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rosenclaws · 7 months ago

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XXX.Com || Pornstar Worst!Logan Howlett smut

summary: Logan needs money and work is hard to find when you're from another universe, luckily he lands himself a job as an adult film actor. Lets just say, he's a natural.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI!!, 18+ ONLY, fem!reader, porn (obvi lol), jerking off, dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie, scratching, oral f!receiving, rough sex, fake professor x college student (its the porno they're filming), he calls you teach in the porno, reader has a stage name (sunshine), flirting.

a/n: This was inspired by the delicious pornstar logan fics by @bpmiranda I wanted to try my own twist on the trope but plz go check out their fics they are amazing!!

Coming from another universe had its fair share of problems. For one his other self was a very well known hero so people were constantly staring. The other issue was working. He needed money if he ever wanted to move out of this god forsaken place. He’s sick of seeing wade walk around naked at 8 in the morning.

He needs his space and to get that he needs money but getting a job with none of the required paperwork was hard. He had to settle for doing odd jobs that paid cash under the table. Those were fine but he needed something more stable.

When Wade suggested he turn to adult films he rolled his eyes at another attempt at shitty humor from his roommate but the more he thought about it the less it seemed like a joke. The money was good and hopefully they didn't ask too many questions. So fuck it. How he found the right place was a long story but he ended up getting hired pretty quickly.

As the director put it. He's sexy and big in more ways than one. To Logan's surprise they didn't seem to care much that he was from another universe but they did have to make sure he wasn't a total creep which he understood.

The first video he was assigned to was pretty basic. Just fucking a girls brains out or something. Whatever the hell people were in to these days, he didn't really care. As long as he got paid. He had to get used to the prying eyes of the cameras.

Still he said his lines, albeit it took him a couple takes to say them naturally. His gruff voice and rippling muscles skyrocketed him to the top. Despite being a rookie he attracted a lot of attention and even garnered a reputation within the studio. No one could deny the raw animal magnetism this man seemed to have.

"Logan! Good news, your next video is going to be a with one of the most popular stars in our studio." The directors over the top enthusiasm makes Logan's eyes roll but he grunts out a response.

"Her name is Sunshine. Look her up. Anyways be here tomorrow by nine." Sunshine? Logan chuckles to himself as he leaves the studio.

Fake names are not uncommon but he's yet to find one that sounds so...perky. Still his curiosity gets the better of him as he steals Wades laptop in the dead of night. Searching in the name and scanning the results. Logan works with many attractive people in this job but the moment he lays eyes on you something shifts.

You aren't just attractive, you're drop dead gorgeous. He clicks on a video and his cock tightens in his pants. The faces you make don't look over the top or rehearsed. They almost look real. But Logan can tell you're faking it.

Your moans are sweet but he can tell whoever this boy is that's got his cock in you isn't doing his job very well. Still ever the professional you are you make it work. He falls down a rabbit hole of video after video. Shutting the laptop as the clock reads two in the morning. His cock is hard and painful as he puts Wades laptop back on the counter.

Fuck he needs a shower.

The ice cold water hits his back but it's not helping. He wraps his hand around his cock. Keeping his noises to a minimum as he jerks himself off to the thought of you. He bites his lip as he thinks of every way he can make you scream tomorrow. Show you what it's like to be fucked by a real man.

The sinful thoughts that fill his head drive him over the edge. He slams his hand against the shower wall as he comes. The water running down his back as he catches his breath. You've already got him interested, he just hopes he can put on a real show tomorrow.

When Logan gets to the studio the director tells him the "plot" of this video. Plot being a very loose term here. He's supposed to be the failing college senior while you play the hot young professor. They hand him a white button up a size too small and some fake glasses. He laughs as they place the glasses onto his face.

"No one's going to fucking buy this." The buttons threaten to bust open as they start to fix his hair.

"I don't know, you look pretty convincing to me." He looks up to see you smiling at him.

Already dressed in your shoot clothes with your makeup and hair all done. He shamelessly looks you up and down, licking his lips as his eyes settle on your cleavage.

"I'm a little old to be playing a college student don't you think?" You shrug and walk closer to him. You take your hands and run them through his hair, trying to flatten the parts that stick up but they don't want to listen.

"Don't think any one is watching these for the realism Logan." You wink as you then move to fix his glasses.

He clenches his jaw as he tries to contain the raging boner. He shouldn't be hard yet but here he is. You're driving him crazy.

"Promise to go easy on you, don't want to scare my new favorite coworker." You tease. Your nails scratch along his jaw, just for a moment but it's enough to drive him wild.

"I'm your favorite already Sunshine?" Logan says with a grin.

"For now, don't prove me wrong when the cameras are on us." You walk away and Logan enjoys every second of it. Oh this is going to be fun.

"Come on teach, your class is the only one I'm failing. I need to get a C to graduate." Logan's massive frame towers over your desk. His lines come out much more flirty than its supposed to but you roll with it.

"You need a lot of extra credit to make up the missing assignments Mr. Howlett." You stand up and walk over to where he was standing.

Pushing on his chest to get him to sit. You smirk when you see the buttons on his shirt fighting for their life. You sit on top of the desk and pretend to think.

"I'll do anything you want. Anything" Logan growls, his hand resting on your thigh now. Slowing inching up your leg, stopping right at the hem of your pencil skirt. You place your heel onto his shoulder. Spreading your legs so that Logan and the camera can see your lack of panties.

"Well, lets see how bad you want it." You taunt.

Your voice is smooth as butter and it drives him nuts. Logan gets on his knees. Ripping your skirt apart with ease making you gasp. That wasn't in the script but fuck it made you wet. His muscles are bulging in that damn shirt and you want to see what's underneath in person. Sadly that was going to have to wait as he trails kisses up your legs. Wet and sloppy as his grip on your hips is ironclad.

The camera moves to capture Logan's face. Seeing the primal hunger in his eyes as he grabs the hem of your panties with his teeth, dragging them down. He stands up with them still in his mouth. You grab onto his shirt and rip it open. Raking your nails down his very toned chest. You grab your underwear out of his mouth and toss it to the side.

"Good boy." You purr as you push on his shoulders.

He gets back onto his knees and wastes no time diving into your cunt. You fall back onto the desk as Logan takes you apart with his tongue. Moans and whimpers fall from your lips with ease. There is no need to fake your pleasure with him between your legs.

He's hungry, ravenous. Logan can't get enough. He holds your legs apart, keeping you from closing them as he zeros in on your clit. He's ruthless. Refusing to give you a moment to breathe as he loses himself in your pussy.

"You taste sweeter than I imagined." He growls off script. If he wasn't bringing you to orgasm you'd wonder what he meant by that. You wonder if he watched your videos just like you had.

"Logan!" You moan as your legs start to shake under the intense pleasure.

"That's it teach, let me taste you come on." His dirty mouth makes your head spin.

Your eyes squeezing tight as he pushes you over the edge. You barely even notice the camera as it positions itself over Logan's shoulder. Logan resist the urge to break the damn thing as it gets in his way. He feels a push on his shoulder and he growls. Reluctantly he gets out of the way and uses his thumb to rub your clit.

"I have an idea teach," Logan purrs. He pulls you off the desk. Wrapping an arm around you and grinding his clothed cock against your thigh.

"For every orgasm I can pull out of you, you raise my grade by a letter." He breathes into your neck, inhaling your scent. You sigh as his hands start to grope and squeeze your breasts.

"What do you say?" He grins as he feels you squirm under his touch. He unbuttons your blouse and tosses it to the side. Mouth watering as he buries his face in your breasts.

"You better get to work then Mr. Howlett. You're at a D right now." You turn around and bend over the desk. His hands run along your body before he unbuckles his pants.

"I'll show you a D." He grumbles. You have to stifle a laugh at his words.

The camera moves to show your face as Logan slides his cock inside of you. He throws his head back in pleasure as he gets to feel your tight cunt. Now this is what he was waiting for.

"Come get a shot of this." He whispers to himself.

He drags his cock out slowly. He watches in awe as your cute pussy just sucks him up. Your hands are digging into the desk, clawing at the wood as Logan's massive cock pushes its way in. You knew he was big but to actually feel it in person. Fuck.

"That feel good? You like my big cock hm?" Logan's cocky tone makes you moan as he picks up his pace. He's pummeling your poor pussy with no mercy. Your moans are as real as they can get as you cry and whine with each thrust.

"Logan oh god!" Your eyes cross as his cock hits a sensitive spot.

No one's ever hit that before. You're falling apart. Your chest heaves as you try and catch your breath but your moans quiet down because of it. Logan doesn't like that one bit. You groan as you feel his hand grab your hair. He pulls you up so that your back is arched. His cock somehow pushing its way deeper.

"Come on baby, don't hide from me." He whispers in your ear. He wraps an arm around your chest to hold you up. Your nails dig into his arm to ground yourself.

"Feel so fucking good, jerked myself off last night to your videos." He mumbles so only you can hear. You don't understand how a man can have so much stamina. He doesn't even seem tired.

"So fucking close I can feel it baby. I can feel the way your cunt clenches around my fat cock. I can hear her pulsing for me." His eyes grow dark as he feels you start to lose it.

His rough fingers sliding down to play with your cunt. It's a filthy sight to watch. You've forgotten about the cameras and the crew. The only thing you can feel is Logan. He's taken over your mind, your senses.

"That's it pretty girl." He bites your shoulder and the pain mixes with pleasure.

"Fuck!" You wail as you come hard around his cock. Logan groans in pleasure and comes before he can really stop himself. Filling you up nice and full as you babble incoherently. You can barely get your lines out as you float between the real world and cloud nine.

"You got your C Mr. Howlett." You've never been this wrecked after a scene before but Logan has completely ruined you. You grin at the feeling of his cum seeping out of you.

"You know, I've always wanted an A." He's grinning like the devil as he thrusts his hips once more making you cry out.

He's still fucking hard. He really is every porn studios wet dream. Hot, sexy, can go for round after round. The director calls cut but Logan doesn't let go of you. You've got this dazed look in your eyes and he gently lays you down on the desk.

"You alright?" He grunts as he slips out of you. His cock still standing straight as someone brings him a robe. He grabs a towel from one of the PA's and gently wipes up your legs. You whine as the rough material brushes against your poor pussy.

"Sorry." You just smile in response. You haven't had a fuck this good in a long time. A crew member brings you a robe and you put it on.

"You really know how to use that thing. For a second I thought you were the seasoned professional." You joke as you try and get off the desk. You stumble and Logan is quick to catch you.

"What can I say Sunshine, you made it easy." He flirts. The director calls his name and he rolls his eyes.

"Don't keep him waiting Logan. I'll see you soon." Another crew member comes to help you as Logan lets you go.

Thankfully this was all you had for the week and you could go home and soak in a bath. Your poor legs are going to need it. After signing a few things and getting next weeks shoot list you can finally go home.

"Sunshine, hope I didn't fuck you too good." Logan says with a wink. He's waiting outside of the studio, a cigar in his mouth.

"I regret whatever I said before, your ego is going to get too big." You joke. He shrugs and puts out his cigar on the ground.

"You got any plans?" He asks. Your dressed in normal clothes now, nothing remotely revealing but Logan still thinks you look gorgeous.

"I could take you to lunch, if you're interested." He offers.

You haven't thought about dating since you started working in this industry. You didn't need a partner and it could be hard trying to find one who understood your job. But Logan flashes that handsome smile and for some reason you can't resist.

Maybe your working backwards here. He fucks you and then you go to lunch but hey, nothing about him is conventional anyways.

"Yeah, lunch sounds good."

Its just lunch, you tell yourself. It's only a meal with your hot coworker. If things were to go further though you wouldn't complain. Certainly not when he's as handsome as he is. You definitely wouldn't mind taking him back to your place and you're certainly okay when he promises he can go for more rounds away from the prying eyes of the camera. But for now it's just lunch. He pays and you give him your number.

Logan and you part ways and he prays he sees you again. Not just at work but outside of it too. You've got him hooked. The video gets uploaded and explodes in popularity. Praising how realistic it felt and how hot both of you were. He gets a call from the director, expecting another update on his next shoot.

"Great news man! Sunshine wants to do exclusive shoots with you. Oh this is going to make us so much money." He tunes out the rambling as his phone dings. A smirk appearing on his face when he sees a text with your name pop up.

Want to rehearse our next scene? my place 7pm <3

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #pornstar!logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 10 months ago

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OMG I have an idea

What if a villain hit reader with a love potion and the Yandere JL has to deal with reader being obsessed with one of them until it wears off🙏🙏😭(I LITERALLY LOVE YOUR YAN JL WORKDGHBJB)

A Day in Life: Love Pollen

Synopsis: A day in your life where you get hit with love pollen, get kidnapped, and are rescued by the Justice League.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+; PDA; Dry humping; Kinda public sex bc they're in a deserted island’s beach, so it's basically out in the open but no one’s around; Dubcon/noncon bc, you know, love-and-kinda-sex pollen; Also maybe drugging bc of that; Writer is the Justice League's weakness; Hal Jordan is a little shit; Needles; English is not my 1st language.

Word count: 2,1k

Requested? Yes.

Extra notes: I imagine the League’s marketing will have a hard time after this little stunt, I mean, there's no way no one caught that on camera

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

The Legion of Doom had a plan. They invaded a political event in Metropolis, with the presence of the Justice League as the president’s security team, the League being the target. First, Poison Ivy release pollen throughout the whole city, as a distraction, making people hallucinate that they were in love with one another. Crazy in love. It would be okay, if her experiment didn't cause chaos. All over the streets, some people were having sex out in the open, some were fighting and killing because of jealousy and cheating, some were committing robberies to give their “loved ones”. It was pure chaos and only the quick reflexes, powers and gadgets from the League spared the team from getting hit.

Half the team went to deal with the distraction, saving and restraining people, giving them the antidote, etc. The other half, took care of the villains. After a few hours, the Legion of Doom was taken down and the city’s security and health workers took over the job, the chaos being a lot easier to contain since they were spreading the antidote through the air, it would take at least an hour to spread it throughout the whole city, and then the ones who somehow weren't able to breath it, but mostly, just the mess left behind was the real issue.

You were standing with the rest of the crew on the event, watching the League and the politicians discoursing for the press and TV. When the mayhem started, for the first few seconds, you got startled and froze. Looking between the League, the scared crowd, and the villains invading the place. Suddenly, you breathed some thick smoke and your eyes shot to the heroes, silently urging them to do something, when your eyes locked on Green Lantern’s, the pollen’s effect kicked in. You got dizzy, something snapped, and then everything changed.

Wait, when did Green Lantern's jaw got so sharp? And his muscles so defined? Oh, and he was so big and tall. Did he do something to his hair? Wow, his ring is glowing now and he's flying. He's so cool and powerful. A true hero. Shit, he's coming in my direction. Hehe, he's using a construct to lift me and my coworkers to a safer place as if it was nothing. Imagine flying with him every day. How does he look without the mask? Ugh, must be perfect, if his jaw and lips were anything to go by. I can't even see the color of his eyes! And- and please stop looking me in the eyes and touching my shoulders and asking me if I'm okay, of course I am, I'm with you. No. Nooo. Come back here! Let the others deal with the bad guys, I'm right hereee! Nooooo!

You were depressed and deflated the whole time your soulmate was away. A journalist team from outside the city arrived at some point and you were able to watch the fight — Normally, Lois Lane would do the transmission, but she's too busy making out with her cameraman, she was in the crowd too. —. You started crying watching your lover fighting with Sinestro. When he won, and everything was fine, was when you finally calmed down and just started anxiously waiting while ignoring your colleagues strange antics, one of them even hitting on you. Didn't she know you and Green Lantern were in love?

When the League was back, the paramedics were starting to give the crew the antidote, you were next in line, however, as soon as you saw the heroes, you broke into a sprint.

— Green! — You yelled, catching everyone off guard. Even more so when you jumped and hooked your legs around the brunette’s waist, your arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.

Hal was so shocked that it took him two seconds to reciprocate the kiss, ignoring completely the gasps from his friends. You moaned against his lips, mumbling a jumbled mess of “I love you”, “I missed you”, “was so worried”, “so glad you're back”.

Someone groaned.

— Batman, just give them that damn antidote before I lose it. — Batman grunted and Hal struggled but managed to separate your faces for a moment. You tried to push your face towards his again, but he grabbed your jaw. You kept forcing your face against his hand and whining. It was really cute, and your willingness and the previous sensation of your lips ignited something in his belly, yet, he looked to the side just in time to see Batman preparing the needle, the rest of the League sulking on the side and glaring at him.

His mind worked rapidly, ignoring the texture of your soft lips pampering kisses against the skin of his hand. When he felt the tip of your tongue, he made a decision.

A bad one.

— Yeah. I don't think so. — Green Lantern conjured several chain constructs, chaining the League's arms and ankles to the ground. It wouldn't hold off the ones like Superman and Wonder Woman who were strong enough to break it, and Martian Manhunter who could just invade his mind or use his intangibility, Flash was also pretty capable of taking him on, but Hal was smart and sagacious. Still holding you, he made a rocket construct around you both and took off.

Really, a terrible idea.

Superman and Wonder Woman, in a cry of rage, broke the chains. Diana unsheathed her sword, her feet not even touching the ground anymore, flying, ready to go after the traitor. Martian passed through the construct, while Superman went to break Batman and Aquaman free, Flash vibrated fast to rearrange his particles and also escaped.

— We need a plan. — Batman’s voice stopped the amazon warrior from going in a hunt for blood. He was already stressing over what the marketing team could do to fix this.

— A plan? We can defeat the enemy and retreat my darling if we go now! — Wonder Woman barked.

— Green Lantern is impulsive. If we go now we can destroy the whole state and hurt (Y/N) in the process. He won't give them up easily.

— Batman's right. — Superman agreeds. — Flash, follow them and see where they’re going. — The speedster nodded and took off.

Barry shook his head, cursing his idiot best friend the whole way.

Between the whole team, Hal was clearly the only one who would be okay with you falsely loving them. The rest wanted something more genuine for you. Some of them would settle for you not loving them as much as they loved you, some wanted you to feel exactly the same amount of what they felt. Hal still loved you just like them, but he always had that certain level of insecurity that craved to be better than anyone, to impress, making everything a competition, and the sensation of being the only one to have you could certainly cloud his judgment and accept your love, even if fake. He just thought he could compensate by treating you the right way, and not just using that opportunity to do whatever he wanted with you, just because he could and you wouldn't complain. He could make this about you both, and not just about him.

Either way, every one of them (thought) they deserved their fair chance at winning you over.

— Manhunter, can you still read his mind and tell what he is thinking? — Manhunter nodded and his eyes started glowing, there was a second of silence before he spoke.

— It's getting weaker as he gets more distant. It's purely impulsive thinking. Green Lantern isn't considering the consequences and means no harm against Earth or us. — Batman nodds.

— That's a shame. I mean harm. — Wonder Woman mutters, Batman glared and Superman side-eyed her. Batman turned his communication on.

— Flash, tell us when they stop moving.

— If he touches them, I will personally kill him. — Aquaman darkly states. Superman took a step in his direction, facing him head on.

— No, you won't. — The two stared at one another intently, until Batman broke the silence.

— Focus. We don't have time for this. — The dark knight stated.

— We need to be collected and work as a team to act smoothly on our plan. — Martian reminds them. Wonder Woman steps down again and sheats her sword. They all form a circle and start planning.

The sky was never this blue and the sand never this warm and soft. Even with the warmth of the sun being so intense, you were laying on a palm tree's shadow, and the air was flowing just fine. What was actually making you sweat was the dry humping you and your soulmate were doing.

You don't remember ever getting so aroused in your whole life, and can't remember ever desiring someone so much. You could kill someone if they dared to try and steal him away from you.

Hal felt you carding your fingers through his hair and pull slightly, giving him shiver, and he squeezed the flesh of your hips. You moaned against his lips at a particularly stronger wave of pleasure. The clothes were a curse, stopping you from feeling the real him, so you desperately started clawing at his clothes. Green Lantern breathily chuckled.

— Relax, hot stuff, we have time… — He whispers with a smirk. The man held your hands and laid them on the ground, above your head. You just moaned, more needy, and pushed your hips against his, eliciting a hiss from his red and swollen lips.

His hands started unbottoning your shirt and freeing the fabric out of your pants. You kept your hands were they were and watched, eyes wide open, when he descended kisses from the middle of your chest, going south, only pausing at your waistband.

As much as you wanted to feel his mouth more, seeing him so covered and not being able to properly touch him was making you restless, so you sat up, surprising him, and started pulling up the fabric at the back of his neck. Hal chuckled and shook his head, humoring your needs. He helped you take it off, then pushed your own shirt down your arms, until it was off.

You paused, admiring his adonis body. Your heart raced and eyes watered, never having seen something so perfect your whole life. Even his scars were beautiful. His chest hair and happy trail looked really soft and somehow he looked even more muscled, strong and beautiful. You wonder why you rejected him before.

Hal Jordan basked in your amazed gaze, loving to show off, especially while doing nothing. He frowned weakly, and gave a reassuring grin when you pouted, slumped and frowned.

— What's this, sweetheart? I thought you were enjoying this. — To lift your mood, he started running his hands up and down your sides.

— I wanted to see your face… — Hal remained silent for a few seconds. They would tell you their identities eventually, and that fact kept being brought up on reunions. They all knew at some point, you would have to know, to really start a relationship, yet, Batman, and his paranoia, kept them all from telling you. Sometimes, it felt like a sabotage, but mostly, it made sense, since the guy had a bunch of kids, who could be in danger if the information somehow got leaked, still, you couldn't trust to let them in, if they didn't let you in. That was the only reason you didn't trust them, of course.

Also, a face was not a name. Hal wasn't famous, so how bad could it be? Especially if it would turn you on so much, and when you looked so damn cute. His own lust was also influencing his critical thinking, which was already second place to his impulsiveness.

Hal bit his lower lip and brought his face closer to yours, a few centimeters away from having your noses touching.

— Okay… Take it off… — You let out a happy squeal and reached up with both hands. Your heart pounded with anticipation, making you go slower to savor the intimacy even more. Hal closed his eyes when he felt the gentle tug, against his wishes to watch your eagerness and your lip biting in anticipation. His heart was also pounding.

You saw his right eye closed and his thick eyebrow, when suddenly, a loud noise rang out, scaring the shit out of you and prompting Hal to fix the mask again, get up and assess for danger.

He finally fell to his senses and realized something.

He just took the worst decisions ever.

Everything happened too fast. Flash was on your side, holding a needle to your arm, and Green Lantern was being thrown around by a red and blue blur. Only the feminine rageful scream gave you the hint to who it was.

You got up, ready to die for your soulmate, when the antidote kicked in.

You threw up.

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zoro-sremedy · 29 days ago

Text

I NEED A HERO!

I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast And he's gotta be fresh from the fight!

Synopsis. Your vibrator died and are in dear need of a rescue.

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Megumi, Yuji.

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, reader is unprotected, spanking, backshots, missionary, prone bone, mating press, soft dom/dom vibes.

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO 'TIL THE END OF THE NIGHT! SMAU that started this drabble if you wanna read it.

GETO SUGURU—"YOU DON'T NEED ANYTHING ELSE"

It started with a joke. The amused little smirk he gave you.

Then came the silence—that heavy kind, thick and knowing.

And now?

You're beneath him. Completely. Bent in half, legs folded up towards your chest, arms pinned gently above your head by his hand as he sinks into you for what has to be the hundredth time tonight.

"You poor thing," Geto murmurs, voice warm but sharp at the edge, like silk over steel. "You thought a toy could give you this?"

You try to answer, but you're already moaning—body melting under him, trembling from how deep he reaches. His strokes are slow, controlled, focused—designed to unravel you piece by piece.

"That little thing just buzzed at your clit, didn't it?" he goes on, kissing your jaw, your neck, your clavicle with unbearable patience. "Didn't touch your cervix. Didn't make you cry. Didn't tell you how beautiful you are like this?"

He thrusts deeper—you feel it, that weight pressing down where it aches, where you're soft and needy and desperate for him.

Your hands clench. He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"No, angel. Look at me."

You do.

His purple eyes lock on yours—glowing a little, even in the low light, like they're drinking you in.

"That toy doesn't know how to kiss you while you fall apart," he says, voice velvet-soft. "Doesn't know how you look when you're about to come. Doesn't know what your body begs for."

You gasp, head tilting back as he angles his hips just right—finding that devastating rhythm, again and again. You feel yourself spiraling.

And Geto leans down, forehead against yours, voice just above a whisper:

"I know."

You come. Hard. With a broken cry, tears at the corners of your eyes, chest heaving beneath him. And still—he doesn't stop.

His thrusts grow tighter, rougher, more desperate. You feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek as he groans, "That's it, just like that. Take it, love. Take everything."

When he comes, it's with a soft moan against your lips and a deep grind into your hips, holding you there, filling you to the brim.

He doesn't pull out.

Instead, he shifts, kisses your collarbone, and murmurs:

"Now stay. Let it sink in."

You're breathless. Blinking.

He chuckles softly and presses his palm on your lower belly.

"I want you to feel me for hours. I want you to leak me tomorrow. Let everyone wonder why you're walking so slow."

You whimper, and he kisses your temple sweetly, like didn't just rearrange your soul.

"I'll burn that vibrator later," he adds, smirking into your skin. "For your own good."

GOJO SATORU—"YOU THOUGHT THAT COULD REPLACE ME"

At the end, the filthy little thing abandoned you! How dare it! And after Satoru's threat, you didn't want to risk being edged to madness. So, you actually decided to have a cold shower instead.

You're getting some water when the door slams open.

"Satoru—?!"

"Don't you Satoru me," he growls, strides hitting up the hallway. "You really sent that text and thought I'd stay home?"

He's in front of you before you can blink—shirt half-tucked, pupils blown wide, lips twisted into something between a smirk and a warning.

"I was joking," you whisper, already breathless as he cages you in against the kitchen counter. "I didn't think—"

"Didn't think?" he repeats, jaw ticking. "Didn't think before announcing you were out here mourning a fucking vibrator like your pussy doesn't belong to me?

You whimper.

His hand slides down, fast and firm, slipping beneath your shorts. He finds you embarrassingly wet and groans low, head dropping to your neck.

"God, you are sorry, aren't you?" he murmurs against your throat. "Dripping like this. Practically begging to be punished?"

You nod. "I didn't mean it—please, I'm sorry. I should've waited for you. I need you."

"Oh, baby," he hums, dragging your soaked panties down with one hand while the other lifts you onto the counter. "You do need me. You just forgot what it's like to be ruined."

He doesn't bother undressing fully—just yanks himself out, strokes one, twice and then he's there, thick and hot into you like he owns the space between your legs.

(He does.)

When he thrusts in, you sob.

"Yeah?" he moans. "That feel like something your silly little toy could do? Can it make you back your arch like that? Can it grab your thighs like this while you cream all over it?

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he fucks you deep, relentless. One hand finds your throat—no choke, just holding—and he leans close, breathless against your lips.

"Say it."

You blink up at him, dizzy. "Say… what?"

"That you're mine," he pants. "That no battery-operated piece of plastic could ever make you feel this way."

"I'm yours," you gasp." Only yours—fuck, Satoru—please, don't stop, I'm—"

You melt around him, trembling and slick, and he groans loud as he spills into you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours.

When it's over, he doesn't pull away. Just holds you there, still full of him, smirking like the bastard he is.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now… next time you even joke about needing a replacement—just remember who shows up ready to break the bed.

You nod, limp and blissed-out. And he—grinning like the madman he is—adds:

"I'm still bringing back up. Just in case. Y'know. Double homicide."

NANAMI KENTO—"YOU SHOULD'VE WAITED FOR ME"

You should've known better than to text him that.

The moment Nanami steps through the door—tie loosened, jacket discarded, sleeve rolled to his elbows—there's something dangerous in his gaze. Something quiet, simmering. All the more terrifying than yelling.

"I see I failed you," he says, setting down his briefcase. His voice is calm. Too calm. "To make you feel so neglected… you considered outsourcing my job."

Your breath stutters as he approaches, undoing the top button of his dress shirt, eyes fixed on you like you're both a problem and the solution.

"Kento, I was just—"

"Joking?" he murmurs, stepping between your knees as you sit on the edge of the bed. His large palm slides up your thigh, warm, adoring. "Darling, you know better than to joke about things like that."

You open your mouth to protest again, but the way he tugs your panties down in one fluid motion tells you talking isn't part of the plan.

He kneels in front of you—his hands still gentle, always gentle—but his mouth? His tongue?

That is punishment.

By the time he rises again, your legs are shaking, your voice wrecked from the begging. And he's not even undone his belt yet.

"Now," he murmurs, brushing your hair back, kissing your temple. "You're going to apologize properly."

He turns you over onto your stomach, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades before he pulls your hips up, spine arching under his guidance. He lines himself up, slow and reverent, like he's not about to break you from the inside out.

And when he pushes in—fully, deeply, thickly—you cry out his name like a confession.

His hands are firm on your waist. His pace is steady, precise, measured—the way he approaches everything else in life. But his voice, oh, his voice…

"I never want to hear about batteries," he growls into your ear. "I never want you to think there's something that could replace me. You want pleasure? You wait. You wait for your man."

You nod, blubbering, barely able to speak through the way he hits you just right.

"And when I come home from a long day," he pants, pace finally stuttering, "I want to find you right here—warm ,ready, aching—like the good girl you are."

He fucks you through your orgasm like it's his duty. When he finishes inside you with a soft moan of your name, he stays pressed to your back, kissing your shoulder softly, breathing hard against your skin.

"I'll always take care of you," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "No substitute. Ever."

You nod, blissed out and dazed, a sleepy smile curling your lips.

And he, ever the gentlemen, tucks you in the whisper:

"You're mine. And I take my responsibilities seriously."

FUSHIGURO TOJI—"BATTERY-OPERATED? CUTE"

You did wait. The last thing you needed was Toji edging you to your next life. Because he would, even more after you apparently offended him with the use of your pathetic little toy, or so he said.

"You what?"

His voice is flat. Unimpressed. He's tossing your vibrator between his fingers like it's a joke—a sad little toy he plucked from your drawer the second he walked in and saw the way you looked at him: guilty. Needy. Ruined before he even touched you.

"I—It died," you mumble, cheeks hot. "I was just—I wasn't gonna finish—"

"Oh, you weren't? he laughs, full-bellied and sharp. "Could've fooled me. Look at you. So fuckin' desperate you pulled this pathetic thing out like it'd satisfy you?"

He tosses it aside like trash and stalks towards the bed.

"You really think something like that could do what I do?" His shirt is already done, his belt undone—and there's that familiar glint in his eyes: wicked, ravenous. Mean.

By the time he's got you on your stomach, ass in the air, his hands are already spreading your thighs like he owns them.

"Should've waited for me, baby," he says, leaning over your back, tip of his cock dragging between your folds. "Now I gotta show you—again—what the real thing feels like."

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you.

He's thick. Deep. Filling you in a way that makes your eyes roll and brain empty. There's no buildup—just Toji, slamming into you like you owe him something. Like this is a lesson you need to learn.

"You feel that?" he grunts, hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you up just enough to hear your whimpers. "You think some battery-powered piece of plastic could fuck you this deep?"

He slaps your ass, watches it bounce. His thrusts are brutal, unrelenting. You're already clenching, already gasping—and he's just getting started.

"Say it," a low, hungry sound leaving that pretty face of his. "Say you're sorry for trying to replace me."

"I'm—fuck—sorry," you cry, barely able to breathe. "It's not the same, I swear—"

"Damn right it's not the same," he snarls, grabbing your hips tighter, driving into you so hard the headboard cracks. "You're mine. This pussy's mine. Don't you ever forget that again."

Your orgasm hits like a freight train—unexpected, unstoppable—and he doesn't let up. He keeps going, even when your legs shake, even when you sob his name like a prayer.

By the time he's done, his cum is dripping from between your thighs, you're brain's barely functioning.

And still, he leans down, kisses your shoulder, voice low and smug.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he purrs, "I'll buy you a new one."

A beat. A smirk.

"Just so I can break it again."

RYOMEN SUKUNA—"IMPUDENT LITTLE THING"

His throne room is dim and gold-drenched, heat coiling in the air like smoke.

You hadn't even meant to tell him about the broke thing—the poor, dead vibrator now tucked in the bottom of your drawer—but he felt it the second he returned. Felt your body still humming with frustration, with denial. With betrayal.

"You toyed with yourself," Sukuna murmurs, voice like velvet over glass. "In my absence. With that?" You flinch under his gaze. His four eyes burn with quiet disdain, like he's looking at something pitiful—a servant that disobeyed. A possession that misbehaved.

"Sukuna, I didn't mean—"

"You did not wait for me." He steps down from the throne, barefoot and lethal. "And you expect leniency?"

The broken vibrator is on the nightstand of his chamber, like a criminal caught in the act. Sukuna sees it. Picks it up. Smirks.

"Pathetic little thing." Hi s voice is thick with amusement and venom as he lets it fall with a dull thunk on the floor. Then he turns to you—already bare, already flushed, knees pressed together nervously on his bed.

He's quiet for a beat.

Then he's on you.

One hand wraps around your ankle, dragging you flat onto your back like a prey. His body covers yours in an instant—massive, solid, terrifying—all ancient muscle and cruel intention. He grabs your thighs, shoves them open, wide enough to ache, and settles between them like a god claiming tribute.

"Let's see what kind of mess that toy made," he murmurs, running two fingers through your folds. You're embarrassingly soaked. "Tch. You're still this wet for me?"

You gasp, but he doesn't wait. He lines himself up—thick, heavy, perfect—and slides in deep in one brutal, punishing stroke.

Your back arches of the. He growls, low and guttural.

"That's it," Sukuna hisses, pressing down until you're completely folded under him, legs hooked over his shoulders, hips pinned. "Look at me."

You're trembling. There's nowhere to hide. His four crimson eyes stare down at you, devouring every twitch, every moan, every time your lashes flutter.

"Is this what you need? A fake little buzz, or this—my cock kissing your womb like it belongs there?"

He starts to move—slowly at first, but each thrust grows more intense. More deliberate. He rolls his hips to grind impossibly deep, relishing the way you gasp with each stroke, they way your hands claw helplessly at his arms.

"You'll take every inch," he grunts. "Every drop."

One hand slides to your belly, pressing down—you feel the bulge of him inside you, obscene and undeniable.

"Look at how deep I am. That toy never even made it past your entrance."

You whimper, lost in him. He smirks.

"That's right. Whimper for me. Let that ruined cunt remember what real pleasure feels like."

And then he snaps his hips.

Again. And again.

You come—not once, but twice—sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his shoulders, body a trembling mess beneath him. And still he doesn't stop.

"One more," he growls. "You're gonna come again—with my cock inside, and my name in your throat."

You do.

And he follows.

Sukuna spills inside you with a low, possessive groan, burying himself to the hilt. You feel full—thick warmth flooding you until it leaks around his cock, dripping down your thighs.

When he finally lets your leg down, he doesn't pull out.

He lays on top of you—heavy, warmth and possessive—cock still buried deep.

"You'll stay like this," he murmurs against your ear. "So every time you walk, you feel me leaking out."

And with a final, smug chuckle, he adds:

"Try replacing that, little one."

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI—"EMERGENCY RELIEF"

You barely make it to the bed before he's pressing you down, lips grazing your cheek with a quiet, unimpressed sigh.

"You couldn't wait for me?" he murmurs against your skin.

You whimper a weak sorry—but he's already there, behind you, hand curling under your thigh to lift your leg over his hip, cock slowly sliding into you from behind, inch by deliberate inch.

"I'm here now,' he says quietly. "So stop fidgeting."

You nod, biting your lip as he sinks in deep, so deep you swear you can feel him in your chest. The room is dim and quiet, his chest warm against your back, his arm beneath your head holding you still like you're made of something precious.

He doesn't thrust hard. He rolls into you. Every deep, slow stroke is maddening—filling, soothing, wrecking.

"You couldn't wait, so now you're going to take your time," he says against your shoulder. "That toy couldn't do this."

You can't even argue. You're too full, too breathless, the angle of your leg letting him reach everything inside you that makes your spine arch and your eyes flutter.

His hand slips between your thighs, thumb circling your clit in lazy, knowing motions.

He kisses your neck softly.

"Always so needy," he murmurs. "But this is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

You nod fast, moaning quietly, trying to hold back the sounds that bubble up.

"'Gumi—please—"

"You're lucky I miss you," he says, voice low, almost smiling as he slows down even more, just to hear the whimper in your throat. "Because otherwise, I would've let you suffer for teasing me like that."

When you come, it's not loud—it's devastating. Your whole body tenses, then melts into him, sobbing as you fall apart, clenching around him like you're trying to keep him forever.

He follows soon after, a groan into your shoulder as he spills deep, still inside you, staying exactly where you both want him.

You're both quiet for a while.

His hand strokes along your side, his breathing slow.

Then, a quiet murmur:

"Throw that thing away."

You laugh, exhausted. "Yes, sir."

ITADORI YUJI—"PUT ME IN COACH"

"Okay—" he pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he presses deeper into you, "—you're gonna have to say if it's too much, 'kay?"

You laugh, gasping as his hips meet your ass again, thick cock hitting just the right spot. "You're literally apologizing while wrecking me."

"Wha—I'm not wrecking you," Yuji huffs, offended. "I'm being gentle!"

You look over your shoulder, barely managing a smirk. "Baby, you're flatting me against the bed and whispering sweet nothings while my face is in a pillow."

He whines—actually whines—and leans over you, punishing, pushing you deeper in the prone bone position, his broad chest on your back, lips at your ear.

"I'm just—trying to make it good for you," he mumbles, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "Better than your toy."

You giggle, breath shaky. "You're jealous of my vibrator."

He groans. "You named it."

"I name everything!"

"I heard you say 'he never lets me down' with a smile," he mutters into your neck.

"And yet—" you moan as he grinds into you slow and deep, making your legs shake, "—here I am, flat on my stomach, absolutely owned."

Yuji moans again, like it physically affects him. "Yeah? Say it louder."

"You're better," you whisper, breath hitching as his thrusts quicken, muscles flexing above you. "So much better, Yuji—oh my god—"

His arm wraps around your waist, holding you tighter. "Good. Because I'm not stopping until you forget his name."

He means it, too. He's panting, flushed, focused completely on your pleasure. Every roll of his hips is desperate, not for release, but to feel you fall apart beneath him. When you come, he nearly cries, whispering "that's it, that's my girl," over and over like a prayer.

And even after, when your legs are shaking and you're practically sobbing into the sheets, he's still kidding you back, asking if you're okay, offering water—

Right before he says:

"… so, we are throwing him out, right?"

459 notes · View notes

prettylilyanime · 1 month ago

Text

Blooming Hearts ♡ Chapter 08

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Synopsis: All your life, you’ve had it all—wealth, beauty, and a quirk good enough to secure your spot at UA. But after three years, you still feel more like an outsider than a future hero. Social life? Barely existent. Friends? Who needs them? You’re ready to coast through your final year solo… until fate lands you squarely in the lap of a certain hot-headed blonde—literally.

˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder

˚✿˖ Authors note: They're cuties

˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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It’s the first weekend back from training camp.

The dorms hum with a quiet, lazy energy. Laughter spills from the common room where a few of your classmates are sprawled on the couches, half-watching some cheesy action movie, half-bickering over who gets the last slice of pizza.

The faint scent of buttered popcorn drifts through the hallways, mingling with the crisp night air.

But here, tucked away in the safe, intimate cocoon of your bedroom, it feels like you’re a million miles away from it all.

You sit at your desk, clutching Bakugou’s hoodie to your chest like it’s the only anchor keeping you tethered to the ground. You still can’t believe you have this thing! This massive, burgundy piece of him.

In the moment, Bakugou lending you his jacket punched through your nervous system in a way that would probably concern every medical professional alive.

You’re sure he didn’t think much of it. He probably felt obligated to help since you looked like you were two minutes away from hypothermia, sitting out under the stars in nothing but your little pink bikini.

Whatever his reasons were, the gesture wrecked you.

Warmed you to your core, but also completely ruined your ability to function. You’ve been avoiding him all week since the group returned to class, unable to meet his eye after the shared drink incident in the lake… and now this. The sweater.

Waves of anxiety coil in your stomach at the thought of having to give it back.

Your knee bounces restlessly beneath you, the soft tap-tap-tap against your plush white carpet the only sound breaking the perfect stillness of your room.

You’re seated at your desk, surrounded by the little world of a room you’ve built. Your safe, curated sanctuary.

Trinkets and keepsakes are neatly arranged in trays, your jewelry boxes stacked just right. Makeup pouches zippered closed in a tidy corner. And beside it all, there’s a delicate porcelain ivory pot, holding a tiny bouquet of quirk-induced flowers. They glow with a soft, sleepy pink—casting a sweet, ambient shimmer that gently lights the room.

Everything is so pretty. So perfectly you.

And yet, none of it soothes the knot of nerves twisting tight in your chest.

You glance at your door, locked obviously, before your eyes drift back to the phone on your desk. Its screen remains black. Still. Unmoving.

You honestly can’t believe you’re even back in your room. Back in this strange, breathless state.

Training camp had been… surreal. Magical in some ways, but deeply overwhelming in others.

You’ll forever be grateful to Ochako for showing you kindness, for reaching out and pulling you into the group with such quiet warmth.

But switching from lonely introvert to unexpected topic of conversation among twenty-something classmates? One half of your body felt like it was living a dream, and the other half was screaming at you to run away and retreat into your room at all times.

And now there’s this.

Bakugou’s hoodie.

Even thinking about it is mortifying.

You press the thick burgundy fabric tighter to your chest, breathing in the faint scent that still clings to it—sweet like burnt caramel, a scent you've learned to associate with him.

It makes your heart ache.

He’d shown you kindness, too. And here you are, practically hiding and holding his clothes hostage!

That’s it. You have to text him.

You let out a quiet sigh, adjusting your clunky glasses as you pick up your phone.

You swipe through your text archives, going way back to your first year when the class had made a group chat. You barely spoke in there, just lurking quietly. Based on the years of inactivity, it seems like they eventually got the hint.

Still, it’s the only way to find his number.

You scroll, eyes scanning, and with a nervous breath, tap his contact.

Bakugou Katsuki.

Your thumb hovers, heart thudding.

This will be your first time texting him. What if he thinks it’s weird? What if he blocks you?

Maybe you could transfer schools. Shiketsu High might be too late, but your mom has connections, doesn’t she?

Your nerves are boiling at this point. But still, you start typing:

hey... um, do you want your hoodie back?

Delete.

hi bakugou. i have your hoodie. can i give it back?

Delete.

A strangled groan escapes you as you bury your face in the hoodie, muffling the soft, pitiful sound of pure social agony.

You force yourself to breathe, lift your head, and type:

Hii bakugou are you free? i have your hoodie 🧺

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

And now you sit frozen, heart hammering beneath your silky pajama top, staring at your screen in horror because—

The emoji. What were you thinking? You regret it instantly. Viscerally.

But the panic spikes when his reply comes in almost instantly:

I'm assuming this is sad eyes.

Naturally, you want to slam your head against the desk- maybe it'll knock you out and save you from this misery! Of course he didn't have your number saved!

You cringe so hard your soul tries to abandon your body. You should’ve just told him it was you. Should’ve said something.

Your fingers clack desperately against the screen as you reply:

“Yep it’s me!”

Great. Just great. Maybe you should’ve addressed how much you hate that nickname while you were at it!

Too late now.

A chat bubble appears.

He’s typing.

Oh god.

"I can meet in five."

You gulp, horrified.

Five minutes?! That’s basically now! You’re going to have to interact with Bakugou Katsuki in your current state?! You glance in the mirror, eyeing your heart print pjs and ridiculous glasses.

The last time he caught you looking like this was bad enough… and you’re pretty sure that memory still lives in your nightmares.

You lunge for your closet like a cat avoiding bathwater, leaving your desk chair spinning violently behind you.

Your hands fly over hangers, rifling through outfit after outfit in a frenzy. What says I swear I’m effortlessly amazing at all times, even when I’m alone doing absolutely nothing without looking like you tried?

After what feels like a thousand panicked years, you settle on a soft lavender loungewear set: cozy little shorts, and a matching long sleeve that has a tiny cute yet meticulously embroidered lilac flower at the top with a hand stitched lacy trim.

It’s cute!

You rip your glasses off because—God, no. He can’t see you in those. Not again. Not ever.

A spritz of perfume. Just one. Okay, maybe two.

It’s ridiculous. You know that. He’s probably going to grab the hoodie, grunt something barely coherent, and walk away without even looking at you.

But still.

Looking good makes you feel better! If anything’s going to stop you from sounding like a babbling disaster the second he opens his mouth, it’s this.

And then just as you're checking yourself one last time in the mirror, a knock.

Then, very gently, you clutch his hoodie tighter to your chest, like it’s some kind of plush shield, and pad quietly to the door in your fluffy socks.

You crack it open and immediately wish you had five more minutes to prepare. Or maybe a week.

Standing there in the hallway is Bakugou. His tall self looking rather comfortable in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants underneath. Dear lord.

And as if that wasn’t enough, right next to him is his best friend, grinning like human sunshine. Also in grey sweatpants. Do they have some kind of secret uniform or what?

Kirishima’s version feels less threatening, though. He’s got a bright red oversized sweater on, matching the wild mess of his hair, and a pair of red Crocs that somehow make the whole thing weirdly endearing.

You personally loathe crocs, they're a fashion nightmare...he somehow makes it work.

“Y/N!” Kirishima beams. “How’ve you been? We haven’t really gotten to hang out since training camp!”

You blink.

Mentally, you laugh.

Yeah, no kidding! You haven’t been “hanging out” because you’ve been busy executing escape missions every time either of them walked into a room!

Honestly, your stealth skills deserve an award.

“O-oh. Hi, Kirishima.” You smile, but it feels a little too tight. Your eyes flick over to Bakugou, who hasn’t said a word. He’s just watching you, unreadable as always.

Your heart practically somersaults into your throat.

This can’t be good for your health.

“I, um—here.” You hold out the hoodie to Bakugou, careful not to make too much eye contact.

As he reaches for it, your fingers accidentally graze his.

It’s nothing, really. A blink of contact. Barely a second. But your heart stutters like it’s been shocked back to life.

You pull your hand back a little too fast, pretending to fix the sleeve of your shirt like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything, just takes the hoodie like nothing happened. His expression stays unreadable, but his eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Kirishima leans forward a bit, peering past Bakugou with a bright grin. “We’re all watching a movie downstairs. You should come! It’s just a bunch of us hanging out, nothing crazy.”

Your heart drops. Oh no, you were so excited to sleep in and watch some makeup reviews!

“Oh,” you blink, caught completely off guard. “Um, me?”

“Yeah!” Kirishima nods, enthusiastic as ever. “We’ve got popcorn, snacks, Kaminari’s being loud—same old stuff. You should join us for a bit.”

You barely have time to process it before Bakugou speaks up.

“Tch. Pass.” He shifts slightly, already half-turned away. “Not sittin’ through another one of that idiot’s trash picks.”

Kirishima nudges him just enough to earn an irritated grunt.

“Oh, come on,” he says with a teasing grin. “It won’t kill you to hang out for an hour. You never come to these.”

Bakugou scowls, hoodie tucked under his arm. “Yeah, and that’s by choice.”

You shift where you stand, eyes flicking between them. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your door, heart thudding loud in your chest. And before you can talk yourself out of it, the words slip out.

“I mean... I guess I could come by for a bit.”

Instant regret.

Both of their heads turn toward you. Kirishima lights up, already halfway into a celebratory fist pump, while Bakugou just raises a brow, his expression unreadable.

Instant regret washes over you. Your cheeks flush hot, and you suddenly wish you could disappear behind the door. But Kirishima’s excitement is hard not to get swept up in.

“Awesome! That’s great. Everyone’ll be glad to see you again.”

Bakugou shifts his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor for a beat. Then he shrugs.

“Whatever. I’ll go too.”

Kirishima blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Yeah. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

You glance over at him, and something flutters low in your stomach. He’s not looking at you. If anything, he seems pointedly focused on the wall. But the tip of his ear is just a little pink.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe.

Kirishima glances between the two of you, something sparkling behind his eyes. Bakugou notices and scowls, but you don’t even catch it—your eyes are glued to your socks, heart thudding in quiet panic.

You slip away to your closet and grab the first pair in reach. Your soft ivory house slippers, the fluffy Louis Vuitton ones you’ve had forever. You don’t even think twice about them as you slide them on and tuck your phone into your sleeve.

One last breath.

You pad back to the doorway and offer a quick, slightly stiff smile. “Ready.”

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The walk to the common room isn’t long, but with Bakugou brooding on one side and Kirishima chatting animatedly on the other, it feels like a slow march toward potential social doom.

You nod along, catching only bits and pieces of whatever Kirishima’s saying. Something about Kaminari insisting on watching a movie with “zero plot but peak visuals,” and how clearly that’s not good cinema.

Huh. You didn’t know Kirishima had such strong opinions about film!

Your manicured fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve as you walk, nerves prickling at your skin.

You still don’t really know why you agreed to this. You’re not exactly close with anyone here. They’re friendly, yes—but that’s not the same as being friends.

As you round the corner, soft flickers of TV light spill into the hallway, accompanied by the buzz of laughter and crinkling snack bags. The common room looks lived-in and chaotic, with your classmates already sprawled across couches and cushions, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by an almost comical number of popcorn bowls and candy piles.

Mina glances up mid-sentence, her face lighting up. “Y/N? No way—hey! I didn’t think we’d see you tonight! Your pajamas are adorable!”

You blink, a little stunned by her enthusiasm. “Oh. Um, thank you. Kirishima invited me.”

Momo looks up from her spot, seated neatly on one of the larger couches. She reaches for a piece of candy, offering a gentle smile. “Perfect timing. We haven’t even started yet.”

You nod, a small lump forming in your throat. You’ve known Momo for years, technically, your mothers ran in the same social circles.

But she’s always been polite in that polished, well-trained way. You’re probably still more familiar with Shoto, honestly. Even so, having her here makes things feel slightly less foreign.

You scan the room, searching for a place to sit. Kirishima has already flopped into a bean bag, Kaminari yelling something across the room at him. The long couch is completely full, and the floor’s been claimed by a sea of legs, blankets, and snacks.

There’s only one spot left.

Your eyes land on the smaller couch tucked off to the side, one that’s technically a two-seater, though Bakugou’s broad frame is currently taking up more than his fair share of it.

Of course.

Of course it’s the only spot left.

You hover for a second, unsure. You’ve never been good at moments like this! The quiet in-between where you’re supposed to know what to do, how to move, how to belong.

It reminds you of those early days at school, when you'd end up standing around with a tray in your hands, trying not to look lost while figuring out where you could sit without it being weird.

You’ve learned to avoid those moments altogether. These days, you eat lunch outside at the school’s gardens that are used for the agriculture students. It’s easier. Calmer.

But right now, there’s no back door to slip through. Just one couch, and one intimidating boy sitting on it.

And you're standing there like you're thirteen again.

You hesitate, just long enough for him to notice.

He glances at you sideways, eyes catching the glow of the TV—sharp, unreadable. Then he jerks his chin, just barely. “You sittin’ or what?”

You swallow hard and nod, shuffling forward. Your knee brushes his for a split second before you tuck yourself into the corner of the couch, limbs folded tight like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him.

Heat rolling off him in quiet waves, steady and impossible to ignore. He smells like clean laundry and something deeper beneath it, warm and smoky, like burnt sugar and caramel left just a little too long on the stove.

It’s dizzying. You try not to think about it.

You keep your eyes locked on the popcorn bowl across the room, pretending not to notice how close you are. But no matter how tightly you curl in, the side of your leg keeps brushing his.

“Sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, just certain the closeness must be making him uncomfortable.

Bakugou shifts slightly, and for a second you’re sure he’s about to edge away.

But then he mutters, not quite looking at you, “Stop apologizing for everything, it's nothing”

It’s quiet. Almost awkward. Like he’s not used to saying anything reassuring, and kind of hopes you didn’t hear it too clearly.

His head leans back against the couch, jawline catching in the TV’s flickering light.

Lord. Who even has a bone structure that good naturally?

Before you can spiral any further about your proximity to Bakugou or the way your heart is thudding against your ribs—someone at the front of the room claps twice.

“Okay, okay, shut up, it’s starting!” Kaminari calls out, remote raised like a royal decree.

The room gradually hushes. Pillows shuffle. Bags of candy rustle. Someone dims the lights, and the TV screen glows bright against the dark. You shift a little, tucking your legs beneath you and trying not to take up too much space.

The opening credits roll, and that’s when it hits you.

You forgot your glasses. And your contacts.

Your heart sinks as you blink at the screen, already squinting. Everything is soft—blurry around the edges like a watercolor left in the rain. You can catch bursts of color, vague movement... but faces? Expressions? Text on screen?

No chance. Just a gallery of vaguely humanoid blobs.

God. There’s a reason your glasses are so big and clunky and ridiculous. You’re legally blind without them.

You shift slightly, trying to lean forward without making it obvious, pretending you’re deeply invested in the opening scene. But apparently, you’re not as subtle as you hoped.

Bakugou shifts beside you.

“Don’t tell me you left your damn glasses,” he mutters, just low enough for only you to hear.

Your entire body stiffens. Oh no.

You forgot he’s the only one who's ever seen you in them—those thick, round frames that make your eyes look comically huge. You’d rather melt into the couch cushions than admit he’s right.

“What? No! I mean kinda. I forgot my contacts.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He makes a low sound in his chest—something between a sigh and a quiet, knowing huff. Then, to your absolute horror, he leans a little closer.

“You wanna switch spots or somethin’? You’re squintin’ like someone’s grandma.”

Your mouth opens slightly, caught between indignation and disbelief. Was that… a lighthearted comment?

“I’m fine,” you murmur, cheeks heating. “I’ll just experience the film through sound.”

He exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, subtle and quick. But you heard it.

And you feel it straight in your stomach.

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Your first ever movie night with your peers went... interestingly.

For starters, you and Bakugou were the only ones still awake. About an hour in, you noticed the weird silence coming from your classmates, and one quick glance around the dark room had your eyebrows shooting up.

How had everyone fallen asleep?!

God, Kirishima was right—this movie did sound like shit. You wish you could’ve actually seen it as much as you heard it, but the social anxiety had kept you from running up to your room to grab your contacts.

“I can’t believe they all fell asleep,” you whisper to Bakugou, eyes drifting from Ochako, Mina, Tsuyu, and the other girls, somehow all perfectly asleep on the floor and looking incredibly comfortable—

To Denki, Sero, Kirishima, and even Midoriya, all knocked out on the couch.

Momo was the only one with enough sense to call it a night halfway through the movie, ignoring Denki’s whining as she peaced out.

Bakugou doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as you. “It’s like this every time. You never missed much,” he snorts.

You blink at him, surprised. It’s not what he said—it’s what it implies. That he noticed. That your absence before tonight hadn’t gone completely unacknowledged.

But you’re too tired to unpack that right now.

“I totally could’ve watched some reviews tonight,” you mumble, pouting slightly. That earns you a weird look from Bakugou. He doesn’t say anything, but the strength of his side-eye is enough to make you explain.

“I watch makeup reviews in my free time,” you admit, like some kind of confession. “Helps me sleep.”

“Didn’t ask,” Bakugou says dryly, not even bothering to look at you.

You pause, shoulders curling in slightly. “Oh…right,” you murmur, gaze dropping to your lap.

He shifts beside you, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, almost begrudging. “Damn it sad eyes, don’t talk like that.”

Your head snaps up. “Like what?!” you whisper-shout, brows furrowed.

He finally glances your way, eyes narrowed but not unkind. “Like I just kicked your dog or something,” he mutters, a faint scowl tugging at his mouth—though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

That actually gets a laugh out of you, sharp and sudden. You slap a hand over your mouth, eyes darting nervously to your sleeping classmates. Thankfully, nobody stirs.

Bakugou snorts, shaking his head. “They’re knocked out. Gonna wake up with sore muscles and shit.” He seems almost excited as he eyes Midoriya’s terrible sleeping posture.

Yeah... that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

You sigh and rub at your eyes—dry and itchy from not wearing your glasses for so long. “This kinda sucks. I need eyedrops and a heater. I never realized how cold the dorms get at night,” you mumble, shivering a bit as the AC hums on relentlessly, goosebumps crawling up your legs.

A few quiet moments pass, then suddenly, something warm and familiar lands in your lap.

You glance down. It’s the burgundy sweater Bakugou gave you during training camp. The same one you returned earlier today.

Your gaze snaps up to meet his, and he’s already looking at you, totally unfazed. “Don’t fight it. You’re cold and crippled—pick a battle.”

Your jaw drops. “Crippled?!” you whisper-yell.

“Blind as hell. Probably gonna trip over the stairs.”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know I’m taking the elevator!”

He snorts, and you catch the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. You can’t help but feel a little proud of getting that out of him

even if it was at your own expense.

“Just take the damn jacket,” he mutters, his voice soft but no less stubborn.

You bite your lip, feeling the warmth spread from the burgundy fabric into your chilled skin. Well, who are you to say no?

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

Running To You

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, control, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Sister series to Just What I Needed

Summary: You're rescued by a man who you don't even know is a real hero.

Characters: nomad Steve Rogers

Note: a stressed out steve rogers plus a cutie. it bloomed from the theory of Steve's beard being a symbol of his darker side, or a darker state of mind. In the wat that he would usually pride himself on a neat appearance but lets himself go a bit when he's not at his best.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stumble up over the curb as you check the list on your phone. Oops, you should really look where you're going. You steady yourself and giggle at your own clumsiness. For how precise your inventory is, the rest of you is a bit of a clutter.

You dodge through the onslaught of pedestrians and apologise a deep 'hey, lady' thunders through at you. You quickly dip into the store and shield yourself with the door. You gasp and catch your breath, smiling at the associate nearest to you. The organic shop probably isn't the most exciting place to shop but it has most of the ingredients you need. Raw honey, tallow wax, essential oils...

You greet them with a small wave and 'hi' and turn to look at the shelves along the wall. They don't acknowledge you. Most people don't, not that you mind. You keep to yourself.

The door jingles and another customer enters. They pause by the door and look around. They might be lost. It's not unusual for one more person to wander in but usually they don't stay long.

He clears his throat and you do your best to focus on your list. You're going to need a basket. As you go to grab one from the stack, the man faces you. You shy away and stop short of latch onto one of the mesh baskets.

"Excuse me, miss," he holds up a familiar item; a red wallet with white polkadots. It's yours! "I think you dropped this."

"Oh, my, I did," you give a sheepish smile to his chest. He's an awfully big man. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," he hands it over.

You accept it and hold it to your chest. You give a tiny shimmy, "thank you so so much!"

You dare to look up and meet his eyes. They're blue but reticent. He scratches his beard as he nods and backs up.

"I think I'm in your way," he grabs one of the baskets and offers it to you.

"Oh, no, but yes, thank you, I need one," you take it.

"Mm, yeah," he smooths out the tuft in his beard that he was pulling on. The hair is thick and coarse; the locks on his head are just as dense, pushed back away from the face, though his chin-length strands try to droop past his ears.

You put your head down and turn back to the shelves. He lingers, seemingly lost as he looks around. What's the odds that in a city like this someone would do something so nice? You look at the list again then peek over at him. He squints at a jar of sourdough starter.

"What do you use in your beard?" You ask then cover your mouth. "I'm sorry, that's not... polite, is it?"

He shrugs, "hm, I just use shampoo, I guess. Face wash?"

"Right. Well, it's pretty shiny." You scrunch up your face. "I'm sorry." You chew your lip in embarrassment. Your cheeks are ablaze. "I'm working on my beard oil. I make it. Um, sell it. But..."

"Beard oil," he repeats thoughtfully. "I don't... I guess maybe I should."

He touches his beard again, a crease between his brows.

"I don't meant to-- I... I'm not... it's cute. I mean. Suits you. I was just--" you show your teeth nervously. "I don't have a beard so..."

"Yeah," he agrees awkwardly and tucks his hair back behind his ears before it can fall forward.

"I ramble..." you drift off and face the shelves again. "I'll stop bothering you."

He inhales and backs up. He turns to the door then stops. You sense his gaze.

"It's a bit busy. Rush hour," he says. "You don't mind if I hide in here with you?"

You glance over. You shrug. "Um, yeah, sure. It's not my store. Not sure how interesting it is."

You fumble between the basket and your phone. You hum and scour the shelves with your eyes, scrunching your nose in concentration. He comes closer.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

"Soybean oil."

"Soybean oil," he nods. "For..."

"Soap," you cheep.

"Ah. In my day, ma just used fat and lye."

You give his statement a thought. You've seen some recipes from way back. Like long ago. Almost a hundred years now. A lot of people prefer the gentler ingredients.

"Oh, that's cool that she made her own stuff," you muse as you take a canister and tap your spreadsheet to mark off that item.

"Yeah," you feel him trying to see the screen. "You're really organized."

"Can't forget anything," you say.

"Sure." He lurks and looks around before he focuses on you again. "I'm Steve, by the way."

You look at him. He's just as big as the last time you looked. His blue eyes seem uncertain. He can't be afraid of someone like you. You give your name.

"Nice to meet, you, Steve."

"You too," he agrees. "Can I help?"

"Oh, sure. What do you prefer? Rose or Gardenia?"

"Rose is nice," he says.

"I agree," you say and pluck up the small bottle.

"You said you sell stuff?"

"Sure do," you chime. You tuck the bottle into the basket. "You know, you don't have to pretend to care."

"What? I... I'm curious."

You eye him, "well, Steve, I'll believe you, but there's not much to be curious about."

His brows furrow, not so much in agitation, but intrigue. "The beard oil. How much?"

"Oh, you know, I could get you a sample from my hoard. Since you got me my wallet back. You don't have to do all that."

"I want to. I think you right," he runs his hands over his beard. "Needs a bit of taming."

You laugh, "looks good to me. Oh, you can try coconut oil. It's real easy and you can use it in your hair too."

"Coconut oil," he says. "I'll add it to the list. What about yours?"

"Soy wax," you look at your list. "I can use that for lots of things."

He lifts his heads, shoulders wide and straight, looking around on a mission. He strides around the rack behind him and you watch him search a shelf. He picks up two jars. He comes back to you. "Which do you prefer?" He holds up to two different sellers. You take the one in his left hand.

"Thank you," you grin.

"Next," he looks down at your phone.

"Jeez, you sure are helpful," you check again.

"They sell wicks. I need the long ones. Like this." You hold the basket and phone at a length.

He nods again, "on it."

You point him to the corner where they keep the candlemaking stuff and you go back to your own search. He's too quick for you. He has a hole bunch in hand. You have him put half in your basket and he takes the rest back.

Huh, looks like you made a friend.

🎀

Steve holds the door for you. It's so nice you thank him for what must be the dozenth time since you met. Maybe only even an hour ago.

As you get outside, you turn back to him, certain to keep away from the pedestrians who pay no heed to obstacles. "I can take that bag too."

He looks down as the door shuts behind him. "Pretty heavy," he says.

"Oh, I always do that. I forgot my little rolly bag," you shrug. "I can handle it."

"Wouldn't feel right letting you carry it all. Mrs. Rogers didn't raise a punk."

"Is that your mom? I bet she's nice too," you say. "It's alright, Steve. You've done enough. I owe you. My wallet would've been gone with the wind and I never coulda bought all this."

He stares at you, then once more peeks down at the fabric bag. You always bring the reusable; they're much stronger than the paper ones supplied in-store. He chews his lower lip.

"If you owe me, well, you wanna have a coffee? Together?" He asks.

You blink. That's so nice of him too.

"Coffee?" You press your lips together. You feel bad saying no. Not that you want to. It wouldn't be so bad to have someone to sit with. For once. "I don't drink it."

He nods, "tea? Hot chocolate? Water?"

You laugh.

"I'll have a cookie," you offer. "Um," you look up and down the street. "Where..."

"I saw a place. Never been in. Wanna give it a try?"

"Oh, cool. Yeah. I love new places, even if they're scary," you say.

"Here," he takes the other bag from your hands before you can argue. "It's a block back."

"Wait, Steve! I can carry that."

"Not if I'm around," he insists, "come on."

He rolls his shoulder in a gesture for you to follow. You huff and hop into motion. You walk next to him, wary of the oncoming people along the sidewalk. A man nearly bowls you over and you knock into Steve's elbow.

"Oof, I'm sorry."

"Get on the inside of me, doll," he says. "Used to be that people took their hat off when they passed a lady. Now they don't care if... well... you move."

He stops and lets you step across his path. He keeps you between him and the storefronts as he strides on undaunted. You wish you were as brave as him.

"Ah, there it is." He tilts his chin up.

You look ahead. You see the sign sticking out in the shape of a coffee cup.

"Oh, I see it," you hurdle ahead. "My turn."

You pull open the door as he follows. He stops to let another customer out before he enters. You follow him.

"There's a table," he nods.

You follow his gaze to the wall. You lead the way and he trails you. He puts the bags in one of the chairs.

"How about you sit?" He suggests. "What kind of cookie do you want?"

"Oh, Steve, uh," you pull out your wallet, "if they have oatmeal--"

"My treat." He insists.

"You can't do that," you argue.

"You gonna stop me?" He challenges. You gulp and blink at him. You don't think you could stop him from anything. He's quite the figure.

"I guess not." You murmur.

His expression softens, "hey, I'm kidding. I didn't... scare you, did I?"

"N-no," you force a smile. "I appreciate that. Thank you. Oatmeal. That's all."

"Alright. I'll be back." He turns and you see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

You sit and jiggle your leg as you look around. You avoid the coffee shops, even the bakeries. They're always so busy. You are methodical in your ventures but today's seems to have gone off the rails. Not in the worst way. One time, you tried to take the subway and ended up lost in the rain.

There's women who look like they could be on a TV show with their fabulous dresses and perfect waves; a man in a suit with his laptop and a single earbud in, and an older couple near the door. There are many others in the line to get a treat of their own.

You turn in the chair and press your palms to the table. You stare at the wood between your hands. You feel the heat speckling over your scalp, that sense of suffocation burrowing into your chest, the voices swirling around you like a raging wind.

"Here," Steve interrupts your internal panic. He places a large cookie before you and mug. "They had this strawberry cream thing. No coffee."

You look at the pink concoction with a dark red swirl in the middle. "Mmmm," you lean forward to admire it. "Wow. It looks good."

He puts his own coffee down and moves the bags under the table. He sits and unzips his jacket to let the tension out of the fabric. You smile and pick up the cookie. You hide behind it.

"I can't eat this alone. It's as big as my face." You giggle.

You break it in two and offer him half. He eyes it for a moment then accepts it with a thanks. You take a bite then round your eyes at him. He's staring. Oh no. Is that rude? You chew and swallow quickly.

"What?" You hide your mouth behind your hand.

"Nothing. It's just..." he glances around the shop. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" You make googly eyes and cross them. "Is there something on my nose?"

He snorts. "No. There's not." He sighs. "Just haven't had a nice quiet coffee in a while. It's nice."

Your brows pop up and you smile big. "I'm sorry I'm not a big coffee person. I tried it once and it made my belly gurgle."

"It's fine. Bad habit," he taps the handle of his mug with his index finger. "Are you gonna try that cup of sugar?"

"Not much better, is it?" You pick up the mug and blow over it. You put your lips over the brim and taste it cautiously. You hum. "Mm," you pull it away. "Delicious! This is a tummy ache worth having."

His cheek dimples as he watches you. You fidget against his gaze. He's nice but you never had anyone stare at you so much.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #running to you #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #avengers #captain america

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sttm99 · 11 months ago

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Older!pro hero!Bakugo falling for one of UA's newer students seven years after he graduated.

ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+!!

Note: I am without a doubt going to expand on this later, so consider this a teaser and let me know if anyone would like to be tagged when I post that one!

He only went back to participate in some event the school was hosting, standing near the edge of the stage next to Red Riot. He face was rigid, and his expression twisted in annoyance at having to be there as he handed out certificates to the approaching students.

He notices you after a couple of minutes standing there, his eyes glued to your side profile as you converse with your classmates. He thinks you're absolutely beautiful, and he tries not to let himself get distracted, but he can't help himself.

Everyone's giddy at seeing the heroes in their school's hall, even though they're alumni and their pictures are plastered on walls all around the school. You're excited too, and he likes that.

He likes that your eyes keep glancing over to where he's standing, and he can see how you grin, how you look towards the girl at your left, mouthing, 'Dynamight's looking here, right?'

He can't help the pride swelling his chest, his eyes still stuck on you even when you leave, all the students filing out of the classroom.

He's quick to put out an offer to you to join his agency when you guys graduate two months later. It's uncharacteristic of him, and his assistant is more than shocked when asked to send the letter, but he doesn't really care.

He doesn't care when Mina and Todoroki ask him why he's at your class's graduation even though he's always invited and has never shown up before.

He also doesn't care how quick Heroes Weekly is to talk about the first UA student to be offered a sidekick role at Dynamight's agency straight from graduation.

And he honestly couldn't care less about waking up to the scandalous picture all over social media about 6 months after.

DYNAMIGHT CAUGHT GETTING COSY WITH HIS NEW SIDEKICK!

And it's a picture of you sitting on his lap, hands rubbing over his chest, exposed by the undone buttons of his shirt, taken in the VIP section of a high-end club he and other heroes frequented.

He smirks to himself, throwing his phone on his bedside table as he climbs back into the sheets, running his palm over your naked back and leaning in to kiss the back of your neck softly.

Extra note: I guess it's my fault for writing it this way, but please, reader is 18! 😭she's unironically inspired by me, and I was 18 before I graduated, so she's intended to be 18 in her last year of school.

#bakugou smut #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo smut #bakugo fluff

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yeyinde · 5 months ago

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit.

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault.

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself.

A farce.

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body.

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath.

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe.

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is.

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning.

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life.

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him.

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh.

He talks about that a lot.

Penance.

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe?

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear.

Enticing.

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet.

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark.

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye.

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?"

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl.

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing.

Feeding.

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it.

End me, you demand. Make it worth it.

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs.

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone.

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?"

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt.

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response.

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?"

You don't have an answer. You don't know.

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?"

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble.

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat.

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore.

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books.

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen.

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know.

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control.

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole.

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you.

#in which we ask the age old question: is it lead poisoning or ghosts #or something of the sort #wip wednesday #feels like cheating since i have a wip sideblog but ehhhhhhh #this is for you anon #title is also a wip

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vingtetunmars · 11 days ago

Text

Unlisted

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: Back aboard the Razor Crest, she patched him up, hands shaking from both adrenaline and something deeper. When she thanked him, he told her his name—Din Djarin.

Part 1 / Part 2

Tags: NSFW, smut (18+), Enemies to Lovers-ish?, Grogu plays matchmaker, set after season 3, slow burn, getting together, protective Din Djarin, they're a family and they're about to know it, star wars content that may or may not be canon. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I present you the final part!! Let me know what you think of their journey!! If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 4k

masterlist

The Razor Crest door sealed shut behind you with a hiss.

Din slumped down on the bench in the hold, his breathing tight beneath the beskar chestplate.

You were already digging through the med kit before he even sat fully.

“Take it off.”

“I can do it myself—”

“You just took a blaster bolt, Mandalorian. Don’t be a karking hero right now.”

There was a long pause.

Then, without a word, he started peeling off his armor piece by piece. The chestplate. Gauntlets. The flight suit pulled down to his waist, exposing the wound on his ribs — not life-threatening, but deep and angry. Blood matted the undersuit, thick and drying.

You took a breath. Steadied your hands.

He didn’t flinch as you pressed the medspray against the burn. You noticed his jaw tighten under the helmet, though.

“You’re lucky it cauterized as it hit,” you muttered, working quickly. “Another inch and you’d be in surgery.”

“Lucky,” he echoed, dry.

You tried to hide the shake in your fingers as you reached for gauze. But he caught it.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

You glanced up at him. “I worked medical before intel. Before everything else.”

There was beat of silence for a moment. Then:

“Din.”

Your hands paused.

“…What?”

He nodded once. “Din Djarin.”

“That's my name.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just repeated it in your head — quietly stunned that he’d shared something so personal, so sacred in his culture, without you asking.

“Thank you,” you said.

He looked away slightly, then back. “I trust you.”

You blinked.

Your pulse stuttered.

Then his voice softened — lower than you’d ever heard it.

“Promise me to keep your eyes closed?”

Your breath caught. You hesitated only a second.

Then nodded. “Yes.”

You turned away and closed your eyes.

Behind you, there was the faint hiss of the helmet’s release. The shift of air. The weight of it coming off.

The hold was quiet — you could hear only your own breathing.

“Hey.”

There it was, his unmodulated voice, churning up a feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You turned your head slightly but kept your eyes shut. “Yeah?”

A long beat.

Then you felt his fingers — gloved still — gently touch your chin. Tilting your face up toward his.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

All you knew was his lips brushed yours — careful at first, then firm, certain. He tasted like cold air and heat all at once. You melted into him, hands resting lightly on his chest, over the bandages you’d just wrapped.

It was slow. Real.

When he pulled back, you were still breathless.

Eyes still shut, you whispered, “You should put it back on.”

He lingered for a moment — his forehead brushing yours.

Then, the quiet hiss again as the helmet sealed back into place.

You finally opened your eyes.

Din sat back down, visor turned toward the floor.

But you knew now. You knew.

You had kissed the man under the metal — not the bounty hunter. Not the Mandalorian.

Just Din.

And your heart was racing like it never had before.

You were both in the hold again, the hum of the ship wrapping around you like a low lullaby. Din was checking a weapon, seated beside you, while Grogu curled up on your lap.

Nothing had been said since Lothal.

But something had shifted.

His gloved hand brushed yours when you passed him a tool earlier. It lingered just a second too long.

When he walked past you in the narrow corridor, his fingers grazed your waist like it was muscle memory.

And now, as he sat beside you, his knee pressed against yours. Neither of you moved away.

None of it was intentional. At least, not in the way that called attention. It just was. A silent language you were both slowly learning to speak.

You found yourself watching him more. Not out of suspicion like before — but curiosity, and something quieter. His movements. The way he handled gear. How he carried Grogu with a gentleness that didn’t match the steel of his armor.

He glanced up from his work, catching your gaze. You didn’t look away.

After a beat, he tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

You nodded, lips twitching. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything…”

“You trust Teva?” you asked.

Din nodded. “He’s one of the few left with his head screwed on. If anyone can help finish this… it’s him.”

You studied his helmet. “And after?”

He was silent for a moment. “We’ll figure it out.”

Another brush of his hand over yours.

It wasn’t a promise. But it was enough.

You smiled softly and let your head drop back against the wall, letting the hum of the hyperdrive settle in your bones.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Razor Crest landed on Nevarro with a low rumble, the dust of the plains billowing beneath its engines as it settled.

You were at Din’s side as the ramp lowered, Grogu in your arms—tucked in close to your chest with his little ears flapping in the wind.

Greef Karga was already waiting. Regal as ever in his embroidered robes, arms outstretched, a grin plastered across his face.

“Mando!” Greef’s booming voice filled the stone corridor as he stepped out to meet you. He was dressed sharp as ever, cape swishing behind him. “About time you showed your face again. Thought you finally ditched this planet for good.”

Karga’s eyes slid toward you, and then down to Grogu.

“Well, well. The little one’s still with you… and who’s this?” he asked, glancing at your hooded figure.

Din placed a hand gently on your back. “A friend.”

Greef raised a brow, something between a grin and a smirk forming on his face. “A friend, huh?”

You said nothing, just offered a nod. But Greef was still watching the two of you closely. He caught the subtle way you stood angled toward Din. The space between you that wasn’t really space.

“Oh, I see how it is.” He chuckled. “Stars help me, I never thought I’d see the day the Mandalorian brought someone back voluntarily.”

Din shifted slightly, clearing his throat under the helmet. “Greef.”

“Alright, alright,” he held up his hands, grinning. “He’s in my office. Come on.”

The three of you stepped inside. Greef’s office was spacious but grounded — maps, holo-consoles, a few trophies and trade artifacts on the walls. At the center, standing near the large desk, was a familiar man in a New Republic flight jacket.

Captain Carson Teva.

His eyes lifted the moment you entered.

Din stood a little straighter beside you.

Teva looked between the two of you for a long beat, then to Grogu.

“So this is the one who sent you down a spiral,” he said to Din, voice light but curious.

You blinked. “Spiral?”

Din didn’t respond.

Teva stepped closer, eyeing you not unkindly — cautious, but not hostile. “Can’t say I expected you to come in with her.”

“You didn’t give me a whole lot to go on,” Din replied. “Didn’t stop me.”

“She give you trouble?”

“She gave me a chase.”

You crossed your arms. “Still beat you for a minute, though.”

That earned a quiet snort from Greef and a raised brow from Teva.

“You’re not what I expected,” Teva said to you.

“Good,” you replied, pulling your hood down slightly. “Means the New Republic is still bad at surveillance.”

Teva smiled just faintly, then looked to Din. “You said you had something. Proof?”

“Yeah,” Din said, reaching into a small secure pouch at his belt. He handed over the encrypted data chip — the one you pulled from the repainted outpost on Lothal. “She said this is what they were trying to hide.”

Teva took it with both hands. “I’ll need to get this decrypted and reviewed before anything happens officially. But if it checks out…”

He looked at you again.

“…you might get your name back.”

You didn’t react right away.

Just nodded. “I’d like that.”

There was something else in the air now. Heavier. More final.

But then Greef clapped his hands. “Well, that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, drinks are on me. Or maybe blue milk for the little one.”

Grogu chirped from Din’s chest.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel… relief.

Not safety yet. Not completely.

But the sense that maybe, just maybe, you were heading toward it.

Together.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

That night, the Nevarro sky was unusually clear. Stars blinked across the inky dark, and the lights of the settlement hummed low in the distance. You stood just outside Greef’s compound, arms crossed loosely, taking in the quiet. For once, there was no need to run.

Behind you, boots crunched gently against the gravel.

“Are you cold?” Din’s voice.

You turned. He wasn’t wearing full gear anymore — just the basics, helmet still on, gloves removed. You shook your head. “No.”

He hesitated a beat, then gestured toward the speeder bike waiting nearby.

“Come with me.”

You raised a brow. “Where to?”

“My place.”

That made your heart stutter, just a little. You nodded, quietly following him.

The cabin wasn’t far. Secluded on the outskirts of the lava flats, not far from a calm, glassy stream. Simple and compact — just like him. A heavy durasteel door, sandstone exterior, warm lights spilling from the windows.

Din pushed the door open and held it for you. You stepped inside.

It smelled like metal and leather and spice.

“Didn’t expect you to have a place here,” you said, running your fingers over the shelf lined with small, weathered trinkets — a compass, a hydro-spanner, a child’s carved toy.

“I don’t stay often. Just when things get… loud.”

You turned to him, watched him lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked tired. Not just from the mission — from all of it. And still, he chose to carry your weight too.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For not turning me in. For everything.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

You smiled faintly. “Sure I did. You just made the hard one.”

A few heartbeats passed in silence.

“Mesh’la,” he said softly, the word heavier now.

You stepped closer.

“Are you going to tell me what that means?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll leave,” he said, voice low. “Or you’ll stay and I’ll get reckless. Either way, I lose.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re already being reckless,” you said.

He gave a small, sad laugh. “Yeah.”

There was a pause.

Then you reached for him, slow, deliberate — fingers brushing the edge of his chest plate. “Take it off.”

“Mesh’la—”

“Just the helmet. I won’t look.”

He stilled.

You moved your hands to his vambraces, gently removing them. He didn’t stop you.

“I want to kiss you, Din.”

Silence.

“Turn around.”

You did.

You heard the click of the release, the shift of weight. His breath.

“Promise me,” he said, voice unmodulated now, lower, real.

“I promise.”

And when his hands found your waist, steady and calloused, you turned back around — eyes closed — and met his mouth.

It was a slow, careful collision of heat and restraint, the kind of kiss you gave when you thought it might be the only one you’d ever have. He tasted like dust and warmth and a dozen unspoken things. His hands came up to your face, cradling it like it was something rare.

Like you were something he didn’t deserve — but wanted anyway.

And when he whispered your name against your lips, your heart stammered.

You leaned into him, letting your hands wander over the beskar plates before finding the gaps—where his warmth bled through. He started removing the armor, piece by piece, letting it fall with quiet thuds onto the ground. You helped, fingers trembling as they undid straps, fastenings, layers.

Eventually, there was only him.

Only Din.

He lifted you without effort and carried you to his bed—just a small cot in the corner of the modest cabin. It shouldn’t have felt sacred, but it did.

His touch was reverent. Exploring. He took his time learning your edges, your sounds. There was urgency, but it was tempered by how much he wanted to remember this.

Your clothes disappeared slowly under his fingers, each layer falling like a secret shared.

“You sure?” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

You nodded, your voice soft. “Yes.”

What followed was a blur of sensation—his calloused fingers, the soft rasp of his breath, the way he whispered your name like a vow.

Then, you heard it. A soft tear of fabric. Before you could ask, something warm and dark was tied gently over your eyes.

A blindfold.

He hovered close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Trust me?”

Your voice caught. “Yes.”

The world faded to sound, touch, breath.

Every sensation was heightened. His fingers tracing along your thighs. The brush of his lips on your neck. The weight of him above you. He explored you as if you were holy. A prayer on his lips as he kissed your skin.

Your breath hitched when you felt him press against your entrance, the heat of him barely restrained. He didn’t rush. Instead, he teased, dragging along your skin, brushing places that made you tremble.

His voice broke the haze. “You feel like heaven, mesh’la.”

You gasped. The name again. Soft and rough all at once.

He guided your legs around his waist and sank into you slowly, deeply, the connection drawing a choked sound from both of you. You clutched at his shoulders, his back, grounding yourself in him.

The pace built gradually. Gentle thrusts turned needy, desperate. His lips never left your skin.

Each roll of his hips sent sparks through you.

You whispered his name—“Din”—and he shuddered like it undid him.

“Again,” he rasped. “Say it again.”

“Din.”

You tightened around him, the sounds of your pleasure filling the small room. His breath hitched against your shoulder.

The pressure between you both began to crest, higher and higher. His hand found yours and held tight, anchoring you both as you tumbled together, riding out the waves, trembling in the aftermath.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You woke to warmth. Not the artificial kind from a heating unit or the sun bleeding through durasteel blinds, but real warmth—shared, alive, steady.

Your back pressed lightly against his chest. His arm was wrapped low around your waist, protective but loose, like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought. His breaths came slow and deep, brushing the back of your neck in quiet rhythm. Every now and then, he let out a soft exhale that rumbled against your skin.

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

You didn’t need to.

Your body felt warm. Sore in a good way. A quiet hum lived under your skin, leftover from the night before. From him.

From Din.

You smiled to yourself, fingers lightly brushing over the hand resting against your stomach.

For the first time in a long time, there was no urgency. No bounty to worry about. No escape to plan. You felt—content. Safe, even. A rare emotion you’d almost forgotten the shape of.

A smile pulled at your lips as you closed your eyes again.

An idea formed—half ridiculous, half sincere.

You were still facing away from him. You knew he was probably still sleeping, and if he wasn’t, he would stop you if it bothered him. So carefully, slowly, you reached for the hand resting against your stomach and lifted it, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred knuckles before letting it fall back.

Then, just as carefully, you rolled onto your back and shifted to face him—without opening your eyes.

You were careful not to peek. His creed meant everything to him. And you meant it when you’d promised to keep your eyes closed.

So instead, you let your fingertips do the seeing.

Your fingertips brushed the side of his face, feather-light.

He tensed for a second—then relaxed. You smiled.

Your hand moved slowly, gently. His jaw was strong, stubbled. You traced the sharp edge of it, then let your fingers drift upward, over his cheek. There, a small scar beneath his cheekbone. Your thumb brushed it like a secret.

Then higher—his brow.

There were lines there. More than you expected. You skimmed across them, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes too. Laugh lines, or maybe tired ones. A man who had seen too much. Lived too much. Fought too long.

You liked them.

There was something strangely grounding about it—like every ridge and groove told a story. You could almost imagine what he looked like just by feel alone. Strong. Serious. A little weathered.

Oh… He's older than I thought.

Din exhaled a soft breath through his nose. “What are you doing, Mesh’la?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You froze, hand still resting against his face.

“Didn’t look,” you said quickly, still keeping your eyes shut. “I swear.

“Did I wake you?”

He hummed. “Maybe. Didn’t mind it.”

You looked at him—chest, neck, anywhere but his face. “I didn’t look,” you said quietly.

“I know.” His voice was warm. Trusting. “You never do.”

You leaned into him, brushing your nose against his throat. “I was just… feeling.”

A pause. Then, almost bashfully: “What did I feel like?”

You smiled. “Stubborn jaw. Quiet strength. A little scarred, a little tired.”

Another pause.

“Handsome”

“Sounds about right,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into your hair.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The office was too quiet for how heavy the tension sat.

Now, Teva looked at you more seriously. “So. Let’s see what was worth bending half the New Republic’s rules.”

You nodded, stepping forward with the small encrypted holopad—scavenged tech you and Din had retrieved from that long-abandoned Lothal outpost. You tapped in the codes, and the pad lit up with flickering blue light.

A set of names hovered in the air—dozens of them. Faces followed, and beneath them: titles, ranks, pay records, and damning communication transcripts. You brought up the worst of them first.

“About six cycles ago, I worked at a records verification under the New Republic, sorting post-Imperial intel and archives. It was supposed to be clean-up duty,” you said, fingers working quickly as you brought up the visuals. “But I found this list buried in encrypted list. These people—advisors, senators, security officers—they weren’t just sympathizers.”

You tapped again, and a series of holos blinked into view. Hushed meetings. Small groups talking in the corner of polished halls. Recognizable faces saying words like ‘legacy,’ ‘reinstatement,’ and ‘our time isn’t over.’

“I decrypted personal communications. Backchannel credits. Half of them were planning to undermine key systems, even orchestrating ‘disruptions’ to destabilize outer rim governance.”

Teva frowned, stepping closer. “And you just… stumbled on this?”

“I flagged it internally. Thought it was a mistake. Got radio silence. Two days later, my clearance was revoked. Then the bounty went out.”

She pulled up the timestamp: her final upload to the secure New Republic database before she vanished. It was never followed up on.

Captain Teva paced slowly in front of Greef’s desk, reading over the holopad you’d handed him—what you risked everything to retrieve back on Lothal. Din stood tall at your side, silent but steady. A constant.

Teva’s brow furrowed the longer he scrolled.

“Stars above…” he muttered.

Greef let out a low whistle from behind his chair, leaning back with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You weren’t kidding, Mando. She really did dig up a hornet’s nest.”

You didn’t flinch. “That nest’s been rotting since the end of the war.”

Teva glanced at you, then Din. “You’re sure this is real? No forgeries? No bait?”

Din spoke before you could. “We extracted it ourselves. Her lead. My blade.”

“And you said this was from an outpost painted over by the New Republic?”

“Lothal,” you confirmed. “One of many, I’m sure. But this one still had a live uplink to an internal archive. Buried deep. I think they meant to keep it secret, even from themselves.”

Teva tapped through a few more files, his jaw clenched tighter with every name and transmission. “These people—some of them are sitting in command seats. Fleet captains, governors… gods, even some in the amnesty program.”

“Or hiding behind it,” you added. “Getting clean records, smiling for the cameras.”

“I’ve been suspicious for a while,” Teva muttered. “This confirms more than I wanted to believe.”

Greef rubbed his chin, eyes sharp. “So what happens now, Captain? You gonna take it up the chain?”

“I’ll have to. But carefully.” Teva looked up at you again. “You do realize this list could get you killed ten times over, right?”

You nodded. “It already has.”

A pause.

Teva sighed, slipping the chip into an encrypted pouch on his belt. “You understand if I run this through official channels, they’ll try to bury it. Or you.”

“I know. That’s why I gave it to you,” you said. “Because Din trusts you.”

Teva met your eyes. He wasn’t smiling. But there was something in the way he regarded you now—respect, maybe.

“I’ll need time,” he said. “If this is what you say it is, it’ll make a lot of people panic. Which means we’ve got a short window before someone starts covering their tracks.”

“Then we’ll help however we can,” Din said.

Teva stood and slipped the stick into a pocket of his flight jacket. “I’ll have to work around the bureaucracy. Quietly. If I can clear your name completely, I will. But it won’t happen overnight.”

“I’ve waited this long,” you replied. “I can wait a little longer.”

Greef Karga, who’d stayed surprisingly quiet through most of the exchange, finally chimed in with a smirk. “Well, if nothing else, you’ve got a hell of a story to tell.”

Din looked at you.

And you looked back—shoulders a little straighter, the weight a little lighter.

For the first time in a long while, you weren’t running.

You were fighting.

And this time, you weren’t alone.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The cabin was quiet, save for the soft whir of the kettle heating and the occasional shuffle of Grogu dragging his blanket across the wooden floor. The scent of spiced caf drifted through the air, mingling with the faint musk and forest outside the window.

You stood at the counter, Din’s oversized tunic wrapped around your frame, sleeves hanging over your hands as you stirred the pot on the stove. You weren’t in a rush. Mornings here had their own rhythm. Slow. Gentle. Safe.

From the bedroom, heavy footsteps approached, and you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind—strong and familiar, pulling you close. You leaned back into him easily, smiling as Din’s chin rested on your shoulder.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning, cyar'ika,” he said, voice still husky from sleep.

“Need help?” he asked, voice gravelly with sleep.

You leaned back into him with a hum. “Too late. Breakfast is almost done.”

“Still looks like you’re burning it.”

You elbowed him, grinning as his chuckle brushed against your ear.

It was quiet here. Not lonely. Just…peaceful.

The kind of peace you’d never thought you’d earn.

You’d learn some Mando'a after your wedding—after the vows, spoken in the quiet of the woods beneath the stars, witnessed only by Grogu and the wind.

"Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,”

You hadn’t needed a ceremony, not a traditional one. Just his voice, his heart, and his promise. When he took off his helmet that night, placing it gently to the side before kissing you, you hadn’t looked away once.

Din Djarin was beautiful.

Not the pretty kind of beautiful, but the kind shaped by grief and grit, quiet strength and guarded gentleness. His eyes were brown, sun-worn, but when they looked at you—truly looked—you forgot how to breathe.

And you smiled. Not wide. Not giddy. But warm. Whole.

“Not disappointed, then?” he had asked, a rare smile touching his mouth, half-teasing.

You shook your head, brushing your fingers gently along the edge of his jaw. “Not even a little.”

Since then, he didn’t always wear the helmet in the house. Only when others came. Only when he needed to.

Grogu, as always, was the heart of it all—chasing frogs by the pond, curling up by the fire after meals, and now babbling a little more thanks to the soft, repetitive words you and Din murmured to him each day. He had his favorite spoon, a tiny sleeping nook by the fireplace, and an ever-growing collection of rocks he insisted were important.

This was your life now.

It hadn’t always been this quiet.

As for the data—Captain Teva delivered.

It wasn’t clean. There were fights in senate chambers, threats from powerful names, shadowed figures who tried to strike deals. But Teva was persistent, methodical. He leaked the files bit by bit—enough to rally honest New Republic senators, enough to trigger independent investigations.

Enough to make it matter.

Some of the officials disappeared. Others were arrested. A few managed to bury themselves deeper, but now they were being watched.

Your name was cleared.

And every trace of the “criminal” label was quietly removed from Republic records. Teva, though ever the loyal officer, had been promoted sideways—his quiet rebellion rewarded and punished all at once. But he kept his word. Your name was cleared. The bounty erased. You were free.

And yet, instead of running off to reclaim your old life, you’d chosen this one.

Here, in Din’s cabin. With him. With Grogu. With your odd little family.

You shared meals. Cleaned blasters. Took turns teaching Grogu words in Basic and Mando’a. You helped Din rewire the speeder when it sputtered on cold mornings. He taught you how to gut a fanged fish without losing a finger.

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Din snored. Sometimes Grogu stole your socks. Sometimes you had nightmares of the lower levels of Coruscant. But each night, Din would reach for you, grounding you with a hand on your waist, a kiss to your temple.

Part 1 / Part 2

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @swissy23 @escapefromrealitylol @foxin5billion @jellybeanstacey0519

#kar's fics ☆#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x you #pedro pascal #mandalorian x reader

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scrawleditalix · 3 months ago

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so I, personally, am a huge fan of the Telemachian war rubble. incredible imagery? cool obstacle for our heroes? literal wall of corpses both protecting the heart of human civilization from those who wish to extinguish it and holding it captive to those who wish to exploit it? come on, what more do you want from a set piece?

just, like. a coating of rubble around an entire planet, y'know. that's too much rubble, isn't it? like, planets are really big. just kinda a flashy bit of writers' excess. it's gotta take a stupid, unrealistic number of ships to make a coating of rubble like that happen, right?

Right?

QUESTION ONE: How big is this planet?

Surely, in sci-fi world, the answer to this question is limitless, right? Far be it for me to impinge upon the boundless creativity of the sci-fi writer. That being said, as the local rubble-estimator, I do need to put some bounds on this thing. And the thing is, human bodies do very poorly outside of earth-gravity in the long-term. in the interest of not ruining the musculoskeletal system of every human in the not-so-distant future, we're going to assume that Telemachus has +/- 10% of Earth gravity. And, in the interest of not ruining my own evening, we're assuming that it also has the same density as earth, so the math is straightforward and we can actually answer the question we've set out to answer here. That being said, welcome to Telemachus!

it, uh, doesn't look like much yet, but I promise we will be answering some interesting questions here in the space. well, they're interesting to me, at least. I had fun. And that's what matters!

QUESTION 2: Where is the rubble?

Answer: not in the atmosphere, because the atmosphere would grab the rubble with its grubby little fingers and drag it planetside. The rubble layer must be sitting in the thermosphere, which is where the International Space Station lives. In the thermosphere, there's insufficient atmospheric pressure for anyone to hear you scream, and that is good enough for rubble to continue orbiting the planet indefinitely!

So, where is the thermosphere?

UHHHHHHHH

Okay so, good news. We already know where this is on earth. It's 85km above the surface. And looking through the variables, the only things that aren't constants for our purposes are local gravity (locked and loaded, baby), change in height (that's what we're looking for), and... uh......

Great news! Everything is a constant except for the two things we already have, everybody can breathe super normal air with a molar mass of 0.0289644 kg/mol and super normal barometric pressure on the surface just like on Earth, isn't terraforming fun? And that means we can play my favorite math trick, which is where we throw all of our constants out the window and just form a relational equation with our variables and with g0*dH0=g1*dH1 we are off to the races! Turns out, atmospheric physics is super easy when you just use the earth baseline and scale it by local gravity.

QUESTION 3: How thick is the rubble?

*cracks knuckles*

In S02E03 Deep Breath, the gang traverses the rubble layer surrounding Telemachus in order to evade a government checkpoint where their identity cards will surely fail them. The audio cue for the first flecks of rubble hitting the shields starts at 18:00; the audio cue for the Iris II hitting the atmosphere is at 20:30, which means that if we knew the Iris II's velocity, we would know the rubble thickness. Such a shame there's no way to know how fast they were moving...

Well, except that the landing sequence directly follows (it takes 50 seconds to reach the ground), and there is a limit to how quickly Krejjh is able to decelerate (a sustained 4-5 gs will knock a layperson unconscious, and Violet and Brian both stay conscious to our knowledge) (actually I suspect Brian passed out) (this is besides the point), and we just calculated exactly how far they traveled to reach the ground...

Oh, yeah, baby. It's all coming together.

It is at this juncture that I should mention that in this calculation, I am completely ignoring any movement that is not normal to the planet's surface, which is to say, straight up and down. I do not care if Krejjh is flying in a beautiful arcing spiral, if they are drawing a middle finger in midair, or if they plummet like a bird falling from the sky. This is a wonderful feature of vector math which I love. I only care about the thickness of the rubble layer, and the only acceleration that is important is the vertical component (a human can withstand like, 20-30 gs to the chest if they wear their seatbelt). Therefore, the other velocity components do not matter.

So, the Iris II entered the atmosphere at a speed of...

a flaming 1,100-1,300 mph, assuming that Krejjh decelerated at a moderate 3gs! Assuming that this is the maximum speed they achieve, I went ahead and halved this for their average speed through the debris field, which gives us a field over a hundred kilometers thick! Hell ye- wait, is that ten quintillion cubic meters of rubble layer???

QUESTION 4: How dense is dense?

I'm not going to lie to you, friends. This is where this gets ugly. We're going to do statistics. It will be okay.

How much of that volume is empty air?

The field of war rubble is described to us as dense. But that is not what makes it near-impregnable. If there is the physical space to pick your way through a static field of rubble, anybody could do that. What is dangerous, is that the rubble is orbiting, wrapped and writhing around the choking planet in a deadly Gordian knot. (I fucking love the Telemachus war rubble. Have I said how much I love the Telemachus war rubble?)

Now, if we pay close attention to the audio of Krejjh piloting through the rubble, we can hear large chunks of rubble zip past with a signature pitch-shift. This is the doppler effect causing sound (which doesn't travel in a vacuum but I'll forgive that) to be higher pitched as the rubble moves towards us and lower pitched as it moves away. Using these pitches, we can estimate the speed of the rubble--

yeah, okay, or we can just use the super simple stable orbital velocity equation that we already have all of the numbers for. if we were feeling lame.

So, imagine you're crossing the street at a brisk jog and a car is approaching at like 40mph from around a blind corner and also the street is hundreds of lanes with hundreds of cars whipping around a blind corner and also you are a ship that is parked across like ten lanes at a time. But hey, you can do a cool kick flip. So there's that, at least.

How many cars actually need to be on the road before it's "too dense" to traverse?

Luckily, there is a highly accurate, well-tested simulation we can consult.

The entire rubble field can be conceptualized as a series of orbital "lanes", containing a certain spacing of pieces of rubble, which cumulatively defines the density of the entire field. There exists a spacing by which it is possible, but difficult to get through. For example, in the image above, if there are 3 car tiles per 14 tile lane, the density of the entire street is 21%.

This spacing determines the frequency at which rubble crosses in front of the ship, on average. So, we're going to have to do some statistics. If you know how to do statistics, feel free to come at me, because I am pretty sure I did this stupid.

Alright, here's the game plan: we are going to define a space in front of the Iris II, designated as the Reaction Space, and we are going to designate a desired frequency of Reaction Events in that space. This is super arbitrary and has a huge impact on the final number! No pressure. So, let's give Krejjh one and a half seconds to react to the debris in front of the ship. If you've ever had a dog run in front of your car, this is scary as shit -- but hey, nobody said crossing the Telemachian rubble field was easy, and the ship did get hit a couple of times. Knowing the speed of the Iris, this gives us a physical distance in front of the ship which rubble may cross. Multiply that by the height of the ship- let's say 10 meters, there don't seem to be multiple floors- and we have bounded a certain number of orbital lanes through which the Iris is imminently about to cross. We'll call the average piece of rubble 5 by 5 meters, and therefore an orbital lane is about 25 square meters of space.

Each orbital lane represents an opportunity for a Reaction Event, which is to say one or more pieces of rubble entering the flight path of the Iris II, forcing Krejjh to maneuver to an open space (see Frogger above). Because statistics is an exercise in twisting your brain in circles like squeezing a wet wash cloth, in order to define how frequently Reaction Events occur, we must instead define how often they do not occur. The Reaction Space must be empty a certain amount of the time, or else there is literally nowhere to maneuver to- the space is literally impermeable. So, consulting the more difficult levels of Frogger, we are going to say the Reaction Space is empty 50% of the time. This means that every 1.5 seconds, there is a 50% chance that Krejjh has to pull some pants-shitting evasive maneuvers. This strikes me as acceptably challenging.

Now, each orbital lane does not have a 50% chance of spitting out a piece of rubble; rather, each lane has a very small chance of spitting out a piece of rubble and cumulatively, across hundreds of lanes, there is a 50% chance of one or more of them spitting out a piece of rubble within the selected timeframe. 50% = x raised to the number of orbital lanes, so a little bit of exponent math and we find that each lane has a 99.9% chance of being empty during a given second and a half.

Given a probability for an event over a certain time period, we are now able to calculate the return period of a given piece of rubble, which is to say, the average amount of time between events. Return periods are typically used to measure the probability of 100-year storms on a given year. Fun fact: There is a 37% chance that no 100-year storms will occur during a 100-year period, but there is also a 26% chance that there are 2 or more 100-year storms that occur over a 100-year period. Isn't statistics fun?

Using the average timing between pieces of rubble, we can determine the average spacing between pieces of rubble and therefore determine the density of the rubble field.

QUESTION 5: How many ships is that?

Alright, then. Here's the million dollar question: how many ships were destroyed to create the rubble field?

We will base this estimate off of the biggest modern fighter jet I could find with a 2-minute google search (I cannot overstate to you, dear reader, how little I care about fighter jets), so we're basing these ships off of the SU-35. Now, given that I have zero interest in caressing the delicate curvature of the Fighter Jet in the hopes of earning its trust and learning its True Volume, I'm going to estimate it as a cylinder with a diameter equivalent to the SU-35's height and assume the wings probably fit crammed up in the space there somehow. This gives us a volume of 587m^3, which makes the number of ships perpetually encircling Telemachus.......

Now, listen. This is an unrealistic number of ships. I do not believe that 70 billion people were killed in a single battle.

However.

When I set out on this estimate, I was willing to believe that 5 or so billion were. Between casualties on both sides, maybe a space station or two being destroyed, who knows, maybe they had a space trebuchet? This is only an order of magnitude away from a potentially reasonable number.

QUESTION 6: How Far Can I Stretch These Numbers?

Let's massage these numbers a bit and see what we can do.

First, let's round up the ship volume just a bit-- they're in space, maybe the FTL engine needs a bit of extra room. Let's call it 650m^3.

Then, we can start fiddling with the rubble frequency. Let's say the Iris II is 15 meters tall (it is a space yacht. maybe the ceilings are tall?) and then crank the reaction space up to 2 seconds (which means rubble can pass up to 2 seconds away, but it is still able to be anywhere nearer). And let's say the average piece of rubble is 4 meters across, not 5. Turn the the event frequency down to a 40% chance every 3 seconds, we can get this thing down to around 7 billion ships.

So, in conclusion: the Telemachus space debris ring is officially potentially reasonable! 🎉🎉🎉

Always remember, kids: number fudging is a proud, time-honored tradition when I do it, and a disgusting twisting of the nature of truth itself when anyone I don't like does it.

#tscosi #the strange case of starship iris #meta #on my bullshit #don't ask about the alternate timeline version of this post #let's just say it's a good thing I slept on it

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soldierboysdoll · 3 months ago

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M A R I L Y N

Soldier boy x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Soldier boy and you had an arrangement: no love, just pure lust and desire. These were the rules and neither of you wanted to change it, especially that he had to fake-dating with fucking Crimson Countess. Luckily you have people and places they're trust with they secrets.

WARNINGS: 18+, unprotected sex, language, smut

PLEASE BE KIND IF I MISSPELLED SOMETHING, ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

1940s America. The war may be raging overseas, but in Hollywood, it’s all about glamour, secrets, and indulgence. The Payback team is America’s sweetheart superhero squad, and Soldier Boy is their golden boy—a war hero, a heartthrob, and the man every magazine cover wants. But behind the carefully curated image, there’s a world of deception, passion, and reckless abandon that only a select few get to witness.

You are not just another pretty face in a red, white, and blue uniform. You're the co-captain of Payback—just as strong, just as deadly, and the only person who can match Soldier Boy in a fight or in bed. You have an understanding: no strings, no expectations. Just pure, unfiltered pleasure whenever you can sneak away from the cameras, the war propaganda, and the eyes of your team.

But there’s a problem: America loves a love story, and Vought has scripted one for Soldier Boy. Crimson Countess. The fucking redheaded songbird and Hollywood’s sweetheart, the woman marketed as his woman. In public, Soldier Boy has to play the perfect doting boyfriend—smiling, holding her waist at events, and whispering sweet nothings into her ear for the cameras. But behind the scenes? The only place he really wants to be is in your bed.

And the only person who knows?

Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn is the queen of secrets, and her exclusive, after-dark parties are the perfect cover for your illicit affair. The guest list is always long, but everyone knows the rules: what happens in Marilyn’s house stays in Marilyn’s house. It’s a world of flowing champagne, golden-lit ballrooms, smoky lounges filled with jazz music, and secret rendezvous behind closed doors. It’s a world of stolen touches, whispered promises, and reckless nights that neither of them can resist.

One night, during one of Marilyn’s infamous parties, you are standing at the bar, a cigarette between your lips, dressed in a slinky satin gown that drapes over your curves just right. The room is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and bourbon, jazz humming through the air.

Across the room, Soldier Boy is leaning against a wall, whiskey in hand, watching you like a wolf tracking his prey. He’s just stepped off the stage from some Vought-sponsored radio show with Crimson Countess, where he played the perfect boyfriend, but his real desire is standing right in front of him.

"You look like you’re waiting for trouble," Soldier Boy murmurs, slipping up beside you, his voice dripping with smug confidence.

You exhaled a slow drag of smoke, tilting your head at him. "Trouble’s already here."

He smirks, fingers brushing against your wrist as he steals your cigarette and takes a slow inhale. It was one of those tricky blunts which looks exactly like a normal cigarette, but blew up your mind. His eyes stay locked on yours, a silent challenge burning between them.

"You jealous, sweetheart?" he taunts. "Saw me up there, holding her like she’s mine?"

You scoffed, swirling your drink in your glass. "Please, I know exactly where your hands would rather be."

You looked at him with an amused, but knowing smirk on your plump, red painted lips and took a sip of your martini, then put down the glass in a movement, Soldier Boy never thought he would find it that attractive. But it was graceful and sexy as hell as your slender fingers played with the stem of the glass.

"And where would at be exactly?" He murmured, his voice was velvety.

You just smirked and jumped off of the barstool. You were so close, he could smell your perfume, the one he bought for you from Paris a few months ago. It was driving him crazy, in the best ways.

"On me. Under this silky dress. Inside of me" you whispered with that honeyed voice he loved so much.

Before he could've reply, Marilyn glides by, flashing you both a knowing smirk. "Bedroom’s unlocked, darlings," she whispers before disappearing into the crowd.

That’s all the permission you needed.

The party is still roared downstairs, but in the dim glow of Marilyn’s lavish bedroom, it’s just you two. Soldier Boy presses you against the vanity, knocking over a bottle of Chanel No. 5 in the process, but neither of you cares.

His lips crashed against yours, desperate, possessive, full of weeks of pent-up frustration. His hands roamed your body like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every scar, every inch of you that isn’t his to keep.

"You drive me insane, you know that?" he growled against your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You laughed breathlessly, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "Then go find your real girlfriend, Ben."

His grip tightens on your waist, his smirk dark and dangerous. "Nah. I’d rather wreck you instead."

And with that, his lips were on you again. Kissing, nipping, licking your soft skin on your throat and went lower. On your collarbone, on your chest, growls and sighs to your skin as his hands clenched around the silky material of your dress.

"This fucking dress," he growled "I want to rip down of you."

"Don't you dare, it was expensive" you murmured between soft sighs. Your eyes were closed, head tilted back as you let out soft, breathless sighs.

"Don't give a fuck, I buy you another" he murmured on your cleavage just below of the neckline.

"And how would I go home? Naked?"

"I'm sure Marilyn's gonna give you something, darlin'." He was so wrecked, fuming from his desire to take you right there.

You moaned softly as he sucked on the soft flesh of your breast.

"Asshole" you breathed out.

"You love it" he murmured back, his hands tightened around the dress, you could hear it ripping already.

"I do" you moaned "rip it." Your voice was just a low whimper.

That was all he needed. He straightened up and moved his hand to the neckline of the dress, and with one, swift motion he rip it just in the middle. The material fell down on you, like a silky robe before a heated night.

His gaze roamed over your naked body and a sly smirk appeared on him. "No panties?"

You smirked back "I was thinking forward."

He grinned "Good girl" he murmured, then his lips crashed to yours in a heated, animalistic kiss.

His fingers were already between your legs, pushed in two fingers right away. You moaned into the kiss, your body trembled but it wasn't from pain. It was pure bliss. He smiled against your mouth, kissed you feverish.

You like it like this. Your rendezvous is reckless, messy, and fueled by the knowledge that the world can never know. But in that moment, you don’t care.

"You like it don't you?" He murmured as he moved his fingers in and out with just a right amount of pressure, curling in the soft flesh.

"Shut... up..." you whined, your head fell back on the mirror above the vanity.

He chuckled as his lips trailed down on your jaws, then he pulled out his fingers make you whine in protest, but he had other plans.

He spunned you around and bent you down on the vanity. With his other hand, he pulled his already throbbing cock out of his trousers.

"I want you to watch yourself as I fuck you from behind" He hissed out as he pushed himself inside of you with a low growl.

His forehead fell on your shoulder to compose himself for a minute, then started to move in you.

Your head hunged down, your body trembling, the pleasure was too good already, then you felt his large hand on your throat as he yanked you a bit up and against his chest. He moved in hard and long thrusts, leaned his head to your ear as he looked at you through the mirror.

"Eyes on yourself, sugar" He whispered, nipped on your earlobe, then buried his face into the crook of your neck, kissing your soft skin.

You couldn't help but moaned and sighed and whimpered. His hand tightened around your throat and your eyes rolled back in pure pleasure. He yanked on you again.

"Eyes up, babydoll. I want you to watch the show" He murmured, thrusted harder.

The perfums and make ups trembled on the vanity, but you didn't care.

"Look at you..." He mused "So fucking hot, and all mine..."

You just whined in response, you already felt your climax rose up, you felt the familiar warm and tightness in your stomach and he felt your walls clenching around his hard dick.

"That's it baby, let yourself go... let me hear you... come for me..."

He thrusted harder and faster, his hand tightened around your throat but in just the right pressure to make you feel good.

"You're so fucking tight" He almost whined in panting. "I'm gonna make you scream my name as loud that they would hear it louder than that damn jazz. Fucking hypocrites." He hissed out as he felt himself closer to the edge too.

"I love how you fit to me, like a perfect puzzle." He nipped on your neck again as his movements getting ragged and harder with each thrust.

"Gonna make you feel good, I promise."

"You always do" you managed to whimper out "Oh God... I'm gonna–"

"That's it baby. Give it to me. Give me what I want. Scream my name."

And with that, with a loud cry of his name, you came. And he followed. Oh how he followed. Your mixed breaths and whines were downright sinful. It was pure Heaven and Hell in the same time.

His head fell down on your sweaty shoulder, put feather-light kisses as he came down from the high, panting like he just ran a marathon.

"So... who's made a wreck from who?" You smirked at him through the mirror, panting, and he couldn’t help the chuckle escaping from his lips.

"You're gonna be the death of me, woman, I swear the god..." he whispered with a last kiss on your shoulder.

"You're atheist" you commented just to tease him.

He smirked against your skin "But I believe in you, and darling... God is a woman, and that's you"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@emeraldcrs

Thanks for reading, If you want me to tag you, just let me know in the comments 🩷

You can find this fanfic as a C.AI bot too with the same name but I add a link too, and if you have requests for bots, just DM me 🥰

#soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy the boys #deanwinchester #supernatural #soldier boy fanfiction #jensen ackles #soldier boy smut

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advent-if · 8 months ago

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DEMO TBA 🌑 CHARACTER INTROS (5/5)

A fine line separates civilians from saviours, saints from sinners; it was never a line you expected to cross, but one you did anyway. Now, the fate of Advent City’s clueless citizens or cunning criminals rests in your hands… best not to let it slip from your fingers, mm?

Thirteen years ago, your life changed. Thirteen years ago, you swore requital. Now, the opportunity has arisen for you to either defend the city from the dark or rid it from the rot spreading throughout its core.

Now, it’s your turn.

Play as Advent City’s saviour, a daring vigilante here to protect those you love or ruin those you hate — the choice is up to you. Learn to inspire fear, earn respect, fall in love, or even become the greatest superhero this city has ever known.

ADVENT is rated 18+ for explicit language, violence, explicit sexual content, substance abuse, and more. It deals with heavy themes; discretion is advised.

Customise your character’s appearance, personality and intentions: are you a hero spurred by the desire to protect, or an anti-hero propelled by the promise of retribution? Does your alter-ego vastly differ from your day-to-day life, or is it an extension of your nature? Are you ruthless or compassionate, ingenious or Machiavellian, courageous or psychopathic?

Choose your origin story: were you a rich orphan à la Bruce Wayne or Tony Stark, a Regular Joe turned hero on being given powers by a mysterious force, or born with them for reasons you’re desperate to find?

Fight villains who threaten the safety of the city and its inhabitants, and maybe even a supervillain who happens to be your foil…

Romance 1 of 5 characters, each of whom come with their own hefty baggage, and have interesting(?) reactions to yours…

Manage your new life and all its nuances. Who said being a saviour was easy? Try to separate your old life from this new one by keeping your identity a secret, maintaining old relationships, forging new ones, keeping your loved ones safe, etc. etc… damn.

the Head of Police: Luis/Luz Aguilera (m/f): Stern, sexy, moody. Relentlessly hardworking and caring to the point of no return. They want to be the one to clean Advent City’s fucked up system, not for glory, but simply because it’s the right thing to do. Unfortunately for them, that also means putting up with your whole shebang… maybe try to keep the arguing to a minimum?

the Journalist: Vincent “Vinny” Jacobs (m): Cheeky, suave, opportunistic. Inordinately ambitious and impressively dedicated to their cause. He’d never miss an opportunity to investigate something deeper if it intrigued him enough. Unfortunately for you, he’s now focused solely on the up and coming vigilante stalking the streets. Uh oh.

the Childhood Friend: Arya Anand (m/f): Sweet, thoughtful, kind. Patient to a fault and excessively trusting. You guys knew each other really well, once upon a time. But now that they're back, years later, you’re not quite convinced by the “I’m okay”s and forced smiles they seem to be hiding under. Surely it has nothing to do with you, right?

the Other One: Nian (f): Unpredictable, flirty, mysterious. Fast to arrive and quick to disappear. She’s someone you meet often in your… line of work… and curiously, she’s always ready to help you. Behind her mask and catsuit is someone you suspect is dangerously similar to you. As long as you two have the same goal, it shouldn’t be a problem…

the Heir: Josephine/Joseph Bieri (f/m): Arrogant, cunning, brash. Annoyingly haughty and odiously elusive. They were an asshole when you first met five years ago, and seem to be an even bigger one now… worse, they’re in the way between you and taking down their Mafia kingpin dad. Although, getting close could give you an advantage - just try not to punch them.

reblogs are appreciated! thank you so much for your interest <3

#choicescript #interactive fiction #interactive novel #if wip #interactive game #dashingdon #hosted games #action #romance

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prettylilyanime · 3 months ago

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Blooming Hearts ♡ Chapter 07

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Authors note: Things start getting...heated

˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖

This was a mistake!

Your body betrays you, as it usually does—shoulders tense, stomach coiled tight, fingers twitching at your sides like they might still find a way to escape.

You know Ochako means well, has only ever been kind to you in these last 24 hours, but that doesn’t stop your pulse from hammering against your ribs like a frantic warning bell.

Run. Hide. Fake a headache. There’s still time!!

But Ochako’s grip is ironclad.

“C’mon! We need to get down there before everyone starts wondering where we are!” She laces her fingers through yours, warm and insistent, dragging you out the door of your shared room before you can so much as think of an excuse.

The scent of her coconut sunscreen lingers in the air as you stumble after her. Your heart is a mess, part nerves, part anticipation. You can’t remember the last time you felt so nervous!

Scratch that, landing on top of Bakugou over the weekend was pretty traumatizing...

Still, this feels like a close second, judging by the nauseating urge to turn back and pretend you never agreed to this.

The hallway is alive with movement, a blur of swimsuits, cover-ups, and damp footprints smudged against the floorboards.

You're really trying to focus on not throwing up right now.

Ochako pulls you along though, her chatter light and cheerful, and you do your best to focus on her words instead of the way the floor feels like it’s tilting beneath your feet.

You’re not used to this, like at all. God, you don't think you've ever made this much contact with another human being in your life!

When you finally reach the outdoors, the sight sort of lifts a heavy weight from your chest. You look around, wide eyes taking in the scene.

The blue water sparkles under the afternoon sun, ringed by lush greenery, its surface kissed by golden light. Your classmates are already splashing around, tossing a beach ball back and forth, setting up the bonfire pit for later.

You've been all over the world, traveled to every unbelievable destination money could buy, and yet—you find yourself in awe at the sight of this little lake. There’s something inviting about it.

Well, you're actually quite terrified...But you imagine the scene is inviting to somebody like Ochako!

As if to prove your point, a few of the girls immediately spot Ochako and wave her over from the water. She perks up, bouncing on the tips of her toes to wave back, her excitement so genuine it makes your chest ache.

Instinctively, you shift a step behind her rather than beside her, eyes darting to the sides to ignore any stray gazes on yourself.

But then she nudges you forward, and your stomach lurches as you stumble into view.

Mina spots you first. She’s radiant in a lilac bikini that pops against her skin, her pink curls damp but still bouncing as she bounds over. “Y/N! No way—you came!” Her golden eyes widen in surprise, and just like that, others take notice, heads turning in your direction.

A chorus of greetings follows—some cheerful, others more reserved, but none of them unkind.

It’s… new.

It’s the stuff of nightmares, honestly. You suck at this. Socializing. Group settings.

You can feel the awkward tension in your own smile, stiff and unsure, as you mutter half-hearted hellos in return. Do you look as uncomfortable as you feel? God, probably.

Why did you come? It’s a toxic cycle—wanting to be invited, then immediately regretting it the second you are.

Mina doesn’t seem to notice your spiraling. She wraps Ochako in a quick hug before turning her full attention on you, manicured fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. “You guys look so good! Y/N, you look insane.”

You freeze. Panic surges.

“Insane… in a good way?” Your voice comes out so worried that you immediately want to fling yourself into the lake.

If you looked crazy, Ochako would’ve told you, right? Right?!

Mina snorts, giving your shoulder a playful shake. “Girl, insane great. Your body is killer.”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected compliment. This is your chance to return the favor! Compliment her back! Say something, anything—

A sudden, thunderous splash pulls your attention to the lake.

Your brows shoot up just in time to see Sero shoving Denki straight into the water.

The blond resurfaces a second later, sputtering, his drenched hair plastered to his forehead as he glares. Sero doubles over, laughing, his drink still held aloft like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You blink, processing. You know they’re close, but… is it normal to shove your friends into the water like that?

You’ve seen it in movies, but you can’t decide if you’d find it fun or if you’d immediately die of secondhand embarrassment.

Mina, clearly unfazed, rolls her eyes and calls out to them. “Hey! Watch it over here, the water’s cold!” She gestures at the splash that nearly reaches your feet.

Ochako giggles, nudging you again. “Let’s go in!”

Your stomach flips, but you nod, trailing behind her as she slips off her cover-up dress. She drapes it over a wooden bench already lined with bags and sandals, a chaotic splash of colors against the sun-bleached wood.

You focus on the little knot at your sheer skirt, fingers fumbling as you untie it. The sun is warm against your skin, the breeze light and teasing. The chatter around you hums like background noise, but what you don’t notice is the ripple of attention you’ve unintentionally drawn.

By the water’s edge, Denki and Sero are frozen, their expressions comically slack-jawed.

“Dude,” Denki whispers, as if he’s just spotted a mythical creature. “Y/N is actually here.”

Sero nods slowly, drink momentarily forgotten in his hand. “She… is so hot.”

Before their awe can spiral into more whispered nonsense, a swift, synchronized bonk lands on both their heads.

Jirou and Tsuyu stand behind them, arms crossed, expressions sharp with unimpressed judgment.

“Don’t be creeps,” Jirou mutters, pushing her sunglasses up with a sigh. Strands of damp hair cling to the sunscreen glistening on her cheeks. Her deep plum swimsuit is effortlessly cool, a stark contrast to Tsuyu’s soft green one-piece, patterned with delicate lily pads.

“The girl barely ever hangs out with us as it is,” Jirou continues. “The last thing we need is her feeling weirded out because of you two.”

Denki scoffs, looking personally offended. “Excuse me!? The only creep here is Mineta, and you guys know he’s banned from coming to these things.”

Sero nods solemnly, raising his drink in mock salute. “The little perv is under strict surveillance by Aizawa and Present Mic tonight. Thank god.”

Mina, now wading into the water, joins the group. She takes a slow sip of her beverage before sending Denki and Sero a pointed look.

“Anybody else a little confused by Y/N showing up?” she muses, tilting her head. “Not complaining, just... surprised. You two better not make it weird.”

Denki’s jaw drops in offense. “Hey!”

Their bickering dissolves into splashes and laughter, but you remain blissfully unaware of it all.

You're too busy steadying your breath, caught between the cool breeze and the lingering warmth of the sun. It feels surreal—being here, surrounded by your classmates, the lazy hum of summer wrapping around you like a soft, sun-warmed blanket.

“Should we grab drinks first?” Ochako’s voice is casual, but there’s something airy, almost calculated, about her tone.

You follow her gaze toward the makeshift drink station, a folding table cluttered with pitchers of neon-colored juice and a cooler packed with ice.

Midoriya, Shouto, and Tenya stand nearby, their silhouettes framed by the lake’s shimmering expanse.

Your brows knit together as you glance at Ochako’s oddly focused stare. Surely, she’s not that thirsty… right?

Then, the puzzle pieces snap into place.

Oh. She’s staring at Midoriya!

It’s almost cute how obvious it is. Since your first year, it’s been clear to everyone, probably even the birds in the trees—that Ochako and Midoriya had a thing for each other.

Even you, someone who couldn't be worse at picking up on social cues, had noticed!

Before you can say a word, Ochako's fingers curl around your wrist, tugging you forward with surprising strength.

You barely have time to process before you’re standing at the drink table, flashing a tight, polite smile at the boys while Ochako dives headfirst into conversation with Midoriya.

The green-haired boy looks like he’s barely holding onto his composure.

His freckles stand out starkly against his flushed skin, his cheeks nearly as red as the watermelon slices bobbing lazily in one of the juice pitchers. His gaze flickers everywhere, desperate to focus on anything that isn’t Ochako’s swimwear-clad form.

You suppress a smile. This feels like watching a rom-com unfold in real-time!

“Y/N, I’m surprised to see you here.”

Your attention shifts to a familiar face, Shouto Todoroki. He sits on a wooden bench, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his posture relaxed.

Next to him, Tenya sips from a cup, his rigid posture a sharp contrast to Shouto’s.

You push your sunglasses up, using them to sweep your hair away from your face. “Y-yeah. Ochako asked if I wanted to come. I thought it’d be refreshing after Aizawa pushing us this morning,” you say, your voice light—too light—the lie slipping out before you can stop it.

Because to be honest, the last thing on your mind was how refreshing a swim would be.

You came for the sole purpose of not feeling like a total loser for once....

But you’d never admit that. Especially not to him, the boy you’d known since childhood.

Your families had woven your lives together from the start. Same private schools, same gated communities, same stiff playdates arranged more out of obligation than friendship.

You remember the afternoons spent under perfectly manicured trees, the two of you side by side, sharing crayons and silence.

Shouto studies you for a moment, his heterochromatic gaze unreadable—not piercing, not heavy, just... observant.

“Yeah, your quirk has been flaring up lately. I’m sure Aizawa pushed you harder today.”

Your breath catches.

He—he noticed!?

Aizawa hadn’t actually paid you any extra attention today. Training had been perfectly normal.

But the fact that Shouto had even thought otherwise—the fact that he’d noticed the way your quirk had been acting up lately—sends a jolt of something sharp and embarrassed through you.

Because he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know that every time your mind even drifts to Bakugou Katsuki, a million delicate petals betray you, spiraling into existence without your permission.

That your quirk has become your worst enemy, weaving your feelings into reality whether you want it to or not!

Your fingers tighten slightly around your cup. He doesn’t know, and he can’t know.

You force a small shrug. “Yeah”

Thankfully, Tenya, bless his overly formal soul—cuts through the moment. “Would you like something to drink, Y/N? We have quite the selection of fruit juices—grape, pineapple, mango, and I believe that one has a mix of berries.”

He gestures toward the pitchers like a waiter at some high-end restaurant, each glass container beading with condensation, jewel-toned liquids shimmering in the sun.

You could almost hug him for the distraction!

You offer a small, grateful smile. “Oh, sure. I think I’ll go for the mango.”

“Excellent choice.” He moves with crisp efficiency, pouring the drink with such ceremonial care it’s almost comical.

You take a sip, the cool sweetness bursting across your tongue, grounding you just a little. “Thanks"

He nods, the gesture polite, precise—like everything else about him. “You’re very welcome. It’s great to see you here, Y/N. We don’t often get to socialize outside of training or class, and it’s important for team morale to build connections in less formal settings.

Your fingers swirl the straw through your drink, watching the ice clink against the sides. “Yeah, it's nice” you say softly, your gaze drifting back out to the lake.

The sun-soaked scene feels almost surreal, like a postcard from a life you never thought you’d step into. And beneath all the noise, something settles in your chest—warm, quiet, nice.

Ochako suddenly appears at your side.

She nudges you, her smile wide, her cheeks flushed a charming pink—whether from the heat or whatever Midoriya had just told her, you aren’t sure.

“Ready to get in the water?” she asks, leaning over to pour herself a berry-hued drink. She taps her cup against yours with a soft clink, liquid sloshing playfully.

You blink at the red plastic cups—wow, it really is like the movies!—and glance toward the lake.

Sunlight dances on the surface, rippling with the chaos of your classmates. Mina and Tsuyu are deep in a water war now, their laughter carrying across the breeze.

But your gaze drifts past them, searching for something, someone else.

And then, you find him.

Bakugou sits at the water’s edge, his feet submerged, gentle waves lapping against his sculpted calves.

His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped as he talks with Kirishima. Even from here, you catch the sharpness of his profile—the strong set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

You’re not sure beautiful is a word people often use to describe Bakugou, but right now, you swear he’s every bit of it.

Oh. He’s also shirtless.

And dear god, you really hope no flowers are blooming around you right now. That would be mortifying.

And way too obvious...Shoto would definitely pick up on it.

Your pulse picks up, your heart doing a ridiculous little flip in your chest. It’s humiliating, really, how just looking at him can make you react like this.

And then, as if feeling your gaze on him, he looks up. Crimson eyes find yours, steady and unblinking.

You freeze, manicured fingers tightening around your cup, the plastic giving slightly under the pressure.

The world slows, the noise around you dissolving into a distant hum, like you’ve suddenly been dropped underwater. It’s funny, you think bitterly, how now when he looks at you, there’s recognition there. Like he actually sees you.

Before this weekend, Bakugou’s gaze would’ve skimmed past you without a second thought—just another classmate who barely spoke, never worth lingering on.

But now? His eyes catch on you. Like something’s shifted. Like you’ve somehow forced your way into his line of sight.

Was it when you tripped and fell against him, practically tackling him to the ground?

Or when he helped you move all your boxes into the dorms, grumbling the entire time but never once walking away?

Maybe it was when he spent over an hour teaching you how to navigate the public transportation system without getting hopelessly lost....

All of it, jumbled together into one little weekend, had somehow tackled your heart and refused to let go.

You know it probably meant nothing to him. Just Bakugou being a surprisingly good person. But to you? God. It was everything.

And now you can’t stop thinking about the nickname he gave you earlier—sad eyes. A clear demotion from princess.

It’s devastating....

Do your eyes really look sad right now? God, you hope not! You don’t want to be known as the girl who looks miserable all the time....

You stand up straighter, forcing a small smile, as if that’ll help. Maybe it’ll make you look normal!

But then Bakugou shifts, turning back toward Kirishima without another glance in your direction, and the moment shatters like glass. Something tight in your chest loosens—but disappointment seeps in almost instantly, and you hate yourself for it.

He didn't even look at my swimsuit...does he not like the pink?

Wait- why are you even thinking about him liking your swimsuit? Get it together!

Ochako leans in, her shoulder brushing against yours. “What was that all about?”

Her question jolts you back to reality, and you nearly spill your drink. “Huh? N-no, it’s nothing.”

“it was so something!” she gasps, watching you from the corners of her eyes with sudden intrigue.

You clutch your cup tighter, heat pricking your cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ochako just grins, entirely unconvinced. “I’ve never seen Bakugou look someone up and down like that—unless he was about to fight them. But something tells me that wasn’t the look he was giving you.”

Your throat dries instantly. "What?! No, He definitely wasn’t—”

“Uh-huh,” she hums, her grin only widening as you flounder for a believable response. “Right.”

Mortified, you take a hasty sip of your drink, the coolness doing little to ease the sudden, frantic buzz in your chest. But despite yourself, a small, reckless thought unfurls in your mind, curling up all hopeful and dangerous.

What is she thinking!?

You’re still overthinking when Ochako grabs your wrist and drags you toward the lake. The water is cold, a welcome shock against your skin as it rises to your waist. It helps—sort of.

The group has already settled into easy conversation, splashing each other and laughing as though this wasn’t absolutely the most socially overstimulating day of your life. You hover at the edge, fingers curled around your cup, letting Ochako do most of the talking.

Your mind keeps drifting. It shouldn’t, but it does. And when you can’t help yourself, you sneak a glance back toward the shore—

His spot is empty.

Your stomach dips. Where did he go?

“Bakugou, man! Finally decided to join us,” Sero calls, his voice bright as he pushes his wet hair back from his face.

You frown. Wait—

But Sero isn’t looking at the shore. He’s looking at you.

The cold prickle is instant, creeping down your spine like a warning. Slowly, you turn— And you almost scream when you find Bakugou standing right there.

Towering. Close.

You stumble back a step, your throat locking up. “What—?! How do you keep doing that?!”

He doesn’t answer, just flicks his gaze down at you. Quick, sharp—before scoffing. “Sad Eyes, should’ve called you ‘Jumpy’ instead. That’s three for three, huh?”

Your skin burns. “What?!”

“This is the Third time you freaked out ‘cause I showed up. I’m keepin’ track now.”

Your jaw drops. He’s been keeping track?!

Mortification settles deep in your bones. This is getting ridiculous. How does he keep sneaking up on you like this?!

And now he’s calling you jumpy? That’s somehow worse than Sad Eyes!!

You sputter, grasping at the shredded remains of your dignity. “It’s not my fault! Who just sneaks up on people like that? You’re way too quiet for someone who’s, like, six feet tall!”

The group falls silent. A ripple of surprise spreads, heads turning, eyes widening.

You, who barely even makes eye contact with most of them—talking to Bakugou like this?

And more than that… you two had hung out before? Three times now?!

Kirishima is the first to recover, throwing his head back with a laugh before slapping a heavy hand on Bakugou’s shoulder. “He actually grew, you know! Six-two now! Our manly Katsuki’s all grown up!”

Bakugou immediately shoves him off with a sharp snarl. “Shut it, dumbass.”

You’re still trying to steady your breath, heart hammering from both the shock of his sudden appearance and worse—the new nickname.

Why couldn’t he just go back to Princess?

Mina scoffs, nudging Kirishima with a pointed look. “Quit it, don't give Y/N the wrong first impression of us,” she mutters—like she meant to keep it quiet, but you definitely hear her.

Your eyebrows lift, heat creeping up your neck. First impressions? Three years in?!

If only she knew your actual first impression of Kirishima—him holding the door open for you on the first day of freshman year, flashing an easy grin like it was second nature.

Not that he’d remember. But you do. A small, insignificant moment that somehow stuck, tucked away in the back of your mind, untouched and warm.

The conversation shifts, the group slipping back into their usual rhythm—Mina teasing, Kirishima laughing, Denki making some ridiculous joke. Their voices rise and fall like background noise, familiar and distant.

You stand quietly, retreating into yourself, drink in hand, eyes fixed on the surface of your cup like it holds the secrets of the universe.

You don’t notice the way Ochako watches.

She’s spent enough time around you to pick up on the obvious—you’re shy. Painfully so. It’s not what people assume at first, not with the way you dress, the quiet confidence in your posture, and the sharpness of your gaze. But once they get to know you, it’s impossible to miss.

What surprises her more is how, despite that hesitance, you instinctively shift closer to Bakugou.

And he isn’t so innocent either. His gaze flicks toward you, sharp but unreadable, lingering just long enough to be noticeable before he looks away. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react.

But he doesn’t move either.

Something clicks for her.

She nudges you, soft but deliberate.

You blink up at her, confused. What?

She only raises her brows, like she knows something you don’t.

Your frown deepens. What?

But she doesn’t explain, just grins to herself before turning back to the conversation.

The weight of it lingers, settling in your chest like you’re missing something important, but you try to ignore it. It's Just another thing you don't quite get yet.

It’s easier to focus on your drink. The cool glass against your fingertips, the slow trickle of condensation, the soft lap of water around your legs. The conversation hums around you, voices rising and falling like waves.

You don’t need to force yourself into it.

For now, this is enough.

For now, you’re comfortable.

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You sit at the lake’s edge, toes skimming the surface as gentle waves lap at your ankles.

Your white gold diamond tennis anklet catches the fading sunlight, glinting with every ripple. The sun has dipped lower now, streaking the sky in hues of gold and orange, its reflection shimmering across the water in shimmering fragments.

Ochako left a few minutes ago to grab marshmallows for the bonfire, and honestly, you don’t mind the solitude!

Your social battery is drained, and the distant sounds of your classmates—laughing, splashing, calling out to each other—feel muffled, like you’re hearing them from behind glass.

It’s nice, though. Being here. Being part of this.

You let yourself sink into the quiet, watching the way your feet sway in the water, the way the coolness soothes the lingering buzz beneath your skin.

Then—

A shadow falls over you.

You blink up, and nearly choke on air at the visual.

Bakugou stands over you, hands shoved into the pockets of his black swim trunks, droplets of water trailing down his chest. Against the warm hues of the setting sun, his silhouette is sharp, cutting through the golden light like a blade.

“Sad eyes,” he drawls, tilting his head. “You’re really livin’ up to the name right now.”

You blink, caught off guard. Huh?

“But I’m not sad!” you insist, frowning.

His brow lifts, skeptical. His gaze lingers, tracing the natural pout of your glossy lips, the way your eyes seem distant even when you’re not trying. Something pricks at the back of his neck, heat creeping up his spine before he looks away.

You shift slightly, fingers tightening around your cup, the plastic slick with condensation.

“You’ve been payin’ more attention to that damn drink than the actual lake.” Bakugou snorts, nodding toward the vast stretch of water behind him.

You try not to stare, but it’s difficult. His ashy blonde hair, the sharp contrast of his red eyes against the cyan blue of the lake—if you let yourself, you could sit here and admire the view all day.

Unfortunately, you realize too late that you have been staring. For way too long!

Panic sparks in your brain, and before you can stop yourself, your mouth moves faster than your common sense.

“Well, the water looks great, but I’m focusing on my drink! It’s really tasty. Do you wanna try?” The second the words leave your lips, regret slams into you like a wave.

You briefly consider slipping into the lake and letting the water swallow you whole. Would they let you drown if you tried?

…No, probably not. Too many future pro heroes around.

But to your utter disbelief, Bakugou doesn’t call you an idiot. Instead, He just flicks his gaze down to your cup, then—before you can process what’s happening—crouches down to your sitting height.

The water shifts beneath him, sending ripples through the lake. He’s closer now than you expected, all sharp angles and damp skin, the scent of caramel and lake water clinging to him.

Is the caramel like a cologne? Seriously! He smells like a roasted sweet treat at all times!

Your breath catches as his fingers brush against yours, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool plastic. Then, without hesitation, he lifts the cup to his lips.

And drinks.

For you, the world tilts. The sun, the water, the distant chatter of your classmates—it all fades into static.

It’s just him now. The slow sip, the soft slosh of liquid in the cup, the way his lips curve around the straw—the same one you’ve been using all day. Time stretches impossibly thin, and you swear the air between you hums with something heavy.

A single drop clings to his bottom lip as he pulls back. He swipes it away with the lazy flick of his tongue before his gaze catches yours—steady, unreadable, something warm simmering just beneath the surface.

“Not bad,” Bakugou mutters, his voice low, careless. “But I think the glittery shit you got on messed with the taste.”

Your brain stutters. Glittery…?

Oh.

Your lip gloss. The pink, strawberry-flavored one you had just recently reapplied.

Heat floods your face so fast it makes you dizzy, your heart hammering like you just ran laps with Iida.

Bakugou stays where he is, the water sloshing gently around his waist, completely unfazed. Meanwhile, you’re left staring at your cup, at the place his lips just were—desperately trying to remember how to function.

You gulp down your nerves, eyes flickering toward the water, focusing on the gentle ripples. Anything but him! Slowly, you lift the cup to your lips again.

Only to freeze.

Oh my god.

Right where his lips just were.

Your mind spins, and you can practically feel the steam rising from your skin. You could actually combust right here, more a ball of flames than human! The cool lake water around your ankles does nothing to soothe the heat crawling up your neck, pooling in your cheeks.

Bakugou doesn’t seem to notice your internal turmoil. His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles flexing, and his expression is somewhere between bored and contemplative. The silence stretches, thick and pressing, equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

You force yourself to take a sip, pretending like your heart isn’t trying to break out of your ribs. The drink is still sweet, still refreshing, but now all you can think about is the fact that his mouth was just here.

It’s like an indirect kiss!

He can’t be thinking about it that way, right?! If he did, he probably wouldn’t be so quiet about it!

Bakugou shifts, the water rippling around him. His red eyes flick to your face, and you brace yourself for some snarky remark—but it doesn’t come. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s trying to figure something out. It’s unnerving.

Then—

“Why does your quirk do that?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

Your breath catches.

You blink at him, thrown completely off guard. “I don’t know what you mean.”

You glance around your sides first, eyes darting to the water, the shore, anywhere he could possibly be referring to. But nothing looks different. There’s no telltale glow, no signs of your quirk activating. Confused, you glance back at him.

“I don’t see anything,” you say hesitantly.

His smirk widens just a fraction. “Yeah? Look behind you.”

A nervous lump forms in your throat. You slowly twist your torso around—

and your heart plummets.

The tree behind you, once lush with soft green leaves, is now covered in delicate, glowing pink blossoms. Every inch of it, every branch, every tiny leaf that was once green has been replaced with flowers, radiating a gentle light in the darkness.

Your breath catches in your throat.

A whole tree.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

A beat of silence passes, stretching unbearably long as you stare at it, horror dawning.

This is mortifying!

You snap back around, scrambling for a way to downplay this, to brush it off, but your mind is blank. Completely empty.Your fingers tighten around the cup in your hands, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears.

Bakugou watches you, unimpressed.

The bonfire crackles in the distance, flames licking at the air, casting long, flickering shadows against the trees. Laughter drifts over from the shore, light and carefree, but it barely registers. The world has narrowed to this moment, to the weight of his gaze, to the pounding of your heart in your ears.

You open your mouth, scrambling for something—anything—to say in your defense. But no words come out.

Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Tch. So?”

You blink at him, stomach sinking. “So what?”

He jerks his chin toward the tree. “That happen every time you get nervous?”

Your breath hitches.

Your voice jumps an octave, frazzled beyond belief. “I am not nervous!”

Bakugou lifts a brow, eyes gleaming with something wicked. “Yeah?” He exhales sharply, almost amused. “Might have to start calling you Squeaky.”

Horrified, you let out an embarrassed groan, heat rushing to your face. You don’t even think—your hand moves on instinct, reaching out to shove him.

Your perfectly manicured nails, white French tips, delicate and polished, press against solid muscle, barely making him budge.

“Don’t tease me so much,” you whine, already waving the white flag. “I might pass out.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, head tilting. “Who said I’m teasing you?”

Your glare sharpens, suspicious. “You are.”

Bakugou huffs, but he doesn’t argue. He should be more focused on the ridiculous fact that your quirk just bloomed an entire cherry blossom tree in his presence.

But right now, he’s distracted. Very distracted by the look on your face.

Your cheeks are puffed out slightly, your glittery pink lips pursed in a pout that’s way too damn distracting. And those eyes—big, wide, pleading, blink up at him like you’re silently begging for mercy.

Damn it.

He almost wants to keep pushing you just to see how much further he can take it. The way you react—it’s too easy, too entertaining. But there’s something about this whole situation, about you, that makes him feel… off. Like his balance is shifting beneath his feet, and he hates it.

You two have barely talked before this—what, a handful of conversations? A week of knowing each other at most? And yet somehow, you’ve already got him feeling weird.

This has gotta end.

Without warning, Bakugou steps forward, cutting through the water until he’s right in front of you, just within reach. His presence looms, heat radiating off his skin despite the cool night air.

Your breath stutters.

His hand lifts slightly, and for one wild second, your brain short-circuits. Is he going to—?

But instead, his knuckles brush the bottom of your cup, nudging it lightly.

“You gonna sit here all night or what?” His voice is rough, casual, but there’s something else beneath it—something unreadable. “Bonfire’s startin’ soon.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out at first. You swallow, clearing your throat, scrambling to get a grip. “Oh. Right. Yeah.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you actually heard him, before he turns away.

The water ripples in his wake as he wades back toward the shore, hands stuffed in his pockets like nothing even happened.

You finally exhale, shoulders sagging, the tension unraveling from your body.

The night air feels warmer now. Softer.

With one last glance at the lake, you set your drink aside and push yourself up.

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After that borderline confusing and mortifying interaction, you’re left with a choice the moment you step out of the water.

Option one: Stay. Sit on a rough block of wood, eat a damn roasted marshmallow, and painfully maneuver your way through awkward small talk with your classmates.

Option two: Leave. Retreat back to your bedroom, put on some mind-numbing reality TV, and rot in bed after a long, refreshing shower.

The second option sounds incredibly tempting. You can already imagine the warm spray of water against your skin, the fresh scent of your favorite body wash, the way your comforter would swallow you whole as you melted into your mattress.

Plus, you've packed your favorite Dior pj's!

And you’re going to do it! You swear you are—but then you catch Bakugou’s sharp gaze flicking back at you over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but the subtle glance alone is enough to pin you in place, a silent, unspoken question hanging in the air.

Still here?

Damn it.

With an internal sigh, you resign yourself to option one. The night is almost over anyway.

That’s how you end up here, seated on a weathered log, chin resting against your manicured hand, staring blankly into the fire while Denki animatedly recounts some story about a trip to the mall a few months ago.

The others laugh, voices rising and falling around you, but you only catch pieces of it—bits of inside jokes, exaggerated retellings, the occasional snort from Sero that sets off another round of chuckles.

Your focus drifts.

Above, the sky is a vast stretch of inky darkness, dotted with a scatter of stars. You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes tracing their soft glimmer, losing yourself in the quiet vastness of it. The fire crackles, the warm glow licking up into the night, sending embers drifting into the air like fireflies.

It’s warm right here, close to the flames—but the heat only reaches so far, and beyond it, the night is settling in deep.

You shift on the log, arms wrapping around yourself as an involuntary shiver runs down your spine.

The flimsy cover-up you’d thrown on after the lake does little against the creeping chill, and you curse yourself for not grabbing a sweater like the other girls had. You remember seeing them duck back inside, giggling and chattering as they pulled on oversized hoodies and sweatshirts over their damp swimsuits, but you had been… distracted.

Or more accurately—Bakugou had been a distraction.

Your gaze flickers toward him briefly, though he’s focused on something else, watching the fire maybe, or just lost in thought.

Either way, he’s not paying attention to you. Good! You're not sure you could handle much else of him today.

Because truthfully, you feel a little ridiculous. The day had started off simple enough, but now you’re stuck in this strange in-between space—part of the group, yet somehow still lingering on the edges.

Ochako is talking with the others, easily swept into the rhythm of their conversation, and you wonder if you should try to do the same.

The idea of forcing yourself to be social makes your stomach twist, but sitting here, curled in on yourself, cold and silent, doesn’t feel much better.

You exhale softly, watching the way your breath barely fogs in the cool air. The warmth of the day has long since faded, leaving behind nothing but goosebumps on your skin and the distant hum of voices around you.

And for what feels like the millionth time today, you’re not entirely sure what to do with yourself.

Then, out of nowhere, a weight drops into your lap.

You blink down at it—a hoodie, deep burgundy, clean, thick and slightly worn, the sleeves spilling over your thighs. The fabric is still warm, carrying the lingering heat of the person who had been wearing it just moments ago.

You glance up, and lo and behold—Bakugou.

He’s standing in front of you, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, shoulders set in that familiar rigid way, like he’s already bracing for whatever dumb thing you might say in response.

But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t demand a thank you, doesn’t even really look at you—just waits, expectantly, for you to do something.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you actually understand what he means without him having to say a word. And yet, you hesitate.

“Bakugou…” You frown, holding the hoodie up against your torso. It’s massive. “But won’t you be cold?”

He scoffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sad eyes, you’re givin’ me that look again. Just put on the damn jacket—I’m fine.”

Your brows lift, but your fingers are already slipping into the sleeves. The warmth of the fabric engulfs you immediately, the scent of caramel and something distinctly him wrapping around you in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Well… thanks then,” you murmur shyly, hugging the hoodie closer. The oversized fit swallows you whole, the hem brushing against the middle of your thighs, covering the last remnants of your damp bikini. A sigh of relief escapes your lips.

“There you go saving me again,” you admit sheepishly, eyes glued to the ground. If you look at him now—if you meet those sharp, unreadable crimson eyes—you might just combust on the spot.

Bakugou side-eyes you, his lips twitching like he’s holding something back. The firelight flickers across his face, casting golden shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his gaze lingers on you for just a second too long.

Behind you, your classmates' laughter rises over the crackling flames—marshmallows catching fire, old stories being passed around, Sero's obnoxious cackling piercing through the night.

They’re absorbed in their own little world, too wrapped up in the warmth of the moment to notice the quiet exchange happening just outside the fire’s glow.

Thank god.

Bakugou clicks his tongue, looking away, like he’s already over this. “Well, somebody’s gotta do it,” he mutters, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. Then, with a snort, “What’s U.A. gonna do when they lose their precious Y/N to the Tokyo subway system?”

You groan, ducking your head as heat rushes to your cheeks. Of course he had to bring that up.

“It was my first time! Give me a break” you grumble under your breath, arms curling around yourself, pulling his hoodie tighter.

Bakugou huffs out something that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. And even though he doesn’t say anything else, even though he just stands there beside you with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly slouched, weight shifted like he might stay for a little while longer—

For the first time tonight, the cold doesn’t feel quite as bad.

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