#thread :: testing theories

[estarion]

it's his appetite for freedom that drives him towards a neck 'that' night. if he's caught, he plays up the hunger, appeals for sympathy. if he isn't caught, he experiences the first brush of pure happiness in centuries and, stomach satisfied, rests completely easy that night. most importantly, his hypothesis is proven true: he's no longer bound to c.azador's commandments.

[insufferablemonsters]

𝔯𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔰 & 𝔡𝔞𝔴𝔫 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 @astormymind.

it  was  no  secret  that  rupert's  car  before  this  shiny  new  one  was  on  its  last  leg  and,  frankly,  dangerous  to  drive  around  in.  but,  it's  also  not  a  secret  that  he  had  chosen  this  car  for  specific  reasons  such  as  a  newer  version  and  'i'm  not  as  old  as  you  all  make  me  seem'.  of  course,  the  whole  new  shiny  version  of  himself  he  was  attempting  to  outwardly  portray  wasn't  exactly  fooling  anyone,  least  of  all  himself.  he  didn't  exactly  enjoy  the  way  this  car  drove,  despite  it's  seductive  appearances  and  lusty  crimson  color.  he  wanted  something  else,  more  his  real  style,  and  that's  why  he  thought  about  giving  it  to  dawn  once  she  achieved  her  driver's  license.  he  didn't  want  to  tell  her  yet,  though,  he  wanted  to  keep  it  as  a  surprise  to  her.  he  should  probably  consult  with  buffy  first  and  foremost,  after  all.

he  sat  back  in  his  seat  and  forced  himself  not  to  be  a  backseat  driver,  keeping  his  eyes  focused  on  the  road  and  keep  his  breathing  under  control.  his  eyes  rounded  out  in  fear  when  his  car  suddenly  jolted  forward  when  she  let  go  of  the  brake  too  fast.  he  braced  himself  with  the  door  handle  as  he  slowly  looked  over  at  dawn.  he  shook  his  head  lightly,  ❛  dawn,  please,  language  ...  ❜  he  stated  softly,  clearing  his  throat  nervously.  he  expected  hiccups  from  her,  so  he  kept  his  thoughts  to  himself.  he  chuckles  gently  under  his  breath,  ❛  yes,  well,  it's  beginning  to  get  on  my  nerves,  quite  frankly.  m'  glad  you're  enjoying  it  more  than  i  have.  ❜

[aa-carnivorousfatality]

CONT. // @psycadenza

ah. that explains more than enough. some do tend to do that , huh ? make the connection from one fear to something that LOOKS like that certain fear. like how a woman afraid of a snake might get unnerved by something with a slithering motion. or how a child gets scared of the dark due to a story they heard about things going bump in the night.

connections. connections can keep one alive. or leave them in paranoia to the point of irrational thinking. and ends with the person drowning in their own insanity. unfortunate. perhaps that is why mind games were a favorite for many with ill intentions.

he could not deny it. they were a favorite of his , at times. so , how strong was this one's connection ? let's find out.

" ahhh. my apologies. i understand. did this being hurt you ?"

[mxchineherald]

 With Jayce’s climax, he feels warmth drip down over his knuckles, coating his fingers in the creamy concentrated ecstasy he’d worked so hard to achieve. He’s barely able to focus on his partner’s sounds and movements, but pushes himself to soak in all the detail he can of the other man’s orgasmic expression, because it’s too beautiful to pass up. He’s sure there are others who have gotten to take in this sight, but right now, it’s his moment to savor. “Such…” It’s hard to form words when he’s so close, himself. “Such a good lover…” He slowly releases Jayce’s cock to place his hand against the man’s built abdomen, hoping to feel some of those muscular aftershocks and twitches.

 Ah, but now that he isn’t clouded with orgasm, Jayce is able to focus on him, and it shows in his touch. Having his sac grazed by the other man’s smooth palm makes him arch his back in immediately heightened arousal, and he sucks in a gasp of pleasure. He finds himself filled with the urge to have as much of Jayce in contact with him as possible, and so he quickly takes a hold of Jayce by the back of his hair, pulling his face toward his own to lock into a passionate kiss just as the final moments come over him.

 “Hnnn!!” he hums against Jayce’s lips as his lower body tenses up into a tangle of twitching sinew and muscle, shivering with orgasm. A stream of warm mess unleashes onto both of them, and after a few hanging seconds of him held in tension, his body is released from its climax. He sinks against Jayce, lips falling down to his jawline for a few more kisses. “S-sakra… Oh, Janna…” he breathes out against his partner’s neck. “You are too good at this… It is like a dream to be with you…”

┊ ┊ ┊ ⚙︎ he's in heaven by now — if such a place even existed — being open and ready for the taking, and it was all for viktor. he wanted himself to be examined like a novel by the end of this, each word, each nook and cranny in his body and being read over and understood by the scientist who had him thoroughly wrapped around his little finger. nothing satisfied him more than the feeling of being undone by the individual who somehow knew how to satisfy every bit of him, every desire that passed through mind and body clouded by a thick fog of need, of sheer ecstasy.

his fist only is able to take a moment to move in tandem with that being given to him, before the other's hand gives him a tug that's a little too perfect and he's sent careening over the edge, eyes rolling back and a broken groan of ecstasy taking to the air. strings of white are sent across tanned skin as he rides the wave of euphoria, muscles tensing against the firmness of the body that was pressed against him.

❛ fuck, v ... ❜ the words are all he can manage as the pleasure dissipates, muscles twitching as he comes down from his high. it's a little disappointing, now that he's done, but it gives him more time and space to focus on giving his partner exactly what he'd given him. fist works a little faster on the other's erection, palm flattening out to teasingly smooth over the lower regions of his sac, cupping his groin before returning to wrap around the stiffness of his erect prize.

[mariasont]

They Think I'm Pregnant - A.H

a/n: i feel like this is kind of shitty but alas here we are!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: the team thinks you're pregnant and you decide to have a little fun with it

warnings: reader is not preggers promise!, honestly the team gossiping is so lol, suggestive content per usual

wc: 1.3k

"I mean she has been kind of moody lately."

The gasp that rose in your surprise was quickly smothered as you pressed yourself against the wall, pushing into it as if that would make you invisible somehow.

"Well, interestingly enough, there has been considerable growth in her chest area. It's due to elevated levels of estrogen and progesterone, which I've noticed with her." Spencer stopped abruptly, the sound of Morgan's muffled laughter in the background. "I'm not saying I make a habit of such observations. Okay, um, don't tell Hotch I said that."

Casting a skeptical eye down your shirt, your frown deepened. Sure, your boobs had grown, but that was a testament to a little happy relationship weight, not the fodder of their theories. 

"Nice one, kid," came Rossi's voice, and you could almost see the smirk on his face.

"Oh my gosh, guys, this is like, the best news ever! A mini-agent in the making! Can you imagine how cute she's going to be? I'm going to get her the cutest  outfits!"

"Garcia, how do you know it's going to be a girl? Did the baby send you a text?"

The baby? Was rational thought absent among them? It must be. You crossed your arms defensively.

"Okay, maybe we should pump the breaks everyone. Why do we even think she's pregnant in the first place?"

JJ—your voice of reason. You could kiss the ground she walked on.

"I'm just putting two and two together. She walked out, and there was a pregnancy test in the trash that wasn't there before."

Your eyebrows drew down, and the increasing shuffle from the room prompted you to make a beeline for Hotch's office before anyone saw you snooping. But in your defense, Emily snooped first.

The moment the door clicked shut, you lunged for the blinds, bypassing any attempt at a greeting with Aaron. The blinds clattered shut, so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

"Honey, what are you—?"

His words hung unfinished as you whirled around, pressing your pointer finger to your lips as if he were a kindergartner about to walk down the hall.

"They think I'm pregnant!" you hissed indignantly, jabbing a finger toward the door as if it were a portal to the rumor mill itself.

His face drained of color as his eyes darted from your face, down to your stomach, and finally rested on your tits. "Are you?"

You slapped his shoulder. "No!"

"Then why do they think that?"

You recounted every piece of evidence  they had collected, giving special attention to Spencer's bodily hypothesis as a subtle form of retaliation.

"He said what?"

You laughed, draping your arms around his neck as you made yourself at home on his lap. He leaned back in his chair, arranging you so your legs were stretched out across his lap.

"Focus," you said desperately. "They think I'm pregnant."

"Sweetheart," he chuckled, his hands finding their way to your waist. "Does it really matter what they're assuming?"

Your lower lip jutted out, fingers threading through your hair as you mulled it over.

"You're a genius." Your arms were around him in an instant once again, leaving a big, messy kiss on his cheek as you hopped down from his lap and strode towards the door.

Who cares if that's what they think?

So, you devoted your day to your greatest talent: stirring the pot. If they were set on believing you were pregnant, why should you interfere? Better yet, why not enjoy their theories and have some fun along the way?

You pulled every trick in the book.

In the morning, you bolted from the briefing room with a hand clamped over your mouth, you later reappeared, ginger ale and crackers in tow--which you knew JJ would understand. No one said a word.

In the afternoon, you turned up your nose when Emily offered you coffee, which in turn caused her eyes to bulge out of her head, but still she said nothing.

In the evening, you staged a sudden craving for the strangest of snacks, convincing Spencer of your dire need for pickles dipped in peanut butter. You sent him on a wild goose chase for it, and he did it, no questions asked.

All of these, as some would say--childish antics, lead to a big pile of nothing because no one was brave enough to just ask you.

So now that you were all gathered around Rossi's living room, with the day's efforts in vain, you were forced to drastic measures. 

The wine glass was mere inches from your lips when the whole lot of them were up in arms--a blabbering, spiraling mess.

Garcia, her mouth a perfect 'o' of scandalized red, was quick to wrestle it from your grasp, hoisting it just beyond reach as Morgan promptly confiscated it, placing it atop the tallest bookshelf, as if you were a child meddling with contraband.

"What are you thinking?"

"Are you crazy?"

"What are you doing?"

"Hotch, do you see this?"

Their words bombarded you all at once, a rapid-fire of overlapping sentences that was impossible to decipher. A giggle escaped you, hand instinctively rising to your lips. Sure, you had braced for a reaction, but this was beyond anything you had imagined.

You played dumb, your head canting to one side as your brows contracted. "What?"

You basked in Aaron's exasperated eye roll, his hands coming together as if in prayer while he let you revel in the moment. He was a good man.

"What do you mean what? I love you so much, but you have to be out of your mind," Garcia probed, her hands clutching on to her necklace as she looked side to side at the others.

You opened your mouth, ready to provoke her further, but Spencer beat you to it.

"Given the potential impact on blood volume and plasma osmolality, it's really not advised to drink alcohol, considering your condition," he said, fidgeting with his tie while nodding to your belly.

"What condition?"

"Oh, come on! We found your pregnancy test in the trash today!" This time it was Emily speaking, her hands on her hips as she gave you a knowing glance. She quickly muffled her exclamation. "Hold on, you've told Hotch, right? If not, I'm prepared to get on my hands and knees and beg for your forgiveness if necessary."

"You all are ridiculous!" you declared, rising from the couch and moving toward your abandoned wine. Aaron was quicker, offering the glass to you. "I'm not pregnant, and if you nosy nellies had bothered to ask rather than speculate, you'd know that.”

You took a large gulp of your wine. For emphasis. Your colleagues' mouth hung agape, all but Rossi, who smirked and toasted to the absurdity with his whiskey.

"You heard us?"

"Reid, let's just say, I'd appreciate if you would reserve those observational talents for the case files, not on my girlfriend's anatomy," Hotch suggested, the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric at your back as he casually sipped his scotch.

You watched Reid's complexion turn a spectrum of pink hues, his apology barely above a whisper as laughter bubbled around us. 

"Wait so then whose pregnancy test did I find?" Emily's words caused a collective breath to catch, glances shifting suspiciously around the room.

JJ's hand shot up, laughing as Garcia barreled into her side, arms wrapping around her before she could even get the admittance out. The room buzzed with congratulatory cheers, everyone sharing hugs and kisses as JJ told the story.

Aaron chose that instant to lift his hand to his neck, his lips meeting yours in a kiss so gentle it turned your insides to jelly. He eased back, his breath mingling with yours as he mumbled, "you know, the idea of you pregnant...it's not something I'm opposed to."

You let out a soft giggle, nestling your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart bleeding into your ear. Your gaze drifted to your friends, toasting with raised glasses--minus JJ--with laughter and chatter filling the air.

"Is that so? Cravings, mood, boobs and all?"

You felt the rumble of his chuckle through his chest, the sensation tingling against your cheek. "All of it."

Rising onto your toes, you reached up to cradle his ear, lips grazing lightly against it. "How about we head home and practice? And then if you put a ring on it, I’ll consider it.”

That was the first time you had Irish goodbye-d a party.

[cuntyji]

LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER TUG ‪‪❤︎‬ RYOMEN SUKUNA X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: They say fate works in mysterious ways, but no one ever mentioned it could be petty, nosy, and just a little bit theatrical. Tethered by something neither of them asked for, two very tired people must now navigate a world where privacy is a myth, insults are practically foreplay, and the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing — just a suspiciously persistent string and the overwhelming urge to win every argument, even if no one remembers what it was about. After all, love might be written in the stars… but this story? It’s scribbled in crayon and aggressively underlined in red.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, fluff with crack, red string theory with possible inaccuracies (this is my interpretation of it), (mentioned) yuuji, nanami, choso, geto, gojo, uraume but they're a cat (they/it pronouns), office worker! sukuna and reader, modern au, implied reincarnation/lovers in every lifetime trope

Note: red string art by vidhic0re on pinterest, red divider by enchanthings

‪‪✶⋆.˚ Ao3

You were never one for romance clichés.

Soulmates? Sounded like a scam from a desperate deity with too much time on their hands.

Fated love? Cute, if you're into spiritual tax fraud.

Red thread of fate? Sounded like something a drunk poet made up while tangled in yarn.

You’d entertained the idea once or twice — late at night, probably during your fifth rewatch of a trashy show, tears pricking at your eyes as two characters found each other across continents. Then the next morning, you’d stub your toe on the coffee table and remember that your only soulmate was pain and poor impulse control.

So you can’t really be blamed for not noticing it happening now.

Not with the humid press of bodies in the metro car, the stale air thick with too many armpits and not enough personal space. Your headphones had long since died, your patience hanging on by the fraying thread of your tolerance for humanity. And then —

Snag.

“—You fucking kidding me?”

You jerk around, already tensing for a fight. A man stands before you — or rather towers, broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and stupidly pink-haired. Like, offensively pink. His eyes are sharp, crimson, and burning with indignation. Tattoos coil down his arms like they’ve got somewhere to be.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he’s already hissing, tugging at his shirt. Your watch, of course, is gloriously embedded in the fabric near his waistline. Because God, or fate, is an asshole.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, dickhead,” you snap, trying to free yourself without causing a striptease. “If you hadn’t shoved your way in here like you own the place—”

“Shoved?! You clung onto me like I’m your long-lost sugar daddy—”

“Please, you couldn’t afford me.”

He bares his teeth, and for a second you think he might just eat your soul for fun.

You yank. He yanks harder. Somewhere, a sleeve audibly tears. A grandma beside you makes the sign of the cross.

“Stop moving!” you shout.

“Then stop yanking like a rabid raccoon!”

And just beneath the chaos, something else stirs.

Delicate. Quiet. Crimson.

A thin, glowing thread coils out from the fabric of reality — slow, curious — like it’s stretching from an ancient nap. It slinks around your pinky like a cat testing warmth, then tugs itself toward his hand. Wraps, binds. Neither of you notice, too busy trying to kill each other with passive-aggressive tugs and very active-aggressive insults.

“Jesus Christ, your shirt’s made of velcro or what?”

“Maybe your watch is cursed. Did you rob a priest?”

“Why are your abs out—”

“Why are you looking at them—”

You both freeze.

Your faces are this close. Breath shared. You can see the specks of gold in his eyes. He can smell the faint shampoo in your hair. The train jostles again, and your bodies bump together, awkward and too warm. He blinks. You blink.

And that little red thread? It pulses once. Content. Smug, even.

It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like years. Years of verbal sparring, the kind that leaves mental bite marks and a permanent twitch in your eye. Years packed into that hellish metro ride — the suffocating crowd, the friction of bodies, and the absolutely unholy closeness of you and Sukuna, the pink-haired plague on your peace.

It was a symphony of irritation: your bickering crescendoed, echoing off the glass, punctuated by the occasional dramatic gasp (yours, because how dare he bring your mother into this?) and a startlingly feral hiss (his — honestly, who hisses like that? You still weren’t over it).

“Your mom should’ve taught you how to dress like a functional adult,” Sukuna had scoffed, voice sharp enough to pierce through metal.

“And your dentist should’ve filed down your fangs, Edward Cullen,” you’d snapped back, right before his pupils dilated like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. He looked like he was ready to bite you. Like literally bite you. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was just feral or if the metro air made people feral.

And then — click.

Freedom.

Your watch finally popped loose from his clothes, the poor thing traumatized but intact. You both immediately fled to opposite doors like bitter divorcees pretending they didn’t share a Netflix password.

“I hope the next time we meet, I’m deaf,” you shouted across the train.

“I hope the next time we meet, you’ve been replaced by a potted plant — it’d have more brains,” he snarled.

You both stomped off the train at your stop, muttering curses like two gremlins banished from the underworld. Behind you, the invisible red thread simply stretched further, smug and undisturbed, lengthening itself like some magical slinky that refused to be cut. It trailed behind you both like the worst kind of cosmic joke, blissfully unaware that you were both one wrong word away from starting an actual fistfight in the middle of the platform.

After what felt like an entire saga of mentally cussing him out, climbing three flights of stairs because the lift was always slow, and mentally filing an angry complaint to the universe, you finally reached your apartment door. Peace at last.

Well, almost.

You turned toward the elevator, digging through your bag for your keys, and there he was.

There. He. Was.

Leaning casually against the elevator doors like a shampoo commercial gone wrong, arms crossed, pink hair gleaming under the shitty hallway lights, and that same smug little curve on his lips like the universe had just handed him your misery on a silver platter.

You blinked. 

He blinked back, slower, smugger.

“...Are you stalking me?” you asked, flatly, because honestly, at this point, what else could this be? He barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You wish. I’m moving in.”

You stared at him. Your brain short-circuited. Your soul left your body and came back just to kick you in the shin.

“What.”

“New tenant,” he said with a little wave. “Landlady said the floor had good lighting. Guess she forgot to mention the infestation.”

“Infest—infestation?!” You nearly dropped your keys. “I hope you fall down the stairs and land teeth-first.”

“I hope your kettle explodes next time you try to make tea, dumbass.”

You both glared — the kind of glare that had probably made old gods weep and babies cry. Somewhere, the elevator dinged softly, its doors opening to welcome one (1) petty pink-haired menace and one (1) emotionally done human.

You both stepped in without looking at each other. The red string followed, still wrapped around your little fingers, stretching gently behind you both — a silent, glowing third wheel that refused to take a hint.

Fuck your life. And fuck fate too, while you were at it.

You really, really thought the next morning would be better.

After the disaster that was yesterday — the metro, the snarling pink-haired gremlin, the revelation that said gremlin lived on your floor, and the fact that you now had to cohabitate oxygen with him — you’d gone to bed with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that promised at least one thing would go right the next day. Just one. Just a sliver of peace, maybe, a moment of normalcy to prove that the universe wasn’t actively putting you on a hit list.

But hah. Nope.

Because you open the front door, step into the hallway in your slightly wrinkled work clothes, clutching the little baggie of food like a knight bearing gifts, and there he is.

Kneeling beside the apartment building’s most beloved freeloader — the white stray Uraume who ruled your collective lives with an iron paw and a fluffy tail — is Sukuna. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, wearing the kind of shirt that looks like it was bought solely to be hated, crouched down with a tin of wet food in his hands, and smiling.

Smiling. At Uraume, of all things.

Not at you. God no. His smiles for you usually look like they come with optional knives.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you blurt out, the cat food bag crinkling in your hand like even it is alarmed.

“Feeding the cat,” he replies without looking up, his tone smug, too casual, too comfortable. “What does it look like?”“It looks like you’re encroaching on sacred territory,” you snap, stomping closer like you’re about to perform an exorcism. “It’s Wednesday. My day.”

“They don’t know days,” Sukuna shrugs. “It’s a cat. They don’t give a shit if it’s Wednesday or the apocalypse.”

Uraume, for their part, is sprawled between you two like a tiny fluffy deity watching its mortal worshippers squabble, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily as if amused by the sheer idiocy in front of them.

“They know me,” you insist, pointing an accusatory finger. “I bring them tuna. They purr for me.”

“They just purred for me,” Sukuna says smugly, leaning down to stroke their belly. They stretch like royalty, perfectly content. “Face it. They like me better.”

“They tolerate you,” you sneer, crouching down too, now both of you on either side of this indifferent god, cat food containers in hand like offerings in a duel. “Also, why are you using that cheap-ass brand? Uraume’s got a refined palate.”

“You feed a stray like they’re your tax-dependent,” he scoffs. “No wonder it acts like a brat.”

“Uraume is royalty.”

“Uraume has fleas.”

“So do you, probably.”

Uraume chooses this moment to pounce — not on either of you, but at the air just in front of them. They bat at something, paws swiping with focused glee, and you blink.

“...Is she high?” Sukuna mutters, watching as the cat wiggles their butt, springs, and lands on a very specific patch of empty hallway.

“Zoomies,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure. “They do that sometimes.”

Uraume keeps chasing something you can’t see — something red, something delicate, something that dances just ahead of their claws, curling through the air between the two of you. Something threadlike, and taut, and glowing — though not to your eyes. You both just keep bickering, oblivious.

“Seriously though, can’t you go menace someone else?” you grumble, finally standing and dusting off your knees.

“Can’t you find a new hallway?” he shoots back. “This one’s mine now.”

“God, you’re like a mold infestation.”

“And you’re like the stain on a public toilet seat.”

There’s a pause. Uraume is now gently gnawing on the air between your hands, satisfied. You look down. You look up. 

And, with a sigh, you finally mutter, “...What’s your name, anyway?”

He looks vaguely surprised, then smirks. “Sukuna. And yours?”

“Why? Gonna hex me with it?”

“Can’t hex someone without a name. Now cough it up.”

You tell him. He repeats it, rolling it around his mouth like he’s testing how annoying he can make it sound later. “Figures,” he says, straightening up. “Your name sounds like it comes with unsolicited opinions and a constant need to be right.”

“Your name sounds like a rejection email from a demon,” you fire back.

Uraume sneezes. The red string flickers, coils tighter. 

And neither of you still have any goddamn idea.

Despite your better judgment — and trust, it really was against every instinct for self-preservation that you had — you were starting to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sukuna wasn’t entirely the worst.

Not that he was good. No, you would never say that. If anyone ever dared to suggest that Sukuna had an ounce of decency in his entire six-foot-something frame of walking rage, you would probably burst out laughing and then list ten reasons why they should be on a watchlist. You were just… developing the world’s strongest tolerance, like some psychological cockroach capable of surviving nuclear-grade assholery. Yeah, that had to be it.

Because there was no way that Sukuna was a good person.

Not when he once looked old man Nanami in the eye — the sweetest, politest senior citizen in your apartment complex, the one who offered you coconut cookies every Thursday — and said, with no hesitation, "If your grandkid doesn’t shut up by 10 p.m., I’m gonna eat him. Protein is protein."

You were there.

You saw Mr. Nanami’s soul briefly leave his body while clutching little Yuuji, who was just trying to learn how to walk and scream at the same time. You were genuinely surprised Sukuna wasn’t served legal papers the next morning. (You think the only reason Nanami didn’t call the cops is because he didn’t know how to explain ‘My upstairs neighbor threatened to eat my toddler with his whole chest’ without sounding like he was the unhinged one.)

And it wasn’t just the elderly and the infants. Sukuna’s temper was democratic — he picked fights like they were his cardio. Someone sighs too loud? Fight. Someone stands too close in the elevator? Fight. Someone dares to exist within a five-meter radius while also having a smug aura? That was instant fucking fight. You’d honestly gotten used to hearing vague yelling down the hall and not reacting until someone used your name. That was the protocol.

But then there was Gojo.

White-haired menace. Lives somewhere close enough that the chaos occasionally spilled into your airspace. Visits Geto every few days, usually late at night, wearing clothes that screamed "I think rules are suggestions" and a smile that could probably trigger a lawsuit.

And every. single. time. Gojo entered your building, it was like watching two angry cats lock eyes across the hallway. Hissing. Posturing. Threats that sounded like they were ripped out of a trashy sitcom. Once, you woke up at three a.m. to actual growling outside your door.

“For fuck’s sake,” you’d yelled, groggily throwing it open, “Go home or kiss already!”

Both of them had frozen mid-snarl, their hands halfway to each other’s throats.

“Shut up, we’re not into each other!” they barked at you in perfect unison, like that wasn’t the most suspicious thing they could have said.But here was the kicker: he was never like that with you.

Oh, he was still rude. He called your music taste garbage at least twice a week and once accused your bathroom cleaner of smelling like a rotting lemon corpse. But he didn’t fight you. Not like that. Instead, he held elevator doors open with his back against the buttons like it was nothing, barely even glancing at you as you skidded across the floor with your laptop bag flapping behind you like a dying bird.

“You always run like the building’s on fire,” he’d mutter.

“Maybe I’m trying to escape your energy,” you’d shoot back, breathless.

He always told the trash guys to wait when you were sprinting down the stairs with two bags of waste in hand — one dry, one wet, both swinging dangerously. He’d lean against the rail and bark, “Oi, she’s coming,” before casually flicking his cigarette and watching you descend like a chaotic meteor of domestic failure.

“I could’ve managed,” you once grumbled, tossing the bags in as the garbage truck revved.

“You would’ve tripped and died. Then I’d have to feed your cat.”

“Uraume’s not even mine.”

“Then why does it hiss when I call them my cat?”

Touché.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't.

Not to other people. And not in a way that made it easy to like him. But maybe he was conveniently decent to you.

Probably because he wanted a favor someday. Or he was playing the long game. 

Or maybe it was just that he found your chaos mildly entertaining and liked being the one person who got to annoy you without being hit.

Definitely not because he liked you.

Right?

Right.

It wasn’t like you two would wait for each other by the elevator every morning. No, absolutely not — you were both far too emotionally constipated and aggressively independent to admit to something as wildly intimate as synchronized elevator rides.

And yet.

Somehow, like clockwork, you’d step out your apartment door and he’d be there — leaning with one shoulder against the wall beside the lift, arms crossed, coffee already in hand, expression set to his usual ‘who the fuck woke me up’ setting. And on the rare days you were early, you’d pretend you weren’t glancing up from your phone every five seconds just to see if you’d hear the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy shoes dragging toward you.

You never greeted each other like normal people. God forbid.

“Oh look, the hallway’s ugliest plant finally bloomed,” you’d say sweetly.

“Aw, how cute. A raccoon in office clothes,” he’d grunt, stepping into the elevator first like the absolute bastard he was.

You two always made it a point to bicker through the entire ride, then all the way to the station. And then — just because the universe hadn’t punished either of you enough — you somehow took the same line to work.

It’d start off harmless — like Coachella 2025, which you both agreed was a walking tragedy, but couldn’t agree on why.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call it a comeback if the vocals sound like someone left a kettle screaming on the stove.”

“They were experimental vocals,” Sukuna huffed. “Not everyone wants the same autotuned garbage you listen to.”

“Says the man whose Spotify Wrapped had three songs Fetty Wap songs in it.”

“Hell yeah it did.”

Or you’d end up arguing over Nanami’s latest sweets — the ones he passed out in neat little boxes with origami on top and a handwritten note. And Sukuna, who had the nerve to say “This tastes like diabetes” with a scrunched-up face, had the audacity to later be caught in the act — crouched in front of the communal fridge, shoveling the leftover sugar-drenched delicacies into his mouth like he was trying to erase all evidence.

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“You want me to get you some insulin, champ?”

He didn’t even stop chewing. Just said, around a mouthful of icing, “Fuck off. It’s called recycling. I’m saving the planet.”

And your little morning routine would be incomplete without the stop at the rickety cafe around the corner — a shoebox-sized shop tucked beside a bookstore, smelling like toasted bread and too much cinnamon. The place was run by a sleepy-eyed, nose-ringed man named Choso, who you later found out was Sukuna’s cousin through what had to be divine punishment.

“He looks like he listens to sad violin music in the dark,” you once whispered.

“He does. But he also makes good coffee. Don’t let the existential energy fool you,” Sukuna muttered.

The place was always packed, but somehow, your order would be ready by the time you got to the counter. Tea for you, coffee for Sukuna. Every damn day.

Except for the one time the cups got swapped.

You didn’t notice until you took a long, scalding sip and promptly had your soul exit your body.

“Why does this taste like shit and caffeine?” you coughed.

“Because you’re drinking my coffee, dumbass,” Sukuna muttered from his end, eyeing your cup like he could will it back into his hands.

Neither of you had time to swap. So you just… drank it.

You were wired until 4 p.m., typing up emails like a possessed gremlin. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna? Snored in the middle of a team call. Snored. In his swivel chair. (He still claims the spreadsheet was boring enough to induce a coma.)

And maybe the most ridiculous part of it all was the way the day would end — with both of you pretending like you weren’t keeping an eye on the metro clock, waiting.

“You’re late,” Sukuna would grumble when you jogged up to him, hair windswept, tie lopsided.

“You’re still ugly,” you’d pant, and both of you would file into the train like two mismatched puzzle pieces forced into the same space.

And sometimes, between the back-and-forths and the sleepy evenings, the rocking of the train would lull one of you to sleep. And it was always the same — if he passed out first, head thunking against your shoulder, you’d just sigh and adjust your bag so it didn’t jab him in the ribs, pretending it wasn’t a little warm having his weight on you.

And if it was you, drooling slightly, head falling against him? He’d hiss a bit. Complain. Say things like, “Great. I’m a fucking pillow now,” under his breath. But he’d stay still. Wouldn’t shove you off. And he’d glare at anyone who even so much as looked at the seat beside you like they were thinking of sitting there, as if to say: “Touch her and die.”

And yet you both swore — swore — that none of this meant anything. Just morning routines. Just bickering. Just accidentally tolerating each other. Totally normal. Nothing weird about it at all. Right?

By the time the elevator dinged on your floor and the two of you stepped out, it was the usual symphony of tired bones and overworked brains, the air thick with the shared scent of corporate despair and too-sweet coffee you shouldn’t have had at 4 p.m., but did anyway. Your body ached, your bag hung off your shoulder like dead weight, and Sukuna was just behind you — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie loose and mouth full of complaints he hadn’t started voicing yet. But then —

A tug.

Sharp and sudden, like a fishing line catching tension, like the universe pinched your pinky in a moment of bratty playfulness. Your hand jerked slightly, and you looked down, frowning.

And oh. There it was again. The string.

The same one you thought was a caffeine-induced fever dream. The one that had flickered into existence before, soft as spider silk and just as annoying, but now it was solid — scarlet red, humming faintly with a shimmer of something that felt way too personal and real. It wound snug around your pinky, stretched across the two feet between you, and found its twin grip around Sukuna’s hand.

And he was staring at it too.

His face was unreadable — which was new. Gone was the usual smug, twitchy grimace of a man permanently five seconds away from telling someone to choke. No, right now he looked… quiet. Contemplative. Like he’d seen this before. 

Like he knew something.

“Hey,” he started, voice unusually low, not his usual bark or snarl, but a drawl trying to reach for something softer, something that made your stomach twist unexpectedly, “There’s something I—”

But his words were promptly obliterated by the sudden thump-thump-thump-thump of tiny hands and knees against the floor.

A pink blur came barrelling up the stairwell like a demon on all fours — two-year-old Yuuji, in all his diapered, wide-eyed, suspiciously-strong-for-his-age glory. He practically launched himself up the final step and planted himself directly between the both of you, letting out a squeal of delight as he sat on the floor and began excitedly grabbing at the air.

No — not the air.

The string.

Your eyes widened as his chubby fists tried to catch the flickering red thread, cooing and giggling and babbling nonsense in toddler tongue as if the world’s most entertaining toy had just appeared before him.

“Reeeeddddddd!!” he crowed, crawling into Sukuna’s office shoe like it was his new throne.

You blinked. “Wait. You can see this too?!”

Yuuji looked up at you, beaming, nodding with the pride of a war general. “Pretty!”

“Oh fuck me,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the stairwell just as the loud clomp of formal shoes came echoing behind the kid.

Nanami appeared — flushed, panting, tie disheveled like he’d just run a full marathon in work shoes, one hand clutching the stair railing for dear life. He stopped dead when he saw where Yuuji had gone. 

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, bending slightly with his hands on his knees. “I thought I was going to have to file a police report.”

“Your kid just speed-crawled up three floors,” you pointed out, vaguely horrified.

“He does that. I can’t stop him. He’s like a golden retriever possessed by Satan,” Nanami said, coughing.

Meanwhile, Yuuji was now crawling in circles around the two of you, still trying to catch the red string, occasionally grabbing at your legs or Sukuna’s pants like the thing was taunting him. You and Sukuna exchanged a look — not your usual annoyed-glare combo, but a genuinely confused what the hell is going on look.

And again, you noticed the way Sukuna was looking at the string. Not shocked, not panicked. Just tired. Thoughtful. Like a man who had been putting off something inevitable and just ran out of time. You tilted your head. “Okay. What do you know that I don’t?”

He looked like he might say it. Really say it.

But then Yuuji yanked at the thread hard enough to make it pulse — and you felt it, a zap of something warm curling around your chest like it’d coiled straight through your ribs.

“What the hell?!” you flinched.

Sukuna sighed. Muttered something under his breath you didn’t catch. And then, looking straight at you, jaw tense:

“…I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“You better,” you hissed, heart hammering for reasons you refused to unpack right now. 

And behind you, Yuuji was still squealing with joy.

“Red! Red! Red!!”

Nanami quietly took out a juice box from his briefcase and bribed him down the hall. You couldn’t help but think he had the right idea.

Because if you thought the red thread was a joke, now you were the punchline.

And Sukuna?

You were starting to think he’d been reading the script the whole damn time.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been lying there — not really. The air in your room was heavy, too still, the kind of quiet that felt a little like grief, or maybe a little like denial, something sharp and slow and suffocating all at once. You were on your back, lights still on, phone somewhere lost in the folds of your sheets, your speaker untouched and silent for once — no pop music or shitty love songs to drown out the thoughts.

Just silence.

And the thread.

That fucking thread.

It glowed faintly against the backdrop of your ceiling, rising gently from your pinky like a tendril of smoke, an unwanted, uninvited thing that refused to leave. You lifted your hand, half-wishing it would vanish if you blinked enough times. 

It didn’t. It shimmered in the low light, stubborn and elegant, like the universe had decided it was feeling poetic this week and picked you as its tragic metaphor.

You gave it a slight tug, just to see.

The resulting sting shot through your finger like a spark, making you flinch — and from behind your wall, you heard him.

“Oi!” came Sukuna’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him, rough and indignant, like you’d just elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell was that for, you—?!”

You immediately turned your back to the wall, rolling with a sigh so dramatic it could have won awards. You stared at your curtains, dull in the soft glow of streetlights outside. “Not now,” you muttered to no one, hoping the string would relay that too.

There was silence. Maybe for five seconds. 

Then another tug. Gentler this time. Hesitant.

You glared at the wall. “What?”

A long pause. And then:

“…You’re not gonna talk to me?” Sukuna’s voice came quieter now, like he didn’t know what to do with it either. “You’ve been quiet for hours. I thought you’d… I don’t know. Start yelling or something.”

You sat up a little, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. “Yeah well,” you muttered, “I’ve used up my yelling quota for the month. Thanks for that.”

There was a rustling on his side. A beat. Then another tug — not a sting this time, but something like a nudge, like a poke in the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Sukuna admitted, voice low. Too honest. “Figured you’d laugh. Say it’s stupid. Call it a dumb romance trope or whatever.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to your knees. “It is a dumb romance trope,” you whispered. “Except now it’s… real. I can feel it, Sukuna. It hurts when you pull it. It glows. Why does it glow?!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“…Because it’s always been there.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned to face the wall.

“What?”

Sukuna exhaled — you could hear it, rough and frustrated, like he was mad at himself more than anything. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I was just seeing things for a while. It didn’t show up for you yet. But I’ve—”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. Since the day we met.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

He’d known? This whole time?

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, sharp with something you didn’t know how to name.

“Would you have believed me?” he bit back, not harsh — just defeated. “You already thought I was insane when we met. You still think I’m insane. Imagine if I’d told you there was some red fucking magical string tying our souls together, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue. He would’ve sounded completely unhinged. You dragged your hands over your face, trying to breathe through it. Trying not to feel like the floor had dropped out beneath you.

“What does it mean?” you asked, quietly now. “Why us?”

A long silence.

Then Sukuna, tired:

“…I don’t know.”

You swallowed.

“But it’s real, right?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

And neither of you spoke after that. But the string pulsed once — soft, warm — and for the first time, you didn’t tug back.

The days after that were strange — soft in the kind of way that crept up on you, like the first breath of cold after a long summer. Not that either of you would admit it, of course. Not in words, not directly. Sukuna still barked when you burned your toast too loud at six in the morning, and you still scoffed when he sprayed too much cologne and gave your sinuses a five-hour long panic attack. But even the insults were different now, frayed at the edges with something gentle.

When Sukuna left for work with his tie somehow inside out — you’d swear the man had to try to do that — you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes like you wanted to stab him with a fork, then silently pulled it off and fixed it for him. He grumbled under his breath, as always, but didn't move a muscle while you smoothed it out. 

And when you tied your hair back with such rabid intensity that you gave yourself a headache halfway through lunch, he reached over the table without looking up from his phone, tugged the scrunchie loose with one hand, and shoved a protein bar into your other.

“Don’t pass out before five,” he muttered.

You didn’t even say thank you. 

You didn’t have to. The red string hummed for you.

And it was little things like that, really — like how you’d pick up his package when he wasn’t home, and he’d grumble and call you nosy, but then you’d find your favorite sour candy stuffed inside the handle of your apartment door.

Or how you’d snatch the umbrella from his hand because “You’re gonna get electrocuted holding metal near the power lines, stupid,” only for him to give you the umbrella in the morning again, saying it made your ridiculous frog print raincoat look less lonely.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you were on the road.

And sometimes, you swore you’d been on it before. Like the rhythm of this whole mess felt familiar, not just in this life.

Maybe once you were a dog and he was a cat, and you spent your days yowling and chasing each other up fences, knocking over trash cans in the name of something feral and tender. 

Maybe once you were thunder and he was a crooked old mountain, always meeting, always crashing, never quite learning the other’s shape but staying anyway.

Maybe once you were two flowers growing on either side of a forest, reaching for each other across centuries of sunlight. 

Maybe once you were nothing but stories told by firelight, over and over, in every tongue — about the fox who chased the wolf through storm after storm, until both of them finally curled up together under one tree.

And maybe, just maybe, it was always you and him, clawing and biting and bickering and loving.

Because now, in this life, here you were again.

In a train too crowded for comfort, someone’s armpit too close to your face, someone else’s elbow poking your spine, and yet you were standing on your tiptoes just to peer through the sea of heads, holding up your pinky so the string between you would tug. Not hard, just a little nudge.

And across the crowd, Sukuna turned.

He was pretending to read the ads above the windows, face bored, mouth twitching like he was already planning to insult your taste in shoes or how your hair looked like it lost a fight with the wind — but when he felt the tug, his gaze softened, just a little.

Then he looked at you. And without a word, he tugged back.

You smiled just a little, and the train rolled on.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds like it had been waiting all morning.

Inside, the red string pulsed with something warm.

And for once — for maybe the thousandth time across a hundred lives — you wouldn't have it any other way.

[namism]

accomplices (1) | sabo

➳ categories: canonverse, female afab reader, fake-out make-out trope, pre-dressrosa arc ➳ warnings: nsfw (making out) ➳ word count: 1.3k

➳ summary: The best way out of a dangerous scenario is to fake-pretend a make-out session to disturb the enemy. When you're cornered with the chief of the Revolutionary Army, you put that theory to the test.

➳ cross-posted on ao3

You don't know how you got yourself into this situation, but it wasn't ideal by any means.

"Chief-of-Staff, Sabo. I'm from the Revolutionary Army."

"You are Sabo? From the Revs?"

A group of voices echo from the end of the hallway. Almost immediately, you and Sabo skitter up a flight of stairs to lose track of them, eventually finding refuge in the first room your eyes land on.

With your back to the door, you heave a sigh of relief. Sabo traces the wall to find the light switch. When the room fills with light, you take a proper look at him.

"I know who you are," you say. "I've always wanted to meet the Revolutionary Army."

Blond hair, round eyes, and a black hat. With clothes fitting him loosely and a visible scar spanning the left side of his face, there's no mistaking it.

You tell him your name.

"I'm from the local guerilla. What brings you here?"

"Perhaps with similar intentions. We're here to interrupt a weapons trade," he explains. Your kingdom is a major transport route for a shady underground business, but no one has ever cracked the root of the problem. Some say the weapons they vend lead to an island in the New World, but you have yet to figure it out—as far as you're concerned, the trade has to end.

Suddenly, the door behind you shakes.

"Who locked the fucking conference room?"

The next thing you hear is the tinkling of metal keys. Eyes wide with fear, you watch the doorknob rattle with bated breath. Sabo looks around hurriedly and points to his left.

"In there!"

You follow him to the far end of the room, where a wooden door stands ajar. Sabo pushes it open and lets you slip inside before sneaking in and locking it with haste.

Pressing your ear to the door, you listen to the voices that filter from the outside.

"God forbid those revolutionaries lay a finger on the Big Boss."

It's an excruciatingly long conversation. You learn many things that you aren't supposed to, leads that you wouldn't have known if you didn't trap yourself in enemy territory. Apparently, the local syndicate had intel on the Revolutionary Army's arrival and were planning an escape route the day prior, but an informant from the Dressrosa Kingdom apprised them to stay still. And because of that, you're here.

"What's that noise?"

And because you're here, you're about to be discovered.

"Somebody else is in this room."

"They've figured us out," Sabo states the obvious in a volume not above a whisper. Your breath catches in your throat. Fuck. Were your thoughts so loud that you gave your hiding spot away? How do you escape?

You have locked yourselves in a small windowless room. There's a chair, a desk, and some file cabinets that line the back wall. Sabo is equally muddled beside you, and you notice him drumming his fingers anxiously on his side. You assume he's figured out the issue—the space is too small to use your powers, too small to hide yourselves.

Breath ragged, an idea crosses your mind.

"How old are you?"

He blinks.

"Twenty-two."

With that, Sabo watches your hands fly up to your hair, tossing your locks all over until they're messy. Strange, he thinks, but it only gets stranger as you finger the top buttons of your blouse, popping the first few open to reveal just enough skin. A little more and it would reveal your cleavage, and it's an observation that drives his perverted little brain mad.

"You got a girlfriend?" you ask soon afterward, and, uh, yeah, Sabo is definitely a pervert, and he's definitely mad. You slip your fingers in between the thin threads of your corset, tugging the top strings loose but not too loose, allowing your chest to breathe within the confinements of the garment. He's speechless. "Sabo. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I'm single," he answers abruptly, then watches you hitch your skirt past your thighs. He stirs.

Shaking his head, he presses his ear back to the door.

"The file room. Did you lock the file room?"

"We should plan an attack while we still can," he whispers. He peers down at you, but he sees your cleavage peeking past your unbuttoned top, and at that moment, his cheeks burn bright red. "What are you doing?"

"Our options are limited," you hiss. "We're trapped. Undo your buttons and stay still."

"Stay sti— what?" You stand on your tip toes and reach for his hair. Sabo is confused, but he leans forward, presses his body close to yours, and allows you to make a mess of his blond head under his hat. When you pull back, your hands fly to his shirt, unbuttoning the top buttons before encircling his neck with your arms. He stirs again. And just like that, he understands.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, but he doesn't stop you. He gets it. He understands now.

Sabo doesn't read a lot, but from the few books he'd come across in his life—those romance novels that somehow made their way to the RA's library—he'd learned one thing or two about espionage. He'd also learned about sex and how you can use it to get away with just about anything on a spy mission. And even though he can't do that with you here, he knows exactly how you intend on escaping.

And quite honestly, he supports the idea.

"Come closer," he says, but he doesn't give you a chance because he pulls you into him before you can move. As you melt into his body, Sabo dips his head low and kisses you, tilting his head for extra effect while you play with the back of his shirt. He sighs into your lips.

Fuck.

He really supports the idea.

"If we're doing this, I can move you like this."

Sabo repositions you so quickly that it knocks the wind out of you. You're on top of the desk before you know it, your weight supported by his grip as he practically leans into you and situates himself in between your legs. He kisses you with intent, his lips in full control over yours with every breathless moment overflowing with enthusiasm. Even then, you let him. You allow much of the attention on your lips as you straighten your thoughts, plotting the perfect course of action to escape your enclosure once the door is opened and the enemy deeply disturbed.

But Sabo is too good at what he does. His skin burns hot as he maneuvers even closer to get the most out of the pressing situation. He's a good kisser, somehow reminiscent of the best ones you've had, but he outshines all the others by far.

Tracing his collar, your hands find their way to his unbuttoned top, where they slip underneath the fabric to locate his collarbones. But suddenly, the door shakes again. While it startles you, Sabo kisses you harder and needier than need be. You're nearly breathless.

Your hands fly to his biceps. "Sa"—you moan in between a kiss—"Sabo."

His fingers glide across your waist. "Hm?"

"Give me some space to move," you mutter. "I have a plan. For later."

As he shuffles out between your legs, his lips fly to your jaw. He nibbles at your skin and moves his hands farther up your blouse, eventually restraining himself when he's gone far up your corset. The door shakes another time. Hurriedly, you scoot off the edge of the table and wait with bated breath.

When the door opens, light instantly floods the room. You bury your face into Sabo's shoulder, shielding your faces with his hat. Gasps erupt from the conference room as they witness your scandalous display, but you take advantage of their surprise and hop into action.

You jump off the table and launch yourself back into the main room, using your Haki to force yourself past the men that stand before you. Sabo follows suit, but not before he fixes himself bashfully. With hot skin and a flushed face, he races into battle and does what has to be done.

He doesn't take his eyes off you for the rest of the day.

[bueckersstuff]

Part I Part II Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

The silence stretches between you, thick and unbearable. You know she’s still there, hovering, waiting. The air feels charged, humming with something dangerous, something thrilling.

Then—warm fingers trace your ribs, a slow, dragging motion that makes your skin prickle. P exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled, like she’s reigning herself in.

"Well?" she murmurs, fingers pressing just a little harder, enough to send heat rushing through you. "You haven’t answered me."

You swallow, your breath uneven.

"Do you want me to?" she asks again, this time slower, deliberate. She leans in, and you feel the whisper of her lips against your ear, her breath impossibly warm. "Say it."

Your lips part, but no words come. You don’t trust your own voice, don’t trust the way your body is betraying you under her touch.

She chuckles, the sound low and sinful, vibrating against your skin. "No answer? That’s cute."

Her hand moves lower, skimming over your stomach, her nails barely grazing your skin. "I could take my time, you know."

Her weight shifts, and suddenly, you feel her pressing against you, the warmth of her bare skin undeniable. She’s still straddling you, still in control—but something’s changed. There’s an edge creeping into her voice, a strain in the way she exhales, as if holding back.

You test a theory. Carefully, you move just slightly, your wrists still bound but your fingers brushing against her hips. Skin. Burning hot.

P sucks in a sharp breath.

Then, before you can react, she grips your wrists, pinning them harder against the sheets.

"Didn’t I tell you not to touch me?" Her voice is rougher now, not as composed.

A slow smirk pulls at your lips. "You sound different."

The room goes still.

For the first time, P doesn’t have an immediate answer. You can’t see her, but you can feel the shift, the moment of hesitation. It’s quick—so quick you almost miss it—but it’s there.

She exhales sharply. "You think this is a game?"

She presses against you again, her touch a little rougher now, but there’s something else—a slight tremor in her fingers when they ghost over your skin.

You just got to her.

The woman mutters something under her breath—something you don’t quite catch—and then, as if needing to prove a point, she leans in. Her lips brush against your collarbone first, a slow drag of warmth that makes your head spin. Then higher, along your neck, her breath fanning against your jaw.

She doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

She lingers, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her lips. "You’re trouble, aren’t you?" she murmurs. "Tied up, blindfolded, and somehow still making this hard for me."

You shudder as her fingers skim the curve of your waist, her thumbs pressing in just enough to make you ache.

Then—finally—she tilts your chin up, her lips barely grazing yours.

"You're a slut. My slut."

And then, she kisses you.

A sharp inhale. Your body arches involuntarily, the sensation overwhelming. She tastes like something dark and intoxicating, something you could get lost in. The kiss is slow at first, teasing, just a brush of lips against lips. But then she presses in deeper, her fingers threading through your hair, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

That sound—it undoes her.

She groans into your mouth, something raw breaking through her composure. She moves against you, the kiss growing desperate, her control slipping. Her hands aren’t just exploring anymore—they’re gripping, holding onto you like she’s afraid to let go.

When she pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. You feel her forehead press against yours, her breath coming in uneven pants.

Silence. A long, charged pause.

Then—Paige shifts, and you hear the unmistakable sound of something being picked up from the nightstand.

Another beat of silence.

Then, her voice, rough and hoarse:

"I won't ask again. I'm gonna fuck you and I hope you're ready, because I'm not going easy on you."

Her hands trail down, deliberate, teasing, making your skin burn under her touch.

She leans in, her lips ghosting over your ear as she chuckles darkly. "You're trembling, ma."

You swallow thickly, feeling your pulse hammer in anticipation.

She grips your hips, fingers pressing in just enough to make you shiver. "Relax," she coaxes, her voice smooth and laced with something wicked. "You're going to take everything I give you."

And then, just as you brace yourself, just as the anticipation peaks—

She pulls back.

The rustle of movement. A sharp intake of breath.

Then—

"Let's see how well you can behave for me."

The woman suddenly flipped you on your stomach. If you weren't so nervous right now, you'd be amazed by how easy it was for her to manhandle you.

"Tell me, recruit… how bad do you want this? Answer me."

"Bad. I—I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t." Your voice trembled.

P chuckling, you can hear her adjusting the strap in her hands.

"Good. Because what comes next… is a test. Not of your strength, but your surrender." She leans in, lips brushing your ear. "Are you ready to prove how badly you want this?"

You, shivering, chin tilting up. "Y-yes. But I—"

P cutting you off, dragging her teeth across your jaw.

"Ah-ah. No stalling. Initiation isn’t about thinking… it’s about feeling." 

And without any more words, she slammed herself against your wetness. Your tied hands on your back, steadied by her left hand. While your hair was pulled back by her right.

She groans, "Fuck. You are so tight."

You can feel your mind turning into mush with every sensation slamming through you. She doesn't stop ramming her front against your back. It's like she wants to wreck the fuck out of you.

Your moans are slipping. You can't hold it in anymore. And she must have sense it.

"Paige." She breathes hard, catching her own.

Paige?

"Moan my fucking name while you're at it." She said then slapping your butt cheek without any warning.

You cried out in pleasure. Your head falling, burying your face on the pillows in front of you.

"Say it. Or I'll keep hitting you." She warns.

At this point, you don't really care anymore. You just want to take everything that she's giving you.

"Mmm, fuck." You cried out when she hit a particular spot inside you.

"What?" She slapped your butt again.

"Fuck you, Paige." You managed to spat out despite being delirious.

"No, ma. I am the one fucking you." And then she goes faster than ever.

"Shit, Paige." You cried out again.

"Yes? You like it, just like that huh?" She pulls your hair towards her then starts kissing your neck.

You are overstimulated now. You don't even know how many times you've finished. Then all of a sudden, Paige stopped, pulled herself out of you.

"I'm gonna turn off the light, then I'm gonna remove your blindfold. Do you want that?" She asks while caressing your face.

You hesitate, unsure if that's actually allowed. But still, you nodded your head yes. You wanted to try and see if you can even catch a glimpse of this woman, even in this pitch-black room.

A switch turned off. Then she's removing your blindfold. The relief on your eyes was immediate, so was panic. It was so dark you can't see even a pin of light.

The woman, Paige, might have sensed your panic. She held your hand gently, which is surprising because this is the same woman who's fucking you into oblivion just minutes ago.

"I'm here. Lie down, I want to fuck you and see your face." Huh, as if she can see you in this darkness. Wait, can she?

Before you can ask any questions, she's on top of you again. Inserting herself back in.

"God, you are heaven." She says while doing the deed, her hot breathing on your neck.

Paige smelled divine. And your hand is itching to touch the muscles that is enclosing you right now.

"Untie me. Please." You said in between short breaths.

Paige stopped. "Why?"

"Let me return the favor." You said, almost convincing yourself more than her.

She contemplates for a second, then, "Nah. It's too risky. Besides, this night is about you. But next time, I might just let you return the favor."

Next time? Oh hell no. There will be no next time.

And just like that, Paige continued till both of you are spent. After that, she dropped beside you.

"Sleep. I'll stay here while waiting for Lian to take over."

You can barely hear her, your mind already drifting into somewhere else, too tired to stay awake.

The first thing you notice is the soreness. A dull ache spreads through your limbs, your muscles protesting as you shift slightly on the bed. Blinking against the haze of sleep, you try to piece together where you are, what happened. The blindfold is gone. The bindings too. Your clothes—

Your fingers graze the fabric of your shirt. It’s buttoned. Smoothed out. Someone dressed you.

Before you can process the thought fully, voices drift through the cracked door. Low, hushed tones—one unmistakably amused.

Lian.

You stay still, listening, barely daring to breathe.

“She didn’t wake up?” Lian’s voice is light, teasing.

“No.” Another voice, softer, unfamiliar. “She was out cold.”

A chuckle. “Well, I guess that’s to be expected. She handled it well. Better than some.”

There’s a pause, and then the sound of someone shifting, footsteps inching closer.

“She was?” Lian muses, and something about her tone makes your stomach twist. Like she knows something you don’t.

Silence stretches before the door creaks open fully. Lian steps inside, her dark eyes flicking over you with an appraising smile.

“Welcome to the sisterhood,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re accepted now.” A slow, knowing smile. “With high commendations.”

Your throat is dry as you swallow. “Commendations?”

Lian hums, tilting her head. “Let’s just say… you made an impression.” Her eyes gleam with something unreadable. 

Your breath catches, your mind snapping back to last night—the voice, the touch, the way that woman made you—

You don’t even know if it was her who dressed you. Or if it was Lian.

Lian watches you carefully, like she knows exactly what’s running through your head. Then, with another amused glance, she pushes off the doorframe and gestures toward the room. “Take your time. When you’re ready, come find me downstairs. There’s a whole new world waiting for you now.”

She leaves before you can ask anything else, the door clicking shut behind her.

You exhale shakily, staring at the ceiling. Your body still hums with something unspoken, something unfinished.

The next day passes in a strange haze. You wake up, shower, and head to your first class, trying to convince yourself that everything is normal. That last night was just another night, and that whatever happened—or almost happened—doesn’t need to follow you into today.

Lecture halls, notebooks, small talk. The routine of a sophomore. By lunchtime, you find yourself sitting in the campus café with a few girls who, surprisingly, seem to have adopted you. They were at the initiation too, their excitement still buzzing from the night before.

One of them, a girl named Dani, grins as she stirs her iced coffee. “Man, I still can’t believe PB crashed our party last night. That never happens.”

Your stomach twists at the mention. “PB?”

Dani blinks at you. “Paige. Paige Bueckers.” When you still look confused, she laughs. “Wait, you don’t know who Paige Bueckers is?”

You shake your head, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Oh my God.” Another girl, Tasha, leans in eagerly. “She’s literally a basketball legend. Plays for UConn, crazy talented, basically a celebrity around here.”

Your whole body locks up. Your heart is hammering now, a dull roar in your ears as she pulls out her phone and scrolls through something before holding it up for you to see.

Dani unlocks her phone and slides it toward you. “Here, look.”

Your fingers hesitate before taking it. The screen glows with articles, pictures—blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, a tall frame that exudes effortless confidence. The sight of her makes your breath catch.

No. No way.

The woman from last night. The one who—

Your throat goes dry. Your mind replays flashes of memory, like cruel reminders.

"You feel so good, I can't seem to stop fucking you."

Jesus Christ.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you stare at the image. It doesn’t make sense. It can’t be.

Dani laughs. “Yeah, she’s a big deal. People worship her here. She’s like—”

You blink rapidly, your breath uneven. And then, as if the universe wanted to torment you further, a loud, confident group of women walks past, heading into the cafeteria. Their presence commands attention, but it’s a single voice that stops you cold.

Low, smooth, rich with something inherently powerful. It cuts through the noise like a blade, seeping into your skin.

You turn your head on instinct, pulse spiking, and you barely have time to process what you’re seeing before your breath is stolen from you completely.

Paige.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

And she’s already looking at you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. A strange, unspoken pull tightens around your body, trapping you in place. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, piercing, before something shifts—a flicker of recognition? Or are you just imagining it? You don’t know. You can’t think.

Then, just as suddenly, she looks away, continuing forward like nothing happened.

She’s gone. Just like that.

But the damage is done. The realization slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs.

What the hell happened to not bumping into the woman who fucked you after initiation night?

You're doomed.

[moonchildxoxx]

Tsu’tey x avatar

Jakes younger sister, who was sent to Graces school to learn alongside the other clan children, had been the youngest of the avatar drivers However, after the horrific attack, the girl ran away scared of what the RDA was capable of. since she was still considered a child, the clan took her in. To Jake's horror, he was told that his sister had passed away but he eventually learned that she was alive and living a life within the clan as Tsu'tey's mate ? Please 🙏

An: sorry for missing 3 updates was busy working on this one just wasn’t happy with it

Tsu'tey x Reader (Jake’s Sister)

The Child of Two Worlds

You arrived on Pandora like a ghost, too quiet for your age, too burdened for someone barely thirteen.

The brass back at the RDA had only allowed it because they preyed on the weak. You had lost your parents. Your brothers, both almost 18, had options. Jake was heading into the military, and Tommy had been offered a full ride to university paid by the RDA as long as he worked for them. But you were looking at foster care, and there was no way your brothers were going to let you be placed in the system where it wasn't uncommon for teens to “runaway.” so they offered tommy a deal let them use you as sorts of test dummy to see how a younger body would do as an avatar driver and they’d bring you to pandora ahead and you could stay with him there. And you? You were sent ahead. Alone.

Grace Augustine was never sentimental. You had expected a team. A guide. Maybe someone to hold your hand on this new alien moon. But there was no comfort. No mission briefing.

Just a borrowed body and a voice in your ear saying, “Don’t screw this up.”

Your avatar's body was smaller than most. Younger, even in Na’vi form. Shorter than Neytiri, slimmer than the others your age in training. Your limbs moved like a fawn’s first steps. The tail? A nightmare. You tripped over it for days.

But you tried.

Grace’s goal was simple. “We’ll start with school integration. A soft presence. A child among children.”

In theory, it made sense. In practice, it meant you spent hours mimicking the language of curious Na’vi children while older hunters stared at you with suspicion. A dreamwalker with baby skin, fumbling limbs and soft-spoken apologies.

Neytiri found you first, deep in the jungle, chasing an atokirina like it held the answers to your place in the world.

It floated just out of reach, and you stumbled after it, wide-eyed.

She emerged from the shadows like a spirit.

“What you doing here, dreamwalker?”

You froze, hands halfway to the glowing seed. “II was following it.”

Her golden eyes scanned you, curious but wary.

“This forest is not your toy.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But… Pandora is beautiful.”

Something shifted in her face thensomething fragile and flickering. A thread pulled taut, waiting to break.

And then she laughedjust once.

“You are strange.”

From that day on, Neytiri stayed close. She taught you how to walk with your toes first, how to listen with your whole body. You were a student of the forest, but also a student of her.

And through Neytiri, you met Sylwanin and Tsu'tey .

Bright as flame, Sylwanin was wild and full of laughter. She pulled you into the clan like a whirlwindteaching you to ride pa’li, to climb the Hometree like it was your birthright.

then there was Tsu'tey.

You had admired him from afar-strong, serious, noble.

He was promised to Sylwanin, and you respected that. Still, he'd sometimes join you in hunts or offer dry commentary when you fumbled in training. A small, hesitant friendship formed.

In just under a year, you were fluent in the language, adept with a bow, and well on your way to being accepted by the People.

But peace is

Months passed. You grew taller. More confident. Your accent softened. You began to blendnot vanish, but belong.

The children called you sister.

Neytiri painted your face for the first time in red clay and said, “You are learning.”

You began dreaming in Na’vi.

You began to forget the shape of your real hands.

And thenwithout warning everything burned.

peace is fragile. And fate is cruel.

Sylwanin and a few others, in an act of desperation, attacked an RDA bulldozer.

The humans retaliated mercilessly-guns, fire, screaming. You barely escaped with the younger children, dragging Sylwanin's broken body behind you, sobbing and praying for a miracle that would never come.

You dragged her behind you, sobbing. The children wailed.

By the time you returned to Hometree, your arms were slick with blood.

Mo’at’s cries shattered the air like glass. Neytiri collapsed, her scream muffled in Tsu'tey’s shoulder. Eytukan roared.

And you… you dropped to your knees.

“Kill me,” you begged. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.” A life for a life.

Tsu'tey looked at you then, eyes dark with grief.

“You walk with the sky people. You wear their face.”

But Neytiri stepped in front of you. So did the children.

“She saved us,” said one. “She ran.”

Mo’at’s voice cut through the silence.

“You are child,” she said at last. “You did not carry the gun.but You carry the guilt.”

You stayed.

Not as a guest.

Not yet as family.

But as a soul seeking redemption.

The days after Sylwanin’s death passed in silence and smoke.

You were allowed to stay, but no one truly looked at you.

Except the children. They brought you berries. They sat close to you at the fire, even when the adults scowled.

It was Neytiri who kept you grounded. She didn’t speak much. But she would find you each morning, nod once, and then disappear into the treesexpecting you to follow. And you always did.

The forest was the only place that didn’t hate you.

One day, as you climbed a tall root bridge near the river, you slipped. The branch cracked under your foot, and you would’ve fallenten, maybe fifteen feetif someone hadn’t caught your wrist.

Tsu'tey.

He said nothing as he steadied you.

You tried to meet his eyes, but he was already walking away.

“I don’t belong here,” you muttered under your breath.

He stopped.

“You think you are the only one who has lost?” His voice was cold. “You think you are the only one who bleeds inside?”

You said nothing. Because you didn’t know how to carry his painor your own.

He walked away again. Slower, this time.

But he didn’t leave you behind.

Something changed after that.

He began to speak to you more oftenbrief words, clipped sentences, nothing flowery. But it was more than silence. And that, to you, was enough.

Sometimes, on hunts, he would motion for you to lead. Sometimes, during training, he would press your hand into the correct grip, hold it too long, then release it as if burned.

And when you laughedreally laughedduring a failed attempt to catch a leaping yerik, he didn’t scold you.

He smiled.

Just once.

But it was the first time he had smiled since Sylwanin.

You tried not to hope.

He had loved someone else. Someone irreplaceable.

You had come from the stars. You were a stranger wearing a second skin. A symbol of everything that had burned her down.

Still, some nights, he would sit beside you near the fire. And you would talk of nothingbirds, bugs, bad tracking daysand it would feel like breathing again.

The day you made your bow, Neytiri beamed. Even Tsu'tey-still hollowed by loss-gave a quiet nod.

"You have done well," he said.

"I don't feel like I have," you whispered.

He looked at you for a long moment.

"It keeps me up at night too. But you are not to blame.

Your connection deepened slowly. You laughed again. You healed. And he began to smile, only for you.One evening, as Neytiri painted you before your ceremony to be fully welcomed among the People, Tsu'tey's fingers lingered on your lips. He stared too long.

You stared back. No words passed, but something changed.

"You are Omaticaya now," he said.

You nearly cried.

You didn't return to your human body that night. Not the next, either. With Tsu'tey and Mo'at's help-and Eywa's blessing-you transferred permanently.

The RDA believed your avatar had died. Grace mourned you quietly, bitterly.

Tommy nor Jake was never told the truth.

You and Tsu'tey mated beneath the Tree of Souls. Months later, you bore a son. You named him Akari.

He had his father’s solemn eyes. Your quietness. He barely cried. His tiny fingers curled tightly around your thumb as if he had known you before this life.

You held him against your chest and whispered promises into his hair.

“I’ll never let you burn,” you said.

And for a time, there was peace.

Until a sky-born child stumbled into the forest.

Until Jake Sullyyour brotherfell from the stars.

You saw him from afar on a hunt with Neytiri. He was awkward, confused. A baby in a borrowed body. Your heart seized. You hadn't seen an Avatar in two years.

When the viperwolves descended on him, you and Neytiri saved him swiftly. He stared up at you, awed. "Don't thank," Neytiri snapped. "This is not a gift. It is sad."

And then he turned to you. Recognition hit like lightning.

10

"Y/N? No.. that can't be. You're dead."

"Jake?" you whispered. "They said you were coming. But... how are you here?"

His voice cracked.

"Grace said you-your mask-she saw you die!"

You couldn't speak. Couldn't explain. Neytiri pulled you away, muttering about omens. But as the atokirina floated down toward Jake and he swatted at it,you shouted.

"Kehe! Don't!"

"Atokirina!" Neytiri hissed, grabbing his arm. "it is a sign!"

You and Neytiri locked eyes.

"Lolu aungia," she whispered. This is a sign.

You didn’t speak to Jake again that day.

Later, under the roots of Hometree, you sat with Tsu'tey. Akari slept between you, curled like a leaf.

“He’s not what I expected,” Tsu'tey said quietly. “Your brother. He moves like a baby.”

“He is a baby in this world,” you said. “Like I was.”

Tsu'tey nodded, then looked away.

“I do not like him.”

You sighed, brushing your son’s forehead.

“Jake was a marine,” you told Tsu'tey. “He came here armed. I don’t know why. And I’m afraid of what it means.”

Tsu'tey’s hand moved to your bellyyour second child, not yet born, stirred beneath the surface.

“You are my mate,” he said. “My heart beats for this family. I will protect it.”

“I know.”

“I will protect you.”

And you believed him.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

In time, Jake learned the truth.

Grace returned to the clan and wept when she saw you alive. Tsu'tey welcomed her with respect. Your son curled quietly in your arms as Grace asked question after question.

“His name?” she asked, smiling down at the boy.

You looked at Tsu'tey, who stood nearby, tall and silent, watchful.

“Akari te Rongloa Tsu'tey’itan,” you said proudly. “Our little warrior.”

She hugged you then, overwhelmed.

“You’re… really happy, aren’t you?”

“I’m finally where I belong.”

But still, that shadow lingered.

Jake.

Jake stayed.

That was the problem.

At first, it was simple. He needed training. He needed language. Mo’at, perhaps moved by the atokirina, permitted him to stay. And Neytirireluctantlyagreed to teach him.

But it was you he watched. Not Neytiri. Not Grace.

You.

“You left everything,” he said once, as you washed Akari in the shallow stream behind the village. “Your life. Your body. Your family.”

“I didn’t leave,” you said softly. “I found where I belong.”

“You don’t miss it? Earth?”

You looked at your sonhis pale eyes blinking up at you, his tiny mouth shaped like Tsu'tey’sand said nothing.

Because missing something didn’t mean you wanted it back.

Jake meant well. But his questions never stopped.

“Did they force you to stay?”

“No.”

“Did you really… mate with one of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re happy?”

You clenched your jaw.

“Jake. Stop.”

He paused, staring at the glow-worms that lit the bark around you.

“I just don’t get it.”

You shook your head.

“No. You don’t.

"I'm still scared," you admitted. "Scared you'll take me back. That the RDA will come again. That my children-*

Jake stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, forehead resting against yours like you used to do as kids.

"You don't have to explain."

"But I do," you said. "I abandoned everything. You. Grace. The mission. I should have stayed, should have fought-"

"You were a kid," Jake interrupted. "They sent you here with a fantasy and no plan. You didn't abandon anything. You survived. And somehow... you made this."

He looked at your kid."No one's taking you Not while I breathe "

As the weeks passed, the clan accepted him slowly. Neytiri softened. The warriors trained with him. Tsu'tey watched from a distance, always silent.

You saw the resentment in his shoulders.

The way his grip tightened on his knife when Jake laughed too loudly. Or stood too close to Neytiri.

Once, you caught him staring at your brother as if calculating every weak spot in his armor.

“He’s trying,” you said carefully one night as you sat in the trees, watching the stars flicker above the canopy.

“So was I,” Tsu'tey said. “Before your people burned my life to ash.”

You didn’t respond.

There was nothing to say that would make it better.

One morning, Tsu'tey returned from his solo hunt pale and shaking.

He’d seen a digger. A bulldozer, carving its way toward sacred trees. The same kind of machine that had sparked Sylwanin’s death.

“It was just sitting there,” he said, breathless. “Just… chewing through everything.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat beneath the roots of Hometree, your second child turning restlessly inside you. The air tasted like smoke, though no fire yet touched the leaves.

Tsu'tey found you there.

“You feel it too?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It is coming.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You already knew.

When the humans struck again, destroying the tree of voices, it was Tsu'tey who rallied the warriors first.

His voice rose like wind through bone.

You stood beside him, your bow in hand, your belly heavy with your second child.

Mo’at looked at you.

“You still believe in peace?” she asked.

“I believe in protecting what we love.”

“And your brother?”

You didn’t answer.

Jake returned from Hell’s Gate hours later, face dark, voice hollow.

“They’re coming,” he said. “In full force. If you don’t move, they’ll bring down the Hometree.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

Tsu'tey stepped forward, seething.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t know”

“You lied!” Tsu'tey shouted, stepping toward him. “You walked among us. Ate our food. Slept in our forest. And all the while, you fed them everything they needed to kill us!”

Jake bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

Tsu'tey raised his blade.

You stepped between them.

“Enough.”

Your voice cracked like thunder.

Tsu'tey lowered his blade.

But he didn’t forgive.

Not yet.

When the RDA unleashed their fire on Hometree, you watched it fall.

The sound was unbearablelike a scream torn from the world itself. Trees taller than skyscrapers crashed into the dirt. Flame swallowed bark, and leaves glowed red before vanishing.

You saw Eytukan fall in the chaos.

You saw children pulled from the rubble.

You saw Tsu'tey dive into the smoke. And then… silence.

You ran toward the wreckage, lungs burning.

“Tsu'tey!” you screamed, over and over.

And finally,finally he emerged. Covered in soot. Limping. Blood on his shoulder. But alive.

You collapsed into him, sobbing.

“I thoughtI thought I lost you”

He pulled you close.

“We do not fall,” he said. “We fight.”

The battle was not won that day.

But it began.

[floweryanarchy]

OUTLAWS AU GALES BACKSTORY

Put on your reading glasses, it’s a long one.

In 1879, Blackstaff academy was the most prestigious institution in Waterdeep, filled with only the brightest minds the city had to offer. Dr. Mystra Ryll, the formidable dean of Blackstaff, a woman with untouchable intellect, respected by her peers. A woman that will never stop till she gets what she wants, pushing the boundaries of science beyond reasonable limits. But Gale was never content with being within limits. That's how he caught her eye, young, eager, ambitious, brilliant. Gale was her star pupil, her favorite prodigy, her lover.

Before Gale, there was Dr. Karsus. A brilliant but secretive researcher at Blackstaff, rivalling Mystra in both intellect and obsession. These traits had led to his downfall, once he had discovered a strange dark ore that shimmered unnaturally in the light. He named it “The Netherese Ore”.

Then he died.

What was strange about his death is that the reasoning was kept vague, leaving people with only theories as to why the man had passed so suddenly, most assumed it was a case of tuberculosis.

Karsus’ body wasn't shown at the wake, they didn't see the slickly plagued veins that crawled across his body, the rot from inside out.

Mystra ordered that his research be sealed away, that none should touch it, or they'll meet a similar end. Whatever Karsus had found, it wasn't worth the cost.

But Gale couldn't let it go.

He found Karus’ old notes that were hidden under the floorboards, a loose thread Mystra didn't account for. The last writings of a dying genius, detailing his symptoms, half completed formulas and theories that hinted at something beyond his understanding.

Gale knew Mystra wouldn't grant him access to the ore, that it was too dangerous at this time. Gale convinced himself that if he could do this, he could grab Mystras fleeting attention again, that she’d be proud and grant him larger projects. So he did what he always did when faced with a locked door- he found another way in.

He stole the ore.

For a full year he conducted experiments on the mineral, away in an abandoned section of the archives, deep under the university. He studied it, tested it with chemicals, burned it, and crushed it. And slowly, he'd come to a half conclusion, the ore wasn't any mineral- it was reactive in ways no substance should be. It pulsed and spat when heated, changed composition under immense pressure, almost as if it were alive.

At first, it was just fatigue, shortness of breath, and spotty vision.

Then the blackened poisonous veins appeared under his skin, his chest ached, a deep gnawing pain near his heart that never faded.

Gale ignored it. He was too close. Too close to a discovery that would put his name permanently in history. It wasn't till he collapsed in the makeshift lab, coughing up black bile that he realized he was running out of time. So he did what he should have done months ago, he went to Mystra. She was furious, demanding what he knew and to give up on the project. But Gale already uncovered too much, and went too far. Even as his body deteriorated, even if his lungs burned and his chest ached with each breath. He knew the ore wasn't just a toxic mineral, it had potential. A priceless material that could be utilized for numerous needs. So Gale refused to let it go, and Mystra responded with a bounty on Gale's head. She labelled him as a madman, a danger to society, and an unstable scientist who stole a highly toxic and untested substance. He was a threat. So Gale fled, taking the Netherese ore and sickness with him, questioning how long he has left.

He takes regular doses of curated pain meds to keep the pain and exhaustion at bay and remain functional, although to wont stop the slow spread of his sickness.

[kathlare]

manchild

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie and Lando find themselves tiptoeing between nerves and humor as they prepare for a long-overdue dinner with her parents.

Wordcount: 6.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

June 7th, 2024 - Barcelona, Spain

liked by ciscanorris, jackantonoff, and others

ameliedayman: i wrote manchild on a random tuesday with amy and jack not too long after finishing short n’ sweet and it ended up being the best random tuesday of my life not only was it so fun to write, but this song became to me something I can look back on that will score the mental montage to the very confusing and fun young adult years of life. it sounds like the song embodiment of a loving eye roll and it feels like a never ending road trip in the summer ! hence why i wanted to give it to you now- so you can stick your head out the car window and scream it all summer long!

thank you always and forever for listening and thank you men for testing me!! 🐷🤍

Manchild is out now!!! Video out tomorrow at 10am est

View all 99,781 comments

landonorris: i feel both attacked and in love 🧍‍♂️ → ameliedayman: @landonorris duality of man(baby)

stelladayman: amen. hey, men. iconic behavior → ameliedayman: @stellamaxwell your man is shaking rn and i LOVE that for you

jackantonoff: you ate. nothing left. → ameliedayman: @jackantonoff i’m still full tbh

tiktokdramaqueen: SHE SAID “I CHOOSE TO BLAME YOUR MOM” AND I FELT THAT → dollincrisis: @tiktokdramaqueen feminist theory begins and ends there

gridgirlfan69: this is the most fun breakup song i’ve ever twerked to → softf1era: @gridgirlfan69 her mind is so unserious and powerful at the same time

savnorris: this is revenge heels in music form. obsessed. → ameliedayman: @savnorris can’t wait to scream it at karaoke next girls night

oliviarodrigo: THIS IS SOOOOOOO GOOD WTF → ameliedayman: @oliviarodrigo ur impact was felt. emotionally and legally 💋

lanxamelie: she wrote a feminist manifesto in glitter and rage and i’m living for it

maxfewtrell: i’m not a man-child, i’m just british → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell that’s worse

trackspice: you mean to tell me she dropped THIS while dating a literal f1 driver 😭😭😭 → marryhimanyways: @trackspice yeah he’s lucky she’s in her “i’m healed” arc

misogynymuncher: how are y’all not tired of her pretending to be relatable with a millionaire bf 💀

carlossainz55: i laughed then cried → ameliedayman: @carlossainz55 that’s the goal, thanks for playing

l0v3youlanmelie: if you’re hating this song you’re the reason she wrote it 😭 → paddockprincess: @l0v3youlanmelie if the shoe fits babes

f1wagupdates: it’s the “i like my men all incompetent” line for me 😭😭😭

georgerussell63: as a reformed manchild, this hit a little too close → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 george you still can’t use a washing machine

elysiadayman: when u played me the demo i knew some boy out there just got spiritually punched in the throat → ameliedayman: @elysiadayman and i’d do it again 💋

alex_albon: felt personally attacked but also inspired → ameliedayman: @alex_albon take it as a sign and apologize to lily

lilymhe: i wanna stitch this into a pillow → ameliedayman: @lilymhe i’ll bring the thread, you bring the wine

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

The soft warmth of morning light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusting the white duvet in gold. The city outside was just beginning to stir, but inside their Barcelona suite, the world was quiet—until Amelie felt it.

A featherlight kiss pressed just below her ear. Then one to her jaw. Another to her cheek. One at the tip of her nose. A slow trail of them down her neck.

She scrunched her nose, eyes still closed, but her mouth twitched with a smile.

—Lando...— she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

—Mornin’, angel,— came his low, groggy reply, warm breath tickling her skin.

She turned in his arms, blinking her eyes open to find him already watching her. His hair was a mess, curling wildly around his forehead, and his face was flushed with that sleepy, cozy look she adored. But it was the way he was looking at her—like she’d hung the stars above them—that made her cheeks flush.

—Hi,— she whispered, brushing her fingers along his jaw.

—Hi,— he echoed, voice rough, but laced with a smile.

He kissed the corner of her mouth gently.

—Did I wake you?—

—No, just... attacked me with love, I guess,— she teased, nose scrunching again as she yawned.

Lando grinned, nudging his nose against hers. —Exactly how every day should start. Especially today.—

Amelie smiled, sleepy but already glowing. —Mm, today...—

He shifted onto his elbow, still watching her. —You nervous, baby?—

She didn’t speak, just lifted her hand and wiggled it, fingers pinched close together.

Lando raised his brows, teasing. —A little? That’s all?—

She nodded solemnly, lips fighting a grin. —A little.—

—A little,— he repeated with a low chuckle, shaking his head like he didn’t believe her one bit. Then, without warning, he leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss.

Soft, then deeper.

Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his curls as he pressed closer, his body half on top of hers. It was the kind of kiss that curled her toes, slow and heady, tasting of sleep and something she could only describe as him.

She was melting into him when her phone alarm blared from the nightstand.

Amelie groaned, giggling as she pulled back. —Fucking timing.—

Lando rested his forehead against hers, pouting. —You need to change that sound. That thing’s aggressive.—

—It’s supposed to wake me up, dumbass.—

—Yeah, well, my way’s nicer.—

She rolled onto her back, laughing, and then sat up. —I have soundcheck in like two hours. I should get ready.—

Amelie glanced at him as she stood and stretched, her oversized t-shirt slipping down her thigh. —Are you sure you want to come? You could sleep in, or... do literally anything else.—

Lando blinked at her like she was insane. —Ames, of course I’m coming. What kind of shit boyfriend misses his girl’s first time headlining a festival?—

She grinned, heart clenching a little. —The sexy kind?—

He gave her a look. —Nice try.—

She walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying without thinking.

Lando’s eyes trailed her every step, half under the covers still, entirely captivated.

—Where are you going?— he asked, all dramatically betrayed.

She threw a look over her shoulder. —To shower, clingy. I have to look cute tonight.—

He was already getting out of bed before she could close the door. —We should shower together. You know... for the environment. Save water and stuff.—

She laughed, eyes squinting. —Sure. For the water.—

Lando caught her waist from behind as she reached for a towel, lips landing back on her neck.

—You’re such a menace,— she whispered, leaning back against him instinctively.

—I just love you. Is that a crime?— he said dramatically, dragging his mouth slowly to her shoulder.

—We can shower together,— she murmured, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. —But no sex, Lan. I need my throat for tonight. If I start moaning, it’s over.—

He groaned softly, pressing a kiss behind her ear. —That’s such a cockblock, but fine. I can be... respectful.—

—Doubt it.—

—Rude.—

She turned to face him with a smirk and tugged the hem of her shirt off. —But if you behave, maybe you get a reward after the show.—

Lando’s eyes went wide and then narrowed in dramatic excitement. —Oh I’m gonna be so good.—

They both laughed as they stepped into the massive marble shower together, warm water cascading around them.

It wasn’t sexual, not really—just soft touches, shared space, stolen kisses under steam.

Lando washed her hair gently, fingers massaging her scalp as she melted beneath his hands.

Amelie returned the favor, lathering shampoo into his curls while he closed his eyes and hummed. They whispered stupid jokes. He tickled her sides until she squealed and smacked his chest.

She pressed her nose to his collarbone and said, —You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?—

And Lando didn’t say anything at first—just kissed the top of her head and held her tighter.

Because fuck, she was everything.

And tonight, she was going to step onto a stage in front of thousands.

And he’d be there, smiling so big he’d probably hurt his face, watching the love of his life shine like the star she was.

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

liked by ameliebangs, strawberrygrid, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie leaving her soundcheck in Barcelona today ahead of her Primavera Sound headlining set tonight

View all 65,039 comments

carbonwagz: lando in his emotional support boyfriend era is everything to me 😭😭

manchildmvdrop: if he’s not backstage scream-singing manchild word for word… we rioting → wagscentral: @manchildmvdrop he’s 100% doing the bridge with hand motions and all

strawberrygrid: they left soundcheck like they were in a romcom and the city was their runway → tracktokgf: @strawberrygrid camera pans, soft lighting, and a Lana Del Rey song in the bg

f1screamz: the fact that she’s headlining and he’s just her biggest fan in the background i’m sobbing → quadrantchaos: @f1screamz lanmelie invented dual careers. she sings, he simps. balance.

softlaunchwho: the way she’s carrying the whole festival on her back

sneakyslowmo: why does every photo of them walking away look like a music video ending → ameliebangs: @sneakyslowmo bc they ARE the music video. track 12. credits rolling.

norrisnation: he smiled the entire walk back like he just got proposed to → girlwiththegridtattoo: @norrisnation in his defense, if Amelie smiled at me once i’d change my entire personality too 😭

wheresmylanmelie: honestly lando being the only man allowed in her era of hotness is the biggest plot twist of 2025

lanmeliefanclub: she’s about to hit the stage and he’s about to hit the floor from simping too hard 😭

primaprincess: can’t believe we live in a world where LANMELIE is REAL and HEADLINING → gridgirlvibes: @primaprincess like we manifested too hard and god got scared

ferrarifiles: lando been smiling like a fool all day…boy is GONE

tapasmami: bro he’s her groupie and he LOVES it → yeschef: @tapasmami he’s 3 seconds away from printing "Amelie’s #1 fan" shirts for everyone backstage

groupiegrid: someone said “i’d never let a man follow me around like that” girl he’s Lando Norris and she’s Amelie Dayman. stay humble. → chaoticcrew44: @groupiegrid nah fr they’re both each other’s biggest fans and it’s actually so cute

lanloverrrr: she looked back to check if he was still behind her 3 TIMES. she’s gone too. → sunsetmclaren: @lanloverrrr she’s literally walking like she’s floating and he’s the wind 😭

gridwagcentral: man left the paddock to carry her water bottle and vibes. that’s dedication. → f1fangurlie: @gridwagcentral that’s husband behavior not even boyfriend

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

The faint hum of festival prep buzzed through the walls of Amelie’s trailer. After soundcheck, the atmosphere was calm, a small bubble of calm in the chaos of a major music festival. She sat on a plush chair, draped in a soft robe, while Jared—the stylist, who had been with her for years—worked on the last tweaks to her outfit. Evanie, the hair stylist, was busy wrapping her curls tighter, a fresh departure from the usual sleek straight hair Amelie sported for years. Lola, her makeup artist, hovered nearby blending shadows with delicate precision.

Amelie closed her eyes for a second, enjoying the gentle buzz of activity around her, the quiet camaraderie of her team.

The trailer door opened, and Meredith slipped inside, carrying a large bag filled with takeout containers. Behind her, Lando stepped in with that familiar, easy grin that made Amelie’s chest flutter. His eyes locked on hers instantly.

Lola, noticing the look on Lando’s face, whispered with a smirk, —Lando, don’t you dare.—

Lando’s grin only deepened as he stepped closer, unbothered by the warning. —Don’t ruin my work, Lando.— Lola’s voice was half amused, half pleading, as she tightened her grip on the makeup brush.

But before she could say more, Lando bent down smoothly and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to Amelie’s lips. It was soft, innocent—just a sweet hello. Amelie pulled back laughing, shaking her head at him.

—You’re impossible,— she teased, eyes sparkling.

Lola rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide a small smile. —Okay, now let me fix what you just messed up. Stand still, Ames.—

Amelie settled back as Lola expertly brushed and blended, muttering, —This is why I can’t have nice things.—

Lando moved to help Meredith unpack the takeout, spreading the food across the small table in the corner. Jared hovered to arrange some extra accessories nearby, and Evanie gave Amelie’s curls one last pinch before stepping back.

The team settled around the table, plates in hand, the buzz of chatter rising as everyone dug in. Lando and Amelie had ordered different dishes, but true to form, they shared both, stealing bites from each other’s plates.

Amelie’s laptop rested on the table, the opening credits of Friends playing softly as the group relaxed between bites.

The trailer was warm with conversation, laughter blending with the familiar “I’ll be there for you…” from the Friends theme as Amelie giggled with her mouth full of noodles, one leg curled beneath her on the couch. Lando sat beside her, their food containers balanced between them, his arm stretched lazily behind her shoulders.

—This one’s yours,— she said, nudging a dumpling toward him with her chopsticks.

—That one has chili oil all over it, that’s sabotage,— he accused, raising a brow, but taking it anyway. —You trying to ruin my stomach before your set so I have to watch it from a toilet? Rude.—

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough so only he could hear. —You could watch it from the stage with me. That way, if I choke on a high note, at least you’ll be there to witness my downfall in 4K.—

Lando snorted. —You? Downfall? You could hum into the mic and they’d still scream like you cured disease.—

Before she could respond with something sarcastic, the trailer door opened again.

A gust of warm outside air swept in, followed by the unmistakable voice of her mother.

—Mi amor!—

Amelie’s eyes snapped up mid-bite just as her mom rushed forward and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a tight, motherly hug. The chopsticks nearly flew from her hand.

—Mamá!— she choked, laughing with her mouth still partially full. —You scared me!—

—Look at you,— her mom cooed, pulling back just enough to cup her face. —You look stunning even half-done.—

Amelie flushed, caught between laughter and surprise as her mother fussed over her. Lola stepped aside with a knowing smile, giving them space, while Evanie discreetly adjusted a curl that had been squished by the sudden hug.

—Mamá, you weren’t supposed to be here until later,— Amelie said, voice fond as she stood up, robe swishing around her legs.

Her dad followed in behind, already clapping Lando on the back in a casual, friendly man-hug. —Lando! You surviving all this chaos?—

Lando stood quickly, straightening up with the instinct of someone greeting royalty. —Barely, Mr. Dayman, but I’m trying my best.—

—No need for the Mr., mijo. You’ve earned first-name basis by now.—

—Then you have to stop calling him mijo or he’s going to combust,— Amelie muttered to her mom, who laughed and waved her off.

Her dad grinned, then gestured to the takeout. —You feeding the whole army in here?—

—Technically Meredith is,— Amelie said, tossing her assistant a grateful smile. —But yes. Festival fuel.—

Her mom eyed the food, the half-done hair, and the robe. —And you’re still not dressed? Ay, Amelie...—

—We had a small... Lando delay,— Lola chimed in without looking up, carefully dabbing under Amelie’s eye with a small brush.

Lando lifted both hands in mock innocence. —Just a kiss! Barely even a real one!—

—You smudged her highlighter, dude,— Jared said from across the room, one brow raised. —You touched the canvas.—

—You’ll live,— Lando muttered dramatically, flopping back down onto the couch beside Amelie’s laptop. —I’m basically her emotional support animal at this point.—

—You’re more like a clingy housecat,— Amelie added, grabbing her drink with a grin and sipping through the straw.

—Still cute though,— he shot back, nudging her knee gently.

Her mom settled in beside Meredith, already opening a takeout box like she owned the place, while her dad leaned against the back wall, surveying the room like a general at peace. It felt... normal. Cozy, even.

Too normal.

That’s when Lando froze.

Amelie hadn’t told them.

He blinked slowly, chopsticks still in hand, as his brain quietly exploded. She hadn’t told them. About the apartment. About Monaco. About the cohabitation situation.

He looked sideways at her.

She was busy trying to fish a sesame noodle off her top.

He leaned in, lips barely moving. —Ames.—

—Hm?— she mumbled around her straw.

—You haven’t told them.—

Her eyes flicked up to him.

He gave her a pointed look. A do-you-want-me-to-die kind of look. A your-dad-just-called-me-mijo kind of look.

She blinked. Paused. Then shrugged.

—It hasn’t come up.—

—It’s literally now coming up. There’s a dumpling tray between us and your mother.—

—Shhh,— she hushed, smiling at her dad like nothing was happening. —Papá, can you pass me the soy sauce?—

Lando leaned back, lips parted in disbelief.

—You’re actually insane,— he whispered, handing her the soy sauce instead.

Amelie gave him a sweet smile. —I promise I’ll tell them. Just... not right now. I’m literally in a robe and I have one eyelash on.—

—You had weeks to tell them. You had the entire plane ride to tell them. You had after soundcheck to tell them. You had noodle time to tell them.—

She elbowed him lightly. —I said after the show. Dinner. Wine. Controlled setting. No brushes near my face.—

Lando looked like he wanted to combust. Instead, he stabbed a dumpling and muttered, —They’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna get murdered over spring rolls.—

Across the room, her dad was asking Meredith about the setlist, clearly unaware that his daughter had been living in sin (in his eyes, at least) with a Formula 1 driver in Monaco for weeks.

Lando was now very aware of every single decision he had ever made.

—What if your dad asks where you’re going after the festival?— he hissed, barely chewing.

—Then I say Monaco. No lies.—

—And if he asks why you’re going to Monaco?—

Amelie raised a brow. —Because I live there. With my boyfriend. Who he just hugged.—

Lando stared at her.

She calmly sipped from her drink, unbothered.

Jared caught their silent exchange and leaned over from his seat. —What’s happening? Why does Lando look like he just got a cease and desist from the Pope?—

Amelie didn’t even flinch. —He just remembered I haven’t told my parents I moved in with him.—

Evanie choked on his spring roll. Lola froze mid-swipe of blush.

—You haven’t what?— Jared nearly shrieked.

—Shut up!— Amelie whisper-yelled, waving them off. —You’re going to blow it.—

Lola crossed her arms. —Okay, but, respectfully, how do you forget to mention something like that to your parents? What do they think happens when you disappear for two weeks between shows? That you’re squatting in an Airbnb like a cryptid?—

—No, they just think I'm “visiting Lando,”— she replied, making air quotes. —Technically not a lie.—

Lando buried his face in his hands. —I’m not gonna survive this dinner.—

Amelie patted his knee affectionately. —You’ll be fine. I’ll soften the blow. Maybe wear something that makes you look extra innocent.—

—You’re weaponizing my wardrobe now?—

She grinned, biting into a spring roll. —Yes. This is war. But cute war.—

Her mom turned to them suddenly. —What are you two whispering about over there? You look like you’re plotting something.—

—Just trying to figure out if we have time to squeeze in a nap before the show,— Amelie said effortlessly, smiling wide. —I’m fading.—

Her dad nodded seriously. —Rest up. You’ve got a long night ahead. And after, we’ll all have dinner, sí? You can tell us about what comes next.—

Lando nearly choked.

Amelie just nodded. —Dinner sounds perfect.—

Her mom smiled warmly, completely oblivious. —We’ll bring wine. The nice kind.—

Lando looked at Amelie like she’d signed him up for trial by fire.

She only nudged him with her foot under the table, face completely serene.

Later that night, he would stand on the side of the stage with Meredith, watching Amelie command thousands like it was nothing, her curls bouncing under the lights, her voice soaring like it ruled the sky.

But for now?

He was just a boyfriend, trapped in a trailer, sitting two feet from his maybe-future-in-laws, and very, very aware that he was living in a country with no extradition treaty for what he was about to confess at dinner.

God help him.

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

georgerussell63 replied to your story

georgerussell63: you’re down SO BAD landonorris: and proud georgerussell63: you gonna cry or scream first landonorris: already did both backstage

alex_albon replied to your story

alex_albon: bro she’s glowing alex_albon: like actually glowing. are you okay landonorris: no. i almost passed out alex_albon: simp level 10000 landonorris: correct

charles_leclerc replied to your story

charles_leclerc: i would simply not know peace if i were you landonorris: i haven’t known peace since the robe moment in 2023 charles_leclerc: makes sense

maxfewtrell replied to your story

maxfewtrell: she’s the headliner and you’re the groupie landonorris: and? maxfewtrell: just making sure you know your place landonorris: i bring her water and emotional support backstage. i’m doing my job.

oscarpiastri replied to your story

oscarpiastri: why do i feel like you’re crying while posting this landonorris: cause i WAS oscarpiastri: do u want a hug or to be bullied landonorris: both

danielricciardo replied to your story

danielricciardo: i saw her outfit on tiktok danielricciardo: be honest. how close were u to proposing landonorris: the ring was in my pocket. i swear to god. danielricciardo: 😭😭😭

carlossainz55 replied to your story

carlossainz55: hermano… you in love love huh landonorris: bro i can’t even breathe properly when she sings carlossainz55: 😭 get a grip landonorris: i did. on her waist backstage.

lilymhe replied to your story

lilymhe: she looks like an actual goddess landonorris: i know lilymhe: you’re not normal for this btw landonorris: never claimed to be

tchalamet replied to your story

tchalamet: bro i’d fall in love w her too looking like THAT landonorris: respectfully, back off tchalamet: LMAOOO chill i’m team lanmelie

pierregasly replied to your story

pierregasly: she is the moment. landonorris: she’s MY moment. pierregasly: ok shakespeare relax

joshrichards replied to your story

joshrichards: bro u might as well post “wife” and go landonorris: don’t tempt me joshrichards: u whipped landonorris: 100%

ameliedayman reposted your story

ameliedayman: who is that 🤭 landonorris: mine.

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

The hotel suite in Barcelona was golden with late evening light, warm and glowy through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The hum of post-show adrenaline was still in Amelie’s skin as she stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a fluffy towel and smelling like eucalyptus and hotel luxury.

From the bedroom came a distinct groan.

—You okay?— she called, already knowing the answer.

—No.—

She padded in barefoot, towel tucked around her chest. Lando was lying face-down on the bed like he’d been dramatically thrown there by fate itself. Shirtless. Socks mismatched. Hair a mess.

—Babe,— she said, amused. —We’re going to dinner, not the gallows.—

He rolled over with a tragic expression. —It’s the same thing if your dad murders me with a steak knife.—

—He’s not going to murder you.—

—You don’t know that.—

She fought back a laugh, climbing onto the bed beside him. —He literally hugged you this afternoon.—

—Yeah, because he thinks we live in separate zip codes and I’m a nice, platonic boy who brings you soup when you’re sick. Not a guy who’s been sleeping in your bed and stealing your oat milk.—

She leaned on her elbow, hair still damp, water beading on her collarbone. —Is that what you think makes him mad? The oat milk theft?—

—It’s the betrayal of trust, Amelie,— he said dramatically. —I lied to the man’s face.—

—You just didn’t clarify. There’s a difference.—

—No there’s not. My mother raised me better than this.—

—You also once lied to your mom about doing your own laundry for three years. So.—

Lando sat up, pointing a finger. —That’s different. That was survival.—

She reached over and gently fixed his chaotic curls with her fingers, combing them back into place.

—Lan. It’s dinner. With my parents. At a restaurant they picked. With a wine list. Not a courtroom.—

He flopped again. —You don’t get it. Your dad’s terrifying.—

—No he is not. He flosses after lunch and listens to Coldplay. You’ll live.—

—He also played rugby and has a scary voice when he gets serious. And he offered me a beer earlier like he was trying to size me up.—

Amelie burst out laughing. —You’re such a man-child.—

—Thank you, I think.—

She kissed his forehead. —Get dressed. You’re wearing the green shirt I packed for you.—

He looked at her, eyes wide. —The one with the little embroidery on the collar?—

—Yes,— she said, smugly. —The one that makes you look like someone’s golden retriever boyfriend who reads books in parks and respects women.—

—You’re dressing me like a decoy!— he accused, eyes narrowing.

—Exactly,— she grinned. —You’re going in there looking like a saint so that when I drop the Monaco bomb, they can’t kill you. They’ll be too busy thinking about how nice your collar is.—

Lando groaned and let his head fall back onto the pillows. —I’m gonna throw up. I’m actually gonna throw up. What if your mom cries? Or worse, what if she smiles sadly? That’s so much worse.—

—You’re spiraling,— Amelie said calmly, smoothing his hair with one hand and reaching for the TV remote with the other. —Here. I’m putting on Modern Family while you change so you can remind yourself what white suburban peace feels like.—

Lando mumbled something that sounded like “bury me” and forced himself upright, trudging toward the suitcase like a kid being sent to military school.

Amelie flopped back onto the bed with a content sigh, watching him struggle to find the shirt she’d neatly folded for him.

—Middle pouch,— she offered lazily.

—Why is your packing system better than mine?—

—Because I have a brain and don’t throw socks in with chargers and snacks.—

—Unnecessary personal attack but okay.—

He pulled the shirt out with exaggerated care, holding it up like it was a holy relic.

—If this shirt doesn’t save my life tonight, I want it buried with me.—

Amelie peeked up from the bed. —You’re being very dramatic for someone who called me “bratty” for not getting emotional during a Pixar short.—

—That dog had no one,— Lando said, deadly serious, slipping the shirt over his head.

Amelie’s laugh was instant, warm, and so fond it softened every edge of her. She watched him button the shirt wrong once, then fix it without help, still muttering about oat milk and steak knives.

When he finished, he turned to her with a nervous smile. —Do I look lovable?—

She nodded slowly, sitting up and reaching for him. —You look like a man I would absolutely lie to my parents about cohabitating with.—

He groaned again and buried his face in her neck. —Why are you like this?—

—Because you love me like this,— she whispered into his ear, arms wrapping around him as his shoulders finally dropped.

They stood like that for a beat, still damp hair and warm skin, a soft moment wrapped in terrycloth and nerves.

Then, her phone buzzed.

Meredith: Your mom says we’re leaving in 10. Wear flats. Your dad’s wearing actual leather shoes for once.

Amelie pulled back with a sigh. —Come on, man-child. Show time.—

Lando took a deep breath. —If I survive this dinner, I’m proposing with a juice box ring.—

—If you survive this dinner, I’ll let you pick the playlist on the way to Monaco.—

He beamed. —Even if I add Coldplay just to charm your dad?—

—Especially if you do that.—

And with that, she tugged him toward the door, hand in hand, leaving behind the fluffy hotel peace and stepping into the soft Barcelona night.

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

liked by sunshineglow, wagspy, and others

ameliesvibes: Amelie stepping out for dinner in Barcelona tonight looking absolutely glowing in that effortless chic vibe 🔥✨ Rumor has it she was with Lando and her parents, but all eyes were on her solo moments captured — queen energy only 👑🍽️

View all 55,022 comments

sunnysideup: ames looking like she just stepped out of a movie 🎬🔥 → redcarpetdreams: @sunnysideup icon energy only

gpfanatic99: not gonna lie, if i was lando i’d be starin’ at her all dinner too 👀❤️ → speedjunkie: @gpfanatic99 priorities fr

momof3: love seeing her shine on her own too, but yes, lanmelie is my fave 🥰

barcelonabeat: can someone confirm if lando was really there or nah? 👀 → amesvibes: @barcelonabeat ppl say yes but we got only ames pics… mysteryyyy

hatersgonnahate: overhyped couple, pls 🙄

sunshineglow: ames looks like she owns the whole city, lowkey queen moves 👑 → lanmelie4ever: @sunshineglow facts, she’s the vibe!!!

sunnyvibes: ames looking like she owns the whole city tonight 🔥 → lanmelliegang: @sunnyvibes literally the glow up is unreal

racequeen23: bet lando was lowkey sweating thinking about dinner with the parents 😂 → gpdrama: @racequeen23 he’s probably rehearsing compliments in the mirror rn lol

madridfanatic: if lando didn’t take a hundred pics, did it even happen? 😭

chillvibesonly: why she gotta look this good without even trying? queen behavior 👑 → amefan99: @chillvibesonly icon status confirmed

justafan45: imagine being that lucky to sit across from her at dinner lol → chaoticwags: @justafan45 lowkey me every night in my dreams

heatwave12: lando probably triple checking his outfit before dinner, classic 😭 → streamwatcher: @heatwave12 lmao the man’s nervous energy is peak boyfriend material

sainzslays: i KNOW she ordered for him at dinner she gives “i’ll have the wine list pls” energy → wagspy: @sainzslays and he just nods like “same for me”

softforlanmelie: parents dinner?? this is husband behavior idk what to tell u

tracksidebabe: someone said lando was nervous??? real

pitlaneprincess: ok but why do i feel like ames was like “don’t be weird” before walking in 😭 → blondesinatrolley: @pitlaneprincess she absolutely did then kissed his cheek and he melted

sundazeddd: lando’s roman empire is just her in that little black dress ordering tapas → cornermerchant: @sundazeddd his mind? GONE

thisshipfloats: lanmelie dinner era... we are NOT normal about this → user1965: @thisshipfloats we never were and we never will be 💅

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

The restaurant smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something buttery sizzling over flame. There was a flicker of candlelight at every table and the occasional clink of a fork against a plate, the ambiance low and intimate and—most importantly—neutral territory. No one could get murdered over a tapas platter, right?

Amelie was two glasses of Rioja deep, cheeks pink from the wine and the warmth and the knowledge that Lando kept brushing her thigh under the table like he was grounding himself with every pass of his knuckles.

Her mother, Victoria, was enthusiastically telling a story about a hummingbird she’d seen that morning from their hotel balcony—her gestures graceful, her nails a coral pink that matched the gauzy scarf she wore.

Her dad, Elias, was nodding along, sipping a beer with his usual slow, deliberate movements. He hadn’t said much yet, but he didn’t need to. He was the kind of man whose silences held as much weight as his words. Lando hadn’t stopped fidgeting since the olives hit the table.

—So, Lando,— Victoria said, setting her glass down with a pleasant smile, —how’s the travel schedule coming along for the summer?—

—Busy,— he said, quick, polite. —Pretty much all over the place. We’re back-to-back in July. But we have a break coming up, and I’m really looking forward to it.—

Elias hummed. —Do you rest during those?—

—I try,— Lando said, and Amelie could feel the exact moment he started sweating under his collar. —But... uh, Amelie’s schedule’s usually worse than mine, so we kind of just…collapse in the same timezone and hope for the best.—

Her mother laughed. —Sounds about right.—

Amelie felt the flutter rise in her chest. Now or never. The timing was as good as it would ever be. Lando’s knee bumped hers again, like he could feel the mental storm brewing next to him.

She set her wineglass down. —Okay. So. Speaking of timezones.—

Lando froze.

Her parents both turned to her, attentive but unaware.

She straightened a little in her seat, brushed her hair back behind her ear, and tried to ignore the way Lando’s hand slid under the table and latched onto hers like an anchor.

—So,— she said again, more bravely. —I’ve been thinking a lot about…life logistics. Touring, filming, everything. And Lando and I have been trying to juggle everything as best we can. And... it’s worked. Surprisingly well, actually.—

Victoria tilted her head. Elias was unreadable.

Amelie took a breath.

—And we’ve talked about it, and I’ve thought about it, and I feel really good about this decision. Which is why I wanted to tell you guys now. In person. At dinner. With food around, so you can’t yell.—

Lando choked on air. Her mom blinked.

Amelie pushed forward. —I’m moving in with Lando. In Monaco.—

There was a long, dense pause. A kind of stunned silence that made Lando go very still beside her, like if he didn’t move, he might not be noticed.

—Oh,— her mom said softly, blinking again.

Elias’ face didn’t change, but his beer stopped midair.

Lando, under the table, whispered, —You actually did it. Oh my God.—

Amelie squeezed his hand so hard he let out a tiny squeak.

She turned her gaze to her parents, eyes wide, heart pounding. —I know it sounds fast, but it’s really not. We’ve been together for a while, and I’ve practically lived out of a suitcase in his apartment since February. It just makes sense now. We love each other. And we want to build something. Together.—

Victoria was the first to speak again. Her voice was calm, careful, but not cold. —That’s a big step, sweetheart.—

—It is,— Amelie agreed, shoulders squared, voice firm despite the flush in her cheeks. —But it doesn’t feel big. It feels… right. I’m not eighteen and running off to live with a boy who wears trucker hats ironically. I’ve thought this through. And we’ve made it work across oceans and cities and timezones. This just feels like the next chapter. A good one.—

Victoria looked at Elias. Elias looked at Victoria.

Lando looked like he wanted to melt into his chair and disappear forever.

Amelie could feel her heart doing pirouettes in her chest. She was suddenly hyperaware of how quiet the restaurant had become—or maybe that was just in her head. A nearby server clinked down a fresh basket of bread somewhere and Amelie thought, if my dad doesn’t say something in the next five seconds I’m going to become a puddle on this Spanish tile floor.

Finally, Elias cleared his throat. His voice was slow, deep, thoughtful. —Have you signed anything? A lease?—

Lando blinked, clearly not expecting that to be the first question.

Amelie shook her head. —No, not yet. We wanted to tell you before making it formal. But we’ve talked about it for months. He has the space. And… I’m happy there. It feels like home.—

That last part made Lando glance sideways at her, eyes soft and stunned.

Victoria’s lips twitched, like she was fighting between fifteen different emotions. She reached for her wine, took a slow sip, then said, —Well. I hope you at least make him clean out a drawer for your skincare.—

Amelie let out a breathless laugh. —He already has. And a full closet rail. And part of his fridge.—

—Part?— Victoria raised a brow.

—Okay, like… seventy-five percent,— Lando muttered, finally finding his voice. —She keeps putting tiny glass jars of weird pickled things in there and yelling at me when I knock them over.—

Elias exhaled a sound that might’ve been a chuckle. Might’ve.

—You’re the one who stores energy drinks like a feral college student,— Amelie shot back, nudging him.

—You’re the one who stores sea moss. I don’t even know what sea moss does.—

—It’s good for your skin and immune system.—

—So’s sunshine but you yell at me when I don’t wear SPF.—

—Because you’re English and fragile,— she replied.

Victoria held up a hand, laughing now. —Okay, okay. Domestic bliss confirmed.—

Amelie looked at her parents again, trying to read between the smiles. Her mother looked amused but thoughtful. Her father was chewing slowly, like he was digesting more than just the food.

And then he looked at Lando.

Not with menace, not with disappointment—just with that signature stillness that always meant he was choosing his words carefully.

—You’ll take care of her?— he asked simply.

Lando nodded immediately, jaw clenched like he’d been waiting for the moment to swear an oath. —Always. I promise.—

Elias looked at him for a beat longer, then turned back to his plate. —Good.—

Amelie blinked. —Wait. That’s it? No dramatic fatherly warning? No “she’s still my little girl” speech?—

—No,— Elias said plainly. —You’re not a little girl. And I trust you to know what you’re doing. Even if I don’t love the speed of it.—

Amelie softened. She reached for her dad’s hand across the table, squeezing it once.

Victoria sighed dramatically. —I was really hoping I could guilt you into staying closer to home by buying you new Le Creuset.—

—You can still do that,— Amelie offered sweetly. —I’ll take it with me.—

Her mom shook her head with a rueful smile. —You’re really doing this, huh?—

—I am.—

She leaned into Lando’s side, and his arm instinctively wrapped around her chair.

—Well,— Victoria said, raising her glass once more, —to terrifying choices and brave daughters.—

—And golden retriever boyfriends who respect women,— Amelie added, lifting hers too.

Lando flushed scarlet. —I do respect women.—

—We know, babe,— she whispered with a grin.

Elias clinked his glass against hers gently. —Just don’t forget to call home.—

Amelie smiled. —I won’t. I promise.—

They sipped. Lando exhaled a full-body breath of relief. And for the first time all night, he let himself laugh—really laugh, warm and wide—as Amelie laced their fingers under the table and leaned her head on his shoulder like she already belonged there.

Because she did.

And soon, officially, she would.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐀 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨'𝐬 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐰

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → angst, fluff, bickering

Summary → Peter Parker and Y/N, classmates with clashing views on Spider-Man, constantly bicker until they unexpectedly start dating. When Y/N discovers Peter’s secret, their relationship is tested, leading to love, trust, and acceptance.

You sat at your usual lunch table, picking at the corner of your sandwich. MJ was engrossed in her sketchbook, adding tiny details to a scene that only made sense to her. Ned was, as usual, scrolling through some Reddit thread about Star Wars theories. And then there was Peter, sitting directly across from you, stealing glances at you between bites of his apple.

Peter Parker. Your classmate. MJ’s friend. By default, your friend. Except you weren’t sure “friend” was the right word when all you ever did was argue.

It all started a month ago.

You had been lamenting over the state of your mom’s flower shop—crushed display racks, smashed windows, and shattered pots after a Spider-Man fight. You weren’t exactly his biggest fan before, but that incident sealed the deal. Since then, any mention of Spider-Man sent you into a tirade, and Peter, for reasons unknown to you, always felt the need to defend him.

“Y’know, I don’t get why you hate him so much,” Peter started, leaning forward on the table. “He’s literally out there saving the city.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Saving the city? More like destroying it in the process.”

MJ smirked but didn’t look up from her sketchbook. She always found these debates amusing.

“He’s trying his best!” Peter argued, raising his hands defensively. “It’s not like he plans to wreck things. Do you know how hard it is to fight a supervillain while keeping everything intact? ”

“I don’t care how hard it is, Peter. He’s supposed to be a superhero. If he’s going to throw someone into a building, maybe pick one that’s already abandoned!”

“Buildings aren’t labeled ‘abandoned,’ Y/N!” Peter shot back, his voice rising slightly.

“And who asked you to be Spider-Man’s PR guy?” You retorted, crossing your arms.

“Someone has to defend him against unreasonable critics!” Peter huffed, his cheeks flushing.

Ned let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go again.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Peter continued, pointing a finger at you. “You’re ignoring all the good he does. What about the times he’s saved people? The bank robberies he’s stopped? The kids he’s rescued from burning buildings?”

“Yeah, and what about the innocent people he’s hurt in the process?” You fired back. “My mom’s flower shop was destroyed, Peter. Destroyed! And all he did was yell, ‘Sorry!’ like that would magically pay for everything.”

Peter winced at that, and for a brief moment, you thought you’d won. But then he leaned forward, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Well, maybe if you knew the first thing about being a hero, you’d understand that sometimes sacrifices have to be made!”

“Sacrifices? Oh, so now my mom’s livelihood is a sacrifice?”

MJ finally looked up, raising an eyebrow at the two of you. “You guys do know you sound like an old married couple, right?”

“WHAT?” You and Peter shouted in unison, your faces burning.

Ned chuckled. “I mean, she’s not wrong. The bickering, the tension… it’s classic rom-com material.”

“There’s no tension!” Peter exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly.

“Yeah, because there’s no romance!” You added, glaring at him.

MJ smirked knowingly and returned to her sketchbook. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

---

Later that day, as you packed up your books after class, Peter approached you, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hey,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What now? You want another Spider-Man defense speech?” You asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your tone.

“No, uh… not that,” he said quickly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

That caught you off guard. “Sorry? For what?”

“For yelling at you earlier,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to downplay what happened to your mom’s shop. That sucks, and you have every right to be mad.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Oh… um, thanks, I guess?”

Peter smiled awkwardly, and for a moment, you saw a side of him you hadn’t noticed before—genuine, kind, and a little shy.

“Anyway,” he said, stepping back, “I just thought you should know that… Spider-Man would probably feel awful about what happened. If he knew, I mean.”

You frowned, puzzled by his choice of words. “Yeah, well… too little, too late.”

Peter nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he walked away.

As you watched him leave, a strange thought crossed your mind. Why did he care so much about what you thought of Spider-Man?

And why did his apology make your chest feel weirdly warm?

---

Over the next few weeks, your heated arguments with Peter began to mellow out. Sure, you still disagreed on Spider-Man—he’d throw in a sly comment about his heroics, and you’d roll your eyes and retort with something snarky—but the intensity had dulled. MJ even joked that you two were “maturing,” though Ned claimed it was just because you were running out of insults.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, you found yourself… enjoying Peter’s company. He was annoyingly persistent, yes, but he was also witty, kind, and, admittedly, kind of cute when he got flustered.

You weren’t sure when the dynamic shifted, but it became clear one sunny afternoon in the cafeteria.

---

“You’re telling me Spider-Man doesn’t do anything for the city?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of his chocolate milk.

“I’m saying he does some things,” you admitted, stabbing your fork into your pasta. “But he could learn to be a little more considerate. Not everything is about showing off with a backflip mid-fight.”

Peter nearly choked on his drink. “A backflip mid-fight? Are you serious right now?”

“It’s true!” You insisted, laughing despite yourself. “What, does he think the villains will be so impressed they’ll just surrender?”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but then he stopped, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you shot back, grinning.

Across the table, MJ and Ned exchanged knowing glances.

“Okay,” Ned interrupted, leaning forward. “This is officially weird. When did you two stop hating each other?”

“We never hated each other,” Peter said quickly, his ears turning red.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Yeah, Peter’s more like… a really annoying little brother.”

Peter scoffed. “Little brother? I’m literally older than you.”

“By, what, four months?”

“Still counts,” he retorted, but his smile softened the blow.

---

A few days later, as you packed your books into your bag after chemistry class, Peter lingered by the door.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Hey, Peter,” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “What’s up?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d come to recognize. “So, um… I was wondering if you wanted to, uh, grab coffee or something. W-With me. Like… like a date?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, his cheeks flushing. “I mean, I know we argue a lot, but I also think you’re really smart and funny and—”

“Peter,” you interrupted, smiling. “I’d love to.”

He blinked. “Wait… really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, laughing. “But if we’re going on a date, you better not spend the whole time defending Spider-Man.”

Peter grinned, his confidence returning. “Deal. As long as you don’t spend the whole time calling him a diva.”

“No promises on that,” you teased, brushing past him as you walked toward the door. “Pick me up at seven?”

“Seven,” he repeated, nodding like an eager puppy.

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Peter Parker wasn’t so bad after all.

---

Peter had been the perfect boyfriend for the past six months—sweet, caring, and thoughtful in every way. He always seemed to know how to make you smile, whether it was sneaking your favorite snacks into your bag or staying up late on FaceTime to help you with homework.

Today, you wanted to return the favor. With his favorite brownies in hand, you headed to his apartment, excited to surprise him

When Aunt May opened the door, her warm smile immediately made you feel welcome. “Y/N! What a surprise,” she said, stepping aside to let you come in.

“I brought brownies for him.” You said with a smile.

“Oh, he'll love those. Peter’s in his room,” she said, drying her hands on a dish towel. “He’ll love that you came.”

“Thanks, Aunt May,” you said, your excitement bubbling as you made your way down the hallway to his bedroom.

Without knocking, you pushed it open. “Hey, Peter—”

The words caught in your throat.

Peter stood in the middle of his room, his back to you. He was peeling a red and blue suit halfway down his body, revealing a torso covered in bruises and cuts. The mask lay discarded on the bed.

Spider-Man.

Peter's Spider-Man.

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. You froze in place, your mind racing.

Peter turned at the sound of your voice, his eyes going wide with panic. “Y/N!”

Before you could react, he darted forward, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside. He shut the door behind you and leaned against it, as if trying to block out the world.

“Baby, hey,” he said quickly, his hands gently cupping your face. “Look at me. Y/N, please. Just breathe, okay?”

Your chest tightened. Words wouldn’t come. It all made sense now—why he defended Spider-Man so passionately, why he limped sometimes, why he was late or distracted on dates.

“Y-You’re… Spider-Man?” You finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Peter winced, his hands falling to his sides. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart sank. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

“No, I—I wasn’t lying,” Peter stammered, his voice laced with desperation. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought… I thought you’d hate me.”

“Hate you?” You repeated, your voice rising. “Peter, why would I hate you?”

He hesitated, his brown eyes searching yours. “Because… you hate Spider-Man.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. “That’s why you didn’t tell me? Because you thought I’d hate you?”

Peter nodded, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want to lose you, Y/N. You’ve always been so… so vocal about how much you don’t like Spider-Man. I thought if you knew, you’d look at me differently. That you’d leave.”

You stared at him, your emotions spiraling—anger, betrayal, confusion, worry. “Peter, I hated Spider-Man because of what happened to my mom’s shop. But you—you’re not just Spider-Man. You’re Peter. How could you think I’d leave you?”

“Because I’ve seen the way you talk about him—about me,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “I thought… if you knew, it would change everything.”

You took a shaky breath, your chest tight with conflicting emotions. “Peter, you lied to me. You hid a huge part of your life from me. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“I know,” he said, his voice thick with guilt. “I know I messed up. I should’ve told you. But I was scared, Y/N. Scared that I’d lose you, and I couldn’t handle that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the fear in his eyes, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t know how to feel right now,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m mad at you, Peter. But I’m also… worried. You’re out there risking your life every day, and I didn’t even know. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Peter stepped closer, his hands hovering near yours. “I get it. I do. And if you need time to figure things out, I’ll give you all the time in the world. Just… please don’t walk away. Please.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him—the boy you loved, the hero you’d misunderstood. “I need to think,” you said quietly.

Peter nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “Okay,” he whispered.

You turned and left the room, your heart heavy with the weight of everything you’d just learned.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, one thought echoed in your mind: You loved Peter Parker, but could you love Spider-Man, too?

---

The walk home was a blur. Your mind replayed the scene in Peter’s room over and over—his bruised body, the half-on Spider-Man suit, the raw fear in his eyes as he begged you not to hate him. You couldn’t decide what hurt more: that he’d kept such a massive secret from you or that he genuinely believed you’d leave him for it.

The next few days were agonizing. Peter gave you space, just as he promised, but it didn’t stop the text notifications from lighting up your phone.

Peter: I’m sorry.

Peter: Please let me explain everything. I owe you that.

Peter: I miss you.

Peter: I love you.

Each message was harder to read than the last. You missed him, too. But every time you thought about reaching out, doubt crept in. Could you handle being with someone who risked his life every day? Could you handle knowing the person you loved might not come home one night?

By the third day, MJ cornered you at lunch.

“Alright, spill,” she said, sliding into the seat next to you.

You blinked at her, feigning innocence. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Y/N,” she said, crossing her arms. “Peter’s been moping around like a kicked puppy, and you’ve been weirdly quiet. What happened?”

You hesitated, unsure if Peter had told MJ the truth about being Spider-Man. But the knowing look in her eyes answered your unspoken question.

“You know, don’t you?” You asked softly.

MJ slowy nodded. “I’ve known for a while. He’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Yeah, except from me.”

MJ sighed, resting a hand on your arm. “Look, I get why you’re upset. But Peter’s not a bad guy. He didn’t tell you because he was scared. He’s always scared when it comes to you.”

“Scared of what?” You asked, your voice cracking.

“Of losing you,” MJ said simply. “He thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, Y/N. And he’s terrified that being Spider-Man will ruin that.”

Your chest tightened. You’d spent so much time feeling hurt and betrayed that you hadn’t stopped to think about how much Peter must have struggled with his decision.

---

That evening, you found yourself standing outside Peter’s apartment. You didn’t even remember deciding to come—it was like your feet had a mind of their own.

Aunt May opened the door, her expression lighting up when she saw you. “Y/N! Oh, thank goodness. Peter’s been mopping around since the day you left. It feels like a gloomy cloud in here.”

You managed a small smile. “Is he home?”

She nodded, stepping aside. “He’s in his room. Go on.”

Your heart pounded as you stopped in front of his door. This time, you knocked.

“Come in,” Peter called, his voice muffled.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. Peter was sitting at his desk, his back to you, but he froze when he saw you in the reflection of his computer screen.

“Y/N,” he breathed, turning to face you. His eyes were tired, his hair messier than usual, and there was a bruise on his cheek that hadn’t been there before.

“Hey,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Peter stood, his hands fidgeting nervously. “I—I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I needed time,” you admitted. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged in relief, but his eyes were still filled with uncertainty. “Are you… okay?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I’m still upset. You kept something huge from me, Peter. I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“You do know me,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “Spider-Man is just… something I do. But Peter Parker? The guy who loves brownies and terrible science jokes and can’t go a day without thinking about you? That’s me. That’s who I am.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I’m scared, Peter. Every time you put on that suit, you’re risking your life. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Peter reached for your hands, his touch gentle but firm. “I can’t promise I’ll always be safe. But I can promise I’ll do everything I can to come back to you. You’re the reason I fight so hard, Y/N. You make me want to be better.”

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t perfect, but he was Peter—the boy you fell in love with.

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice wavering.

Peter gave you a small, tentative smile. “I can live with that. As long as you’re still here.”

You let out a shaky laugh, finally letting a tear slip down your cheek. “You’re lucky I love you, Parker.”

Relief flooded his face as he pulled you into a hug, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. “I love you, too. So much.”

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar warmth of his embrace grounding you. For better or worse, you were in this together.

And for now, that was enough.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[jes3icasriley]

Tangled Threads - Spiderwoman au

chapter 1: The Bite

synopsis: You and Abby Anderson have been inseparable since childhood, two nerdy best friends who’ve always had each others backs. But after a strange spider bite, you began to change—stronger, faster, sharper— and you hide it to protect her. As feelings begin to bloom between you, Abby starts noticing something’s off: bruises, new muscles, and reflexes too quick to ignore. The closer you get, the harder it is to keep your secret.

Parings: Abby Anderson x fem!reader/ nerdy Abby Anderson x spiderwoman!reader

Warnings: slow-burn, childhood best friends falling in love, very small angst towards the end.

You’ve known Abigail (Abby) Anderson longer than you’ve known anything else. Before you knew how to spell your name, before you knew how to ride a bike or speak properly—Abby was already there.

You were neighbors. Your parents were best friends, and by default, so were you two. There are photos of you as literal babies, chubby-cheeked and giggling in matching onesies, clutching each others tiny figures. Your earliest memory is sitting in Abby’s backyard under a big tree, splitting a popsicle while she told you about the dog book she just got. She had just turned four. You were three. And you were in awe.

That feeling never really went away.

Abby has always been… well, Abby. Tall, freckled, goofy in the sweetest way. She wore high-top sneakers with lab goggles in middle school because she thought it made her look “scientifically intimidating.” It didn’t. You wore cat-ear headbands and carried around a binder labeled “Conspiracy Theories & Other Facts.” Together, you were unstoppable.

And painfully nerdy.

You both leaned into it. Friday nights meant staying in and watching either scientific documentaries or crime, debating about wether cats or dogs make better pets, and making DIY bracelets from beads. Abby had her comic book obsessions (mostly X-Men and Doom Patrol), and you had yours (you were a Spider-Man girl through and through). You had one binder just for Peter Parker theories. Abby read through all of it without mocking you once.

But everything changed the day you got bit.

You were seventeen and on a school field trip to Oscorp. It was supposed to be boring. Corporate lobby. Tour guide in a cheap suit. Abby was next to you the whole time, nudging your arm whenever something looked remotely cool. But when the guide got distracted by Coach Davis asking about security clearances, you and Abby snuck away. You were supposed to just peek inside the genetics wing—just to say you did it.

That’s when it happened.

One second, you were gawking at a containment chamber filled with strange glowing vials. The next, a sharp sting lanced through your hand. You yelped and slapped your palm. The spider was gone. You blinked at your hand. Nothing. Abby turned, concerned.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just… static shock, I think.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

You wish she had.

Because that night, the fever started.

You barely remembered getting home. Everything pulsed. Your skin felt electric, your vision blurred, and when you gripped the sink, it cracked under your fingers. By morning, everything was different.

You weren’t just stronger. You were… more.

Faster. Your senses sharper. Your body humming like a live wire.

You could feel everything—the wind through your open window, the heartbeat of a bird sitting on the sill, the tiny vibrations in your fingertips when your mom walked past your door.

And when you stuck your hand to the ceiling by accident and couldn’t get it off?

Yeah. That was a whole new level of panic.

Over the next few weeks, you tested what you could—carefully. Secretly. You climbed walls, stuck to ceilings, realized you could swing from a rope tied to a tree in your backyard without even straining. You built a web-shooter out of parts from your robotics club stash. Your aim got better. Your reflexes? Insane.

You were becoming Spider-Woman. Not that you had a name for it yet.

But you didn’t tell anyone. Especially not Abby.

Because Abby? She was everything. And you couldn’t risk her safety. Not when the world suddenly became a lot more dangerous.

Still, secrets don’t stay small forever. Especially not when your best friend knows you like the back of her hand.

“Hey,” Abby said one afternoon, frowning at your arm as you sat on her bedroom floor, surrounded by open textbooks and empty soda cans. “What happened to your elbow?”

You glanced down. Bruise. Big one. You’d taken a hit stopping a mugging the night before. “Oh. Um. Bike accident?”

She blinked. “Since when do you ride a bike?”

“Since… recently.”

She gave you a look.

It happened again the following week. Then again. And again.

She caught you jumping unnaturally high to grab a book from her top shelf. “Jesus,” she muttered. “Have you been working out or something?”

You laughed nervously. “Why? Do I look… different?”

Her eyes scanned you. It made your ears burn.

“Yeah, actually,” she said slowly, tipping her head. “You’ve got, like… biceps now. And your legs are kind of jacked. You dodged that football Jesse threw like you were in The Matrix.”

“Fast reflexes?”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

She sat beside you on the couch and poked your arm. “Seriously, what’s up? You doing CrossFit behind my back?”

You shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek. “Just… felt like being stronger.”

She smiled, soft and warm. “Well, you look good”

You couldn’t tell if your heart was racing because of her smile or because of how close her thigh was to yours.

Maybe both.

Later that night, lying in bed, you stared at the ceiling. Your phone buzzed beside you. It was Abby.

Abby [10:12 PM]: hey

Abby [10:12 PM]: you’re not avoiding me, right?

You swallowed.

You [10:13 PM]: never.

Abby [10:13 PM]: okay. just checking. miss u.

You buried your face in your pillow.

Because the truth was… keeping this from her hurt more than anything else.

You’d spent your whole life side by side with Abby Anderson. You knew her freckles like constellations, her eye rolls like punctuation. She was taller than you by a good few inches, always had been. Towered over you protectively like a giant dork, arms crossed, making sarcastic comments when people tried to bully you in the hall.

But now? You had secrets. Ones you couldn’t share.

And that distance—no matter how small—was starting to fray the threads between you.

But how could you tell her?

How could you look into those soft blue eyes, taller and warmer and familiar, and say: “Hey, I got bitten by a radioactive spider and now I climb buildings and stop robberies and punch bad guys with my webs. Also I’m hopelessly, pathetically in love with you.”

Yeah. No. Not yet.

So instead, you trained at night. Learned how to move through the city unseen. Built your suit by hand, piece by piece. And every time you stumbled or bruised or bled, you thought of Abby.

Thought about how she’d kill you if she knew.

And worse—how she might not forgive you if she found out.

But you weren’t ready.

Not yet.

Not until you could protect her from everything.

Even if it meant lying through your teeth.

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world. 

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling. 

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen. 

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble. 

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee. 

You flicked a page, smirking. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck. 

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone. 

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched. 

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm. 

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh. 

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread 

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read. 

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page. 

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade. 

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed. 

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.” 

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you. 

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow. 

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else. 

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament. 

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. 

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry. 

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate. 

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip. 

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face. 

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning. 

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg. 

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move. 

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?” 

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him. 

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him. 

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip. 

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark. 

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“That a suggestion or an order?” 

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.” 

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push. 

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him. 

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real. 

“You’d like that too much.” 

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch. 

“Night, Captain.” 

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved. 

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style. 

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck. 

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win. 

Lead by example. 

What a joke. 

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t. 

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch. 

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind. 

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless. 

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you’d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered. 

Asshole. 

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. 

You weren’t some lovesick idiot. 

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide. 

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself. 

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. 

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up. 

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page. 

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

 You smirked. 

“It’s my job to keep you honest.” 

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge. 

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.” 

He snorted, leaning forward. 

“A pair of what?” 

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved. 

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you. 

“You ever put that thing down?” 

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you. 

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing. 

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare. 

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening. 

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore. 

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it. 

“Smooth, Captain.” 

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead. 

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you. 

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion. 

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets. 

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath. 

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while. 

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently. 

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Worrying about me.” 

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky. 

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?” 

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight. 

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing. 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.” 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken. 

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate. 

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional. 

And for once, he didn’t pull away. 

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[tentenarchive]

In Defense of Tenten - the Chunin Exams' Written Test and Her Mirrors

A common joke made about Tenten is how obvious her mirror and line contraption, used to share answers with Rock Lee during the written exam, is. In this post, I'll show how her solution is perfectly reasonable and why she wasn't disqualified by the ninja proctors.

Firstly, we have to stablish what the objective of this written test is: to cheat. The written test was designed to be too difficult for ninjas of their level to be able to answer, forcing them to cheat from each other. Such is stated by Ibiki in the end of the First Phase chapters:

Next, the proctors are all higher level shinobi, better prepared and used to seeing various tricks and jutsu. It's not an stretch to suppose they're aware of EVERY cheating attempt made by those Genin, but were responsible for judging if their technique is too sloppy, obvious or ineffective.

My theory is supported by this scene, where Izumo eliminates one of the ninjas doing the test, claiming he took "five strikes".

It implies the competitors are allowed five errors before being disqualified, and one of the eliminated Genin makes it clear to the reader the "five strikes" are five times being caught cheating.

Naruto is also implied to be caught almost cheating when Hinata offers him her test answers (it can be interpreted either as Naruto being closely watched or Naruto's nerves making him think like that, half the proctors' job is to scare the Genin) and even then he is not automatically removed.

Tenten's technique may be obvious for us, as readers who have been shown by the author himself how she did it, but it's a single and successful attempt, and it's not commentated by any other characters, meaning no one caught on her besides the proctors, and they would only disqualify her if she did it more than once (which wasn't needed, she found the mole with all the answers!).

A pettier criticism i've "how isn't anyone seeing the lines?" to which the answer is very simple: manga is a visual media and the author needed the audience to understand how she was manipulating the mirror. If you take in consideration Tenten's fight with Temari in the anime - which is filler, btw, and it's up to you reading this to decide if it's a fair assessment on their abilities or not - she's shown using invisible lines to manipulate her weapons after throwing them. The lines are, conveniently, only visible when the animation needs us to understand how the weapons are moving backwards. Any other frame they're invisible.

You can see in the panel how the lines fade out towards the bottom and only show where they're attached to the mirror.

Finally: that's exactly what Ibiki expected the genin to do. There have been a few posts, specially on twitter, asking "how are you supposed to pass if you don't have a kekken genkai??". Like Tenten. That's how.

Kankuro and Tenten are the only characters which Kishimoto showed us cheating that didn't use an exclusive DNA super power. Kankuro and Tenten both use hidden threads, one uses chakra lines for puppetry and the last manipulates mirrors. They also pass their answers to their teammates, Temari and Lee.

(Sakura is the only confirmed character to do the entire test without cheating. Congrats Sakura!! You could argue Hinata used her byakuugan to cheat like Neji, but if you think she did it by herself, I will give you the pleasure of congratulating Hinata too. Congrats Hinata!)

Tenten's method was practical, and used her specific skill set: summoning and kunai work (where do you think the mirrors came from? a scroll, that's for sure). It was probably set up before the test started, during the commotion Team 7 created with their arrival. We're not shown it because Tenten is a tertiary character and Kishimoto wouldn't invest 2-3 panels of set up for a 3 panel sequence pay-off that works by itself very well. She is smart, did great and made sure her teammate was not left behind.

Tenten is not even the most absurd method used in this exam, so, as a treat, i will show you, in order, the most obvious cheats shown in the manga from least to most!

Sasuke's Sharingan If you're a ninja from the Leaf Village, you know who Sasuke Uchiha is and what a Sharingan is capable of. Unfortunally for him, the Exam is being held at the Leaf Village and all the jounin and chuunin there are from the Village. Any proctor looking at his direction in a position in front of him could see clearly his eyes and know exactly what he was doing.

Neji's Byukuugan Like the Sharigan, you can physhically see when it's activated, with the downgrade of being noticible by people sitting at up to 95º from him, as the veins are visible on the sides of his face too. A fair trade for the ability to see better than the Sharingan, even if you're not able to copy, in my personal opinion.

Ino's Mind Transfer Jutsu The jutsu's hand signal is simple and can be missed, but it's still obvious for any Konoha ninja watching, it is a very recognizable ability. There's also the higher chance of Ino being caught since she needs to do it three times (once for getting Sakura's answers, twice to pass them to Chouji and Shikamaru). Besides, the "dropping dead on the table" thing can be disruptive in a mostly silent classroom.

Akamaru and Kiba's communication Akamaru is barking all the way through the exam, and while the balloon used for the text is the one for thoughts, it's also the same used for whispered conversations up to this point in the manga. The anime makes the barks happen in the real world, and not in their thoughts, and as far as i could find, Kiba can understand dog language but there's no psychic talk between them. By the noise alone he could be caught. I think he wasn't expelled just because a full conversation between dog and human is a novel enough ability to not be considered by most ninjas unaware of the Inuzuka clan's special abilities.

The Most absurd one: Kakuro and his Puppet He put an entire guy no one knows and has never been seen in a room where all the authorities are from the same village and have, at least, a vague knowledge of each other's existence. To increase the absurdity, somehow everyone let Kankuro use his own puppet to guide himself to the bathroom. I cannot express enough how unlikely it is that, in a real info gathering mission inside a single room where all the higher rank ninjas are exclusively from the same village, Kakuro's plan could work. Most decent sensors could also catch the chakra line's signature.

I'll give it to him, making the puppet talk helps with the disguise, but it only fools his fellow attendees, not the proctors. He's too confident that he didn't raise any alarms.

But Ibiki goes as far as insinuating he knows (and has known from the start) about the puppet's existence when Kankuro comes back from the bathroom.

If Kankuro was able to finish the test and not get disqualified, even if he had what I consider the most obvious cheating attempt from the named characters shown, it's fair game for Tenten and all the other important cheaters. Besides, it's a single attempt at cheating, even if it required an entire prep work for it, so it doesn't matter if all the high level ninja's are aware, that's not enough to kick him out.

I cannot leave out the meta reasons why these characters weren't removed from the class: they're important to varying degrees to the story and they need to advance through the first phase to keep readers engaged.

Regardless of how absurd I think Kiba's and Kankuro's methods are, they need to go all the way to the fight tournament after the Forest of Death, where they have important roles to fill: Sasuke and Naruto are main characters and are prioritized by the narrative; Ino and Sakura will have an important character developments and flashbacks during their fight; Neji has an entire arc that only concludes all the way in his fight against Naruto; Kiba is the rival for Naruto in the surprise fighting tournament and he is one of the few characters able to match Naruto's silliness so he can win in a silly way; Kankuro and Tenten are both part of the two strongest cells present in the event, the Sand Siblings and Team Gai, both introduced as real threats to Team 7, and having anyone from these cells lose would undermine the narrative created around then. All of them would get through anyway.

Tenten losing against Temari in future parts of the Chuunin Exam has narrative importance too, a fight I will cover in the next In Defense of Tenten, but in short Tenten was introduced as a threat alongside Neji and Lee, her abilities and experience surpassing Team 7's. Having her lose against one the Sand Shinobi serves to show how big their gap in power is: if someone more experienced and well trained than them can't win against them, Team 7 has no chance. It's part of the build up for the future Naruto and Gaara fight, and the suspense about their real strength (since the fight doesn't exist in the manga, only the result is shown).

Conclusion: people are overly critical of Tenten because she's seen as a "lolcow" in the Naruto fandom, in part by the bad adaptation of her fight with Temari to the anime, which poisoned any feat of hers before and after it; but also because Naruto and Boruto don't give satisfying ends to any of the original female cast besides Hinata (she marries the man she loves and becomes a housewife away from the battlefield, an honorable decision i will never shit on, she never wanted to be a ninja and is a kind mother and wife, good for her!) so all female characters are seem as weak and useless when compared to their male peers. Naruto is a work riddled with undercover misogyny, never out right stated but always preventing the girls to achieve any meaningful resolution or permanent development.

That added to the ever expanding powerscalling abilities and fights make characters with simpler and down to earth abilities and feats outdated by its own universe. Knowing how big the Naruto fights and jutsu get in the future make people look down on crafty solutions like sealing scrolls, kunai and mirrors, when that is a perfectly respectable solution within the series and matches the powerlevel presented this early in the story.

Tenten is not weak, or bad, or useless. She's misrepresented by the most popular media consumed: the anime, and further misunderstood by the fans of said work. Large fandoms can be allergic to text interpretation and infighting is stimulated to the point fans of smaller characters are bullied off social media and forums (i.e. the forum where I got the list of all chapters Tenten is in is filled to the brim with comments about how OP should move the topic to "fan works" since no one would want to read about it in the canon work page, or how the mods shouldn't allow him to have a thread). I respect Tenten's feats, as well as other small characters', and refuse to be fed the same "uselessness" narrative this fandom always had, because i actually enjoy Naruto, even if i have many problems with it, and I take it seriously.

She did great.

[alittlegiraffe]

WE NEED A STORY ABOUT READER BEING OBSESSED WITH MARSHALS BICEPS!! (his body, just him in general 😍)

.... This is not what you asked for, but it's what I wrote after reading this. She's obsessed, just maybe not with his body 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

Title: “Say That Again”

You never meant for him to find out.

Not because you were ashamed—God, no—but because it was something private. Something you kept close to your chest, tucked safely beneath oversized sweaters and shy glances. A little secret thrill you kept to yourself whenever he’d get on one, tearing someone apart with a snarl in his voice and that sharp, cold precision in his words.

You liked it. A little too much.

But he was your husband. He saw everything, eventually.

It started with a conversation one lazy Sunday, the two of you curled up on the couch, your legs over his lap and his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of your soft knit sweater.

“Favorite album?” he asked suddenly, remote in hand, flipping through old performances on YouTube like it was no big deal.

You hesitated. Big hesitation. But then you murmured, “Kamikaze,” and ducked your head, pretending to be interested in a loose thread on your sleeve.

He froze. Just for a second. Then scoffed. “Kamikaze? Not The Eminem Show?”

You shrugged, eyes still down. “You sound like you’re on fire in that one. Like no one can touch you.”

Marshall didn’t think much of it. Not then. He just grinned, kissed the top of your head, and mumbled something smug about “finally some damn taste.”

But later, it started to click. Slowly.

Like when you were making dinner and “The Ringer” came on shuffle, and your stirring slowed just slightly. Or when you walked past his studio and heard the deep, venomous tone of “Not Alike” leaking out—how you paused in the hallway, lips parted just faintly.

But it wasn’t until Killshot played by accident—his phone connected to the speakers when he meant to put on a different playlist—that the truth hit him like a slap.

You were sitting on the rug in your usual soft, curled-up way, hair tied back, that delicate sweater hanging off one shoulder. You didn’t say a word. Just… stilled. And your eyes…

Glass. Wide and dark and shining. Breathing a little too steady. Cheeks flushed, lips parted. Not afraid. Not nervous.

Turned on.

Marshall blinked, staring down at you from the kitchen doorway, mouth going dry as realization hit.

Holy shit.

It made no sense—sweet little you, always so gentle, always clinging to his hoodie sleeves and whispering praise in the quiet moments. You could barely raise your voice. But this?

You liked it when he tore people down.

You liked it mean.

That night, he tested a theory.

You were brushing your hair at your vanity when he walked in, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

“I heard you listening to Killshot again,” he said lowly.

You paused. Stiffened. “It was on shuffle.”

“Mm,” he hummed, stepping closer. “You like that one, huh? Me callin’ MGK a mumble rapping blonde joke really does it for you?”

Your hand froze mid-stroke.

He moved behind you, looking down at your reflection in the mirror. “Is that what gets you off, baby? When I talk shit? That what you think about when you’re quiet in bed and all sweet and needy for me?”

You swallowed, eyes fluttering.

“I—Marshall…”

His hands slipped to your shoulders, squeezing gently. “You could’ve just told me, baby. I’da dropped a diss tape a month ago.”

Your breath hitched.

“I ain’t mad,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your neck, voice rough now, hot against your skin. “I think it’s cute. That the little sweater girl I married gets wet when I’m tearing someone apart.”

He reached around to slide the brush from your hand.

“Why don’t you sit back and let me tell you what else I’d say to a motherfucker who looks at you wrong?”

Your thighs clenched.

“You know…” his voice dragged, low and curling, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you could’ve told me what gets you off, baby.”

You squirmed in your seat, breath trembling as his hands traced down your arms, slow and possessive.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—” you stammered, eyes wide in the mirror. You looked small, legs tucked in that soft sweater, thighs pressed together.

Marshall chuckled darkly. “That’s a lie. You were glassy-eyed when Killshot came on. Practically fuckin’ drooling.”

He tilted your chin back with two fingers, watching your lashes flutter.

“Didn’t even know my girl got off on that side of me. You like when I talk shit, huh? Like when I sound mean.”

You gave the smallest nod.

He grinned—hungry and mean in a way that made your core tighten.

“Stand up,” he said.

You obeyed instantly.

He turned you to face him, hands sliding up under your sweater—fingers dragging slow over your ribs, your waist, the softness he knew by heart. “I bet you fantasize about me saying that shit to you, don’t you? Real dirty. Real nasty. You like it when I spit venom and take what’s mine.”

You whimpered. That sound you made—sweet, quiet, soft—it made him growl.

He pulled the sweater over your head and dropped it carelessly to the floor, hands trailing reverently over the new bare skin. “Fuck, look at you. So fuckin’ sweet. You got no business lookin’ this innocent when I know your panties are soaked right now.”

He slid one hand down, cupping you through them, confirming it.

“God damn, baby. All this from a diss track?”

You could barely breathe.

“Say it,” he rasped, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me you get off on the way I ruin people.”

You trembled in his hands, voice barely a whisper. “I do. I—I like it when you’re mean.”

Marshall let out a ragged breath, eyes blazing. “Fuck. You really are my girl.”

He lifted you in one swift motion, carried you to the bed, and laid you down like something precious—but his eyes said otherwise. His eyes said mine.

Your legs opened instinctively for him, breath catching as he settled between them.

“You want the mouth that ended careers between your thighs, baby?” he smirked, dragging those lips along your inner thigh. “You want the tongue that made men quit rap, huh?”

You gasped, back arching, and that was all the answer he needed.

He didn’t tease—not this time. He dove in with that same hunger he used in the booth—sharp, focused, unstoppable. You were already soaked, trembling with every pass of his tongue, every groaned curse he buried in your skin.

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he growled against you. “All soft, all mine. Moanin’ like that just ‘cause I spit a few bars.”

Your hands gripped the sheets, his name spilling from your lips in breathless, broken sobs. He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then fast, circling your clit while two fingers pushed in deep.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he rasped, voice rough and low. “Come for the mean Marshall. Not the husband one—the motherfuckers-fear-my-name Marshall.”

You broke.

You came with a choked cry, thighs trembling around his head, and he held you through every wave—relentless, steady, like he never wanted it to stop.

When you finally opened your eyes, dazed and spent, he kissed up your body and hovered over you—smiling down with that cocky, crooked grin you loved.

“Next time I write a diss track,” he whispered, “I’m dedicating it to you.”

You were still catching your breath when he leaned over you again—his body heavy and warm, his mouth trailing soft kisses along your collarbone like the storm hadn’t just passed through.

But then his hands gripped your thighs again, spreading you wide, and his voice turned rough.

“I ain’t done.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown, lips parted. “M-Marsh…”

He grinned—dark and slow, licking his bottom lip. “No, baby. Not after what I just saw. You came hard just from me talkin’ shit. You liked it. You want it rough, don’t you?”

He was already stroking himself above you, cock thick and flushed, precum smeared across the tip. He grabbed your jaw, thumb brushing your lip.

“You like when I get like this,” he said low, possessive. “Not just mean. Mine. You don’t want husband Marshall right now. You want the one who scares the fuck outta people, don’t you?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want the mean one. I want the Marshall that makes grown men cry.”

He growled, just straight-up growled, and slammed his mouth against yours, kissing you hard and deep before flipping you onto your stomach in one swift motion.

“You wanna be ruined, baby? Want everyone to hear who you belong to?”

You whimpered, back arching, cheek pressed to the pillows as he dragged your hips up into position.

“Fuckin’ look at you. Sweaters and soft eyes by day, needy little slut for me by night,” he rasped, lining up and thrusting into you all at once—deep and hard, making you cry out, gasping for air.

“That’s it. Take it.”

He gripped your hair, pulling you up just enough to whisper into your ear.

“No one gets to see you like this. No one hears those sounds but me. You understand?”

You nodded frantically, moaning as he fucked you harder, deeper, every stroke possessive and punishing.

“Say it. Tell me who you fuckin’ belong to.”

“You!” you sobbed. “You, Marshall—only you!”

“That’s right. My girl. My soft little angel with a filthy fuckin’ mind.”

His hand wrapped gently around your throat, not tight, just enough to make you whimper—and he kissed your temple as he kept moving inside you, the contrast between rough and reverent enough to unravel you all over again.

“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say who owns this pussy.”

“You do. You own me.”

He groaned, thrust faltering as he lost himself in you, the words and the way you said them tipping him over.

When you came again, it was all trembling legs and half-screamed moans, and he followed with a deep, broken grunt—spilling into you, holding you so tight it felt like he could merge you both into one.

After, he didn’t pull away.

He stayed pressed to your back, lips against your shoulder, hand still curled gently at your throat like a promise.

“You know,” he murmured after a long, quiet moment, “I really am gonna dedicate the next one to you.”

You smiled lazily, voice hoarse. “Better be brutal.”

His grin pressed into your skin.

“For you, baby? I’ll end careers.”