your eyes snap open. first thing you see is sevika, standing by the car door, door already open, looking down at you with that same unreadable expression she always wears.

you blink. once. then twice.

“what—“

“she talked,” gillian says from the front seat, cutting in, “she just talked, and you woke up. what the hell.”

you rub your eyes, sit up slowly. brain still fogged, “what time is it?”

“late,” gillian says. but she’s staring at sevika, eyes narrowed with admiration and dramatic betrayal, “you have no idea how long i’ve been trying to figure out how to wake her like that. i sang. i tapped. i played mariah. i once played screamo. nothing.”

sevika shrugs. “military.”

“girl,” gillian puts a hand to her chest. “respectfully, that was sexy.”

you snort. you’re not really awake yet, not really functioning, but watching gillian glare at sevika like she’s just seen a magic trick is funny.

you get out of the car, coat draped over your shoulders like a cape. sevika steps back, gives you space. gillian still watching her like she might steal her techniques while she’s not looking, “next time she nods off,” she tells sevika as they close the door, “you wake her. i’m retired from that nonsense.”

“wasn’t that your job?” you mumble.

gillian doesn’t even look back, “you pay me for the driving, baby. the rest is emotional labor.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

on saturday you wake up at 9.

no alarms. no screaming phones. no makeup callsheets or flashing lights. just sunlight and the luxury of silence. a miracle, really.

you stretch like a cat. everything aches in that delicious way because you actually slept.

your assistant texted the night before, informing you that tomorrow’s schedule is clear and asking if you have any plans she has to write down. your reply was short. hell no.

by 10:30 you’re in a black swimsuit, swim cap and goggles. the pool’s on the last floor of a building vesper once called “disgustingly bourgeois,” which is why you love it. the water is clear, cold and no one else is here.

except, of course, her.

sevika. she sits on the chair near the pool, dressed in black track pants and a plain tee. sunglasses. arms crossed. looking exactly like a soldier guarding a president on vacation.

you dive in.

the first stroke is cold. then rhythmic. you let your brain go quiet. water always helps. shuts out the static. just stroke, breath, stroke.

twenty laps later, you finally stop. hands gripping the edge, chest rising and falling. you glance up. sevika hasn’t moved. still watching. her eyebrows are weirdly judgmental.

you pull off your goggles and push the cap back slightly, “hey,” you call.

nothing. she looks down at you like she’s waiting for you to say something worth walking over for. so you motion her closer. serious expression. urgent.

she stands. approaches slowly. eyebrow raised. the shadow of her body stretches across the tile. stops at the edge.

“what?” flat voice. arms still crossed.

you blink. tilt your head, “come closer.”

“why?”

you don’t answer. you just lean one hand on the edge, the other slipping slightly beneath the surface. when she’s close enough — when she’s right there, looking at you with a mild suspicion — 

you grab her ankle and pull.

her foot slips on the wet tile. and for a second, she almost catches herself. almost. but the floor’s slick and her weight’s shifting and then: splash. like a cartoon. she goes under with all the grace of a brick.

you swim back half a meter, gasping. not from effort, but from laughter. the kind that starts in your throat and ends in your belly. uncontrollable.

her face when she fell— oh god.

you try to keep swimming away, but it’s hard to move when you’re laughing so hard you’re practically crying.

“you should’ve seen your—”

you choke, “your face—“

and then a hand grabs your feet. you shriek, but it’s too late. her grip is so tight. you kick weakly but she’s stronger, faster, annoyed.

“oh shit,” you yelp.

“you think that was funny?”

“yes— yes!” you wheeze, trying to wriggle free, “so funny..”

she pulls you under. not quite rough, just a quick dunk. the water swallows you in one gulp and you surface again sputtering, hair in your face, laugh absolutely unkillable.

“you’re insane,” you cough, wiping your face.

“you started it.”

“i will do it again.”

she gives you a look. unreadable. dangerous. you tread water beside her. chest heaving from laughter.

“you know,” you say between breaths, “for someone paid to keep me alive, you really look like you’re about to drown me,”

sevika shakes water from her face, already swimming toward the edge again, “you’re lucky i didn’t.”

“kinky,” you call after her.

she doesn’t respond. just climbs out of the pool in one fluid motion, water dripping from her shirt, pants sticking to her legs.

you float on your back, grinning up at the sky. for once, the world feels distant. quiet. safe.

maybe this whole bodyguard thing won’t be so bad. that, if she doesn’t quit, of course. you doubt anyone else would be this funny.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

paris smells like money and perfume.

not a metaphor — literally. everything from the airport lounge to the water in your overpriced hotel suite smells expensive.

the fashion show you’ve been invited to is held in an old theatre turned palace turned runway. vaulted ceilings. chandeliers. strange, wonderful things walking past you. you watch from front row. dressed in something sheer, structured, and definitely impossible to wear twice.

afterwards, you end up in polite conversation with camille bellamy. oscar winner. cinema icon. and now she’s complimenting your voice. and touching your arm. and saying she’d “love to work together one day.” you don’t know on what exactly since she acts and you sing, but you happily agree anyway.  nod and say thank you and stay cool, but your insides are confetti

you’re buzzing all the way back to the hotel.

you and sevika walk side by side. her in a black coat, eyes always moving. you in heels that you hate but you still refuse to limp. you’re just about to come in the elevator when a girl approaches.

young. maybe nineteen, maybe twenty-two.

hood up. pale eyes. too focused.

“hi,” she says.

you smile automatically. “hey.”

“i just..” she pauses, “i used to really like your music.”

used to? that doesn’t sound very good. your smile falters. you hear sevika’s steps slow behind you.

“thanks,” you say, cautious. “glad you—”

“but then you changed,” she interrupts. voice higher now. thinner, “you started pretending you were something you’re not. sold out. made everything about image.”

you blink, “i’m not sure what this is, but,”

“you don’t care,” she cuts in again, louder, “none of you ever do. i looked up to you.”

a second passes. then she steps closer. just a step, but fast. that’s all it takes.

sevika’s between you in a blink, “back off,” her hand’s on the girl’s wrist before she even lifts it.

the girl flinches. stumbles back. mutters something like ‘whatever, bitch, you’re not worth it’ and disappears into the night like smoke.

you don’t move for a second, “thanks.”

“that’s the job.” you get in the elevator.

your rooms are next to each other. of course. you throw your shoes off the second you’re inside. grab the champagne from the minibar. stare at the bubbles. then open the door again and knock twice on hers.

she opens it. doesn’t look surprised.

you lift the bottle like a trophy. “come drink.”

“no.”

“come on.”

“i’m good.”

“pretty please,” you drag the word out like a child, “i almost got yelled for being unauthentic. come mourn with me.”

she squints.

you press your hands together in exaggerated begging, “one drink. i’ll be so annoying if you say no.”

“fine.”

you smile. 

inside the room, you sit on the couch in your suite. she takes the armchair. you pour two glasses.

“so,” you say, “how old are you, really?” she gives you a flat look. you smile, “that’s not a weird question.”

still nothing.

“okay, miss mystery,” you roll your eyes. “come on,”

“forty-two.”

you gasp dramatically, “no way. i had you at thirty-nine.”

“thanks,” she says, bone dry.

you drink.

“you were in the army?” you ask, head tilted.

she nods.

“how long?”

“nineteen years.”

“damn, “you sip again, “kids?”

“no.”

“married?”

“no.”

“not even a passionate affair with a war photographer named margot?”

“definitely not.”

you lean your head back. “you’re boring.”

“i’m safe.”

you laugh at that.

“safe,” you repeat, swirling the glass. “yeah. i guess you are.”

you fill the silence with more talking. more drinking. something about modern fashion. something about the way parisians look like they were born smoking and judging. you wouldn’t call yourself particularly talkative, but it feels easy with her.

she listens. she’s good at that. at sitting still and letting you spill. somewhere between your second glass and third overly dramatic retelling of camille bellamy saying ‘darling,’ the idea happens.

cards.

you just mentioned something about playing gin rummy with your vocal coach once, and sevika tilted her head and said, “you play?”

you scoffed. “obviously.”

five minutes later, there’s a battered deck from your travel bag spread across the coffee table, sleeves rolled up, heels abandoned. sevika sitting across from you, sleeves also pushed back, legs apart, focused.

the first game lasts three minutes. she wins. you blink at the score, “wait,”

“next?”

you agree. and lose. again.

the third game’s closer. you’re convinced you’ve got it — nearly slam your hand down in triumph — but she cuts you off mid-motion with a play that wipes your whole setup clean.

“how are you doing this?” you gape.

“math,” she replies.

“no,” you shake your head, pouring another splash of champagne. “you’re cheating. that’s cheating.”

“that’s winning.”

fourth round. fifth. you even try distracting her. waving your arms, humming a random melody, even complimenting her forearms mid-deal.

she doesn’t break. you lose. again.

“this is criminal behavior,” you mutter, stretching out dramatically across the couch, arm flopped over your face like a dead heroine. “this is psychological warfare. you’re humiliating me.”

“you offered,” she says.

“you challenged me!” 

you groan and sit back up. you’re not even mad anymore. you’re— okay. maybe a little mad.

as she’s dealing the next round, your eyes flick up — and there it is. the corner of her mouth. a smirk.an actual smirk. not a twitch. not a shadow. a genuine curve of amusement.

you freeze mid-reach, “wait a second,” her eyes stay on the cards. you narrow yours. lean forward, “you’re enjoying this too much.”

“it’s satisfying.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m not.”

“you are! oh my god,” you put a hand to your chest, “is that a dimple?”

her gaze flicks up, sharp, “no.”

“oh my god,” you gasp again, full drama, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a witness, “you smiled. i didn’t even know your face could do that.”

she looks back at her cards, “play your hand.”

“if i lose again, i’m calling the embassy.”

“you’ll lose.”

you do. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

117 unread messages

30 missed calls

a lot more mentions and tags 

your album is finally out in the open.

you don’t even open them yet. just watch the notifications roll in. promise yourself that you’ll answer them all later and lock the screen.

when you walk barefoot into the kitchen, sevika’s already there, wearing her hoodie. hair tied. eating something straight from the container with massive noise-canceling headphones on. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you.

but you see the screen on her phone. the song playing.

your song.

track four. the sad one with the violins and the breathy chorus. she’s listening to you. well, would you look at that. 

for some reason, you really care about what she thinks about it.

“if you’re not gonna buy the album, at least stream the deluxe version,” you tease and she looks up, slowly. you raise a brow, tilt your head, “so?”

she blinks once. removes one earcup. opens her mouth and your phone rings.

vesper. of course, “hello?”

“it’s out. you’re out. you’re a star! no, you’re supernova. do you hear me? you’re a fucking supernova!”

“hi, vesper.”

“shut up. you’re #5 globally in under three hours. you knocked out two men with guitars. spotify is having a meltdown. i’m having a meltdown!” 

you grin, covering your mouth, “really?”

“you’re going to cannes and i’m buying a horse.”

call ends. you look up again. sevika’s still sitting there, one brow slightly lifted. you try to act chill, “anyway. thoughts on the vocals?”

“they’re good,” she says.

“good?”

“you don’t need me to tell you you’re incredible.”

you roll your eyes and shove your phone into your pocket, “ugh. boring answer. get ready. we have to go.”

when you’re in the car, you hear your music playing.

“this one’s my favorite,” gillian says, tapping the wheel in rhythm. “you sound expensive.”

“i am expensive.”

“oh, i know,”

when you arrive on set of the music video for one of the tracks, it’s all black marble, velvet, shadows, opulence. you’re dressed in deep colours, silks, delicate chains draped across your collarbones. the song is the filthiest one you ever wrote.

gorgeous women with smoky eyes lying across divans and fur rugs. you strut between them. get fed a grape. press a kiss to a girl’s temple. let fingers run over your waist. cameras follow like they’re hungry.

the last scene’s the real killer.

you walk across the room. music loud. lights low. your eyes locked on her. the actress. sitting on the couch. legs spread slightly. smoldering. you’re supposed to straddle her, whisper the lyrics against her mouth, hold her face like she’s the only thing that exists. everything’s perfect.

almost everything.

“i need a second,” the actress mutters. and then she turns green. makeup artists rush. she clutches her stomach, apologizing, eyes glassy, “shit, sorry. something I ate,”

everyone freezes.

the director — a sharp-eyed woman in an oversized blazer and boots — looks around. assesses. calculates. then her gaze lands on the bodyguard.

“you,” she says, pointing at sevika, who’s minding her business near the monitors.

“no,” sevika says it instinctively, immediately.

but it’s too late.

“hair’s perfect. outfit matches. height’s right. you’ll sit. she’ll straddle. no lines. just hands on her thighs. we keep rolling. done.”

“i’m not—” sevika starts, already backing up.

“oh, you’re perfect,” the director says. “don’t move.”

makeup artists start working on her face. she looks very unhappy. you just sit on the edge of a couch, watching this unfold with a little chuckle.

“you good?” you ask when she’s finally dragged into place.

“not the word i’d use.”

you grin, “just hands on my thighs, soldier. you’ll live.”

the camera rolls. the track plays. you walk over, slow and deliberate. she’s sitting on the couch, jaw tight.

you step between her knees. tilt her chin up with two fingers. her eyes meet yours, unreadable. you lower yourself onto her lap, smooth. your knees on either side of her. your hands on her shoulders. her hands, resting on your thighs.

you lean in, lipsinking to the lyrics.

honey, i’d lie if i said i didn’t like it slow

her grip tightens just a little. the camera zooms in. your lips hover over her cheek. her hands are huge and warm and just barely trembling.

you don’t talk after the scene.

the set applauds. someone yells ‘that’s a wrap!’ the director gives you a proud little nod, and sevika disappears somewhere behind the camera with a face that says never speak of this again.

you smile politely. change into your robe. get your makeup retouched. you laugh with the stylist. hug the assistant director. get back to your dressing room. dim lights. lips freshly reapplied.

the door opens and sevika walks in. your bodyguard. your shadow. you look at her through the mirror. she shuts the door behind her like she always does — calm, mechanical. professional.

“are you going to say something?” 

because it looks like she does.

“i didn’t think i needed to,” sevika says. voice low. a little rougher than usual. god, that rasp.

you stand. walk to her slowly and stop right in front of her. your hand lifts, gentle. touches her collarbone. your fingers shake, but not from fear.

you grab her face, crushing your mouth to hers. smearing red across both your lips. oh, she doesn’t hesitate.

her hands land on your waist like they’ve always belonged there. like the scene was nothing compared to this. like she’s been dying to do this. you hope so.

her voice when she pulls back is hoarse, low, wrecked, “that what you wanted?”

you nod. breathe heavy. eyes locked on her mouth.

“yeah.”

you kiss again. slower now. deeper. her fingers flex against your back. she breathes through her nose, jaw tight.

“sit.”

you don’t question it. lean back against the vanity, legs parted just enough for her to step between.

sevika kneels, like it’s instinct. like that’s where she was always meant to be. on the floor, between your thighs, broad shoulders nudging them apart, eyes dark and focused.

“you sure?”

you nod. breathless. aching, really. you need this. need her, “yes.”

she drags your robe open slowly. reverently. eyes on you, never flickering. sevika gazed at the glistening pink folds before her, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal. 

then her mouth is on you. she starts slow and teasing, dragging her tongue along your slit, savouring the taste. her tongue is certainly skilfull. she knows how to treat your pussy just right. eat it all up.

sevika pulls a moan out of you that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve made on stage. pure filth. she smirked against your sex. 

“fuck—” you whisper, head falling back. “don’t stop,” your hands grip the edge of the counter even tighter.

sevika flicked and circled the sensitive nub with the tip of her tongue before sucking even harder on your clit. she gripped your ass, kneading the firm globes.

you come fast and hard — shaking, crying out, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other gripping her shoulder. 

but she doesn’t stop. not until you’re sinking back, boneless, eyes wet, mouth open. but she pulls back eventually, after sucking and slurping as your juices flooded her mouth.

“still want a review of the album?”

you laugh. a soft, broken thing. reach for her.

“get up here.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

once it starts, it doesn't stop.

the tour begins three days later.

city to city. lights. cameras. chaos. and in the middle of all that? her.

she's behind you backstage, arms crossed. she's beside you in hotel elevators, expression unreadable. she's outside your green room, earpiece in. professional. composed.

but behind closed doors? she’s everything but. 

you learn her habits. the way she always locks the door. the way her jaw clenches when you press up against her in a hallway. the way she growls when you whisper something filthy in her ear during a meet & greet. 

the first time she fucks you backstage, it's between outfit changes in a dark corridor.

you're still wearing glitter and nothing underneath.

"we don't have time," she mutters.

you pull her hand between your legs, “then you better hurry."

you come against the wall. thighs shaking. lipstick smudged. and she wipes your mouth with her thumb after, then kisses you like it's the last thing she'll ever do.

on a bathroom on the plane, your head hits the mirror. she’s got you pressed up tight, breathing in your ear.

“quiet,” she warns.

you fail.

you both exit fifteen minutes later. the steward looks away with so much awareness.

in paris, she fucks you against the window.

your handprints are on the glass, legs shaking, lips red and bitten. her voice in your ear, all low and commanding, “louder, baby. let the city hear you.”

in rome, she pushes your dress up the second the door shuts. no greeting. no pretense. just you, up on the desk, her mouth on your chest, your heel digging into her back.

“you can’t wait five minutes?”

“i’ve been waiting all day.”

in berlin, you ride her in a five-star hotel bed with floor-to-ceiling windows.

in prague, she bends you over a marble counter with one hand in your hair and the other over your mouth.

in florence, you beg. she loves it.

in vienna, it’s top floor. balcony. 2:13 a.m.

you’re in her lap. you’re in your robe. she’s in nothing but sweats, one hand gripping your thigh, the other lost in your hair.

she groans into your mouth. you bite her lip. her hand slides down.

neither of you noticed the camera flash.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you find out in the morning.

barefoot, oversized t-shirt (hers), coffee in hand. you scroll through your phone.

until—

“Pop Star Seen Kissing Mystery Woman on Vienna Balcony – Internet Melts Down.”

you freeze. the article is short. the photos.. not so much.

zoomed-in shots from across the street.

your legs on either side of her lap. her hands holding your hips. your mouth on hers. and the headline is everywhere.

gillian walks in — you take her everywhere — sees your face. takes one look at your screen.

“oh fuck,” you don’t respond. just… blink, “does vesper know yet?”

your phone rings. you don’t need to check the ID.

“yes.”

vesper is screaming. very loud.

“you said no windows.”

“i didn’t think anyone would be aiming a telescope at 2 a.m. in fucking vienna!”

“they’re always aiming a telescope at you!” she breathes like she’s pacing, “okay. okay. we have two choices,” she says, “we ignore. ride it out. let the press come up with conspiracies. or we own it. post a statement.“

you rub your eyes.

“this thing… is it serious?” vesper asks. softly, “do i need to prepare for a whole narrative shift?”

you’re quiet. you want to say yes. god, you want to mean it. but you don’t know what she feels. you’ve never asked. you’ve just… touched. kissed. taken. been taken.

“i don’t know,” you admit.

vesper sighs, “okay. well. figure it out. i’m already writing four drafts.”

she hangs up.

so you find sevika outside.

on the hotel balcony. same one. irony’s cute like that. she’s smoking, hair damp. you lean on the doorframe. arms crossed.

“you saw it?” she nods. exhales smoke. doesn’t look at you, “vesper’s spinning.”

“figured.”

you walk closer, “you mad at me?”

“no,” she says, “my boss called. said we crossed a line.”

you sit on the edge of the lounge chair.

voice low, “i didn’t mean for it to get public.”

“i know.”

birds in the distance. wind through the railing.

“i didn’t want you to get in trouble,” you say. “i— i wouldn’t have kissed you like that if i thought—”

“don’t,” she cuts in. gently, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you stare at your hands, “vesper asked if this is serious,” you say softly, “and i guess… i wanted to ask you the same thing.”

her eyes flick toward you, then away. then she says it. flat. simple.

“it’s a mistake.”

you blink, “excuse me?”

she exhales through her nose. cold. detached. like she’s already made her decision and is just waiting for you to get it.

“you’re a global pop star,” she says. “i’m someone who got assigned to protect you. this—” she gestures vaguely between you “—was a slip. it shouldn’t have happened.”

your chest stings. you try to laugh. it comes out broken.

“you didn’t seem to mind it happening when you were between my fucking legs,” her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t rise to it, “that’s the reason? because i’m me and you’re you?” you snap, mocking. “what the hell does that even mean?”

she looks at you then. expression unreadable. like she’s been expecting this tantrum.

“it means you’re young. famous. emotional. and i’m a former soldier who was hired to keep you breathing,” she says, voice patient in a way that makes your blood boil, “i’m not someone who belongs in your life.”

“don’t talk to me like i’m a child,” you snap.

she raises an eyebrow, “i’m not. but if you don’t understand the problem here, then maybe you are too young.”

your voice rises — sharp now, hurt twisted into rage.

“stop acting like you know me. like you know what i need.”

“i know what this would look like,” she says. “it would look like me using you. sleeping with a client. taking advantage of a girl who can’t see the difference between obsession and affection.”

you stare. you actually laugh. but there’s no humor in it, “you think that’s what this is? obsession?”

she shrugs. stoic. bitter.

“i think it’s not going to last. you’re gonna meet someone your age, someone who doesn’t carry a gun and a file of your emergency escape routes.”

“i’m not sixteen. we’re nine years apart, not nine decades,” you bite.

“nine years is enough.”

“for what? for you to feel like the fucking martyr here? like you’re saving me from some grand tragedy?”

her voice stays calm. 

“i’m protecting both of us.”

“no. you’re running.”

that finally gets her. a muscle jumps in her jaw. she looks away.

you feel your throat burn. you nod. slow. then step back.

“okay.”

you turn on your heel. through the room and out the door.

you don’t look back. you don’t know if you want to cry, scream, or throw something off the damn roof and you don’t know where you’re going — down the stairs, through the hallway, out of the hotel into the cool air of vienna at sunrise. and she follows.

you can hear her boots behind you. always the four steps. you spin around so fast it startles a couple passing by, “are you seriously following me?”

her hands are in her jacket pockets. face unreadable. voice flat.

“making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“what am I gonna do? throw myself into the danube over a bad fucking breakup that never even counted?”

she doesn’t answer.

“jesus christ,” you say. “this is humiliating.”

you turn again. walk faster. cross a street. she still follows. you duck into a small park with an old stone fountain in the middle. a few benches. some pigeons. early morning silence.

you sit down hard. she stands a few feet away. watching. silent, “you can go now,” you say, not looking at her.

“no.”

you sigh. this is pathetic. you’re pathetic.

you sit there on that bench in the middle of some quiet vienna park while the sky slowly shifts from dark blue to pale gold. and she finally comes closer. sits next to you.

you can’t look at her. you just can’t. instead, you stare straight ahead. and when you speak, your voice is tight. cracked. real.

“you know what’s funny?” you laugh once, bitter, “you’re the first person in years i’ve wanted to actually talk to,” she doesn’t move, “not just fuck or flirt and forget about it. like.. talk. for hours. about everything. anything. nothing,” you swallow, “the first person i imagined waking up next to, not after something wild in hotel. real mornings. that domestic shit.”

she turns her head toward you. you keep going. eyes still forward. throat aching, like you’re about to cry.

“i’ve had more people tell me they love me than i can count. most of them don’t even know me. and i never cared,” you pause, “but if you ever said it, i think it would ruin me.”

that’s when you finally glance at her. she’s staring at you, her eyes wide. you don’t see it written on her face, but she’s shaking. you reach up. touch her arm.

“maybe you do think it’s a mistake. well, no matter how i’d like it, you don’t have to want me back, of course. i just needed to say it.”

then her mouth opens, like she’s about to speak. but nothing comes out.

you whisper, “sev,”

and suddenly sevika moves. she pulls you into her arms instead of trying to say whatever she wanted to say. you end up curled against her chest, her hand behind your head, holding you there.

you can hear her heartbeat. it’s fast. her hand strokes through your hair. over and over. you feel her arms tighten just a little more.

like maybe that was her answer.

tags: @riotstemple29

[inseobts]

Weird request but can you do a luffy x reader where reader is cursed to speak in echos. Like in the Greek mythology echo. Hope I'm not too late

Echoes of You

luffy x gn!reader

a/n: aaaaaaaaah the last request ommmmg

words count: 2.8k

tags: curse au, greek mythology inspired, fluff, humor, mystery, slow burn, adventure

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea wind is warm. The sky is clear. And Monkey D. Luffy is hungry.

"Meat!! Where’s the meat?!"

You sit on a barrel at the edge of the dock, watching the strange pirate in a red vest shout at thin air. His voice is loud. His hat is straw. His stomach growls like a lion.

You say nothing. You can’t say much anyway.

"Hey!" he turns and spots you "You! Are you from this island?"

"...this island..." you echo.

Luffy blinks "Huh? That’s weird."

"...that’s weird..."

He walks over, fast and curious like a child.

"What’s your name?"

"...your name..."

"Eh?! Why are you copying me?!"

"...copying me..."

He squints "Are you a parrot?"

You shake your head quickly. Then point at your throat. Then shrug.

Luffy tilts his head "You can’t talk right?"

"...talk right..."

"Aah! So you're cursed or something!"

You nod.

"Cool!"

"...cool..."

"Wait, no. That’s not cool." he frowns, rubbing his chin "Curses are bad. But I’ve met a lotta cursed people. Like Brook! He's a skeleton."

You stare at him. What kind of life is this guy living?

"I’m Luffy," he says proudly, pointing at himself "King of the Pirates!"

"...Pirates..."

You nod again, quietly amused.

He grins wide "Wanna come on my ship?"

"...your ship..."

"Yeah!" he laughs "You’re funny. And you look lonely."

You look away "...lonely..."

"...Me too, sometimes." he adds, quieter now.

You look at him again. He doesn’t look sad. But there’s something in his eyes... a soft, faraway thing.

Suddenly, he grabs your hand.

"Let’s go! We’ve got lots of meat and a weird deer doctor and a robot and—oh! Nami might yell, but she’s nice!"

You try to speak, try to say thank you...

But all that comes out is "...nice..."

He smiles anyway, like he understands. Like he hears the real you through the echo.

The ship is big. Not huge, but it feels alive.

You stare at the lion-shaped head at the front.

Luffy grins “Cool, right? That’s Sunny! Our ship!”

You tilt your head.

"...Sunny..."

“Yup! Franky built him! He’s our shipwright. He’s super strong and goes SUUUPER loud!”

You flinch when he yells the last word. He laughs.

“Sorry! I get excited.”

You smile a little and step aboard.

The ship creaks gently under your feet. Seagulls cry overhead. You look around, deck, masts, ropes, sails, a mini garden? A fridge bigger than your house?

Everything feels strange and loud. Not just sound. Loud in energy.

You point at the fridge.

“Oh! That’s where Sanji keeps the food.”

Your stomach growls.

Luffy’s does too. His eyes light up “Wanna eat?!”

"...eat..."

“Let’s go!”

He runs ahead. You follow, not sure why. You don’t even know these people.

But something about him makes your feet move.

Inside the kitchen, a blonde man in a suit is chopping vegetables with fire in his eyes.

“Luffy, don’t you dare—”

“SANJIIIII I BROUGHT A FRIEND!”

He dodges a flying spoon.

“You can’t just bring people on board like strays!”

"...strays..." you mutter, suddenly unsure.

Sanji notices you. His expression softens.

“Oh. You're actually cute. Sorry about him.”

You raise an eyebrow. Cute?

Luffy, already opening the fridge, shouts, “They talk weird!”

"...talk weird..."

“They only repeats stuff.” Luffy says, mouth already full.

Sanji blinks “Cursed?”

You nod. Slowly.

“Poor one,” he says gently “You want something to eat?”

"...to eat..."

He chuckles and makes you a plate. Warm rice, veggies, meat.

You blink. You almost forgot what kindness felt like.

Luffy sits next to you, eating loudly. Talking even louder.

“I once ate 50 meat skewers in 10 minutes.”

"...10 minutes..."

“Zoro tried to beat me, but he passed out.”

"...passed out..."

“He’s dumb.”

A sleepy voice from the hallway growls, “I heard that, idiot.”

Luffy laughs. You smile again, just a little.

Later, you're sitting on the deck. The sea sparkles. You lean over the railing and watch the waves.

You hear a thump behind you. Luffy flops down beside you, chewing on a bone.

“What’s it like? That curse?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

"...curse..."

He doesn’t seem to mind “I think you’re cool anyway.”

You look at him. Really look.

He’s smiling at the sky like it’s the most normal thing to say.

You echo softly.

"...cool..."

Months Later

You don’t remember the last time you felt out of place on the Sunny.

Nami yells at Luffy every morning. Zoro naps everywhere. Chopper checks your heartbeat too often. Sanji feeds you like he’s your second mom. Brook keeps asking if he can see your... well, never mind.

And Luffy is still Luffy.

Jumping into the sea without thinking. Laughing at clouds. Screaming about meat like it’s treasure.

But now, you watch him longer than before.

You catch yourself smiling at things you didn’t use to smile at.

The way his hat bounces when he runs. The sparkle in his eyes when he sees a new island. How he always offers you the last bite, even though he’s clearly still hungry.

You’re starting having feelings.

And it’s obvious.

To everyone but him.

“Hey, Y/N,” Nami says one afternoon, stretching in a lounge chair “You’ve got that look again.”

"...that look again..."

She smirks “Y’know. The Luffy look.”

You pretend not to hear. You stare out at the sea, cheeks warm.

Robin’s nearby, reading a book. She glances over and smiles knowingly “It’s cute.”

"...cute..."

“Don’t worry,” Nami says “We won’t tell him.”

Brook appears beside you suddenly “Yohohoho! But if I did tell him, would you die of embarrassment?”

You sigh, flopping onto the deck "...die of embarrassment..."

Later, you’re in the kitchen. Sanji’s chopping onions.

“Ah, young love,” he says dramatically “I can taste it in the air.”

You blink.

“I mean, it’s obvious,” he grins “The way you look at him like he’s made of sunshine and meat.”

You groan quietly "...sunshine and meat..."

“Exactly!” Sanji laughs “You poor thing.”

You try to act normal.

You help Chopper sort herbs. You dodge one of Franky’s explosions. You play cards with Usopp and Zoro.

But when Luffy walks in the room, it’s like gravity tilts.

“Hey, Y/N!” he grins, face covered in sauce “Wanna race me to the crow’s nest?!”

You blink "...race..."

He grabs your hand before you can answer, just like that first day.

And your heart does something stupid. Again.

You reach the top, both of you breathless and laughing. Wind in your hair. Sky above you like a painted ocean.

Luffy flops down and stretches out his arms.

“Man, I’m glad you came with us.” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

“You’re fun. I don’t get what your curse is, but you’re cool.”

Your chest aches.

You want to say so much more than you can.

So you echo.

Soft, honest.

"...cool..."

Luffy grins at you, eyes shining like always. He doesn't notice your flushed face.

You stare at him, hopelessly smitten.

Below, Nami, Robin, and Sanji peek from the lower deck.

“Y/N is so obvious.” Nami whispers.

“Luffy is so dense.” Sanji groans.

Robin just laughs softly “It’s only a matter of time.”

More months pass.

By now, you’ve stopped pretending.

You’re in love with Monkey D. Luffy.

Not a crush. Not a maybe. Not a question.

You know it now, deep and sure, the way you know the sea is wide and the stars are high.

You still can’t say it.

But you feel it.

Every time he grins at you with food in his mouth. Every time he jumps in front of danger like he’s made of rubber and courage. Every time he reaches out to grab your hand without thinking.

And so, you start to show it.

In small ways.

You write notes.

“That was stupid.” “You’re going to fall off the mast.” “You’re amazing.”

Sometimes you doodle him with his silly wide smile and giant hat. Sometimes you leave a little meat draw at the bottom of the page. He loves that.

He just… doesn’t read into it.

He always laughs and pats your head.

"You're funny!"

Or "This looks cool!"

Or the worst one "Thanks! But I like it better when you use your hands."

That makes your heart stop the first time he says it.

"...hands..."

“Yeah!” he grins, mouth full “Like when you push me, or pull me, or poke me when I fall asleep during Nami’s maps!”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t notice. He just keeps eating.

You want to scream. Or hug him. Or both.

Now, you touch more.

You ruffle his hair when he’s sitting still (rare). You fix his hat when it slips sideways. You flick his forehead when he’s chewing too loud.

You lean against him during long sails. At first, you thought he’d pull away.

But he never does.

He leans right back. Like it’s normal. Like you’re a pillow he was always meant to have.

One quiet night, you both sit on the deck under the stars.

Everyone’s asleep. The wind is soft. Luffy’s eating the last of the fish Sanji grilled.

You hand him a folded note.

He opens it.

Inside is a simple drawing of the Sunny, the crew, and you and him at the front, standing side by side, a little closer than the rest.

He tilts his head.

He looks at you, grinning “You’re getting better at drawing!”

You nudge his shoulder.

He laughs, leaning against you “But I still like using your hands.”

You blink.

"...hands..."

“I like that,” he says casually “It’s like you’re talking anyway. With your pokes and tugs and stuff.”

You stare at him, heart loud in your chest.

He doesn't get it.

Not yet.

But he feels something. You know he does. Somewhere in that loud, brave heart of his.

Maybe he’s not ready.

Maybe you’re not ready.

But tonight, sitting beside him under stars, your shoulder against his…

It’s enough.

For now.

It's been more than one year since you're with the crew now.

The sea has changed. The crew has changed. You’ve changed.

And maybe… he has too.

Luffy is still Luffy... loud, fearless, hungry... but you’ve noticed new things.

Sometimes, when you touch his arm, he pauses a little too long.

Sometimes, when you laugh at his jokes, he stares for a second longer than needed.

And sometimes, like now, when you’re both alone under the stars, he gets quiet.

Not sleepy. Not bored.

Just… thinking.

He lays beside you on the deck, hands behind his head, hat tilted back. You lie on your stomach next to him, swinging your legs lazily.

He sighs.

"Aaah, I love the stars."

Your eyes widen.

Something sparks in your chest.

You sit up, turn quickly to him, and gesture.

A circle in the air. Then point to your ear.

Repeat that.

“Huh?” Luffy blinks “The stars?”

You shake your head, then motion again, slower, more direct.

Say the sentence again.

He squints, confused. Then shrugs "I love—"

You shoot your hand out and press a finger to his lips.

He freezes.

You lean in just slightly and echo softly, for once fully in control.

"...I love..."

He blinks up at you “…the stars?”

You shake your head.

He blinks again “Meat?”

You shake again.

“Cake?”

No.

“The sea?”

No.

He groans, flopping backward like a kid “Ughhh, this is hard!”

You giggle silently, then touch his arm gently. He turns his head toward you again.

"You’re really cute when you—"

You stop him again, finger to lips, slower this time.

"...You..."

He tilts his head, brain clearly spinning now.

“…You?”

You nod.

He hesitates, points at himself “Me?”

You nod again.

He frowns, trying to rewind the moment in his head “…I love… you?”

Your eyes shine.

You nod.

Your lips part.

You whisper, finally, with every piece of courage you have left "...I love you..."

His mouth opens slightly. But no sound comes out.

His eyes go wide. Shocked. Silent.

You watch him. Waiting.

And then…

You panic.

Did he not mean it? Did you just...

But before fear can fully wrap around you, his arms do.

He pulls you in, tight and sudden. His chin rests on your shoulder. He’s warm. Real. His chest is pounding just like yours.

You freeze.

Then slowly… melt into the hug.

“…You really do?” he asks quietly, still stunned.

You nod into him.

“…Wow...” he says.

You feel him smiling now “I didn’t know what it was. But I think I feel the same thing.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His hat’s tipped forward again.

He lifts it and looks at you with his usual grin but this time, it’s soft.

“I like you a lot, Y/N... I love you too.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t say much.

But you don’t need to.

Your just touch his face gently, your fingers telling him everything your voice can’t.

And he smiles wider than the sea.

He hugs you again now but the hug lasts longer.

Longer than you thought Luffy would know how to hug.

He’s not saying much. You don’t need him to.

His arms around you already said it all.

“I love you too.” he repeats, a little softer now.

Like he’s still trying to believe it himself.

You pull back slowly, just enough to see his face.

His smile is small now. Real. No yelling. No food in his mouth. Just him. Just you.

“Hey…” he murmurs, touching your hand “I don’t really know what to do next.”

You blink.

He scratches his cheek, suddenly bashful “I mean, I feel it. But… do we do something? Like, a handshake? Or…”

He pauses.

“Is this when people kiss?”

You hold your breath.

He looks dead serious.

“Do I have to do something with my mouth?”

You let out a soft, choked laugh.

He’s ridiculous.

You love him.

You really, really love him.

So you nod.

Then you touch his face. Gently. Carefully.

Your fingers brush his jaw. His cheek. His hat.

He goes still. His eyes stay locked on yours now, like he’s waiting for instructions.

“…You wanna show me?” he asks, voice quiet.

You nod again.

Your hand moves from his cheek to the back of his neck, and you lean in slowly.

He doesn’t move.

But he watches your lips.

And then, finally…

You kiss him.

Soft. Careful. Just a few seconds.

You don’t press too hard. You don’t try to make it more than what it is.

Just a quiet I love you against his mouth.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide.

Then…

A huge grin.

“...That was weird.” he says.

Your heart drops a little.

“But really nice.”

Your heart jumps back into place.

He tilts his head “So… we can do that again whenever we want, right?”

You nod. Blushing hard.

He pokes your forehead lightly “You’re all red.”

"...red..."

He chuckles “You’re really cute when you do that.”

You press your hand over your mouth, trying to hide the biggest smile you’ve ever had.

He takes your hand and laces his fingers with yours.

The stars are still above you. The sea still sings below.

But your whole world is sitting right in front of you now, smiling like he just discovered a new kind of treasure.

The next morning is normal.

Sort of.

Nami’s yelling at Luffy for stealing tangerines. Zoro’s asleep in a hallway. Sanji’s making enough food for three armies. Chopper is bouncing around, asking if your face is still red.

You’re trying to act natural.

Not easy, after kissing your captain under the stars like a dramatic romance novel.

You walk into the dining room. Luffy’s already halfway through breakfast.

“Hey,” he says, chewing “Did you guys know Y/N told me they love me?”

Silence.

Utter silence.

Usopp chokes on his juice.

Sanji drops a pan.

Nami freezes mid-coffee sip.

Robin slowly lowers her book.

“…What?” they all say, almost in unison.

Luffy nods proudly “Yeah! Last night. It was cool.”

“Waitwaitwaitwait—” Usopp waves his hands “You’re saying Y/N said I love you?”

You blink, holding back laughter.

You can feel all eyes on you.

“…They can’t say that.” Nami says, raising a brow “Not first. That’s literally their curse. This means YOU said it first.”

Luffy grins “Yeah, but they did. Kinda.”

He sets his cup down and explain all the scene of you trying to let him say "I love..." and then "...you".

Zoro’s eye opens from across the room “…That’s actually smart.”

“Aaah! So romantic!!” Chopper squeals.

Nami smacks the table “THAT’S ADORABLE.”

“Gyaaaaaaah!!” Usopp holds his head like it’s about to explode “That’s, like, pirate legend level cute!!”

Robin chuckles softly “It’s very you two.”

Sanji is on the floor, sobbing into a towel “My heart—! I raised them so well—!”

Luffy’s just smiling like it’s no big deal “I said it back, obviously.”

Everyone turns to you.

You just stare back, completely red "...obviously..."

You want to vanish into the sea.

But then Luffy reaches over and grabs your hand again, totally casual.

And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing becomes background.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back smiling at you with his best and biggest smile.

[syrecjh]

ugh imagine bakubabes with reader who's equally as strong as he is, and just dont gaf when he insults her or smth like that, but insults him back with things that hid 100x harder and almost always wins against him during sparring/training?!?!?!

(She nonchalant and strong like dat ❤���)

-much adoration and admiration, ∆

──★˙👄 ̟ !! On Top Again

Literal and not-so-literal.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The training mats of Gym Gamma were slick with the sweat of half the class, but all eyes were fixed on you and him.

Bakugo.

Again.

It was always you and him now.

You were the girl they used to overlook — quiet, aloof, the kind who barely spoke unless spoken to. Nonchalant, like you couldn’t care less. Like you had better things to do than brawl. And yet — the moment you sent Bakugo sprawling across the training hall—everything shifted.

You didn’t just come to spar.

You came to win.

And since then, you’d been his favorite opponent.

The match was brutal. Feral. Beautiful in the way two storms collided. Neither of you held back — why would you? He was loud, wild, an inferno in human form. And you — quiet, composed, unbothered— at least on the surface. With everyone else, you were all cool indifference and disinterest. But with him?

You were present.

Focused. Intent. Chalant as hell.

Until the final blow.

Your heel found his chest in a clean, merciless strike that sent him onto the mat with a loud thud. A beat passed. Then you were on him — knees braced on either side of his hips, hair sticking to your temples, breath steady despite the burn in your lungs. You didn’t sit on him, but you straddled dominance like a throne.

"Pinned.”

Your voice is cool, as always — a thread of amusement woven through the breath you exhaled just above his chest. He’s flat on his back, a fresh scuff smeared across the bridge of his nose from the last dodge-roll gone wrong.

“That's nineteen to six,” you said with a smirk, your fingers brushing imaginary dust off your uniform. “Losing your touch, Katsuki?”

He scowled. “Fuck off.”

You leaned in closer — not intimately, but intentionally,

“Getting weak in your old age? You need Deku to hold your hand next time?”

That did it. His crimson eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I don’t hit girls.”

You laughed — a soft, low sound that sparked something dangerous in his chest. “Please. Hit me. I’d like to win by knockout for once.”

He huffed, cheeks flushed. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Funny. You’re the one beneath mine right now.”

And then—then—he did the unthinkable.

He grinned. Slow. Crooked. Wolfish.

A Katsuki Bakugo kind of grin.

“Well,” he said, voice gravel-rough, “I actually like a woman on top.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Your smirk falters — just slightly. Because he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. Not entirely.

You could feel the heat rising in your skin, just beneath the practiced calm. Your hands — braced near his head — tensed slightly. And he noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked every shift, every breath, every crack in your mask, but you recover fast, cocking your head as you look down at him. “Careful, Katsuki. People might think you're flirting.”

“And what if I am?” he shoots back, and it’s not loud — no explosions, no bark, no swagger. It’s quieter. More dangerous than any blast he’s ever thrown at you.

You swallow something heavy, your throat suddenly dry. Your hands curl slightly against the mat on either side of his head. His eyes flick there, catch the shift in tension, then come back to yours — always looking, always daring.

You lean in, close enough for him to smell the shampoo in your hair, the sweat on your skin, “Then you better hope I don’t flirt back.”

He doesn’t blink. “Try me.”

But the whistle blows — Aizawa’s shout cutting through the thick, heated pause. Time’s up. You blink once, slowly, like waking from a dream, then push off of him and get to your feet in one fluid motion.

“Better luck next time, Boom Boy.”

You offer him a hand.

He takes it.

Your grip is tight.

So is the knot coiling deep between you both.

This isn’t over.

It never is.

As he passed, his shoulder brushed yours. You didn’t turn, didn’t smile, but you did call after him — voice flat, face unreadable:

“Try not to fantasize about me tonight.”

He turned halfway, gaze half-lidded and smug. “Can’t fantasize about something I’ve already dreamed of.”

Your smirk faltered.

Touché.

[illumeew]

gojo x reader. you're sparring during melee combat training, until you're not.

cw very suggestive (you get caught again, but honestly it's both your faults lmao)

“again.”

you swipe a sleeve across your brow, breath coming hard and fast. your body aches, bruised and burning from the inside out, not from cursed energy but from throwing yourself full force against him.

across from you, satoru stands loose and cocky, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. his shirt sticks to his chest, soaked at the collar, and his white hair is messier than usual—your magnum opus.

“getting tired already?” he asks, rolling his neck and shoulders. “we’ve only been at it an hour.”

“you talk a lot for someone who just kissed the floor five minutes ago.”

his smirk twitches. “yeah? you gonna make me do it again?”

you charge at him.

he dodges easily—as he always does—but you pivot fast, swinging your leg low for a sweep. he hops back. you go for the follow-up elbow, and he catches it barehanded, stepping in until his chest nearly brushes yours.

“close,” he breathes. “so close.”

you twist out of his grip, plant your heel, and jab a punch toward his ribs. he parries, grabs your wrist, and spins you into the wall behind. not slamming, not hurting, just enough to say he could’ve. just enough to make it feel like dancing with a loaded weapon.

his hand is braced near your shoulder, body caging you in. your pulse is thundering and you’re starting to realize it’s not from the fight anymore.

“don’t touch me,” you snap.

“then stop looking at me like that.”

the words land too close, and you shove him back. he doesn’t resist, but doesn’t go far, either, then you follow with a punch to the shoulder. it's not your hardest, but just enough to feel your fist connect.

“i’m not looking at you,” you mutter.

“you always do.” he says matter-of-factly. “it’s okay. i look at you too.”

you move again, frustrated, reckless, and maybe just done pretending, but this time he blocks, catches your wrist, and pulls you forward. one sharp step and he has you pinned again, forearm across your chest, breath hot near your jaw.

“you’re angry.”

“no shit.”

“but not just at me.”

“get off me, gojo.”

he doesn’t move. he lowers his head slightly, his mouth at your ear now.

“say my name again.”

you stiffen, the air between you thick with heat and sweat and a little something else.

“…satoru.”

and then he snaps.

he grabs your waist. you pull his collar in response, and then your mouths crash together like you're trying to knock each other unconscious. your teeth click against his, hands clawing at his shirt, while his fingers slide beneath the edge of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself to something, to you.

you taste frustration, adrenaline, maybe even fear, and it’s all coming from you.

your back hits the wall again, his knee is between yours, your hand is tangled with his hair, but neither of you are stopping. your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can feel it.

it’s not slow. it’s starving.

and the worst part?

you like it.

you want it.

a smirk creeps onto his face against the kiss, his breath hot against your mouth, as he continues to palm at the skin of your lower back, even going as far as to inch down your body slowly until you feel his hands squeeze at your ass above the uniform.

you gasp into the kiss and pull away. his eyes watched you, the way sweat trickled down the sides of your face, the flush of your cheeks, and the reddening of your lips from how swollen it was.

and he thinks, i did that.

“this is stupid,” you whisper.

he’s smiling, cocky and breathless. “so are we.”

you’re about to shove him again when you hear a series of claps that sounded an awful lot like sarcasm.

you both freeze, turning to the source. standing in the doorway is suguru, unimpressed. “wow. real professional. exactly what yaga meant when he said ‘discipline.’”

shoko leans in next to him, dragging on a cigarette. “so... do we pretend we didn’t see it again, or start a betting pool for the third one? ‘cus i know i’d win.”

suguru huffs, a coy smile on his face. “third time’s a charm, after all.”

you bury your face in your hands.

gojo just waves, still ever so smug. “same time tomorrow?” he says, like he didn’t just make out with you during combat training.

you glare at him, then nod begrudgingly.

because of course you do.

i was so busy with work omg T-T also i am so sorry if the sparring is absolute crap, i am so bad at writing action scenes

[feverish-dove]

Secrets in the Stone World

moments when you share a hidden language with the worlds favorite scientist (well technically he’s the only one, so does it really count?). “this is normal japanese” “this is english” Senku Ishigami x Reader warnings: oneshot, fluff word count: 1,051 cross posted on ao3 this is intended to be a sequel to my other post, Sun Kissed Science, yet can be read as a standalone work!

It had become a daily ritual.

Each morning before the village awoke you sat near the river, carefully applying Senku’s homemade sunscreen. The mixture, though slightly grainy, had saved your skin from the brutal Stone World sun, and you weren’t about to risk another burn.

Today was no different. You were finishing up, rubbing the last bit onto your arms, when a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“You’re up early.”

You glanced up to see Senku standing a few feet away, arms crossed and that usual confident smirk tugging at his lips. His clothes were slightly disheveled, as always, and a few stray strands of hair fell down even more than usual.

You smiled. “I could say the same to you.”

He let out a chuckle. “Science doesn’t wait.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the warmth in your chest. Ever since Senku had made the sunscreen, you’d started spending more time around him—not just because of his intelligence, but because he made the Stone World feel a little less… overwhelming.

He stepped closer, eyeing your sunscreen application with an approving nod. “Looks like you’ve got it down.”

“Of course. I take my sun protection very seriously.”

He smirked. “Good. I don’t feel like making another batch every few days just because you forgot.”

You nudged him playfully, and he easily dodged, chuckling.

Then, before you could say anything else, a voice called out from the village.

“Hey! Senku! We need your help with—”

You winced, struggling to catch the rest of the sentence. The villagers spoke fast, and even though you had learned Japanese before the petrification, it still took you a few extra seconds to process what they were saying.

Senku, of course, noticed immediately.

His gaze flickered to yours, sharp and calculating. Then, in a lower voice, he said something that made your heart stop.

“Do you want me to translate?”

Your breath hitched.

English.

Your native language.

It had been so long since you’d heard it spoken fluently that for a moment, it almost didn’t register.

You stared at him, stunned, before managing a hesitant, “You… speak English?”

Senku smirked, eyes glinting. “Of course I do. I learned it when I was a kid. Comes in handy, don’t you think?”

A slow smile spread across your face. “You have no idea.”

For the first time in years, you felt a sense of ease wash over you. No struggling to find the right words, no awkward pauses while you pieced together sentences—just effortless conversation.

And judging by the look in Senku’s eyes, he understood exactly how much this meant to you.

From that day on, English became your secret language.

Whenever you got stuck in a conversation with the villagers, Senku would subtly switch to English to help you out. Whenever you were overwhelmed, he’d make an offhanded joke in English just to see you smile.

It became second nature.

The others, of course, were completely baffled.

“Why do you guys always talk in that weird code?” Kohaku had asked one day, arms crossed. “Is it some kind of secret science language?”

Senku had just smirked. “Something like that.”

You had to stifle a laugh.

The only person who caught on was Gen.

One evening, as you sat near the fire, Gen plopped down beside you with a lazy grin.

“So, you’re fluent in English, huh?”

You nearly choked on your food. “Wait—you too?”

Gen chuckled, resting his chin on his hand. “Of course~! I used to travel a lot before the petrification, so I picked it up along the way.”

You gaped at him before turning to Senku, who looked entirely unsurprised. “You knew?”

He shrugged. “Gen’s annoyingly talented. It’s not that shocking.”

Gen feigned offense. “Annoyingly? Senku, I’m hurt.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, so it’s just the three of us, then.”

Gen wiggled his eyebrows. “Ooooh, does that mean we have a secret club?”

Senku rolled his eyes. “It just means we have another way to communicate. Which, by the way, could be useful if we ever need to discuss something privately.”

You nodded, understanding immediately. Having a language that no one else knew could be an advantage—especially in situations where secrecy was necessary.

But even beyond that, it was nice.

Nice to speak without stumbling over words. Nice to feel completely understood.

Nice to share something with Senku.

One night, you found yourself sitting beside Senku near the edge of the village, watching the stars.

It had been a long day. You were tired, but your mind was too restless to sleep.

Senku seemed to notice.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, glancing at you.

You sighed, hugging your knees. “It’s nothing. Just… thinking about the past.”

He hummed in understanding. “You miss it?”

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “You’ll see it again, you know. Civilization. Science. Everything we lost. I’ll bring it all back.”

You turned to him, studying his profile in the moonlight. His expression was unreadable, but there was a fire in his eyes—a determination so unwavering that you almost believed he could rebuild the world overnight.

Your heart clenched.

“I know you will.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Damn right I will.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘brilliant.’”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, the sky endless above you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt at peace.

Then, without really thinking, you murmured, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Senku blinked, caught off guard.

You felt your face heat up. “I mean—not that I’m glad you got petrified too, but—just, if I had to be stuck in this world, I’m glad you’re part of it.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, to your surprise, he chuckled.

“You’re such a sap.”

You huffed, nudging him with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as you turned away, you caught something unexpected—something rare.

A small, genuine smile.

Not his usual smug grin. Not his teasing smirk.

Just a quiet, sincere smile.

And suddenly, the Stone World didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

[taetebebe]

Fake It ‘Til We Die

Pairing: Rich!Jay x Reader

First came lies. Then came rings. Now comes emotional damage.

Word Count: 5.6k

Author’s Note: Idk why i made this such a SLOW burn. Anyways tryna roll out my WIPs. Reblog and comments are highly loved <333 Requests and taglists are open :)

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

You weren’t supposed to be standing next to Jay on a hotel balcony, wearing a diamond ring.

Not for real. Not even for fake-real.

Definitely not because he got so mad at you that he decided to ruin both your lives out of spite.

But here you are. Diamond catching camera flashes. Guests inside cheering. And Jay? He hasn’t let go of your hand once.

“This wasn’t the plan,” you murmur through your teeth, smiling politely at the couple passing by with flutes of champagne.

Jay’s smile is sharp, fake, devastating. “Neither was you announcing our breakup before I had a chance to breathe.”

“I didn’t announce it. I just hinted.”

“You gave a toast titled, ‘To Letting Go.’” His grip on your waist tightens as he leans in. “You really thought you could break up with me first?”

“I was saving you the trouble.”

“I didn’t ask for favours,” he says. “I asked for an exit.”

“And you picked a ring instead?”

“No,” he says. “I picked chaos.”

───────────♡───────────

It started as a deal. Two adults. Mutually disinterested. Equal opportunity manipulators.

Jay is being considered for a business role that requires a “grounded, emotionally intelligent” public persona. His team says he needs to humanise himself—fast. You could use some status. It was supposed to last three months. A few appearances. Some harmless hand-holding. The occasional staged photo with hearts in the captions.

But then you annoyed him.

You were supposed to be easy.

Unbothered, elegant, bored of him in all the right ways.

Instead, you started teasing. You started laughing too loud at his fake jokes. You started showing up to his apartment in the middle of the night to “keep up the act,” eating his leftovers and leaving wet towels on his couch. You talked to his mother on the phone. You won his dog over.

You started messing with the neat little lines he’d drawn around the situation.

And when he started to pull back - tried to ghost you by being “busy” and “in Europe” (he was in Busan), you started telling people the relationship was “coming to its natural end.”

Jay never liked being outplayed.

So when you threw that breakup toast at the gala for his family’s company launch, when you clinked your glass and said, “To beautiful ends and better beginnings,” he didn’t flinch.

He just took the mic, smiled at everyone in the room, and knelt down on one knee.

───────────♡───────────

You’re still not speaking to him.

Not really.

There’s some quiet grumbling. A few sideways glares in car rides. But the ring is on your finger. The headlines are all over the internet. And Jay is, inexplicably, acting like he didn’t just nuke both your lives in a single sentence.

“Any regrets yet?” he asks, tossing your suitcase onto the floor of the hotel suite you’re now expected to share ‘as a newly engaged couple.’

You sit on the bed and fold your arms. “Just one.”

He raises a brow.

“I should’ve worn waterproof mascara. Because now I can’t even cry about this without looking ugly in the tabloids.”

He has the audacity to laugh. “You weren’t going to cry.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen you at 2am eating instant noodles and watching cat videos. You don’t cry. You hiss.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He dodges it, effortlessly. “You’re welcome, by the way. For saving your dignity.”

“You proposed to me. In front of our entire family. You didn’t save my dignity—you donated it.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, loosening his tie, “if we’re both humiliated, that’s balance.”

───────────♡───────────

The worst part?

You go along with it.

Because now, thanks to Jay’s impulsive pettiness, your face is on every trending page, and your inbox is flooded with congratulations. The lie has a heartbeat. It’s alive. And you? You’re stuck dancing with it.

You meet with a wedding planner two days later. 

She’s way too excited for two people who keep asking how to fake things.

“Venue?” she chirps.

“Something big,” Jay says. “Huge. I want people to cry about not being invited.”

“Elegant,” you add. “But not too elegant. I want my ex to think he could’ve had this and didn’t.”

Jay nods solemnly. “That’s fair.”

“Colour scheme?”

You say, “Warm neutrals.”

Jay says, “Black.”

You glare at him. “It’s not a funeral.”

“Could be.”

The lady looks increasingly nervous.

You both say, “It’s fine,” at the same time.

───────────♡───────────

Weeks pass. The performance continues.

He picks you up for dress fittings.

You let him carry your heels when your feet hurt.

He loops an arm around your waist in photos, and you lean into it like you belong there. Like his hand hasn’t been on your hip so many times now that you don’t even flinch when it tightens.

It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.

But only on the surface.

Underneath?

Resentment simmers like tea left too long on the stove.

Jay is sharp-tongued and intolerably smug.

You are stubborn, chaotic, and too good at pretending this was your idea.

Every time you smile for a camera, you think about how it’s going to end.

One of you will cave. You’ll call it off. You’ll pin it on “timing” or “irreconcilable differences” and part ways like civilized people.

And yet…

Neither of you pulls the trigger.

───────────♡───────────

The wedding comes faster than either of you expect.

Somehow, a hundred little choices built it.

The guest list. The catering. The vows you both agreed to write “just for optics.”

It’s raining the morning of the ceremony. You take it as a sign. Jay says, “Good. That means some people might not show up.”

You don’t see each other until the aisle.

And when you do… It’s bizarre.

He looks annoyingly handsome. Classic black tux. Hair swept back. Cool, controlled, unreadable.

You? You walk toward him in a dress that cost more than your rent for the year, surrounded by strangers and fake floral arrangements, heart weirdly calm.

Jay holds out his hand.

You take it.

Because that’s the bit. That’s the story you’re telling everyone.

That’s the commitment you’re pretending to make.

He squeezes your fingers once before letting go.

───────────♡───────────

The officiant reads the scripted vows.

Yours say: “I promise to love you like it’s easy, even when it’s hard. To support your dreams, even if you dream differently than I do. To give you space when you need it, and a reason to stay when you don’t.”

Jay listens. Silent.

Then he reads his.

“I promise to be honest with you. Even when I want to lie. Even when the truth is inconvenient, or ugly, or sharp.

I promise to show up. Not perfectly. Not always on time. But completely.

I promise to ruin your plans whenever you try to ditch me first.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you blink up at him.

He smirks.

And the officiant says, “You may now kiss—”

He doesn’t let him finish.

Jay kisses you like he’s erasing a mistake he never made.

Like the only lie he can’t stand is the one where he didn’t want to do this.

Your fingers clutch his jacket before you realize you’re doing it.

And when you pull back…

He’s already looking at you like he won.

Which, unfortunately, he did.

───────────♡───────────

You don’t speak until the car ride home.

Not a single word after the kiss. Not in the limo. Not through the champagne toast. Not while you both cut the cake, smiling like you didn’t just lie to every person in the room.

You hold your bouquet like it’s a weapon. Jay sits beside you, hand casually draped over the seat behind you, watching the city lights blur through tinted glass.

He doesn’t even look smug.

He looks… satisfied. Like this was always the endgame.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” you say finally.

Jay hums. “Romantic. We should put that in the vows next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time.”

“Didn’t think there’d be a first time.”

“You proposed to me out of spite, Jay.”

He tilts his head. “And you said yes out of pride.”

“…Touché.”

───────────♡───────────

The penthouse smells like roses and exhaustion.

There’s a trail of flower petals from the elevator to the bedroom door—courtesy of his mother, probably. Someone also sent strawberries, chocolate covered of course. The fridge is full of cake. There are five cards that say ‘To the Happy Couple’ and exactly zero happy people in the room.

You’re halfway out of your heels when Jay walks into the bedroom and tosses a black hoodie at you.

“Change,” he says.

You blink. “Into this?”

“Yes.”

“…Why.”

“Because I’m not getting cake in my hair just to prove a point.”

You pause. “Are you saying you’re not going to carry me over the threshold?”

Jay glares. “I will suplex you before I carry you.”

“Hot.”

He throws a cushion at your face.

───────────♡───────────

You both end up on the living room couch in sweats, barefoot, eating leftover wedding cake with plastic forks while his dog sits between you like Switzerland.

“I give us six months,” you say, licking frosting off your thumb.

“I give us three,” Jay replies.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. No faith in our fake love?”

“No faith in you not torching my wardrobe out of boredom.”

You gasp. “I would never—”

“You already did. Twice.”

“I improved your closet. Beige makes you look like a disappointed breadstick.”

Jay gives you a slow look. “You know I’m right here.”

“Unfortunately.”

He leans back and sighs, “We’re going to kill each other.”

“We could make it look like an accident.”

The dog sneezes.

You both stare at it.

“…Or we let him decide custody,” you say solemnly.

Jay picks up the dog and says, “Blink once if you like her.”

The dog blinks.

He gasps. “Betrayal.”

You smirks. “True love always wins.”

───────────♡───────────

Two weeks into the fake marriage, the domestic tension peaks.

It’s not the big stuff.

It’s the small things.

Like the way he leaves his watch exactly where you put your coffee mug. Or how you always accidentally hang your wet towels next to his dry-clean-only shirts.

He organises the pantry alphabetically. You organize it based on vibes.

He folds his socks into perfect rolls. You let yours live wild and free in a drawer labeled ‘Foot Feelings’.

It drives him insane.

It drives you insane that he keeps buying you things without asking—like that ridiculous espresso machine with seventeen buttons and a glowing screen that greets you by name.

You leave a sticky note on it that says, “I’m not ready for this kind of commitment.”

Jay crosses it out and writes, “Too bad. You’re already married.”

───────────♡───────────

But then there are the moments that throw you off.

Like the one night you come home from a work event, soaked from the rain, makeup smudged, mood foul—

And he’s already there.

In the kitchen.

Making tea.

Not for him. For you.

He doesn’t say anything when he hands you the mug. Just nods toward the couch and goes back to whatever he was reading.

Or the morning you wake up with a sore throat, and there's already medicine on the table.

Or the stupid way he puts your name on things in the apartment now. A mug that says hers. A spare key labeled with your initial. Your name saved under ‘Emergency Contact’ on his phone.

You don’t talk about it.

It’s all part of the act, right?

That’s what you tell yourself.

That’s what you keep telling yourself.

───────────♡───────────

“You snore,” he says one night, brushing his teeth while you’re doing your skincare routine beside him.

You pause mid-serum. “I what?”

“Snore. Soft. Like a dying mosquito.”

“I do not—”

“I recorded it.” He opens his phone. Presses play.

A faint wheezy buzz echoes from his phone.

You slap it out of his hand. “Delete that.”

“Too late. It’s in the cloud.”

“I’m going to burn your cloud.”

He grins through his toothpaste. “Sure, mosquito.”

You consider pushing him into the shower.

You consider kissing him too.

That second thought disturbs you more than the first.

───────────♡───────────

You go on a honeymoon.

Not by choice. Not by enthusiasm. But because Jay’s PR team insists.

“You’ve already gone viral,” they say. “Now seal the deal.”

So you go to Italy. Or rather—you’re seen in Italy. The whole thing’s choreographed. Airport photos, restaurant sightings, matching sunglasses, a suspiciously placed paparazzi on a gondola.

You share a suite.

One bed.

Jay claims the left side.

You claim the right.

There’s a 'No Cuddling’ treaty signed in passive-aggressive pillow forts.

It should feel ridiculous.

It does feel ridiculous.

But one night, after too much wine and too much sun, you end up watching some terrible Italian game show on the hotel TV.

Jay is slouched beside you, hair messy, face softer than usual.

You laugh at something on screen, and he turns to look at you.

You feel it—that shift.

Something unspoken. Something dangerous.

You stare back.

And then he throws popcorn at your face.

The moment breaks.

You throw an entire pillow at his.

───────────♡───────────

Your “fake” marriage goes on longer than either of you predicted.

Three months turn into six.

Then a year.

People stop calling it fake, even the doubtful ones.

You both stop correcting them.

But the act never really ends.

Because every time something almost happens—every time his hand lingers too long, or you catch yourself staring a beat too long, or someone asks “how did you two fall in love?” and you both laugh like it’s a joke—

You feel that same old wall go up again.

Too risky.

Too close.

Too late to admit this might be real.

───────────♡───────────

A random Tuesday.

He’s making breakfast.

You’re scrolling on your phone, hair in a bun, still wearing his hoodie from last night.

Jay sets a plate in front of you. “Toast.”

You blink. “With… butter shaped like hearts?”

He shrugs. “I was bored.”

You eye him suspiciously. “You only do nice things when you’re about to insult me.”

He smirks. “You caught me. Also, your morning breath is criminal.”

“There it is.”

He leans against the counter. “We have to go to that dinner tonight.”

“With your parents?”

“Yeah. And the CFO.”

“Lovely. Can’t wait to be eye candy and field questions about grandkids.”

Jay’s quiet for a moment.

Then he says, “We don’t have to keep doing this.”

You pause. “What?”

“This. All of it. We could… tell the truth.”

The words hang heavy.

You look at him.

And for the first time in a long time, you see it—the hesitation behind the sarcasm. The tiredness beneath the charm. He looks at you like he’s been waiting for you to say it first.

But you don’t.

Because maybe you’re not ready.

Maybe you’re not sure what’s real yet.

So instead, you say, “Not until we make it past tax season.”

Jay snorts. “Romantic.”

“I try.”

He watches you eat the toast, heart-shaped butter melting fast.

Then says, “I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t ask him to leave either.

───────────♡───────────

The press tour starts the next week.

Not for a film. Not for a brand deal. Not even for anything remotely artistic. Just you and Jay, paraded around by PR teams like the hot couple who “found love through chaos” and “survived the whirlwind.”

Jay doesn’t mind it—he was built for this. Suit always tailored, hair always perfect, expression locked at that impossible balance of disinterested and charming.

You, on the other hand, would rather be anywhere else.

Especially tonight.

Because this panel? The one where the moderator just leaned in and asked, “So who fell first?”

You nearly bite your lip off to avoid laughing.

Jay tilts his head, looks at you like he’s considering it.

You tilt your head right back. “I think we tripped at the same time. Down the stairs. Into an accident report.”

The audience laughs.

Jay smiles like he’s the one who pushed you down the metaphorical staircase.

“Accident or not,” he says slowly, “you’re here now.”

You look at him.

He’s not smiling for the crowd anymore.

And suddenly, you’re very aware of your hand resting in his.

Backstage, after the panel, you don’t speak until you’re alone.

Which is exactly when you say, “If you ever do the ‘you’re here now’ line again, I’m calling in an exorcist.”

Jay shrugs off his mic. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

“I tolerated it. Like expired milk.”

“Please. You looked at me like I was a damn wedding cake.”

You stare. “What does that even mean?”

“Desirable. But unnecessary.”

“…I hate that that kind of makes sense.”

“Poetic, really.”

“Deranged, actually.”

He grins. “Same thing.”

───────────♡───────────

You get into a fight the night of the interview with the GQ editor. 

You didn’t mean to. Neither of you meant to. But it’s late. You’re tired. Jay’s been taking calls for hours. And suddenly you’re arguing in the kitchen about whether he told his assistant to cancel your plans with your friends.

“I didn’t cancel anything,” he says, setting his phone down a little too hard on the counter.

“You didn’t need to,” you snap. “You just made it impossible for me to go without looking like I’m bailing on your parents.”

Jay stares at you. “So now I’m the villain for inviting you to dinner?”

“Yes! No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m tired, Jay.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “We could end this, you know.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t sound angry. Just… resigned.

Like he’s offering you an out.

But you don’t want an out.

You want him to fight you on it. You want him to be mad. You want him to care.

Instead, you say nothing.

You just grab your mug and walk to the couch.

Jay doesn’t follow.

───────────♡───────────

The silence lasts two days.

You see him in passing. Hear the sound of his keys. Smell his cologne in the hallway. But neither of you talks.

You only break the ice when you find the sticky note.

It’s on the fridge.

Your name in his handwriting.

Below it, one word: Dinner?

You scribble back: Only if I get to pick the music.

He replies an hour later. Fine. But no indie pop about dying alone again.

You smile.

It’s stupid.

But it feels like something.

───────────���───────────

You make spaghetti. Jay opens a bottle of wine neither of you can pronounce. The playlist is a mess of acoustic songs and sarcastic lyrics, and halfway through eating, he brings up something that makes you freeze.

“My cousin asked when we’re having kids.”

You almost choke on your fork.

You swallow. “Did you tell her we’re still trying to figure out how to live in the same room?”

Jay shrugs. “She said we have ‘electric chemistry.’”

“Great. So now we’re infertile and liars.”

“I never said infertile.”

You stare. “Jay—”

“I just said trying.”

You look at him. Really look.

His hair’s a little too messy. His shirt’s half unbuttoned. And there’s that look again—serious, unreadable, annoyingly sincere.

You hate when he gets like this.

Because every time he looks at you like he means something… You want to mean something too.

───────────♡───────────

The first real kiss doesn’t happen under soft lights or camera flashes.

It happens in the hallway. After dinner. After wine. After months of pretending not to want something that’s been building like thunder behind your ribs.

You’re laughing at something dumb he said—some comment about how your handwriting looks like a cryptic threat—when you trip over your own sock and grab his arm for balance.

He catches you.

You’re close. Too close. One arm around your waist. Your hand pressed flat against his chest.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The laugh dies in your throat.

And without thinking, you tilt your head. Just a little. Just enough.

Jay hesitates for a breath.

Then he kisses you like he’s been holding the memory of it in his mouth for months, just waiting for the moment to stop pretending.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. His hand slides to the back of your neck. And when he pulls away—

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there.

Chest heaving.

Heartbeat louder than sense.

Jay’s lips are red.

Yours feel bruised.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Jay blinks. “Okay?”

You nod. “We’re never talking about that again.”

He exhales. “Agreed.”

───────────♡───────────

You talk about it a week later.

“I lied,” you say, picking at the label on a soda bottle.

Jay looks up from the floor. “About?”

“That kiss.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Jay watches you.

Then says, “Good. Because I think about it every night.”

You look at him.

Neither of you smiles.

It’s too serious for that.

Too careful.

Too real.

───────────♡───────────

More kisses follow.

Stolen ones. Half-drunk ones. A make-out session that ends with him carrying you to bed and both of you staring at the ceiling after like the air just changed colours.

But you still don’t admit it.

Not out loud.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Because if you say it, you can’t unsay it.

Because neither of you wants to be the one to fall first.

So you go back to pretending.

Only now?

You pretend you’re not in love.

Which is somehow worse than when you were pretending you were.

───────────♡───────────

Jay starts leaving notes.

Little things. Stuff he never used to do.

You wake up to coffee with your name drawn in foam.

Find snacks in your bag before meetings.

Your favourite hoodie washed and folded with a sticky note that says, I still hate how you fold your towels. But I don’t hate this.

You write back: I knew you loved me for my chaos.

Jay doesn’t reply.

But that night, he kisses you like he’s surrendering.

And this time…

You kiss him back like you mean it.

───────────♡───────────

You're not sure when the fake part stopped being fake.

Maybe it was the first time you kissed and didn’t laugh after. Maybe it was when he started waiting for you outside your office on bad days. Maybe it was the night you got food poisoning and he sat beside the toilet holding your hair back, muttering “I told you that sushi looked suspicious.”

You don’t know when it happened.

But it did.

And now?

You’re not pretending anymore.

Not really.

But you don't say it out loud. Neither does he. 

That makes it too real.

───────────♡───────────

The fight happens on a Wednesday.

It starts small—Jay forgets to text that he’s running late. You burn dinner. He comes home to smoke and sarcasm, and instead of apologising, he says something very Jay-like:

“Maybe don’t try to cook next time.”

You snap. “Maybe don’t act married if you’re going to disappear for five hours.”

His head jerks up. “Act married?”

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth.

But you’re committed now.

“You were supposed to break up with me,” you say. “Remember? That was the deal. Three months. One staged heartbreak. No mess.”

Jay steps closer. “And yet here we are. Two years later. Eating burnt pasta and arguing about who fell first.”

You freeze.

“What did you just say?”

Jay stares. “Nothing.”

“No. Say it again.”

He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“You think I fell first?”

Jay scoffs. “I know you did.”

You blink.

Then laugh. “You arrogant little—”

“You wrote your name on my coffee mug two weeks in.”

“It was a joke. I-I can't do this right now.”

You walk away occupying yourself with laundry instead.

Jay walks into the room, sees his hoodie in the ‘your’ pile, and raises an eyebrow.

“That’s mine.”

You shrug. “You said I could keep it.”

“Not forever.”

“You said—”

Jay crosses his arms. “Why do you always do that?”

You freeze. “Do what?”

“Act like this is permanent.”

Your stomach drops.

You drop the hoodie.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “We said this would end.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You bought a toothbrush to keep at my place.”

You pause.

Then narrow your eyes. “Okay, but you—you’re the one who proposed instead of breaking up with me because you were ‘irritated.’”

“Yeah,” he snaps, “because I didn’t want it to end.”

The silence is immediate.

Heavy.

Like gravity shifted.

Jay breathes out. “I didn’t want to break up with you. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

You stare at him.

He looks tired. Raw. Real.

You want to say something.

Anything.

But your throat’s too tight.

So instead, you nod once. Turn. Walk out of the room.

And Jay doesn’t follow.

───────────♡───────────

The next few days are a minefield.

You avoid him.

He lets you.

Everything feels too loud.

Your chest hurts every time you pass his door. You replay the conversation on loop, picking it apart, trying to figure out when pretending stopped being easier than the truth.

You want to talk to him.

You want to yell at him.

You want to pull him close and say: I fell first. And second. And every time after that.

But instead, you do what you always do.

You wait.

You hope he’ll come to you.

And this time… he does.

───────────♡───────────

It’s a family dinner.

A curated war zone of passive-aggression and power plays. There are exactly 11 people seated, including THE AUNT. 

The infamous one who always smells like Chanel and suspicion. The one who gave you a once-over at the engagement party and said, “You’re prettier in person. I expected someone more... forgettable.” 

“Should I fake food poisoning?” you whisper to Jay referring to the aunt as you both approach the door.

“I already tried that last year. She brought me broth and said I looked pale.”

“I can cry on command.”

“She likes crying. Makes her feel powerful.”

“…You know, your family’s a lot.”

Jay sighs. “Welcome to the marriage.”

───────────♡───────────

Every single one of them believes you and Jay are deeply, romantically, forever married.

“So,” the aunt begins, pouring herself wine she doesn’t offer anyone else, “how is married life treating you?”

Jay smiles like it’s killing him softly. “Delightful. We argue over who gets to do the dishes because we’re both so eager.”

Someone chuckles.

You add, “I’ve only tried to smother him in his sleep twice. Personal growth.”

Polite laughter.

His mother gives you both that look again—the soft, adoring one. The one that makes your heart twist. She believes it. All of it.

“Tell us,” she says gently, “when did you realise it was love?”

Jay freezes.

You nearly drop your fork.

A beat.

Then Jay says, “You first.”

You want to murder him.

But you smile. Tilt your head like you’re on a talk show.

“I realised it,” you say slowly, “when I found out he alphabetises his pantry.”

The table blinks.

Jay raises a brow.

You continue, “Because only someone that insufferable could make me this patient. And that felt like love.”

The room bursts into laughter.

Jay grins. “Touché.”

“Your turn,” you say sweetly.

Jay leans back in his chair, eyes on you.

And then he says it.

Not to the table. Not to anyone.

To you.

Soft. Quiet. Honest.

“I think it was when you made space in my closet. Without asking. Just moved your stuff in like you belonged.”

Silence.

The table melts.

Aunt Chanel dabs at her eyes like she’s watching a drama.

Jay doesn’t blink.

And you?

You forget how to breathe.

Because that was real.

Because you know he meant it.

And worse?

You feel yourself meaning it back.

───────────♡───────────

You fight on the ride home.

Of course you do.

“What was that?” you demand, throwing your purse onto the passenger seat.

Jay slams the car door shut. “What?”

“The closet thing.”

“I told a story.”

“You told the truth.”

Jay scoffs. “You think that’s the truth?”

“You looked at me like—like we weren’t pretending!”

“Maybe I forgot we were!”

You stop.

The silence is too loud.

He grips the wheel. “You think this has been easy for me?”

“You think it’s been easy for me?”

“We kissed,” he snaps, “and then pretended we didn’t! We share a bed and fake dreams and you still act like you don’t care.”

“Because it wasn’t supposed to matter!”

“Well, it does!” he shouts. “It matters.”

You stare at him.

“Jay.”

His hands tremble on the wheel.

He doesn’t look at you.

You reach over, gently cover his knuckles with your palm.

He flinches—but doesn’t pull away.

And that’s when you realise it’s not anger.

It’s fear.

───────────♡───────────

That night, you don’t sleep beside him.

You sit on the floor of the living room, wrapped in a blanket, staring at your wedding ring.

Jay doesn’t come out.

He doesn’t text.

But in the morning, there’s a note on the fridge.

I still hate how you fold towels. But I love waking up to your mess.

You laugh. A little.

Then you cry. A lot.

Because somehow, the fake marriage turned real. And neither of you said it when it counted.\

───────────♡───────────

You decide to test him.

Not intentionally. Not maliciously.

But the next event—a charity gala—has you paired with someone else for a dance. One of Jay’s acquaintances. Tall. Charming. Flirts with you too easily.

You smile politely. Play along. Because you’re mad. Because you’re tired. Because you want to know if Jay cares enough to stop you.

He does.

Right after the second dance, Jay steps in.

Doesn’t say a word. Just takes your hand and spins you into him.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” you whisper.

“I’m not jealous.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

Jay glares. “I’m furious.”

You expect a lecture. A sarcastic jab. A petty retort.

Instead, he says, low and dangerous, “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t feel it every time you look at me like you’re seconds away from choosing to leave?”

You’re stunned.

“I haven’t left,” you say.

“Then say why.”

He pulls you closer. Hand on your back. Breath brushing your cheek.

You whisper, “Because I think I ruined the plan first.”

Jay’s eyes soften.

“You didn’t,” he says. “I did.”

And then he kisses you.

In front of everyone.

But this time?

No one’s watching.

Because you’re both finally telling the truth.

───────────♡───────────

After the kiss at the gala, things don’t fall into place.

They fracture.

Like ice under pressure—quiet, precise, sharp.

Jay doesn’t talk about it. Neither do you. It should’ve been a turning point. It felt like one. But afterward, everything just… retreated.

He slept on the couch that night.

You let him.

Not out of anger.

But because you didn’t know what to do with the heat still buzzing in your bones.

The next morning, he made breakfast like nothing happened.

You didn’t eat.

───────────♡───────────

Three days pass.

You go through the motions—shared toothbrushes, shared bed, shared lies.

But something’s off.

He’s too polite. You’re too quiet.

And then, one evening, you catch him standing at the window, staring out like he’s watching the world from the outside.

You lean on the doorframe. “You gonna say something?”

Jay doesn’t look at you. “Do you want me to?”

You hate that he sounds tired.

“You kissed me,” you say.

“I know.”

“You meant it.”

He nods.

“So what happens now?”

Jay turns. His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You tell me, sweetheart. You’re the one who said never to talk about it.”

Your throat goes dry. “That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before it started feeling like I didn’t know where the act stopped.”

Jay’s eyes flicker. “You don’t.”

Silence.

And then—

“I want out,” you say.

It’s not a threat.

It’s not even true.

But it’s the only weapon you have left.

Jay laughs once. A humorless sound. “Of the marriage or the house?”

“Both.”

He nods.

Then he walks past you. Calm. Too calm.

And for the first time since all this began—you think maybe you broke him.

───────────♡───────────

You expect him to sleep on the couch again.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t come home at all.

You try not to care.

Try to act like your heart’s not in your throat every time the elevator dings.

Try to convince yourself this isn’t the same man who once left your favourite snack in your bag with a note that said you’re impossible but apparently I’m worse.

But it is.

It is him.

And you miss him so much it feels like a betrayal of everything you swore to protect.

Including yourself.

───────────♡───────────

He comes back two days later.

Looks like hell.

Tie loose. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot like he hasn’t slept in either bed since the night you said you wanted out.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just walks in, drops his keys, and stands there.

Watching you.

“You came back,” you say.

He nods once. “I never left.”

You stare.

Jay walks toward you. Slow. Careful.

Then he says it. Raw. Like skin without armor.

“You don’t scare me,” he says. “But the idea of you leaving does.”

You swallow.

He’s still walking. “I didn’t mean for this to get real. I really didn’t.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

“And I don’t think I’m in love with you yet.”

Your heart jumps.

Yet.

“But I stopped pretending a long time ago,” he finishes.

Silence.

You want to speak. To say something witty. Sharp. Something to deflect.

But you can’t.

So you say the only thing that feels true:

“You’re a terrible fake husband.”

Jay breathes out a laugh. “You’re a worse fake wife.”

“Wanna keep being terrible at it together?”

He smiles.

Not soft.

Not romantic.

Just real.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s ruin this a little longer.”

♡ ♡ ♡

© taetebebe 2025

[fanficgirl429]

Bucky Barnes Smut

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: It had been weeks since Y/N and Bucky had some proper alone time, until they find themselves having a training session that takes a steamy turn.

Warnings: Sex, 18+ only, minors do not engage

---

The sun had barely started to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Thunderbolts’ empty training field. The others were long gone—off to debrief or drown the mission in something strong. But Bucky and Y/N lingered behind, their blood still humming with adrenaline and something deeper. Unresolved tension. Too much time apart. Not enough time alone. And that look she kept giving him.

Y/N smirked, circling her boyfriend with a lazy grace that didn’t fool him for a second. “What’s the matter, Barnes? You slowing down in your old age?”

Bucky rolled his shoulders, a quiet laugh rumbling from his chest. “You really want to go there?”

She grinned. “Only if he bites.”

That was all it took.

In a flash, Bucky lunged—not with rage, but with purpose—and Y/N barely dodged, a laugh tumbling from her lips as they fell into the rhythm of familiar sparring. Punches dodged, kicks blocked, bodies close. Closer than they needed to be. Every movement loaded with something unspoken.

Y/N aimed a kick at his side, but Bucky caught her leg mid-air, twisting her off balance and using his body weight to press her down onto the mat beneath them. He pinned her, straddling her hips with ease, metal hand braced beside her head as he hovered above her, eyes locked on hers.

“Gotcha,” he breathed, smug and breathless.

She glared playfully up at him, arms pinned under his grip. “You cheating bastard.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along hers, lips barely a whisper away. “Call it strategy.”

Y/N bucked her hips in defiance, but he only pressed down harder, not enough to hurt—just enough to keep her exactly where he wanted her.

“Wanna keep fighting?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth. “Only if you make it worth my while.”

Bucky didn’t waste another second. He crashed his mouth against hers, kissing her like he’d been starved for it—and maybe he had. Weeks of missions, late-night tension, too many near-misses. Now all of it burned between their bodies, set alight the moment their lips met.

Y/N moaned into the kiss, arching up against him as her fingers curled in the hem of his tight black t-shirt, tugging at it until he broke away long enough to pull it over his head. Her hands roamed his chest, nails grazing old scars, while he rocked his hips against hers with a groan.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he muttered against her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses there. “All those looks, all that teasing…”

“Yeah?” she gasped, thighs spreading to cradle his body tighter. “You gonna do something about it?”

He growled against her skin. “Oh, I’m gonna do everything about it.”

She writhed beneath him as he slid one hand under her top, pushing it up to expose her chest before replacing fabric with his mouth—sucking, licking, biting until she whimpered and tugged at his belt in desperation.

“Need you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Bucky, please—”

That broke what little restraint he had left. He tore off the rest of her clothes with single-minded urgency, kissing her like a man on fire between every gasp and groan. When she was bare beneath him, he sat up just enough to take her in—chest heaving, blue eyes glazed with lust.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped.

“Then take me already,” she hissed, hooking her legs around his waist.

He did.

HIs fingers worked fast and frantic as he unbuckled his belt with a curse under his breath. He shoved his pants and boxers down in one motion, not caring where they landed, revealing himself fully to her. His body hovered over hers, broad and flushed with heat, chest rising in ragged breaths as he looked down at her—already spread out, lips parted, eyes dark with need.

Bucky wrapped one hand around the back of her thigh and dragged her closer, until she was perfectly aligned beneath him. His other hand steadied himself as he leaned in, mouth brushing hers. “You ready for me?” he whispered. 

She answered by lifting her hips, hooking her legs around his waist, pulling him in.

Then, with one deep thrust, he sank into her—and they both cried out, voices overlapping in a raw symphony of pleasure. Her back arched off the mat, his head dropped to her shoulder, lips pressing into her skin like he needed something to anchor him.

It was fast, hot, desperate—weeks of tension snapping all at once.

He moved over her with force and purpose, hips snapping into hers, every stroke deep and demanding. His body pressed tight against hers, bare chest slick with sweat, groaning every time she clenched around him. His hands gripped her hips, like he was afraid she’d slip away.

Her nails dragged red trails down his back, her breath broken and gasping. “Harder—God, Bucky—don’t stop.”

His answer was a growl low in his throat. “I’m not stopping. Not until you fall apart for me.”

Their bodies slammed together with an urgency that bordered on chaos, neither of them holding back. His mouth found hers again—kissing her hard, teeth clashing, then trailing lower, biting at her throat, collarbone, the curve of her breast. He worshipped her with teeth and tongue and desperation.

Then his metal hand slipped between them, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and pressing tight, fast circles that made her hips jerk and her moans catch.

“Fuck—yes—” Y/N gasped, voice strained, thighs tightening around him.

“That’s it, babe,” he rasped, watching her fall apart beneath him, his voice rough. “Come for me.”

She shattered, her cry sharp, head thrown back as her body spasmed around him. Her muscles clenched tight, pulling him in even deeper—and he couldn't hold back any longer.

Bucky groaned her name into her neck, his rhythm stuttering, hips jerking as he spilled into her. He clung to her, chest pressed against hers, sweat-slick and trembling as he rode out the last wave of release.

They collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and satisfaction.

Bucky rolled off her, laying on the mat next to her. “You good?”

Y/N laughed breathlessly. “We are definitely gonna have to sanitize this mat.”

He grinned, leaning in to kiss her softly now. “Still worth it.”

[gojoluvs]

Break free

Minors do not interact.

Summary; Apparently, he's one of the hottest hockey players in the country, and you had just agreed to be his fake girlfriend. Satoru Gojo is hard not to notice. With his coy smirk and rock-hard abs, he's the cockiest of all the jocks.

Tags; satoru gojo x reader, hockey player au, figure skater x hockey player, college au, roommates au.

Warnings; 18+, fluff, angst, smut, college au, partying, drinking/alcohol, weed usage, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, enemies to lovers, cheating.

Notes; Taglist is open!! also this chapter is so short compared to my other fics since i rewrote this like 7 times and this was the one I liked the most..

3.5k words

masterlist! ⤏ next chapter

The sound of ice being scraped by the skates of the hockey players filled your ears, making you cringe at the unpleasant noise.

Crossing your arms, you watched as they skillfully passed the puck to each other, determined not to let the opposing team take control.

You hated hockey, and it wasn't just because of the sport itself. It was the type of men who played it - cocky, entitled, and overly aggressive. Every time you came to the rink after their practice, you would find the ice in terrible condition, thanks to the rough way they played.

The University of Tokyo was notorious for its hockey team, and not in a good way. The players were known for their douchey attitudes and their reputation as "fuck boys." As you watched them play, you couldn't help but notice their ridiculously attractive appearances. It was almost as if the only requirement to join the team was to be a 6-foot-tall, handsome guy. Despite their looks, you couldn't stand them.

You sat next to your friend in the cold arena, her eyes glued to the fast-paced hockey game unfolding in front of you. She munched on her popcorn, a smile spread on her face as she yelled your friend's name, "Go Yuji!!" You couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm, even though you weren't a fan of hockey yourself. Suddenly, she exclaimed and started choking on her popcorn, causing you to quickly pat her back and make sure she was okay.

As you looked back at the game, your eyes narrowed at one of the hockey boys who had stopped full speed and scraped the ice so badly it made you cringe. This was one of the reasons why you hated coming to these games - the roughness of the players and the damage they caused to the ice rink. The poor ice rink didn't deserve such treatment. Wondering what the ice rink did to deserve this.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of annoyance as the game went on, the constant yelling and cheering from the crowd only adding to the chaos.

The fans roared with excitement as one of the Hockey boys received the puck, deftly dribbling past the defender with ease. As he stopped momentarily, a wide smile spread across his face before he swiftly went left, skillfully dodging the goalie and scoring a goal for his team.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the score changed from 1-2 to 1-3, with Nobara screaming and spilling her popcorn in excitement. She saw Yuji skate towards her, a grin on his face. "Next one's for you, Kugisaki!" he shouted, before skating back to his original position.

As the team huddled up before getting off the ice rink, you couldn't help but feel bored. Hockey was never your cup of tea, despite your father being a huge fan and dragging you to countless games as a child. But as you watched the boys high-five and congratulate each other, you couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie and team spirit in the air.

The energy in the stadium was infectious, and even though you weren't a fan of the sport, you couldn't deny the sense of excitement and unity that filled the air. As the second half began, you settled back into your seat.

Nobara looked at you with a small smirk on her lips as you both sat in the stands, watching the hockey game below. The arena was buzzing with excitement as the home team took on their rivals.

Nobara noticed your gaze and nudged you, "So Y/N, what about that one?" She pointed towards a tall blonde man, his hair disheveled and stuck to his forehead from the sweat buildup on his helmet. As he lifted his jersey to wipe his forehead, the "puck bunnies" in the stands went wild at the sight of his chiseled abs.

You shrugged and replied, "No thanks, not looking right now." You grabbed your bag and took out your phone, snapping some pictures of the action on the ice.

Nobara pouted and scooched closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder and shaking it. "Don't be like that, Y/N. You have to get over Toji soon." She was referring to your recent breakup with your long-term boyfriend, who happened to be a hockey player on this very team.

You sighed and leaned your head against Nobara's shoulder, taking in the energy of the game and the cheers from the crowd. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the excitement and passion that came with being in a relationship with someone like Toji.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as you watched Toji, the man who you used to love before he cheated on you with some random sorority chick, interact with his teammates. You remembered how much you used to admire his skills on the ice and how he always seemed to effortlessly lead his team to victory. But as you watched him now, you couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness towards him. You were still hurt by the way he had treated you, but at the same time, you couldn't deny the fact that he had genuinely treated you well at some point.

As you continued to watch him, you couldn't help but wonder how things would have turned out if he hadn't cheated on you. Maybe you would still be together, cheering him on from the stands. But now, you were just another face in the crowd, trying to hide your emotions as you watched your ex move on with his life.

Kugisaki, your best friend, noticed your gaze and followed it to Toji. She let out a sigh, knowing all too well about your past with him. But she didn't say anything, just letting you take a moment to yourself.

Toji Zenin, a living legend in Utokyo. He was the captain of the hockey team before being demoted due to the fact that he was the reason why the ice rink was broken during your freshman year. He may have been just a year older than you, but he seemed so mature and confident on the ice. That was one of the reasons why you had fallen for him in the first place. But now, as you watched him interact with his teammates, you couldn't help but see him in a different light. He was just another guy, no longer the perfect image you had created in your mind. And although it hurt, you knew it was time to move on and let go of the past.

You remember the day you met him like it was yesterday, sneaking into the ice rink to practice late at night. You were startled when he caught you, but instead of getting angry or telling on you, he just teased you and then let you go. He was the man who showed you what love was, and you were grateful for his presence in your life.

He was the reason you continued your skating career, the one who motivated you to finish tryouts even when you wanted to give up. And now, as you looked at your calendar and saw the upcoming final, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Just 20 more minutes until the game was over, and you could finally go home and take your mind off of everything. But for now, you couldn't tear your eyes away from the man who had once meant everything to you, and still held a special place in your heart.

You were supposed to be studying for your midterm in sports medicine, but here you are, stuck at a hockey game. The players were fiercely competing, their skates gliding across the ice as they chased after the puck. The sound of sticks hitting the ice echoed through the arena, and the cheers of the crowd filled the air. Suddenly, the referee blew his whistle and signaled a roughing penalty, causing the crowd to boo in disagreement. You couldn't help but feel annoyed at the interruption, wishing you were back at home studying instead.

But you knew you couldn't just get up and leave without your friend Nobara dragging you back in. Sighing, you resigned yourself to staying for the rest of the game, trying your best to enjoy it despite the looming thought of your midterm.

One of the players had gotten up from the ice and was now furiously cussing out the referee. His white hair stuck out in all directions, his angry words audible through the mic attached to his helmet. You knew instantly who it was - Satoru Gojo, the star of the hockey team and the most popular guy on campus. Girls flocked to him like "puck bunnies," as they called it in hockey slang. But to you, he was just the man you absolutely despised.

Growing up, you had always been in the same social circles because your parents were close friends. Your father and Satoru's both shared a love for hockey, so you were constantly in the same presence as him. And it seemed like he was good at everything he did - sports, academics, socializing. It was infuriating. As you watched him being escorted to the penalty box, a scowl immediately replaced the look on your face. Satoru Gojo was the last person you wanted to see.

The enemy hockey team slammed into the glass, right where you were sitting, causing it to shake. The sound of their bodies colliding with the glass was loud and jarring. Nobara, who was sitting next to you, looked both amused and thrilled by the intense action happening on the ice. One of the players fell to the ground, but he quickly got back up and flashed a smile at Nobara before returning to the game.

You couldn't help but notice her blushing and giggled at her reaction. "I'm definitely coming to their next game if this is my view," she said, fixing her hair and staring back at the player.

The game continued, the energy in the arena was palpable. The coaches and fans were yelling and cheering, urging the Utokyo team on as they made their way back to the goal. You could feel the intensity building as the clock ticked down to the final seconds. And then, with a swift and powerful shot, the Utokyo team scored another goal, solidifying their victory with a final score of 4-1.

The iconic music of the game began to play, the Utokyo hockey team skated onto the ice, their sharp blades slicing through the smooth surface with ease. Each player had a look of fierce determination on their face, and you could feel the excitement building in the air. As they reached the center of the rink, they gracefully removed their helmets, revealing their sweaty, yet glowing faces.

The girls in the audience erupted into screams and cheers, their excitement and admiration for the team palpable. You couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline as you watched the team prepare for the game ahead. Their strong and confident presence was enough to make you believe that they were the best hockey team in the world.

Grabbing your things, you followed Nobara to the front of the gymnasium where everyone was eagerly waiting for the hockey teams to come out. Tapping your foot impatiently, you scanned the crowded room, trying to find your ex among the sea of faces. "When is Yuji coming?" you asked, crossing your arms in frustration.

Nobara rolled her eyes before interlocking arms with you. "He's coming soon, now help me look for that hot hockey player we saw earlier," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Just then, the Kyoto boys walked in, some of them looking dejected and others trying to hide their disappointment after being defeated.

But your attention was immediately drawn to the tall, handsome guy who walked in, laughing at some joke his friend had said. He had a confident stride and a charming smile that caught everyone's attention. Your eyes widened as you realized it was the same guy Nobara had been drooling over earlier. And it seemed like she wasn't the only one, as you saw several girls in the crowd blushing and giggling.

As he made his way towards the group of girls, your heart raced in anticipation. You could see Nobara practically melting as he locked eyes with her and walked up to her. They both looked nervous, fidgeting with whatever they could find in their hands. But before you could even process what was happening, he left with her number and an invitation to one of the parties she was throwing later that weekend.

You were tired and hungry, and all you wanted to do was go home and rest. But you knew how much Yuji loved playing hockey and how important it was to him, so you waited patiently.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Yuji emerged from the locker room with a huge grin on his face. His hair was a mess and he was drenched in sweat, but he looked incredibly happy. He immediately ran over to you and gave you a tight hug, causing you to wrinkle your nose at his sweaty smell.

"You reek of sweat," you said, playfully pushing him away before he could hug your friend Nobara.

"Nice to see you too, Y/N," Yuji replied with a chuckle, his light brown eyes sparkling with mischief. You couldn't help but smile at him. He was like a little brother to you, and you were proud of him for pursuing his passion for hockey.

Ruffling his hair, you couldn't help but praise him for his performance on the ice. "I saw your shot, good job," you said, a genuine smile on your face. Yuji beamed with pride, and you knew that your words meant a lot to him. Despite the fatigue and hunger you were feeling, seeing Yuji's happiness made it all worth it.

His eyes glistened with excitement and his cheeks flushed with a rosy tint as he listened to you compliment him. You couldn't help but giggle at his reaction, finding it endearing and cute. But before you could say anything else, your attention was caught by a certain someone sprinting towards you, looking like he was silently cursing to himself. It was your neighbor , and he seemed to be in a rush.

He came close to you and let out a sigh of relief as he reached you. "I'm stealing her real quick," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You raised an eyebrow in confusion, but before you could question him, he grabbed your body and pulled you close. Leaning his arm against your body, he whispered into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Just go along with it, okay?" he said, propping back up with a smirk on his face.

You turned to look at the white-haired male, opening your mouth to say something before being interrupted by the sound of his mother's voice. She let out a loud squeal once she saw the two of you, quickly hitting her husband's arm before coming close to you with a warm smile on her face. "I always knew you two would end up together," she exclaimed, causing you to blush and your friend to avoid your gaze because he knew you would be furious with him for this stunt.

"Y/N, I'm so glad! I've always wanted another girl in my family, besides my baby girl now," she said with a bright smile as her husband propped up Satoru's baby sister. You couldn't help but smile at the adorable sight of the 4-year-old girl with her white hair tied into two small ponytails and her face covered in chocolate.

"I'm glad to be a part of the family," you replied, placing your hand on the back of Satoru before pinching his back, making him wince. "I'm going to invite your family to dinner tomorrow! We haven't had a get-together in years... We definitely have a reason to have one now." She covered her mouth before giggling, and you couldn't help but feel a slight sense of dread at the mention of your family coming over for dinner.

Excusing herself, his mom walked away with her husband and child, leaving you and Satoru alone. You could feel the anger radiating off of you as you stared at him, if looks could kill, Satoru would have been dead long ago.

"You told your parents we were together...?" you asked, your voice dripping with disbelief and rage. Satoru's face fell, knowing he had made a grave mistake. He tried to explain himself, but you cut him off with a smack to the head.

"You're kidding me, right?" you scoffed, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow at him. He looked like a child being scolded by his parents, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at that.

"Uh, about that," Satoru started, a sheepish smile on his face as he scratched his head. Before he could say anything else, you stormed away, pushing open the gymnasium doors and striding towards the parking lot.

This is dangerous. So fucking dangerous, playing this game with you. You know that getting involved with someone like Satoru is a recipe for disaster. He's charming and confident, but you've seen the way he treats women. He'll use them for his own amusement and then discard them without a second thought.

“What if I pay you to date me?” He asks with a mischievous glint in his eye, watching as you stomp towards the parking lot, completely ignoring his request.

“No,” you say firmly, not even turning to look at him.

“But I got plenty,” he says, following close behind you.

“Don't care,” you reply, your tone laced with annoyance.

“All right, so it’s obvious you’re not interested in money,” he muses, as if you haven't spoken. “Has to be something else then.” He pauses for a moment, deep in thought. “Booze? Weed?” he suggests, trying to find something that might interest you.

“No, and no, and get lost,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He continues to follow you as you walk towards your car, his footsteps matching yours on the sidewalk. “Okay then. I guess you’re not into party favors,” he teases, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"How about a date?" he offers, leaning against the doorway of your car.

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the smug look on his face. "Why would I want to go out with you, the most arrogant and obnoxious guy on campus?"

"Because I'm charming, handsome, and irresistible," he grins, winking at you.

You scoff, not buying his ridiculous act. "Yeah, keep dreaming, Mr. Hotshot Hockey Player."

He laughs, clearly enjoying your banter. "Come on, just one date. I promise to behave."

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. "No way. I have better things to do with my time."

"Like what? Study?" he teases, raising an eyebrow.

"At least I have priorities," you retort, trying to hide the hint of a smile on your face.

"Fine, be that way. But just know, everyone wants to go out with me," he says cockily, flashing you a dazzling smile.

You can't help but laugh at his confidence. "Just out of curiosity, after you wake up in the morning, do you admire yourself in the mirror for one hour or more?”

"Two," he replies without hesitation, causing you to burst out laughing.

"Do you high five yourself and talk yourself up?" you ask, unable to resist teasing him further.

"Of course not," he smirks. "I kiss each of my biceps and then point to the mirror and thank my old man for creating such a perfect male specimen."

You shake your head, trying not to smile at his ridiculousness. "No thanks, I'll pass on that date.

"Three months." He mutters, his voice confident and determined.

"Three months and if I don't convince my parents or get Naomi back, I promise I won't ever bother you or contact you ever again." He sticks out his chest confidently, smirking at you as if he knows he's already won.

"Three months?" you ask incredulously, your voice laced with disbelief. "Seriously? Three months is too much," you say, pursing your lips before letting out a heavy sigh. Three months of pretending to be in a fake relationship with him just to make his ex jealous.

"You're my only option." He pleads, his eyes boring into yours.

"Incorrect." You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "There are plenty of other women out there who would be more than willing to help you make your ex jealous." You wanted to say no, to turn him down and drive away.

"You're right, but she hates you the most." He says, his voice barely above a whisper. You hated him so damn much, but you couldn't deny the fact that you were intrigued by him.

There was something about him that drew you in, that made you want to know more.

You couldn't believe it. You thought this kind of shit only happened in movies, in books, or in some ridiculous fan-fiction.

But no, this was reality and the touch of his hand squeezing yours made you realize just how utterly fucked you were. You tried to laugh it off, thinking he was just playing some sick joke the hockey guys told him to do. But when you saw the serious look on his face, you knew he wasn't joking. He didn't even have a glint of mischief in his eyes, just pure determination. Your heart raced and your palms started to sweat as he shook your hand, his strong grip making you feel like a limp noodle.

You could feel the pulse in your ears as he squeezed your hand. But as you stood there, feeling like a deer caught in headlights, all you could think was, "Fuck."

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dividers by @/cafekitsune !!

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗢𝗡 𝗠𝗬 𝗞𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗦 lando norris x ! fem! reader ( fluff/suggestive ) fic summary . . . Lando takes you somewhere quiet and magical for your second date, where the butterflies aren’t the only things making your heart flutter. (0.7k words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

The butterflies are everywhere—fluttering like suspended magic, weightless and glowing in the golden conservatory light.

You try to focus on them, really you do. But the real distraction is standing beside you, hand brushing yours with quiet purpose every time you drift even slightly apart. Lando.

He’d reserved the whole place. Just for you.

You’d laughed when he told you, tried to play it cool, saying something flippant like, “That’s a bit dramatic for a second date, don’t you think?”

And he’d just grinned, eyes warm and unbothered. “You like dramatic.”

You do. At least when it comes from him.

The warmth in your chest hasn’t gone away since you stepped inside. Neither has the unrelenting awareness of him beside you. You’ve known him for years—always at a distance, always flirting with the edge of something more—but now you’re here, in this surreal little glass world of color and hush, and he’s looking at you like he already knows how the story ends.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He catches you staring at the glass dome ceiling, maybe trying a little too hard not to look at him.

“You keep dodging,” Lando says, voice quiet and amused, like he’s commenting on the weather.

You raise an eyebrow. “Dodging what?”

“Me.”

Your breath stutters.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, gently but firmly, like he’s stating fact. “Every time I try to talk about this,” he gestures between you, “you change the subject. Or make a joke. Or tell me you don’t want anything serious.”

“I don’t,” you lie, eyes darting away again. “I mean—” you swallow hard, shrug, “I’m not looking for something serious right now.”

“Mmm,” Lando hums thoughtfully. “Then what are you looking for?”

You glance at him, and his eyes are already waiting for you—steady, burning, kind.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, suddenly shy.

A slow smirk curls his lips, but there’s no mockery in it. Just that playful softness he saves just for you.

“Do you…” he tilts his head slightly, voice dropping into something silkier, slower, “want me on my knees?”

Your eyes widen. Heat floods your cheeks so fast it makes you dizzy.

You look away—of course you do—but not before you see the glint in his eyes, the way he bites back a chuckle. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The bastard.

“Lando,” you whisper, flustered, blinking at a butterfly perched on a nearby fern like it’ll save you.

But he’s already moving.

He chuckles softly, warm and low, then hooks his forefinger under your chin—light, coaxing, gentle—and turns your face back to his. “Don’t hide,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And you don’t.

You meet his eyes.

Big mistake. Or maybe the best one you’ve ever made.

He holds your gaze, and suddenly everything else falls away. The flowers. The butterflies. The whole damn conservatory. All you can see is him. The warmth in his eyes. The mischief. The hunger. And beneath it all, something real. Something that makes your heart pound loud enough for you to hear it in your ears.

Lando lowers to his knees in front of you.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Still holding eye contact.

His hands slide up the back of your thighs—warm, firm, reverent—as he settles between your legs. You can feel the way your breath catches, the way your knees try to hold steady when all you want to do is melt.

He lifts the hem of your tank top, just enough.

Never breaking eye contact.

Then he leans in—and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your belly button.

You gasp, barely audible, but he hears it.

He feels it.

He smirks against your skin, the curve of his lips both wicked and impossibly tender. “You feel that?” he whispers, mouth brushing over your skin. “That little shiver?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your pulse is pounding. Your legs are trembling slightly where his hands hold them steady. And he’s still looking at you—up from the floor, like you’re the only thing in the world worth kneeling for.

“I’m not playing games with you,” he says, his voice low, steady. “You say you don’t want anything serious, but I know you. I’ve known you for years.”

His thumb strokes gently along your leg. “And I think you’re just scared.”

You blink down at him, frozen.

“And that’s okay,” he says, smiling up at you, soft and slow and knowing. “I’ll wait. I’ll give you everything you want. Just say the word.”

You swallow hard, lips parted. “Lando…”

“I’m already yours,” he says simply.

[writinginatree]

Whatever It Takes

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson/reader

Summary: When you're gravely wounded in battle, Xaden does the unthinkable to save you.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, blood and injury

Anonymous requested: would you consider writing a angsty hurt/comfort fic for xaden/reader? possibly about an injury or about xaden being venin?

Xaden lost focus on the battle as soon as he caught sight of you again. He had lost you in the fray some time ago, each of you doing your separate parts to win back control over the outpost. Though it had made him anxious not to be at your side, covering your back, Xaden knew you were more than capable of holding your own, and did his best not to worry.

But in those long minutes since he last saw you, things had gone sideways. The battle as a whole was slowly turning in your group's favor, but you were right in the thick of it, caught on the ground and surrounded by venin on all sides. Blood covered you from head to foot, though the distance was too great for Xaden to tell how much of it was your own.

Without really looking, he dodged an attack from his own opponent. Shit, he had go get rid of this guy so he could come to your aid, and quickly.

Ignoring the pain of a nearing burnout as he let Sgaeyl's power flood him, Xaden forced himself to tear his eyes off you and rushed at the venin. Trapped by shadows that were barely solid enough to hold him anymore, the dark wielder met a quick end at Xaden's dagger.

Before the shriveling body had hit the ground, Xaden's attention was already back on you. Still occupied with the two venin before you, still oblivious to the one approaching from behind you.

Fuck.

Xaden raced towards you, reaching out with his shadows, but he was still too far away. If he hadn't been so exhausted already, maybe he could have done something, but there was no point dwelling on ifs. With no strength left to wield his magic, he would simply have to run and hope he got to you in time to help with his blades.

All around him, his friends and comrades were fighting for their lives, venin draining the earth unchecked, but Xaden only had eyes for you. He dodged the enemies in his way, leaving them for someone else to defeat rather than wasting precious time on doing so himself. He needed to reach you before that venin did; nothing else mattered.

If only he were a distance wielder like Garrick, he thought. Even running as fast as he could, Xaden was too damn slow. His muscles ached from all the fighting he'd already done, lungs burning with every panting breath. Still he pushed himself to run just a little faster.

The dragons were preoccupied with a pair of wyvern in the airspace far above you, and couldn't warn you or help, either.

Almost there now. Would you hear him over the clamour of battle, or should he save his breath for running? And if you heard, would his warning help, or only distract you?

In the second he spent debating it, one of the venin in front of you went down, felled by your alloy-hilted dagger. The other rushed you, keeping you distracted from the one at your back that had almost reached you now.

Trying and failing to stop him with his shadows, Xaden decided to hell with it and screamed a warning.

The venin you'd been fighting — now caught between you and Xaden — turned, just as Xaden struck. She sunk dead to the ground, but he felt no relief as you came back into view behind her.

Instead, terror seized his heart.

A sword protruded from your chest. Features frozen in an expression of shock, you stared down at the blade, hands half raised as if to grasp it. A wet gasp followed as you collapsed to your knees, the blade sliding free.

Xaden was at your side in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees and catching you by the shoulders before you could fall face-first into the dirt. The sword had missed your heart, but it didn't take a healer to tell that the wound would prove fatal all the same if you didn't immediately get help.

Behind you, the venin bastard laughed. Obviously eager to watch you choke on your own blood, he seemed in no hurry to finish you off.

Up above, your dragon roared with fury, but he couldn't break out of the fight he was engaged in.

In an attempt to slow the bleeding, Xaden engulfed your torso in shadow. Even that little bit of magic was pushing his limits at this point, but he ignored the pain, ignored the feverish feeling of the magic trying to escape his control, ignored everything that wasn't you.

As much as he wanted to rush you to the nearest mender, he knew the venin who'd wounded you wouldn't let him take you away without a fight, so he gently lowered you to the ground.

"X-xaden?"

Your eyes were glazed with pain and shock, but still somewhat alert. The fear in your voice was like a dagger straight to his heart.

"I'm here, love. You'll be okay. Just— just stay awake for me, yeah?"

"It—" A wet cough interrupted you, your voice already frighteningly weak. "It hurts."

Around the both of you, the battle continued to rage, but all Xaden could see was your blood. So much of it, not just from the wound, flowing steadily despite the shadow bandage, but also staining your lips when you coughed.

Your lungs. The blade must have gone through your lungs.

You needed a mender — now.

But the venin was still there, slowly circling the both of you, enjoying every second of Xaden's panic and your suffering. He wasn't going to just let you go.

"I know. I'll get you out of here," Xaden promised. "Just a minute, love. Whatever you do, don't close your eyes."

Still kneeling before you, Xaden lifted his head to glare at the venin.

He had to kill this fucker and get you to safety now, and there was only one way to do that. He was already toeing the edge of burnout, too exhausted to quickly defeat his opponent — maybe too exhausted to defeat him at all. Not with what power he had.

Not allowing himself to think past the immediate need to save you, Xaden pressed a palm flat to the earth. He tapped into that sheer endless source of magic, even as Sgaeyl screeched at him to stop. He couldn't; not with your life at stake. If becoming a monster was the price he had to pay in order to save you, then so be it, because without you, his life would be meaningless. Whatever it took to keep from losing you, Xaden was willing to do it. He would set the whole world on fire if there was even the slightest chance it would prevent your death.

The venin before him cackled, opening his mouth to mock him, but Xaden gave him no time to do so. Stolen power thrumming through his veins, he was stronger than ever before, his shadows unstoppable. They crowded in around the venin, lifting him into the air and yanked, ripping his helplessly thrashing form apart limb by limb.

Xaden didn't bother to watch, gently scooping you into his arms as his shadows dropped what was left of the venin to the ground and dissolved.

Your head lolled to the side, your body completely limp — dead weight. A panicked sort of despair constricted his chest, threatening to shatter him. Had it all been for nothing?

Then your lashes fluttered, and Xaden was able to keep breathing. Still alive. You were still alive, if just barely. The rise and fall of your chest was much too shallow, every breath an effort. Xaden could practically hear the blood slowly filling your airways.

Hurry. He had to hurry.

"Stay with me," he begged. "We'll get you to a mender. Just hang on a little longer."

You open your eyes to dimmed lights and a warm weight against your arm. Your mouth is dry and tastes faintly of metal, your mind fuzzy with that heavy feeling you get from too much sleep.

You're in your room. For some reason, that strikes you as strange. Hadn't you been somewhere else before you fell asleep?

Dizzy and anxious, you close your eyes again to sort through the mess of your thoughts.

Fighting — you had been fighting.

Slowly, the memories of the battle resurface. A horde of dark wielders and their wyvern had breached the border; not a terribly big one, but enough of them to be a serious threat to the outposts in their way. You'd flown out to face them with Xaden and some of the others.

The two of you had dismounted to face the venin already on the ground while your friends dealt with those that stayed on their wyvern. Your dragons covering you against attacks from above, you had fought for what seemed like a long time, and eventually gotten separated. Outnumbered, you'd gotten surrounded without realizing it. A blinding pain, the sight of that blade sticking from your chest. That's when you'd known there was a third venin behind you.

Everything that followed remains blurry, drowned out by agony.

You remember falling, the panic as you tried to breathe and coughed up blood instead. The certainty that you would die there, drowned by the blood slowly filling your airways. Xaden kneeling before you, begging you to stay awake. The raw fear in his eyes, fear like you've never seen from him before. And then he had—

Your eyes fly open.

No. No, it can't be. You must have imagined that, delirious from the blood loss as you were. There's no way Xaden channeled from the earth to defeat the venin who had stabbed you.

Is there?

You glance down at his dozing form, heart racing in your chest. Gods, if he turned venin because of you, because you failed to keep track of your surroundings in battle and almost got killed for it, you'll never forgive yourself.

Bent over the edge of the bed with his hand clasped around yours and his head resting against your arm, he's inches away from sliding off his chair. The muscles in his back and neck are tense even in sleep, his jaw clenched. Is it just worry for you that has him so on edge, or the knowledge of having done something he can't take back, something sure to get him killed if anyone finds out?

Feeling the slight twitch of your hand under his own, Xaden shoots upright in his chair, wild eyes scanning you like he can still see the wounds that had nearly killed you.

"Oh thank gods," he breathes. "You're awake."

You could have sworn the beautiful onyx of his eyes had been rimmed with red when you'd briefly managed to open your own as he carried you off the battlefield, but now, they look as they always did. Had you truly imagined it then, or has the red simply faded already? If what you recall reading is correct, then the red rims aren't permanent in the early stages of turning venin.

You suppose the only way to find out what really happened is to ask. Later, you decide. You'll ask him how he defeated that venin later. For now, you're just glad to be alive.

"How long was I out?"

By the way your voice scratches in your throat, it must have been a while.

"Two days and a half. The mender said it would be better to keep you sedated for a while because breathing would be very painful right after mending. You had a lot of blood in your lungs they had to extract." Xaden's brows scrunch. "Does it still hurt?"

You consciously pay attention to your next breath, and note no discomfort other than that of stiff muscles and the dull ache of still healing scars. "Just a little sore."

"Good. Is there anything you need?"

"Maybe a glass of water," you say.

You feel well enough that you could get up and get it for yourself, but you can tell Xaden needs to feel useful, to take care of you, so you let him do it.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before getting up, and another when he returns and hands you the water, sitting down on the edge of the bed instead of in the chair. Taking the glass from you once you're done drinking and setting it on the bedside table, Xaden twines his fingers with yours, and brings your joint hands up to kiss your knuckles.

"What happened after you took me to the mender? Did we win?"

"So I've been told," Xaden says with a nod. Looking down at your hands, he admits, "I didn't rejoin the battle. I just couldn't bear to let you out of my sight."

Your heart cracks open at the sheer vulnerability in his voice.

"Come here."

He hesitates for a second, then climbs fully into the bed, taking care to keep his weight off your still healing torso as he settles into your arms.

"When I picked you up and you weren't moving, I thought I lost you," he mumbles against your neck.

"But you didn't," you remind him, running a hand through his hair. "And you're not going to. I'm still here. I won't let anyone or anything take me from you."

Xaden nods, but his breaths are slightly uneven, like he's trying hard not to cry.

Unsure what more you could say to comfort him, you merely hold him.

[dykebehaviour]

take me, if you can

girlfriend!abby x reader

✩ cw: 18+ explicit content, wholesome, giggly, intimate, porn w some plot, bratty!reader, fingering, strap on.

✧ wk: 781

you really could've just handed her your phone.

abby had asked sweetly - granted, suspiciously sweet - but instead of obliging, you'd smirked and stuffed it down the front of your shirt with a simple, "earn it."

now you're sprinting around the living room like a menace while abby, your very tall, very strong, and very determined girlfriend, is hot on your heels in nothing but a sports bra and boxers. you dodge behind the couch, holding the phone over your head like it's a damn olympic medal, and abby narrows her eyes.

"oh, you're gonna regret this," she warns, circling slowly. you squeal and vault over the armrest.

"i already do!" you lie through giggles. you make it halfway down the hallway before her arms wrap around your waist and yank you back with embarrassing ease. you shriek-laugh as she hauls you onto the couch, the both of you tumbling in a heap. you squirm, squealing with laughter as she climbs on top of you.

her thighs cage your hips, hands bracketing your shoulders.

"give. me. the phone," she demands, panting, looming over you.

you bat your lashes up at her. "make me." she blinks, laughs once, low and delighted, and then she tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "oh, baby," she murmurs, leaning forward. "you really want to play?"

you try to lift your hips, wriggle out from beneath her, but abby just presses down and grabs both your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the couch cushion. her other hand drifts slowly down your chest, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.

"cute hiding spot," she teases. "shame if someone searched you thoroughly."

"wouldn't be the first time," you shoot back.

she raises a brow. "still mouthing off?"

then, with a practiced movement, she tugs your shirt up and off in one go, lips brushing your ear. "let's see how long that lasts."

your breath catches. that edge in her voice, the kind that promises ruin. abby keeps her hold on your wrists, uses her thigh to pry your legs apart, and grinds.

the strap she's wearing is already firm against your center, and you didn't even realise she was packing.

you moan - pathetic and needy, already damp from being chased and manhandled and pinned.

abby laughs, quiet and cocky. "yeah, that's what i thought."

she kisses you then, deep and slow, while her free hand slips into your shorts. her fingers glide through your slick like she knew exactly what she'd find.

"dripping," she says smugly. "all that running got you worked up?"

you don't answer fast enough. she slips two fingers in and curls.

you cry out, hips bucking, but she pins you harder, knuckles deep, palm grinding your clit.

"no, no, sweetheart. be still. let me." your eyes flutter, breath stuttering as she fucks you with her fingers, slow and unrelenting. her strap presses against your thigh with every motion, and you're writhing now, already close, already ruined.

but abby doesn't let you come yet. she pulls out with a wicked smile, then spreads your legs wider and lines the strap up, pressing the tip against your entrance.

"ready?" she asks, soft but firm.

you nod, already begging.

she pushes in slow. inches of thick silicone stretching you open until you're gasping beneath her, fingers gripping her biceps like you'll float away without her anchoring you.

abby holds still, letting you feel every inch, then leans down and intertwines your fingers with hers. "hold on, baby," she whispers.

and then she fucks you.

hard. deep. her pace starts steady and powerful, hips smacking yours, her other hand sliding under your thigh to hook your leg over her shoulder - mating press, locked in, nowhere to go.

you sob her name, every thrust knocking the sound out of you. abby watches you the whole time, jaw clenched, eyes burning with pride and adoration.

"you wanted to be a brat," she pants, thrusting harder, "but look at you now. so good for me."

you're barely coherent, just nodding, clawing at her arm for something to hold.

abby grinds in deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over, until you're babbling her name and cumming so hard your vision whites out. she doesn't stop; rocks you through it, kissing your temple, your cheek, your lips, until you're clinging to her, utterly undone.

when she finally slows, she pulls out and holds you gently, drawing you into her chest.

you lie there, dazed, wrapped in her arms while she strokes your hair and chuckles into your skin.

"you really tried to out-brat me," she murmurs. you hum weakly. "worth it."

abby grins. "you'll never win."

you smile, eyes fluttering closed. "i promise to keep trying."

[aesapresmoi]

so this is love

aizawa shōta x fem! reader / hcs and drabbles

who knew the stealthiest hero would have a lover of whom he melts under the gaze of? / insp. he’s my man by luvcat / so this is love, disneyᥫ᭡.

slow burn type of love. aizawa is a man who doesn’t rush into things, especially with the type of field he’s in. doesn’t do hookups or situationships, very straight forward with what he wants.

while in the time of trying to understand his feelings, he would often dodge the idea of starting something with you. his sweet acts of service speaks volumes over his words, no matter how much people question your friendship in the beginning.

memorized your coffee order, takes notes of the shows you watch so he could check it out for himself, begins to learn your schedule like it’s second nature for him. at first, he believed it was because he enjoyed being your friend.

you fell first, but he fell harder, type of love. you fell gradual, unsure of whether or not this is a crush. gradual of months, weeks, and days of open friendship and genuineness to each other. was it still normal after you gave him your apartment code for the lock? was it still normal after you cared for him after the villains invaded ua? was it still normal after you found yourself packing him lunch as when you go to work — he’s going to work — and he picks you up because it’s along the way?

gentle brushes of your hands, yearning for some contact, but both of you are unsure of what this could end up being. you knew it was much more than a crush when you found him fast asleep on your couch — after he promised to stay up and watch the movie with you: gentle breaths and messy hair. you would help him lay properly before bringing a spare blanket down

you became the mysterious woman he greeted after work after some time. this was after a shift you had finish quite early, contemplating just to walk over to ua and greet him outside those large, security, walls. you knew he’d be off by the time you got there, so that’s what you did.

young, curious eyes watched aizawa approach you. he was slow, unknowing at first, but as soon as you made yourself known that you were waiting right outside on the sidewalk? he walked faster with reason, nearly jogging right up to you with a gentle hand grasping for your shoulder.

“did you walk here?” his tone was gentle and curious, his expression melted and soft.

your gaze met his, a sweet smile pulling at your lips. “guilty — i was wondering if you would want to go grab something to eat?” instinctively, your timid hands came up to his scarf to adjust it. “what do you say?”

“sounds great.”

maybe that’s when he realized he fell for you. the evening sun kissing your features gently, like pools of honey just washed over you and made you golden. he was almost jealous of the sun for kissing you before he had.

he’s not one for public affection, or is he one to make a grand announcement that he’s dating someone. it would come up in casual conversations with friends: “oh yah? i got’ta talk to my girl first to let her know.” “i have someone waiting for me, i can’t tonight.” “no, i have someone to patch me up.”

in private, he’s all yours. tired and worn, often laying on top of you when sat on the couch. he melts when he feels you brushing through his hair with your fingers, untangling the knots that could have formed throughout the day. he sighs with content when you hum, it’s simple, but it reminds him that he could still have a simple life outside being a hero