#<- personal thing. i just really like those glasses

[natsaffection]

story idea or little short thing which ever but i personally image Natasha being a bad flirt when she really means it, like for example she ends up liking a woman who doesn't work for the Avengers or like has something simple like a small librarian or something and because it's unexpected she doesn't know how to react to this sudden feeling and tries to flirt with her but suddenly every bit of seduction she learnt and she used to her advantage vanished and she just stares a lot and maybe asks about the woman's interest as a way of flirting cause i don't know what to do, she's such a cutie patootie in my eyes, i can take her seriously but at the end of the day i just see my shayla like that's just babygirl with a big heart🥲

How she smiles. | N.R

Warnings: None, just fluff

Word count: 3,7k

A/N: Some story’s aren’t just story’s.

The clock on Natasha’s nightstand blinked 5:42 am. but she was already awake.

The room was still, a minimal space lit only by the soft morning gray leaking through the window. A single shelf held a few books. Her combat boots were lined up with surgical precision at the door. A black hoodie was folded on the chair. No clutter. Nothing personal.

Natasha didn’t need much. She liked it that way. She sat up slowly, letting the silence stretch. It was the one time of day she didn’t have to perform. No missions. No teammates. No masks. Just the hum of a world that hadn’t quite started turning yet.

The floor was cold against her feet. She liked that, too, the reminder that she was real. That she existed in the world, not just above it.

By 6:10, she was jogging along the perimeter of the compound. Not for training. Not for show. Just because she needed it. The steady rhythm of breath and pavement was something she could control.

By 7:00, she was in the gym, alone. No music. Just the sound of fists hitting pads. Her technique was flawless, fast, efficient, unrelenting. She didn’t spar to fight. She sparred to stay sharp.

At 8:00, she changed into a fresh black turtleneck and tailored pants. Not because anyone told her to, but because discipline was a habit she never broke. Breakfast was a protein bar and a black coffee she brewed herself. No creamer. No sugar. No softness.

By 8:30, she was already scanning mission logs in the ops room when Steve walked in, muttering about debriefs and red tape.

“You’re late.” she said, not looking up.

“It’s 8:30.”

“I said what I said.”

He chuckled under his breath. She smirked. It was a rhythm now, their banter, safe, familiar. Maria arrived fifteen minutes later, sleek and pressed as always. Natasha greeted her with a glance, a tilt of the head, just enough suggestion to keep Hill on her toes.

It wasn’t about flirting. Not really. It was about reading people, playing the part they expected. Sometimes that part had a smirk and a raised brow. Sometimes it had a knife. Most people couldn’t tell the difference.

By midday, the team had mostly scattered. Thor was off-world. Tony was buried in his lab. Clint was… somewhere. Natasha didn’t ask. She walked the compound in silence, boots echoing in empty hallways, her reflection catching in polished glass. The world outside buzzed with movement, but inside, there was stillness.

Natasha was many things. Spy, assassin, avenger. But in between all of that, she was also a woman used to waiting. Watching. Living on the edges of other people’s stories. She didn’t mind. It was easier that way.

When she finally sat down with Bruce in the lab around 4:00 pm, it wasn’t about conversation. He handed her a tablet with new intel. She passed him a small container of protein gummies, a quiet joke from their last mission.

“Thanks.” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Don’t get emotional.” she replied.

Later, it was one of those rare nights when no one was injured, the world wasn’t on fire, and no one was being hunted across continents. So Tony did what Tony did best, threw a party.

The tower’s penthouse was transformed into something between a lounge and a battlefield of banter. Stark had cleared out half the bar’s premium stock. Music pulsed low. Everyone had a drink in hand, but the air wasn’t loose. It was precise, a show of ease from people trained to kill.

Natasha stood near the window, her silhouette painted in city lights, sipping whiskey straight. Her dress was black, high-necked but sleeveless, with a slit that whispered danger.

She was talking to Maria, a shoulder angled just so. A too-long glance. A slow smile that hinted at something unsaid.

Steve stood across the room with Sam and Clint, observing with a raised brow.

“You’re staring.” Sam said, following his gaze.

“I’m…watching.” Steve replied, slowly.

“Same thing.”

Clint smirked and leaned over. “He’s just surprised. Nat’s usually ten moves ahead, but with Hill? She lingers.”

“She’s not doing anything wrong.” Steve said, but his tone was too thoughtful to be casual.

“She never is.” Clint added. “Not where anyone can prove it.”

Meanwhile, Natasha had leaned in closer to Maria, brushing her hand lightly over her sleeve as she made a point about… something she definitely wasn’t listening to. She was flushed.

“Relax.” she said quietly, “I don’t bite.”

Maria gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s…debatable.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, the music dropped, and Tony clapped his hands dramatically. “Alright, children of chaos, time for the real entertainment. Who’s up for a little game?”

Natasha turned toward him, intrigued. “What kind of game?” she asked, already knowing she’d say yes.

“Truth or shot,” Tony said. “Classy, right?”

Groans and laughter broke out. Natasha smiled, finishing her whiskey. “Let’s make this interesting.” she said, walking over to the circle that had started forming in the lounge. “Winner gets to make someone else do anything.”

Steve frowned. “Define anything.”

“Come on, Roger’s.” Natasha said, arching a brow. “Live a little.” She was in control. This was her world. These were the spaces she navigated with elegance and heat and sharpness under the surface.

The morning after was crisp, the kind that bit at the skin but promised a clearer mind. Natasha had been restless since sunrise, her body tense with leftover adrenaline and the ghost of too many thoughts. Steve had caught on.

“You need fresh air.” he’d said. “Come on. Walk with me.” So they walked.

They cut through lower Manhattan in silence, boots clicking on damp sidewalks, the city just beginning to hum to life. Steve talked here and there, about a sparring session with Sam, a report Maria wanted, something about a diplomatic issue in Wakanda, and Natasha nodded, half-listening. Not because she wasn’t interested. Just…tired.

Then Steve pointed across the street. “That place is new.” he said. “Wanna try it?”

Natasha followed his gaze to a corner café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It had wide windows, soft wood framing, and a handwritten chalk sign on the sidewalk that read:

Red Velvet Latte is back — dare you.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Dare accepted.” The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, a soft sound against the murmur of the shop’s early patrons and the low jazz playing through the speakers. It smelled like cinnamon and espresso and something warm.

And then, Natasha froze. She hadn’t meant to. It was just a flicker at first, a glance toward the counter, a tilt of her head. But then she saw her.

You.

A young woman behind the espresso machine, long hair tucked perfectly into a clip, sleeves pushed up, a faint smudge of foam on her cheek. She wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just pouring steamed milk into a mug, but there was something about her. The way the light caught her jawline. The calm on her face. The quiet confidence in the way she moved.

Beautiful.

Not the kind Natasha usually noticed. Not the dangerous, red-lipped kind. This was so much different. And all at once, Natasha Romanoff, assassin, spy, master manipulator, forgot everything. Steve was still talking, saying something about the furniture layout or the smell of nutmeg, but she didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were locked.

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped walking until Steve gently nudged her shoulder. “You good?”

No answer. Then, like the universe wanted to mess with her, the girl looked up..and smiled. It was instinct that brought Natasha to the counter. Not logic. Not curiosity. Just the kind of invisible pull she couldn’t have described even under interrogation.

“Hi there.” The girl said brightly. “What can I get started for you two?”

Her voice was light, smooth, like honey over gravel. And it hit Natasha like a gut punch. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Steve stepped in, amused but polite. “Just a black coffee for me. She’ll have…” He looked at Natasha. “Natasha?”

Natasha blinked. “I- uh…yes. Sorry. Just…”

The girl tilted her head, waiting. Natasha coughed gently, straightening her posture. “Espresso. Double shot. Please.”

The girl smiled again. “Coming right up.”

Natasha tried to mirror the smile, but it felt off. Too wide. She turned to Steve, who was already watching her with a knowing look.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

He raised both eyebrows. “You’ve interrogated war criminals with more composure.”

“Shut up.”

They moved to a small table by the window, the sunlight catching Natasha’s cheekbone as she stared into the middle distance.

“You gonna tell me what just happened?” Steve asked, lowering himself into the seat.

“Nothing happened.” she muttered, adjusting the sleeves of her jacket. “I’m just tired.”

“Right.” he said, leaning back with a smirk. “Because I’ve definitely seen you speechless before.”

Natasha glared at him, but she didn’t have the energy to deny it. Her heart was still beating oddly fast, her palms still cool with nerves she hadn’t felt since her first mission.

Across the room, the barista worked with ease, laughing softly with a coworker as she pulled another espresso shot. Her voice carried faintly over the counter, low and melodic.

Natasha didn’t even realize she was staring again.

Steve watched her for a long moment, “Well, damn. I think we found your weakness.”

Natasha looked away, eyes narrowed. “She’s not a weakness.” she said, more to herself than to him. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Not yet.

Their drinks arrived a moment later, and the girl set Natasha’s cup down gently in front of her.

“I hope it’s strong enough.” she said, and for just a moment, her eyes met Natasha’s. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not overt..Just kind.

And it made Natasha’s throat tighten. She barely managed to say “Thank you.” Then the girl turned and walked away, and Natasha watched her go like she’d forgotten how to do anything else.

Two Days later:

Natasha hadn’t meant to come back. At least, that’s what she told herself. She told herself it was just a convenient detour. She happened to be in the area. She just wanted decent espresso. Nothing more.

But as she turned the corner and saw the familiar chalkboard sign outside, Red Velvet Latte is back. You know you want it. She felt something twist in her stomach. It wasn’t nerves, exactly. It was worse. It was anticipation..

She stepped inside. The café was quieter than the day before, a weekday lull, with soft jazz humming through the speakers and the golden morning light catching on the brick walls. There were maybe five other people seated, heads bent over laptops or books.

And then, there you were. Behind the counter again. Your hair was half-up today, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You looked just as natural, just as quietly radiant as before, and maybe it was because Natasha had replayed the moment in her head too many times, but she felt it instantly:

She remembered you.

You turned, spotted Natasha, and smiled. Not politely. Not like you did for every customer. This one was warmer. Real.

“Oh..” you said, walking toward the register. “You’re back.”

Natasha’s mouth felt dry. You didn’t wait for her to speak. You tapped something into the screen and said, “Espresso, right? Double shot.”

Natasha blinked. Normally, she’d have something ready by now, a teasing remark, a flirty comeback, a raised brow and a smile that said you’re fun, but I’m dangerous. It was a routine. A shield. A game she always won.

But now? Now, she stood there like someone had unplugged her brain. “You…remembered?” she managed.

“Of course.” you said with a shrug, a hint of playfulness in your tone. “You don’t forget someone who looks like they walked out of a spy movie.”

It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. But it landed. Natasha opened her mouth, say something, say something clever, say literally anything! But her tongue didn’t move the way it was supposed to.

She gave a breath of a laugh, glancing down at the counter like it had answers. “Well…good memory.” That’s all she had..No wink. No comeback. Just a weird little knot in her stomach and a flush creeping under her collar.

You gave her a curious look, not suspicious, just curious. “You want it for here or to go?”

Natasha should have said to go. She had nothing to do here. No reason to stay. But before her brain could catch up, her mouth said,

“For here.”

You nodded. “Take any seat. I’ll bring it to you.”

Natasha nodded and turned away fast, too fast, choosing the corner table by the window, the one that let her sit with her back to the wall. Habit. Safety. Even if she felt completely unsafe in a way she didn’t recognize. She sat there, pretending to scroll her phone, heart beating in this slow, impossible rhythm.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Across the room, you moved like you belonged there, laughing with a coworker, adjusting the cups, brushing hair behind your ear. Everything about you was normal. So normal. And yet it felt like something had shifted in Natasha’s world just from being near you.

A minute later, you appeared beside her with the espresso. “Here you go.” you said, setting it down gently. “Still hot. I pulled it a little slower this time, more flavor that way.”

Natasha looked up, and for a second, she felt breathless again. She nodded. “Thanks.”

You hesitated. “So…spy movie?”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

“You do look like someone out of one.” you said with a grin. “Mysterious. Sharp jawline. Possibly knows forty ways to kill someone with a spoon.”

Natasha stared at you for a heartbeat too long. Normally, she’d laugh. Play along. Maybe lean in, lower her voice, say something like only forty? But her mouth wouldn’t work right, and instead, all she said was:

“I like spoons.”

Silence. You blinked, then gave a soft laugh that made Natasha’s face burn.

“Noted.” you said, lips twitching with amusement. “Well, enjoy your coffee…Spoon Lady.”

And just like that, you turned and walked away, and Natasha let her head fall into her hands with a groan.

She was losing her mind. Spoon lady? Natasha groaned under her breath, dragging a hand over her face.

She’d survived torture. She’d lied her way out of high-security prisons. She’d faced alien armies and bureaucratic meetings with Tony. And somehow, this was her downfall, a coffee shop and a girl with warm eyes and a smudge of cinnamon on her cheek.

The espresso sat in front of her, untouched. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny porcelain cup like it had betrayed her.

Across the room, you were wiping down the counter, smiling at something a coworker said. Occasionally, you glanced toward Natasha, not obvious, but Natasha noticed. She always noticed.

And she hated that it made her stomach flip.

The café had quieted even more, only two other patrons now, both nose-deep in laptops. The music was softer too, some old soul track that felt like honey poured over late morning sunlight.

It was the perfect window.

Natasha picked up her espresso, stood, and walked, with the casual, predator-smooth stride she used in every hallway, every party, every mission, right up to the counter. To smooth over her earlier embarrassment, reclaim a little dignity, maybe throw in a practiced smile, something casual and clever. To prove to herself that she was still her.

But the second you looked up, all that went out the window.

Not because of how you looked, though, God, you did, but because of the way you blinked when your eyes met, as if startled by your own reaction. The way you tucked your hair back too fast. The way you over-corrected your smile like you didn’t trust it to hold.

She’s nervous, Natasha realized. Not scared. Not intimidated. Just…nervous.

It was adorable. And it knocked the breath right out of her.

Natasha had seen it all, seduction, awe, desire, even fear. But this? This quiet fluster of someone trying so hard to play it cool and failing just slightly? It was real in a way she hadn’t touched in years. No performance. No angle. Just a girl with warm hands, pretty eyes, and the worst poker face she’d ever seen.

Natasha leaned a forearm lightly on the wood and took a sip of her drink, stalling, breathing, reminding herself who she was.

“Okay.” she said, softly but clearly. “That was…a terrible first impression.”

You smiled, eyes bright with amusement. “It was kind of charming.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Is that a polite way of saying I sounded like an idiot?”

“Maybe a little..” you teased, laughing. “But in a very mysterious, highly-trained-assassin-who’s-not-great-at-talking-to-baristas kind of way.”

Natasha shook her head, but smiled. Real this time. She exhaled like it let out something she’d been holding for too long.

“I usually do better than that.” she said, eyes fixed gently on you. “I’m…not sure what happened.”

Your expression softened. You wiped your hands on a dish towel and stepped a little closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I think you were just surprised.” you said. “Happens more than you’d think.”

Natasha studied your face for a beat, calm, but flushed, a little shy. And the more Natasha noticed it, the worse she got. Because usually, when someone blushed, she’d lean into it, drop her voice, step a little closer, let the silence stretch. She liked the tension. The control.

But with you?

She didn’t want control.

She wanted to know you.

“I’m Natasha.” she said finally, voice quieter now, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

You blinked, that kind of blink that meant oh, and then smiled again, slower this time. “I know.”

Natasha tilted her head. “You do?”

“Yeah…” you admitted, cheeks turning pink, “Steve Rogers was with you yesterday. And you…kind of have the presence of someone who doesn’t do boring for a living.”

Natasha laughed, a low, husky sound. “That’s one way of putting it.”

You stuck out your hand over the counter, suddenly brave. “I’m Y/n.”

Natasha looked at your hand, then took it, her fingers brushing yours just a second too long.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.” she said. And this time, her voice had its usual rhythm again, low, smooth, a little dangerous. But even then, even with every instinct in her clicking back into place, she didn’t push the flirt further. Not yet.

Instead, she asked, “So…how long have you been working here?”

You smiled, still holding Natasha’s gaze like it was easy. Like you weren’t shaking the world off its axis.

“A little over a year.” you said. “Why, are you planning to become a regular?”

And there it was, the invitation, the challenge. Natasha hesitated for half a second. Then she nodded slowly, smirking just a little.

“Maybe I already am.”

You blinked, your smile faltering slightly, not fading, just shifting. Like you felt the change in the air, too.

“Oh?” you asked softly, setting your rag aside. Natasha’s throat went dry. She glanced down at the counter, then back up. Her voice, when it came, was lower than usual.

“I was wondering..” Natasha said, fingers tapping once, nervously, against the wood, “if maybe you’d want to get coffee with me. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

The words hung there, fragile, quiet, terrifying. You didn’t answer right away. Your lips parted slightly, eyes wide. Then you let out a soft breath, a laugh, the kind people make when something inside them exhales.

“Like a date?” you asked, voice breathless.

Natasha nodded once. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You looked down, then back up, your cheeks flushed, but your smile was real and wide and a little stunned.

“You sure you don’t just want more espresso?” you teased, but your voice was trembling in the sweetest way.

Natasha leaned in, just enough. “I think I’ve had enough espresso. I want…something else.”

There it was. Not a line. Not a performance. Just truth. You bit your lip, still smiling. “Okay.” you said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Natasha blinked once, surprised or relieved. Elated in a way she didn’t know how to show.

Then, gently: “After your shift?”

You nodded. “I get off at two.”

Natasha gave a soft smile, and it reached her eyes this time. “I’ll be here.”

She turned to walk away, and for once, didn’t try to control the smile tugging at her lips. Because this..whatever it was, felt like the start of something she didn’t even know she was allowed to want.

And this time? She wanted everything.

[p0orbaby]

magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

-

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

-

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

[kxsagi]

Hello! Super impressed with how much you’re able to write so often and I hope you continue having fun doing it/ don’t get burnt out! Would it be possible to request a scenario about a reader who’s dating isagi (and has for awhile since before blue lock) but is from an affluent family who wants them to get engaged for family political reasons. They later decide to temporarily get engaged to reo to help cover up both of their relationships (reader and isagi and reo and nagi) and kind of become besties through it. For a one shot/ scenario maybe have them judging other people at a fancy dinner (or if head canons on the general idea would also be great - whatever is easier) thank you!!

“𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬”

a/n: hi and thank you so much!!!

rich reader x longtime boyfriend isagi x fake fiancée reo that has a secret relationship with nagi? this request was very specific lol, so i’m sorry if i got anything wrong! (i did make all 4 four of them besties from the start to make the writing a little easier, they become even better best friends throughout the engagement drama)

for later context, isagi is invited to the dinner party because he is now a pro soccer player after his achievements in blue lock. i also threw in some gay nagireo in there cuz why not they’re gay anyways 

you’ve been with isagi since before blue lock, since his hair was messier, his dreams quieter, and your family's expectations a little easier to ignore. back when being together meant holding hands behind the school and sneaking into your driver’s car after games. he’s always made you feel like a person, not a pawn. which is exactly why you can’t let your family know about him. 

not when they’re talking about engagements like they’re business mergers. 

your father puts down his wine glass at a family dinner and says, “we’ve had interest from the mikage family, you know. a strategic partnership could benefit both parties.” 

you blink. “you mean like… i get stock options? or i get married?” 

your mother’s smile is tight. “don’t be crass, sweetheart. you’d get both.” 

and just like that, you're being politically packaged like a luxury handbag. 

you don’t even panic. not really. you just call reo the next day and say, “wanna fake an engagement to avoid being sold off like cattle?” 

he hums. “sure. nagi thinks it’s funny.” 

you smile. “isagi said it’s either this or he beats up your dad. so i guess we’re going with this.” 

thus begins the most fabulous scam of your life. 

it’s about a month into the fake engagement when the dinner party happens, one of those rich people breeding grounds where everyone wears cream-colored suits and says things like “let’s circle back” when they mean “go away.” 

you’re seated next to reo, who looks like he just walked off a magazine cover, because of course he does. your parents are three seats away. nagi is conveniently not invited. and isagi is somewhere across the room, seated like a polite accessory at the farthest table, trying not to combust. 

“my real boyfriend is glaring at you,” you whisper to reo. 

reo raises a glass. “i know. isagi looks like he’s thinking about setting fire to this floral centerpiece.” 

you both clink glasses in solidarity. 

across from you, some heiress with a platinum trust fund is explaining how she’s “completely self-made” because she once opened a vegan bakery in london. 

“girl,” you mutter. “you own six apartment buildings.” 

reo leans in. “her dad had to pay two million in damages after she accidentally poisoned someone with mushroom powder she found on pinterest.” 

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “damn. you really do your research.” 

“i'm thorough,” he says smugly, and starts texting nagi under the table like a giddy middle schooler. you sneak a glance at isagi, who’s pretending to stir his soup while definitely texting you with his hand under the tablecloth. 

isagi [8:41pm]: i miss u 

you [8:42pm]: you’re 20 feet away 

isagi [8:42pm]: i’m dying. reo’s dad just said i look like someone who “played sports at the public school” 

you [8:43pm]: okay he’s getting coal for christmas 

reo tilts his phone so you can see nagi’s response. 

nagi [8:43pm]: make them eat the centerpiece. they won’t notice 

you almost choke on your water. 

the woman next to you tries to engage you in a conversation about equestrian bloodlines, and you politely nod while messaging isagi under the table like you’re in some sort of underground operation. reo’s playing his part like a total pro – he throws you looks like “i’m so in love” and sighs dramatically any time you talk, which only makes you both look obnoxiously engaged and secretly evil. it’s perfect. 

“what do you think of this one?” reo whispers when the next guest starts bragging about launching a NFT for gourmet olives. 

“looks like a young benedict cumberbatch if he lost a fight with a hedge fund,” you say. “he just said the word ‘synergy’ unironically.”

“disqualified,” reo mutters. 

you clink glasses again. you’re starting to like this way too much. 

but later, you escape to the garden to breathe, because all this secret-love-fake-fiancée-corporate-dinner-lunacy is exhausting. reo follows you out with two glasses of champagne and a subtle wink. 

“nagi’s bored,” he says. “he tried to facetime me under the table.” 

“isagi sent me a meme and called it ‘the real appetizer.’” you sigh. “do you ever feel like we’re the only sane people in this capitalist hellscape?” 

reo raises a brow. “you’re fake engaged to me. you think i’m sane?” 

you clink your glass against his anyway. “you’re the only one who gets it.” 

for a second, the two of you just stand there in silence, watching the glowing windows from the outside like kids pressed to a candy store. 

“thank you,” you say, suddenly, seriously. “for helping me.” 

reo waves it off. “please. i get a fake fiancée and tax write-offs. nagi’s obsessed with the drama.” 

you smile. “he should’ve been an actor.” 

“he is acting. like he doesn’t love me.” 

you glance at him. “do you ever wish you could just… tell everyone?” 

“all the time,” he says. “but for now, we have each other. and excellent wardrobe coordination.” 

you bump his shoulder with yours. “ride or die.” 

he grins. “now tell your boyfriend to stop sulking and come steal you away.” 

“only if nagi lets you come over for game night.” 

“deal.” 

back inside, you walk past your mother, who whispers, “try not to look too smug. people are already talking about how perfect you and reo look together.” 

you give her a dazzling smile. “just wait till the wedding photos,” you say sweetly. “they’ll be iconic.” 

isagi meets you by the door with that look on his face, the one that says i’d break ten social contracts to hold your hand right now. you brush fingers briefly as you pass. 

and later, when you sneak into isagi’s apartment with leftover cake in your bag and tell him all about the NFT olives and poisoned mushroom heiress, he kisses you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. which, really, you are. 

reo texts you at 1 AM. 

reo [1:01am]: nagi just said he wants to “elope but in a cool way.” do you think that means vegas or sword fight? 

you [1:02am]: depends. is there pacman involved? 

reo [1:02am]: always 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[lunarriviera]

HI HI HEY HELLO yes it is time once again for me to screech like a deranged banshee about the preview stills for episodes 16 and 17 of justice in the dark, are you ready are you ready LET'S FUCKING GO

p sure at this point guangyuan official is out to get me, personally, and see to it that i do not survive to see this drama end, it being increasingly likely that i will simply perish. because DOES THIS or DOES THIS NOT look suspiciously like luo wenzhou is holding fei du's left hand? but that's ridiculous of course he isn't, we can't have things like that, i will therefore choose to ignore this. i'm sure he's just gazing at him soulfully while thinking how best to solve All The Crimes™. in no way whatsoever does he look like he's been doing this for days.

(while i do love the hilarity of lwz in fei du's hospital room in the novel, in which he's just being annoying, watching basketball games and cooking shows and eating everyone's fruit baskets while chastizing fei du for stepping in front of a bomb—as fei du is trapped there, immobilized and speechless and really starting to wonder what lwz's skin feels like but unable to do a goddamn thing about it—as much as i love those chapters, this looks horribly romantic and i like it too)

ahahahahahah [maniacal laughter] IT'S GETTING WORSE, so here's fei du feeding luo yiguo (or frying pan as his close friends call him) and TOUCHING HIM, for the first time in YEARS, bc he had to surrender him to tao ran, bc of [redacted] and [redacted] and now here he is finally, he's, he's trying to, he's—[breaks down completely]

BUT WAIT THAT'S NOT ALL THERE'S MORE

oh look, it's fei du fresh out of the shower. that would be luo wenzhou's shower. that he's just been in. showering. without clothes. possibly using luo wenzhou's 19-in-1 shampoo conditioner aftershave or whatever. obviously i'm completely fine about this of course, no thoughts in head whatsoever about how now they're just standing here. in the bedroom. looking at each other. maybe they're talking, presumably there must be dialogue of some kind, about crimes or post-operative care or what would fei du like for dinner or how do you feel about slow tender blowjobs i honestly have no idea anymore.

because look i'm just a stupid lesbian, i see zhang xincheng with wet hair in a bathrobe looking fragile and undefended, and fu xinbo looking back at him with the most vulnerable expression he's had in sixteen fucking episodes and i chew drywall, okay. i chew glass. i run out of things to chew and go outside to find some fucking ROCKS.

there's also a trailer but i'ma level with y'all: i could not watch it. i just could not. i saw 1.5 seconds of the door to luo wenzhou's apartment opening, and fei du walking inside—he thinks he'll be staying with a friend for a couple of days, having no idea he's just moved into the home where he'll live for the rest of his life. so i, being very mature and rational about this development, threw my hands up in front of my face and whimpered aloud, and managed to hit pause before i projectile-bled onto my laptop screen. you can go watch it alone, i am not god's strongest soldier and these stills already took me out.

but finally! GUESS WHAT! STARTING WITH EP 16, FU XINBO WILL BE SINGING THE CLOSING OST. i love the way the producers have divided this drama into BC (before cp) and AD (after dicking). how fei du's/zhang xincheng's song was all about thinking he's evil and desperately needing someone to pull him out of the darkness, whereas fu xinbo's/lwz's is called 「微光」 and i fully intend to cry.

thank you for your time i will see you on the other side of Macbeth—

[chaoticmultifandom28]

I’m sorry zosan fans but you could never convince me to ship it. Zolu had my heart the first time they interacted in the show/manga and then reaffirmed it for me in the Live Action. Zoro is too obsessed with his captain (like legit everyone on the crew is obsessed with Luffy to some level) to even think twice about maybe feeling romantic feelings for Sanji. Those two (Zoro and Sanji) to me (this is my opinion so if it differs from yours, that is okay) feel more like best friends who don’t want to even admit they’re friends out loud but as soon as someone bad mouths either in a serious way, they’ll beat that person’s ass. Zoro is down bad for luffy in my opinon and Luffy is the same but it doesn’t show as much cuz Luffy is also Luffy and is more than likely unaware. Like when they reunite on Zou, it shines through just how close those two are. Yes, Luffy gets excited reuniting with his crew when separated, but it just felt different for me (and honestly shipping is the last thing on my mind when watching One Piece, it’s legit the only fandom I’m in where I actively try not to watch it with shipper glasses, cuz I’ve been in so many fandoms that shipping has gotten out of control and I just want to enjoy something without being reminded about the ship wars going on on social media. One Piece is my safe space show where I can just enjoy and be immersed into [I legit had to leave the one piece community on Twitter cuz it got so toxic on there it was affecting my enjoyment of the show])

Anyways, this isn’t me saying people shouldn’t ship zosan and should ship Zolu, it’s just me saying I personally couldn’t ship zosan no matter what. It’s a good ship, objectively, but it’s just not for me. I do wonder if Zolu hadn’t got to me first, then maybe I would ship the more popular ship, but it’s not really important in the overall thoughts (shipping I mean isn’t important in my enjoyment of the show). The only reason I am bringing it up now is because a video showed up talking about Zoro and his jealousy whenever someone thinks they know luffy better than him or when luffy brings up someone and their strength and Zoro is like ‘hey don’t forget about me’ (but they weren’t even going on about the ship, it was just about how Zoro and Luffy are best friends and like their bond is close)

[tocara]

A reader, who doesn't believe in love and then they met Satoru.

Part 5.

They met again after a year and a half.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

A year and a half have passed.

Life moved—slowly, then all at once. You don’t feel like a completely different person, not exactly. But you’re not the same girl who once came home from a condo party aching over a stranger’s smile.

Now, it’s the day of the wedding. The venue glows with warmth, soft laughter, and the hum of music. People swirl past you in pastel dresses and well-fitted suits. You stand by the corner table, fingers grazing the rim of your glass, eyes scanning the crowd without making it obvious that you’re searching for anyone.

You’re not even sure if he’ll be here.

You haven’t dared to ask. Rina never brought him up again—not that she had reason to. You and Satoru only met once. A brief evening a long time ago. One gathering. One hug. That was it.

And yet, when he walks in—your heart clenches like it recognizes him before your mind can catch up.

Taller than you remembered. Maybe not in height, but in presence. Clean-cut in a navy suit, hands tucked casually in his pockets, expression unreadable for a second—until his mouth curves into that same familiar smile.

That smile.

It disarms you all over again.

“Hey,” he says.

You feel your thoughts scatter like loose pages in a gust of wind. But somehow, you manage to meet his eyes. Even if only for a moment.

“Hi,” you reply softly.

That’s all.

No grand reunion. No awkward stammering. Just one word. A fragile thread stretched between you.

And then the others see him. Like a spark has gone off in the room, Rina and the rest of the group swarm in with bright greetings, laughter, arms thrown around shoulders. He’s swept away before another word can be exchanged.

You step back, letting the tide of their reunion pull him away. You stand quietly at the edge, clutching your glass again, pretending not to listen—but your ears catch everything.

The laughter. The stories. The teasing.

“You know, for a while there, I thought you were going to beat Rina to the altar.” someone from the group says it.

He gives a half-smile, casual and unbothered. “Yeah, well. Life had other plans.”

“Wait, what happened?” someone asks. “Didn’t you guys hit five years or something?”

“Almost six,” he says. His voice is light, not bitter. Just final. “We broke up. It’s been… almost half a year now.”

Your world stops.

Those words—“We broke up. It’s been… almost half a year now.”—hit you like a slow-moving wave.

A fragile tremor cracking through something you’ve kept tightly sealed for far too long.

You’re still standing there. Still technically part of the group. But suddenly, you’re not really there.

The noise fades. The chatter dulls.

The wedding, the lights, the laughter—it all feels distant, like you’re watching it through water.

Six months.

That’s enough time for the world to change. Enough time for someone to leave. Enough time for someone else to move on.

But not for you.

Not when you never had anything to begin with. You have no right to feel this way. No reason for your chest to feel like it’s unraveling thread by thread.

But it does.

And the worst part?

You realize you want something.

For so long, you wanted nothing. You drifted through your days like a ghost in your own skin. You made peace, quietly, with being invisible. With letting things pass you by. You never chased anything. Never fought. Never even hoped.

Most days, you simply wished to disappear—softly, without hurting anyone. Without a sound. Just… gone.

But this?

This is the first time you’ve wanted something so badly it aches.

A terrifying, impossible kind of want.

You don’t even know what it means.

Is it love? Obsession? Just a cruel illusion tied to one night and a few gentle memories?

Maybe.

But for once, the weight of uncertainty isn’t enough to stop you.

You don’t expect anything. Not love in return. Not some sweeping, perfect moment.

You just want him to know.

That he made you feel something real. That he made you want to be more.

That somehow, with just one night and a smile that saw through the quiet shell of you, he changed something.

And even if it goes nowhere—

Even if it breaks you—

At least you won’t regret being silent.

Not this time.

[mikimakiboo]

Mermay day 3 - Frills and Trills

Cross is free ya'll

- Leviathantale -

Cross is exploring the ocean after having regained his freedom when he comes across a glowing goldfish.

First

Prev

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The ocean was bigger than Cross imagined it to be, he had always thought the size was exaggerated, but he had swam for days now and he still hadn't bumped into any glass wall. He hadn't seen coral reefs yet either, only seaweeds, he was starting to suspect it was a legend. 

He was a little hungry too, he hadn't been able to catch any fish, they were too fast, so he had to resort to eating starfish and crabs, sometimes weeds. That wasn't the most filling, he would have loved some tuna or salmons, but he hadn't seen any. Maybe they just didn't live here. He sighed, he didn't miss his life in the lab, but at least he had regular meals there.

Cross looked around, where could he go now ? There wasn't anything in sight, nothing to guide him. Was he just turning in circles since the beginning ? That wouldn't surprise him if he was, he was used to swimming in circles after all, it was all he could do in his tank, so maybe his muscles kept the habit and that was why he didn't see anything new in days.

Well, at least he was outside, so he really shouldn't complain. He should start looking for a spot to spend the night it, see if there was a rock he could hide under not to be too in the open. He dived, swimming closer to the ground, looking around for some eventual snacks.

After what felt like hours to the shark he finally found a large rock formation he could easily hide in. He went to inspect it and found a hole large enough to fit his upper body and half of his tail. He went in the hole, laying down for a second to test if it was comfortable, and decided it was suitable for the night. He went out again, going to pick some weeds to wrap around the end of his tail, aware that purple was a pretty flashy color, so he wanted to hide it, he didn't want to attrack predators after all. Once all set he returned to the hole, hoping to pass the night without problems, and laid down, trying to find sleep and ignore the noises around him. He wasn't used to them yet.

When he woke up, he felt hot, was the sun hitting the stone directly ? He yawned as he stretched his arms, slowly opening his eyes. He was about to get out when he abruptly stopped, seeing some golden frills block the entrance of the small cave. Was it a normal thing in the ocean ? Was it some kind of toxic plant ? It wasn't here when he went to sleep, did it grow overnight ? Was it a drape like those the doctors used to cover his tank when he needed to be moved ? Did the doctors find him ? No, it didn't look like a drape, drapes were thick and white, these frills were golden and almost see-through.

Well, only one way to know... he slowly reached to them, slightly shaking as his fingers came in contact with the odd veil. It didn't sting, but he heard a surprised chirp and the frills retracted. Only a few second after that a skull appeared upside down, making Cross shriek in surprise and back down against the wall of the hole. The veil was attached to someone ? And he touched it ?! The first time he saw someone else in this infinite tank and he touched their veil ?! 

The person stared for a while before swimming down from the rock to be in front of Cross. They seemed to be another mer, with white bones for the upper body and a golden tail, the eyelights matching it, and those veils that were now very identifiable as their fins. Cross had just touched a stranger's fins. On the first meeting. Please get him back in his tank.

- Hi ? The mer said, I didn't see you down there, and I haven't smelled you around, are you new here ? My name's Dream ! What's yours ? He excitedly introduced himself.

Was Cross supposed to give him his official name or the one he gave himself ? Was "Project X" even a name ? The doctor always called him that despite Cross asking him to call him by his chosen name, sometimes he would just call him "X" too. Which name was he supposed to say ? He didn't particularly want Dream to call him Project X, it wasn't a name he liked, but it was the one he responded to the most so maybe it was the most practical to go by ? Or maybe it was his one chance to get called Cross in his life ?

Dream tilted his head.

- Do you understand me ?

Cross looked at him before mumbling an answer.

- C... Cross.. ?

- Hm ? Cross ? Is that your name ?

Cross nodded.

- Well ! Nice to meet you Cross ! He smiled.

Cross nodded again, slower, still against the wall. Could he get more awkward ?

- Do you want to go for a swim ? I can show you around ! He held out a hand for him.

Cross stared at the hand, could he trust him ? Was it a trap ? Was he going to eat him ? Did mers eat each other ? He frowned, analyzing the goldfish. Dream was smiling, patiently waiting for him to make up his mind, he didn't seem to have ill intentions, or else he would have struck already, Cross being unable to escape because of the wall and Dream blocking his only exit. He decided to try and trust him, slowly extending his arm to take the mer's hand. Dream's smile widened, and he pulled him out of his hole to make him swim with him. He was fast, for a goldfish.

- My brother's territory is wonderful, you'll see !

Cross looked at him, catching up to swim by his side, maybe he could be the friend he always wished to have ? Maybe mers were sociable creatures after all ? Maybe he wouldn't be alone in the ocean ?

Cross felt himself smile, maybe he would finally have the life he dreamed of, a life of adventure with a friend.

Maybe touching these frills hadn't been his worse idea, as awkward as it had been. He was kinda happy he did it.

[nizhspo]

seven summers:

chapter three: 7 summers

genre: haikyuu imagine, minor angst

pairing: koutaro bokuto x fem!reader

links: m.list

the porch light buzzed, moths circling slow like they were drunk on the heavy summer air.

you sat on the swing, an old glass of sweet tea sweating on the table beside you, watching the sky fade from navy to black to something softer. the cicadas sang like they were trying to drown out the stars.

inside the house, your parents were asleep. your husband, too — door creaking shut a few hours ago, tired from chasing your daughter around town all day.

but she was still awake.

fifteen years old, sitting barefoot on the top step, hugging her knees like the weight of the world might slip right off her if she just held on tight enough.

you watched her for a minute. the way her shoulders shuddered quietly. the way she tried not to make a sound.

you picked up the second glass you’d poured (too much sugar, just the way she liked it), and carried it down to her.

“here,” you said gently, holding it out.

she didn’t look at you at first. just sniffled and wiped at her face, accepting the glass with both hands.

the porch swing creaked behind you as you settled onto the step beside her.

“boy trouble?” you asked, voice low.

she laughed, watery and sharp. “it’s stupid.”

“doesn’t feel stupid,” you said. you nudged her shoulder lightly with yours. “he mattered. that’s enough.”

for a moment, it was just the hum of the crickets. the drip of condensation sliding down the glass. the soft clink of ice cubes melting.

then she asked, so quiet you almost missed it.

“was it like that for you, too?”

you thought about it.

about the boy who used to meet you down by the river. who taught you how to drive stick shift in empty gravel lots after dark.

the boy who held your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

your fingers drifted instinctively to your wedding ring, a stunning piece of work, delicate but heavy, the gold warm and the diamond catching what little porchlight there was, winking like a promise.

hajime had picked it himself. simple, timeless, expensive enough to make your breath catch when he slid it onto your finger all those years ago.

he’d worked hard. still worked hard, and built a life for the three of you that was comfortable, steady, beautiful.

you smiled, bittersweet, staring out at the dark.

“i never really forgot him,” you said.

not in a way that hurt. not anymore.

just in a way that lived inside you, soft and stitched into your ribs like an old love song.

your daughter tucked her chin onto her knee, watching you quietly.

you sipped your tea, thinking back.

“i left for college when i was just a little older than you,” you said, voice low. “packed up everything i could fit in a beat-up sedan and drove north. traded the smell of river mud and honeysuckle for subway smoke and skyscrapers. left barefoot summers behind for busy sidewalks and cold winters.”

your daughter smiled a little, imagining it.

“i met your father a few years later,” you added, feeling the weight of memory settle around you like a second skin. “different kind of love. steady. strong. safe.”

you glanced down at the gleam of your ring, twisting it absently.

“but sometimes,” you admitted, “you remember the first person who ever taught you what it meant. even if you wouldn’t change a thing.”

she nodded, her fingers curling tighter around her glass.

the porch creaked again under the weight of another thick summer night.

you stayed out there together until the air cooled and the stars blurred, and finally you nudged her inside, brushing the hair back from her damp cheeks, kissing her forehead.

“it gets better,” you promised.

you just didn’t tell her how long it took.

…

the next afternoon, the sun pressed down hard and bright, making the pavement shimmer.

you were the only one willing to run to the store — your parents too busy catching up with their granddaughter, hajime sunk deep into the old rocking chair on the porch, laughing over some faded photo album.

the grocery store hadn’t changed much.

same cracked linoleum floors. same too-cold blast of air conditioning that hit you like a slap the second you walked in.

the aisles smelled like a mix of fried chicken and floor wax.

you grabbed a cart, rolling your list over in your mind — bread, milk, paper towels, butter, something sweet for dessert.

the wheels of the cart squeaked as you moved through the aisles, trailing your fingers along shelves stacked with canned peaches and pickles, plastic jugs of sweet tea lined up like soldiers.

you were reaching for a jar of honey when you heard it:

“y/n?”

your heart stalled.

slowly, you turned.

bokuto koutarou stood there, holding a bag of charcoal in one hand and a carton of lemonade in the other.

he looked… older, sure.

hair shorter than you remembered, messy and curling a little at the ends. a white t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, worn jeans riding low on narrow hips.

his sneakers were dirty. his hands were calloused.

but his eyes —

god, his eyes were exactly the same.

he smiled, slow and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“bokuto,” you said, breathless. the name koutaro lingered faintly on your lips, but you caught yourself just in time.

for a second, neither of you moved. the air between you hung heavy with memory.

then his gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to your hand curled around the shopping cart handle.

to the slim, beautiful wedding band, the heavy glint of gold and diamond, obvious even in the flickering fluorescent lights.

you saw the way something flickered in his eyes. the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“you look… good,” he said finally, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you laughed softly, the sound catching in your chest. “thank you. you too.”

he shifted his grip on the lemonade.

“what brings you back?”

“letting my daughter visit her grandparents,” you said, smoothing your hand absently over the cart handle.

his eyebrows lifted.

“daughter, huh?”

there was an awe to the way he said it. like he almost couldn’t believe time had passed that fast, or maybe like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

he smiled, but it was a little crooked. a little sad at the edges.

“guess we’re gettin’ old.”

you smiled too, but it felt a little heavier now.

you moved to nudge the cart forward — polite, practiced, but he spoke again, voice quieter.

“i always knew you’d be somethin’, y’know.”

you froze, fingers tightening on the cart’s rubber handle.

your eyes met his, and for a second it was barefoot summers and stolen kisses and promises whispered in pickup trucks with the windows rolled down.

“thank you,” you said, voice even. polite. respectful.

he just nodded, a little too quickly, like he wasn’t sure what else to say.

like maybe he wanted to say a lot more.

you offered a small smile, one last glance, and turned away, heading for the checkout line.

after checkout, the grocery store doors slid open with a sigh, and the heavy heat wrapped around you again like a too-familiar blanket.

you loaded the bags into the back of the rental car, slid into the driver’s seat, cranked the a/c until it rattled.

you sat there for a moment. hands loose on the wheel. heart tight in your chest.

out of the corner of your eye, you could see bokuto stepping out of the store, squinting against the sun, his bag slung over his shoulder.

he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a memory. like a snapshot of something you’d already lived and left behind. and pulling away this time, it felt heavier than before.

like you were leaving not just him, but the version of yourself that still remembered how that moment used to feel.

you turned the ignition. the car rumbled to life.

the road home wound past fields of wheat and wildflowers, houses with peeling paint and porches sagging under the weight of time.

you remembered these roads.

you remembered barefoot races down dirt paths, bonfires by the lake, letters you wrote and never sent.

you thought about who you used to be: a girl who wanted to be a marine biologist. a girl who believed love was enough to hold the world together.

and you thought about who you were now —

a woman with a mortgage and a job in accounting and a daughter who smiled like sunshine when she was happy and cried like the world was ending when she wasn’t.

a woman who loved her husband, your steady, strong, kind hajime, who made the future feel safe.

a woman who still, somehow, carried the shape of a boy she once loved tucked deep in the hollow of her chest.

it wasn’t sad.

it wasn’t even bittersweet.

it just… was.

some love doesn’t wreck you. it doesn’t demand to be burned out or forgotten. it just stays. soft. quiet.

a summer that never really ended.

you pulled into the driveway.

your daughter waved from the porch, her hair haloed by the sinking sun.

hajime rose from the rocking chair, smiling as he came to meet you, his hand reaching instinctively to take the grocery bags, his fingers brushing yours.

you smiled back.

you were right where you were meant to be.

but somewhere, in the folds of all those summers ago, another life still shimmered, golden and warm, just out of reach.

and maybe — maybe that was enough.

[astranauticus]

am i just projecting or do yall also see the vision (or lack thereof)

[0246h]

misophonia + sensory issues are torture. i'm so tired of all of this.

[sepiasys]

Trying to access headspace/innerworld except when you try to visualize the places you remember, they're just memories and not the real thing, and when you visualize a SINGLE person/character/sentient thing, it's like Other Wybie from Coraline where bro can emote and make expressions but can't speak at all.

And yes I can TELL that the visualization isn't REAL. It's like looking at a photograph of a place you've been to.

[benetnvsch]

genuinely baffling to me how much of a victim complex some skk shippers have

YEAH yeah aouhghh-

like,, its one thing if people were actively harassing/bothering them but there is no reason for Those Types of skk-ers to be So Upset about other ships just existing (and to just,,doing the same things that they do in terms of relating/redrawing other ships moments to theirs)

I mean come on,, just look the other way,, no need to cry cuz someone chose to make Dazai to kiss different colored pile of pixels today

[icharchivist]

i mean i get why it sucks but i've been having an existential crisis that keeps me up at night for most of my life too and i'm not producing people expressly to abuse them and use them as tools about it. Astrals are just on something else i guess

i'd say it's a question of scale in general, as in an existential crisis coming so deeply from a whole different life in your head would fuck someone up much more. but anyway i keep saying Lucilius' way to treat other is bad, in those same posts in fact, just that his issues with depersonalization/derealization are also extremely compelling and actually make me feel bad for him. Those two feelings can coexist, and i don't mean that you have to be nicer to him or anything. i'm just saying he's still an interesting character.

[musical-chick-13]

I think most of my annoyance with Shipping Discourse (outside of "if you like this you are a Bad Person who is romanticizing [x]") can be boiled down to "People love calling things subversive when they really are not."

[dan-crimes]

In reference to my last post, not to be a DOWNER or anything but the way my brain works is it focuses on bad memories like here and there I'll look back and be like Yeah there were some fun times I had but just KNOW you wouldn't ever wanna go back to THAT because of This and That and That and THIS which I have no issue with cuz it would be impossible for me to go back to that anyway lmao

It works both ways tho my bad memories also get attacked by positive ones we find a balance <3

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.