#I CANNOT THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR THIS I COULD KISS YOU

[zacksfairest]

For the jumbo OC asks! Vaela - 💋📙🍇; Lehala - 🌹😊🌺; Ayala - 🍑🌀💗;

Ask me about my OCs

I LOVE YOU THANK YOU!!!

Vaela - 💋📙🍇

💋 How affectionate are they with their friends? Their family? Their romantic partner(s) (if they have any)? Are they more physical or emotional when it comes to displaying their affection? Why?

So prior to Zaresh, she was always super affectionate with her family and what few friends she had. She loved hugs and cuddling and the like. Zaresh kinda ruined that, and she came to be averse to physical contact for awhile.

HOWEVER! She does slowly get past that :) She doesn't tense when her family or friends hug her anymore, and she even eventually starts initiating hugs and such on her own!

She is definitely a bit of both—emotionally and physical in her affection, I mean. She feels a lot! She's just a bit stunted for a little while. But i just love that everyone brings her back, helps her realize it's safe to be both receive and give fictional affection again.

I'm not quite sure how she'd be with a romantic partner yet. Zaresh is her only experience, and I have yet to really explore how she might handle an actual romance.

📙 What kind of subjects (of conversation, of discussion, in school or whatever) does your OC find interesting or engaging or that they can talk for hours about? What kind of stuff do they just find fun?

Vaela loves PRETTY THINGS and GOWNS and JEWELRY and GEMS and LAVISH CLOTHING. I love to reiterate how much her and Zaresh have this very specific thing in common. She just loves fancy things and could spend hours shopping in a market or along storefronts pointing out all of the lovely things to you.

It's not very deep, but something shiny or fancy will always make her brighten up.

She also loves talking about hunting tactics. She spent quite a bit of time on her own on the run from Zaresh, and so picked up a lot of ways to survive on her own. She loves exchanging strategies on how best to take down a target, how to track them. And also different bows and arrows and arrowheads! She started off stealing secondhand bows and arrows and then fashioning her own, so learning about the different kinds of actual weaponry is fascinating.

🍇 Day or Night? Sun or Rain? Summer or Winter?

Daytime for sure. Vaela hates the nighttime, the darkness. It reminds her too much of her time in Zaresh's basement, and the Underdark.

She definitely prefers the sun. Once upon a time, she would have said the rain, the sound it makes hitting the roof and how it cools a hot city day—but she spent a lot of time squatting in the pouring rain, cold and alone and miserable, when on the run from Zaresh, that she's grown to hate so much as a light drizzle.

Oooohhhh. I'd have to say summer. She can wear such pretty dresses in the summer :)

Lehala - 🌹😊🌺

🌹 How easy is it for them to connect with others and make friends? On the flip side how easy is it for them to make an enemy of someone? Are they the kind of person who hangs around the food table at a party and never talks to anyone or are they the type who can talk to anyone?

Within Lehala's clan? Amongst her people? Incredibly easy. She feels a deep kinship and connection among the Namda, and even amongst the other clans she was easily able to find people with which she could be friendly. And maybe even become friends! She was in line to be the leader of her clan, she needed to be good with people, she needed to be able to chat them up and form connections with the people who might one day fight for her.

But among non-Namdans? She finds it significantly harder. It's why she's been pretty closed off until recently with the party. She does not know these people. They do not share the same customs. They do not understand the intricacies of each flick of her tail and every twitch of her finger. The Namdans are relatively insular and do not interact with others outside of possible mercenary work, and even then they usually work alone or with fellow Namdans. So making friends with others who aren't amongst her people? Incredibly difficult for her.

But you can wear her down, as has been shown with the party. And now that they've earned her trust and, dare I say, her friendship, she'd happily die (again) for them.

😊 What can make your OC smile even when they’re feeling down? What cheers them up and makes everything feel better for them? Is your OC genrally a happy person and do they enjoy making others smile? What about your OC makes others happy?

Oh, this is gonna be sooooo sappy, but talking and thinking about her people and her memories of them instantly fills her with immense happiness. She misses them so much, and feels like she's failed them, so thinking of the times before The Worst Vacation Ever makes her feel warm inside.

Also her past conquests—skirmishes fought, battles won, opponents defeated. She feels great pride in her skills as a fighter and a leader, so reminiscing on those memories also makes her happy.

I'd say Lehala is a relatively happy person, all things considered. Her clan would say as much. She can and will be very serious when matters call for it, but she's not incapable of happiness. She definitely enjoyed making her closest friends smile. They would laugh and joke and banter around the fire, when out on a mission or in the hours before a battle. She had a deep affection for her clan and every member of it.

Hm. I couldn't say what about her makes others happy. I mean, her friends among Clan Mavari certainly loved her spirit, her strength. She inspired such loyalty in them, and they had every faith in her abilities.

🌺 Does your OC have any tattoos or other body art? Does their body art have any specific meaning behind it? Do they have any scars? How did they get those scars? Any birthmarks?

No body art, I'm afraid. She has NUMEROUS scars, and I couldn't possibly go through the story of each and every one of them. But she got them in various sparring matches, battles, and fights that she's gotten in over the years, all varying in their valor and bravery and stupidity.

She is missing one horn though! She lost it in a (somewhat) recent battle.

Ayala - 🍑🌀💗;

🍑 Where is your OC’s favourite place to relax or calm down? Recount a story of their time spent in this place! What makes it so special to them?

Oh, this is a tough one. As a Mandalorian, she doesn't really have a...place. In the time period in which she lives, her people have scattered to the far corners of the galaxy as the Empire attempts to hunt them to extinction. Even with any somewhat permanent homesteads she's lived in, they never really stayed for long. Clan Ger'Mana was definitely mostly nomadic for the time she's been with them.

This is going to sound incredible stupid, but what calms her is the feel of her beskar'gam on her body, her buy'ce encasing her head. There is a comfort in the weight of it, the solidity of her steel. She finds solace in it, has entrusted her life to that armor—and it has saved her many, many times.

But when home isn't a place, it's usually a person. For Ayala, what would best help her relax was the company of her squad: Vys'kydir, Caedyc, and Saya (her sister). Nothing could help her decompress or bring her back to herself like them.

Even her parents! Her mom Eliava and her dad Aran. They would do the trick too.

There is a specific instance where Vys really helped her when she was brought to tears in the midst of the Imperial invasion that led to her capture. He sat with her and held her as she cried, the weight of every Mandalorian lost under her leadership just becoming too much, especially as artillery continues to fire overhead. Just being there, holding her hand as she cried, helped.

🌀 Where is your OC from? Where were they born? Do they still live there, if not why did they move? If they still live in the area how has it changed since their childhood? How many places has your OC lived in and where has been their favourite?

NOW THIS IS A FUN ONE TO ANSWER!!!!!!!!

Ayala does not know what planet she was born on. Her mom would not tell her. Ayala's mom, Eliava, was a slave. She worked in a nightclub/brothel on some planet far away. When she had Ayala, she decided that was the breaking point. She would not allow a child to be born into this life, especially her baby girl. She knew only too well what a Twi'lek girl would be forced to be.

She had to get out.

There was a Mandalorian patron that frequented the establishment. Eliava knew their reputation as mercenaries and hired hands. So she approached him, begged him to get her out. Offered him money and whatever else he could want. The Mandalorian was resistant, cold. What could a slave woman possible give him? And there would certainly be trouble to follow as her master sought to hunt her down.

What finally broke him was when Ayala appeared behind her mother's legs, her bright blue eyes wide and afraid.

And if there's one thing that is a Mandalorian's weakness, it's a kid in need.

So he agrees to smuggle them out, payment to come at a later date.

Long story short, the Mandalorian—Aran Ger'Mana, leader of Clan Ger'Mana—and Eliava fell in love somewhere along the way on this prolonged trip. And he might have fallen a little bit in love with Ayala too, and by the time they decided to marry, Aran was already reciting the Mandalorian adoption rite.

Aran had a daughter from a previous marriage, Saya. She is human, like her father, and is of his blood—but that changed nothing, and Ayala was welcomed into the clan and family as if she had been born into it.

But all of that to say, Ayala does not know where she came from, and she has no specific attachment to anywhere she's lived since. Her attachments and memories lay with her family and clan.

💗 What would your OC say is their best feature? Why? What do their friends / family / lover(s) / people they know think is their best feature and why

Hmm. Ayala doesn't care much for her looks. Not that she's not an absolute knockout, but when you spend most of your time in full armor, your appearance isn't something you care much about.

If pressed, she'd likely say her eyes. They are a bright and light shade of blue, and absolutely stunning.

If we are talking non-physical feature, she would say her reliability. Her people can rely on her for anything. She will keep them safe and alive. She will ensure no one will hurt them. It is why she picked a dark shade of ocean blue for her armor color. Among Mandalorians, that color represents reliability.

(Which makes the tragedy of her defeat at Commodore Corran Raandall all the more tragic)

Man, each person in her life cherishes something different about her.

Her mom loves how vibrant she is. How alive. She would insist that the room brightens whenever Ayala walks in a room—even when she had her helmet on. She also loves how her daughter's very presence just commands respect. After the life her mother had lived—a slave, relegated to a mere object for other's service and pleasure—seeing her baby girl live the exact opposite of such a life just brings her so much pride.

Her father would likely say mostly the same, but would add in how much he loves her confidence. Despite the fact that she was not born into this life, she took on the mantle of Mandalorian warrior, of next in line to lead the clan, like she had been born for it. Mandalorians may think nothing of adopting anyone into their culture, but that doesn't mean Ayala had to take to the life

But take to it she did, and with the ease of a custom fitted glove. So much so that she is considered the obvious choice to lead them once Aran relinquishes his place as the head, even above his natural born daughter.

Saya, her sister, looks up to Ayala so much. Ayala is older, but only just barely, and yet it's enough that Saya immediately latched on to her. She admires her sister's courage and the strength and skills she exhibits. Whether it be training or sparring or in the midst of battle, Ayala is precise in everything she does. Saya aspires to be even a tenth of the warrior her sister is (she is more than that, and Ayala tells her this all the time.)

Vys'kydir would say that Ayala's best feature is her tactical mind. More than once she has gotten them out of a tight spot by out-thinking their enemy. He admires how she can keep a level head, even when blaster bolts are scorching the ground at her feet. More than once, frustration and anger have started to get the better of him, and she was there to talk him down (or beat it out of him, in some cases).

Caedyc would say much of the same as all of the above, with this one addition:

While this isn't necessarily her best feature, he does admire how stubborn she is. Half the reason why she has won so many sparring matches and skirmishes is because she just refuses to lose. Even when she does lose, it is kicking and spitting and clawing the entire way. And always while shouting for a rematch. Ayala does not like to lose. She is a fighter through and through, has been since she clawed her way into the world, and she will never go down without a fight.

And last but not least, because I cannot resist:

Thrawn thinks one of Ayala's best features is absolutely unshakable love and faith in her people. He can feel the love and adoration she has for the Mandalorian people in his very chest every time she speaks of them. It's something he's never heard from anyone in this galaxy, and she's the only one who has matched his love he has for the Chiss with her own love for her people. She would die for them, kill for them, lie and cheat and sell her very soul to preserve them. She would make a deal with the very Imperials who have nearly wiped out her clan if it meant those left could go free.

And Thrawn also so very adores her absolutely indomitable spirit. Even brought before him in shackles, stripped of her armor and forced to deal with Imperials once again, she was never once cowed. She held her head high, like a leader, like a commander, and even had the audacity to speak down to him.

But she had that right. She had resisted an Imperial invasion. If anyone in this galaxy had earned the right to look down upon Thrawn and the position he held, it was Ayala Ger'Mana.

He would never see that spirit broken, would never even attempt it, and he'd be damned if he allowed anyone to even so much as make her waiver in her strength and resolve.

[theaceace]

imagining a world in which Simon agreed to go with Edwin and try to escape hell, imagining Simon developing an immediate and very inadvisable crush on the cute guy that just threw a grenade at a demon and Edwin's reaction to that, imagining the reaction of Charles Overprotective Rowland when he finds out that the guy Edwin insists on dragging along with them is one of the guys that sacrificed him to a demon in the first place, imagining the Night Nurse's face when three dead boys pop back through the door instead of two

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

i love your hua cheng design so dearly

YES! YES! TRUE TO SIZE!!!

[crossbackpoke-check]

Dysprosium, Mary Soon Lee

dysprosium, AN 66, is a silvery-white rare earth metal. its name is derived from the greek dysprositos, meaning “hard to get at”, owing to the difficulty in separating and isolating this rare earth element. dysprosium is used to measure neutron flux, to fuel reactors, and to activate phosphors. terfenol-d is a magnetorestrictive alloy, meaning that it changes shape when a magnetic field is applied, and is used to manufacture underwater acoustic systems.

jason “robo” robertson, dallas stars #21 for @simmyfrobby’s nhl periodic table poems <3

[fluxweeed]

hey. hope this message doesn't bother you. I love you. I love your work. you are one of my favorite fic authors, I am absolutely obsessed with everything you write. reread everything ten times over, drarry or not, fluffy or angsty - even when it absolutely shatters my heart (e.g. for lack of wanting, SUCH a great fic btw i'm so obsessed with it). the four doors? life changing. two to lie and one to listen? engraved into my brain for eternity. what's mine is yours? what a ride holy shit, im VERY normal about it. wrapped? my comfort read. and so it goes.

if I could aggressively smother you with kudos and love I WOULD!!!

awhile ago you said that there's no such thing as "big deals" in fandom and I 100% agree but at the same time you are a big deal TO ME!!! not in the sense of any kind of hierarchy but purely based on the fact that I think you are such a cool person and your writing is amazing and poignant and your presence in fandom makes it so much better. it's been a pleasure following you here on tumblr and just reading your tags and posts.

idk I just think you rule. that's it. thank you for hanging with us. MWAH 💛

ahhhh anon sorry for leaving this message sitting in my inbox for a couple of days but !! i have zero idea how to react to this!! you're so kind!! thank you!! please discard any and all inclinations u have that i am a cool person bc i can assure you i am NOT!!

[staraxiaa]

needed to immortalize these tags HFDHSD ignore me

porcelain

pairing: todoroki shouto x f! reader status: standalone, one-shot, completed wc: 25200

summary: you are nothing more than a broken doll of fine china, the shards of a porcelain vase. and yet time and time again, he tries to cup the whole of you in his hands, uncaring of how sharp they are, nor how cutting. contains: childhood friends to eventual lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst with an eventual happy ending, coming of age, pro!hero au, following tags are not romanticized, are described non-graphically to the best of my ability, and do not involve shouto in any way. mentions of: victim blaming, eating disorder, depression, sexual assault, domestic violence, arranged marriage, pregnancy + miscarriage/fetus death

note: dancer! reader, predetermined family. this fic discusses a great many dark themes, and may be triggering. i don't think it's anything graphic, as a result of my writing style, but please be aware and consume at your own risk. though they do end up together in the end, it may very well be uncomfortable to read. i hope to have written the themes i wished to explore well, but as i have not experienced a great majority of them personally, i can only hope that i have done them relative justice. also cross posted to ao3

In the earliest of your memories⏤ the core ones, the ones that are said to follow a child for life⏤ your mother is almost always there, in some way, shape, or form.

It is only natural: for most children, most mothers are. And you are no different⏤ she bore you for the full of the nine months between your conception and your birth, and as you have been told, for the first of your many years, and then all the ones after that. She has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years⏤ the ones any actress worth her salt would never even think of giving. But she does, because she is your mother, and you are her firstborn; her most prized darling; the first of the children she will have with your father⏤ and also the only one, though you will not know why until later. 

You are five, and you know only that she is your mother; the only one that you will ever have in the world, and that is why you also believe her when she tells you a woman’s worth amounts to only three things. 

You don’t need to see it for yourself to believe it, though you do so, anyways. The world views women as flowers, she will tell you later; a tired rendition of the same words she has repeated to you, time and time again. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

You will say that, to you, she will always be the most beautiful woman in the world⏤ and she always will be, even if her youth nowadays is only preserved through the power of your father’s money; the countless tucks and lifts and numerous other surgeries that pile up throughout the years. 

But you believe it when she tells you that the face is the first of the three things that make up a woman’s worth, and the slimness of her body the second. And honestly, why wouldn’t you? This is your mother, the one who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed most of her youthful years; so much that after you are born, she never returns to her acting career again. This is your mother, who still undergoes a thousand and one different operations, different treatments, to ensure her body is as spotless as it once was and free of the remnants of childbirth; free of the remnants of you. 

This is your mother, who tells you that your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to.

( And you believe her, because why wouldn’t you? )

This is the first of your core memories, and it is one that you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time you meet Todoroki Shouto is on a July afternoon, with your mother behind you, and his father behind him. 

You’re not really concerned by this⏤ it’s only the standard for a meeting between the children of families like yours, and you have already met enough of them that such a sight is familiar enough to you. 

What concerns you more is the heat of the sun scorching down upon your skin, through the shade of the parasol clutched in your hand, and through the abominable amounts of sunscreen your mother had made you lather onto your skin. The press of summer heat makes your clothes cling rather uncomfortably⏤ you’ve never been out when the sun shines so bright; your mother has never allowed it of you, so you’re rather unused to the feeling. 

That doesn’t mean you show any of it, though.

Your mother had stressed to you the importance of this meeting, though she didn’t really have to; she would not have brought you out like this if it were for anything less than imperative. And you are old enough to understand by now that marriage at the end of the line is not just a possibility, but a goal expected of you⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to⏤ and Todoroki Shouto, your father tells you, is the perfect candidate for this. 

Your mother does not say a word⏤ in your father’s presence, she rarely does. But she does not need to for you to know she agrees. 

You think this is why you study him a little closer than the rest, even though you already know him, or rather, know of him, from the profile that was given to you, that you have spent time reading. 

There’s less written about him than any of the other children⏤ he has had very little in the way of public appearances, unlike the rest of them; so little that the only useful information is what your father deigns to tell you over dinner. A Hero family quickly rising in the ranks, one I’d like you to make connections with, he says, and you hear: a hero family we are looking to marry you into. 

Your father does not deign to talk to you often, but you know what your answer is; what your answer should be. 

“Yes, father.” You say, and you don’t mind⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to, after all, and given your status, a family as renowned as the Todorokis is already more than you can ask for. 

It’s why you straighten a little, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear as you greet him with a smile. 

“Hi!” You greet softly, but no less warmly⏤ your mother’s smile shutters a little at the scar marring one side of his face, but truthfully, you think he looks pretty enough in spite of it. 

“Hi,” He returns, and it’s a little cold, but you’re undaunted. 

“If it’s alright with your dad, maybe we could go play something?” 

Your mother smiles down at you⏤ as she does every time you’re good and attempt to properly make your connections, but you still soak up her praise like a flower finally graced with the light of the sun. 

“Would that be alright with you, Todoroki-san?” 

The red-haired man is polite in his nod, though you suppose the look in his eyes is a little scary⏤ the whole of him is, you think, bigger than even your father; one of the most intimidating men in your world. “Shouto. Show her around the house.” 

You hear the similar command in his tone, but your eyes are focused on the way the red-and-white haired boy’s lips thin, displeased⏤ “Yes.” He says in the end, and you note the way he does not even bother to call him father. 

Your mother squeezes your shoulder. “Be good, alright?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

She laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling. The older Todoroki-san does not, only gesturing her in welcome forward. 

You wait until they’re out of earshot to turn to the younger one and say: “You know, Todoroki-san⏤” 

But then you hesitate.

You’re not sure if you should say this, and you never have to anyone else⏤ you think your father would disapprove, and you know your mother would. You think of what your mother would say, the opportunities you would be giving up, but you’d seen the displeasure upon his face, noted how uncomfortable he seemed, and still seems, even now. 

And in the end, though your words are hushed, you still say them, anyway. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

He blinks at you. You wonder if you have said something wrong. 

“I don’t mind showing you around the house.” 

“Oh! I mean, that too, but…” 

You waver again, glancing around a little. He’s still watching you, confused, but your mother is nowhere in sight, so you continue. 

“I mean, marriage. Like, I’m only seven, and I’m sure you’re great, and I guess I don’t really mind if mother really wants it, but you seemed really uncomfortable, and I also don’t really want to get engaged to anyone yet, so…” 

You’re not sure what exactly you’re saying, and you falter. 

“Um. Sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else I said that.” 

You can already imagine the emotion that would cross your mother’s face, the same as what your father would call you. Disappointment. You swallow. 

You shouldn’t have said that.  

But his answer comes, soft and simple. “I won’t since you don’t want me to.” 

You gauge his expression, a little wary. His features are still emotionless, and though you don’t think he’s lying, you ask just for reassurance. “Really?” 

He nods. “And…” His expression shutters a little. “I don’t plan on marrying for anything other than love.” 

There goes your parents' plans, you think, and though you are a little bit down at the prospect of disappointing them, your chest feels somewhat lighter. 

You’re not entirely sure why. 

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever heard saying that,” You muse. Your mother certainly never has, and you have never been delusional enough to think it of your father. 

You don’t mind it, though. You used to dream about love, in the way many little girls do, awestruck at the romances in the fairy-tales your nanny used to read to you before bed. You are about to say, I’m happy for you.

But then, you think of their expressions, the way they will look at you when you go back and tell them that he doesn’t want to marry you; he wishes only to marry for love. You know what your mother will say; how she will simply tell you to make him fall in love with you⏤ your worth as a woman lies in your face and your body, and how you should make good use of it, before you wither.

So you are just a little bit selfish when you say: “Let’s just be friends, then!” 

He blinks at you. “Friends?”

You flash him a grin, your heart rattling in your chest. You hope he says yes⏤ firstly, because you won’t be entirely a disappointment, and secondly, because that means he’s the only one you’ll be meeting for the purposes of anything other than developing your family’s connections. 

“Friends.” You confirm, before backpedaling at your forwardness “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s also okay⏤” 

You’re glancing up at him a little worriedly, trying to gauge his expression. 

“It’s not that.” He says. And then, after a beat of silence, even quieter. “It’s just that no one’s ever asked to be my friend before.”

You blink. Oh. And then, hope bubbles, like a warmth in your chest. 

“Well! That’s okay!” You think of all the other children your parents have had you make connections with. “No one’s ever asked to be mine, either.” 

He’s watching you a little strangely, you think. “Okay.” 

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not sure what he means⏤ okay? Okay to what? Okay that no one’s ever asked to be your friend before? You flush a little. You’re not sure what to say⏤ you’re not usually so bad at holding a conversation, but then again, you’ve never had one quite like this. 

Then, he asks, a little awkwardly. “What do friends… do?” 

You think your heart stops. You can’t believe your ears. You’re not sure what expression you have on your face, but you’re sure it’s something between disbelief and gaping.

You shut your mouth and still your features the way your mother has taught you to, but you can’t help the smile tugging sharply at your lips, wide and beaming. “Well, no clue! I’ve never had a friend before. We can figure it out!” 

“Okay.” He says, a touch serious. “Do you want me to show you the house?” 

You’re not sure that’s exactly what friends do⏤ you’ve read enough about them in your books, but you appreciate him all the more for trying. “Anything to get out of the sun.” You sigh a little. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sweating.” 

“I’m not.” He supplies, helpfully. “I can make some ice.” 

You’re a little surprised. “Oh, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you⏤” 

You know of his Quirk, of course, and how he’s Endeavour’s son, but you’ve also seen your brother struggling with his own, and you don’t want to burden him.

He only holds out his left hand in response, the top of it icing over.

You gasp a little at the ease with which he does. “You’re so cool!”

“Only my left side.” 

You’re a little confused, but then you remember. Ah. Half-cold half-hot. You nod, understandingly. “Does that mean you can use fire on your right side, then?” 

He stiffens at that, and your heart drops like a stone⏤ you’ve said something wrong, you don’t know exactly what, but it’s too late to take it back. 

“Yes,” He says, a touch colder. 

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you innately wary. Not of him, exactly, but the topic itself, and then you think of how you’re at his house, but his mother hasn’t come out to greet you; how his father, the older Todoroki-san, had offered no explanation.

Briefly, you wonder if his family is just like yours. 

But you don’t dwell on it long, catching yourself mid-thought. It’s not polite to gossip about others’ affairs, your mother tells you once. 

“Well, I think you’ll be a good Hero, if that’s what you want to be,” Your smile is an olive branch. 

“It is.” He blinks, slightly confused. “Thank you.” 

You only laugh a little. “My Quirk wasn’t strong enough, so that dream ended before it could even start. Not that my mother would let me, anyways, I guess. I get to dance now, though, and I think I like it better.” 

You can see that he’s unsure of how to respond to this, so you flash him another smile. 

“Your ice was really cool, but I’m still sweating so much that I’m scared I’ll melt.” 

“Humans can’t melt.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I don’t want to be the first!” 

This is your second core memory. It is the only one absent of your mother, and it is also one you will treasure for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your mother presses you for details on the car ride back, and you are feeling both proud and just a little guilty when you report to her that you and Shouto are now friends. 

She looks a little surprised when you tell her⏤ clearly, you hadn’t been the only one to notice his more reclusive tendencies⏤ but no less than pleased. 

Your guilt soars, and you confess right then and there that he’d told you he’d only ever marry for love.

Her brow rises a little at that, but all she says is: “Well, the two of you have many years for that, don’t you?”

The ease with which her reply comes makes you feel just a little uncomfortable. Of course you don’t mind marrying him⏤ he’s kind, he’s your first friend, and his arm is undoubtedly worth a lot, but you’re not sure that’s what love is.

But you say none of what you think, and none of what you feel. 

You only dip your head, murmuring a yes, mother, and listen to the pleased tone of her hum.

You don’t see him for a good month after that. Between your extracurriculars⏤ your advanced classes and your dance lessons, you don’t get much of a chance to even think of him, and when you do, you wish you hadn’t forgotten to exchange numbers. Even the other children⏤ the ones you connect with for your family⏤ text you every so often, but you’re not officially friends with them like you are the red-and-white haired Todoroki-san, and honestly, you think you like him just a bit more. 

But what if he forgets you? You worry when you find the time, you worry even when you don’t, you worry while you are being driven to his house for the second time and your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say I’m fine because that’s what you’re supposed to and⏤ did you forget me? 

You freeze. You didn’t mean to ask that. 

But then, he’s blinking up at you, looking a little lost. “Was I supposed to?” His brow furrows a little. “I’m not sure it’s possible, but I can try if you’d like.” 

You don’t know what exactly you’re feeling, but you think it’s a little bit like how you felt when you managed to slide into the splits the first time, or when your sensei praises you for landing a particularly difficult spin in your routine.

You beam wide. “No, it’s okay! I was just worried!” 

“Why?” He’s assessing you, a little confused. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?”

You think this is the first time you’ve smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.  

“Yeah!” You bring your pinky up, a little more shy, as you recite a line you’d seen in one of your books. “Best friends forever?” 

He alternates his gaze between your face and the pinky you proffer, before eventually offering up his own, a question written into it. 

You only link yours together. “You pinky promised. That means forever. You can’t break it now, okay?” 

His glance is still a little questioning, but eventually, something settles upon his face. “Okay.” He says, simply. 

You think you do not care if you do not get married to him, like your parents want you to. You think it is okay if he never loves you like that, because this has already made you happier than you have ever been.

You think that being best friends with him is more than enough, as long as forever means the rest of your life. 

And it is.

For the rest of that summer, and for several years after that, you get to see him weekly. 

You call him Shouto-san now, after he’d allowed it of you the first time you’d met his siblings and instantly confused them all with the sheer number of Todoroki-sans you were saying, but he also gets to call you by your first name, so it’s something of an equivalent exchange. You’re always the one getting dropped off at his house, though your mother has offered for him to visit you several times⏤ Endeavour-san’s always the one to refuse, and after so much time spent at their house, you think you understand some of it. 

After all, sometimes, you think the way he tries to shape Shouto in his image is just a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you. 

You don’t say anything, of course. You have been taught to be quietly observant the whole of your life. 

But it’s why you notice certain things. 

You notice the way Endeavour looks at you, and how it feels a little bit like your father’s. You know what they see⏤ you have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all; child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter of a whore mother⏤ and you know right there and then, that even had you wanted to marry Shouto, you would not have been able to. His father would not have allowed it, though he will allow you as you are⏤ friends and no more, for the sake of the connections, the opportunities you allow him. 

You are fine with that, though. Shouto is going to marry for love, you hope he does, and you are already happy enough if you get to be best friends for the rest of your life. 

Your mother has taught you to be quietly observant the whole of your life, and it’s why you also notice the way he treats his son, though you don’t say anything; it’s not your place. But you note the way your friend tenses a little whenever his father walks around, his own footfalls quieter than they have ever been before, the muteness, and the anger-fuelled resentment, even if he does not yet know how to express it. You think the way his father tries to shape him in his image is a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you in hers, though it’s a little different⏤ she never bruises you, at the very least.

You don’t say anything; you have asked your mother, and she has told you that it’s not your place. 

But your heart hurts a little, so you still ask your driver to fetch you some soothing cream, and you leave it on his desk the next week. 

He doesn’t mention it, and yet the next time you arrive, he hands you a pile of CD’s, wordless.

It’s a mixture: some of your favorite opera songs, the ones you’d told him you dreamed of starring in one day, and the recordings of several ballet pieces interspersed between. 

You stare at the stack in your hands, entirely mute, so many emotions stuck in your throat that the words simply do not come out. Something in you aches. 

He’s watching you a little worriedly. “Do you… like them?”

“I do.” You croak.

He draws a little closer. “But you’re crying.” 

“Happy tears.” On impulse, you reach over to wrap your arms around him⏤ he freezes, the two of you have never been particular on touch, but his are coming around you in the next moment, somewhat awkward in placement, but you don’t even care. You only say, somewhat thickly into his chest. “I love it.”

You mean it. 

It’s not just about the expenses⏤ though looking the quality, of course they cost a hefty sum, you think a little despairingly, but of course it is, it’s Shouto. 

Shouto, who tries his best to text you back even when the both of you are tired from a long day at your respective training, who listens to you ramble about the things you found interesting with a small smile on his face, who claps for you when you show him your dances⏤ even in the beginning, when you weren’t nearly as good and stumbled a few times. 

Shouto, who notices all the little things, like when you’ve stopped taking as much food as you have before because your mother told you you should start eating less, and pushes a little bit more towards you, a questioning look on his face. Shouto, who makes a social media account for you only because you said you’d started one, who follows only you, likes only your posts, who remembers it all, your preferred genre, the songs you mention once upon a time. 

Shouto, who cups the whole of you in his hands now, hesitant, but no less careful, as if he were handling one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, as if you are something precious. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

You think back to all the other gifts you have received in your life, piles upon piles of birthday presents, exquisitely jeweled, enough to buy a small fortune; enough to buy what is in your mind equivalent to that of a small kingdom. The pieces your mother buys you, a little more suited to your taste than the gaudy opulence of the others, and far more expensive than this, but⏤ you want to tell him that none of them can even compare. You want to tell him that this is the most thoughtful thing you have ever received in your life, the first thing that isn’t bought just because someone thought it might look pretty on you, so that you can wear it just once and then throw it away⏤ that you like it so much maybe just because it’s so thoughtful, and maybe just because it’s him. 

( But then, you think of the way his father looks at you, how it’s a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of his hesitance the first day, the way his shoulders had relaxed, ever slightly, when you’d said it was okay because you didn’t really want to get engaged, either⏤ a lie, you’ve known it was only your duty the whole of your life, and you’d said it even though you knew it would have wholly disappointed your parents, because you’d seen his displeasure, how uncomfortable he was. 

You think of the absence of his mother, the one he tells you he has started visiting in the hospital, and how the day before, he is the most nervous you have ever seen him. )

And in the end, all you settle for is this. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever been given in my life.” 

He smiles, soft and beautiful. “I’m glad,” He tells you again. 

You think of the firmity in his tone when he tells you that he is going to marry only for love, and you think: you are fine with this. You are glad that Shouto is going to marry for love, and you hope that he does. 

After all, you think you are already happy enough being here with him, solidified in your position as his first real friend, his best friend, forever, for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s around age thirteen when the routine the two of you have fallen into begins to change. 

Shouto is the one to tell you first, and then Endeavour contacts your parents officially a week later. He needs to prepare in earnest for UA, he tells you, and won’t be able to see you as often. He is apologetic as he says it, but you understand⏤ you have understood that though he holds no small amount of resentment towards his father, heroism to him is no less than dance is towards you. Something natural, as easy as breathing, like you were simply made for it; a discipline that has already been carved into you, from the top of your head and down to the tips of your toes. 

You don’t mind, not entirely, because though you are similarly despondent at the prospect of not being able to see him nearly as often, you have only just begun to kickstart your own career in earnest. Your mother pulls you from your school, leaving only the most necessary of subjects for your tutors to cover⏤ your days start becoming measured in the hours you spend with your dance instructors and pop-quizzes you barely have the presence of mind to study for, between the constant mini-shoots your mother puts you through for your social media accounts, and the bone-weary training you endure before passing out upon your bed each night. 

You don’t mind it though, you think. You enjoy it, actually, the way dance seems to hem itself into your very soul, a silent song that lengthens your every step, the grace of your arms. 

You don’t mind the hunger that gnaws at you, sharp and cutting, nor do you protest when your mother tells you to eat a little less, despite the fact that you haven’t had anything for breakfast, nor really for lunch. Because she’s your mother, and you believe her, and she is right; you did look a little bloated in that picture the other day, and that’s why it didn’t get nearly as many likes as the previous. Your face is beautiful⏤ it is the face of your mother, and you are too young yet for the arm of a man to hang off of, so you measure your worth in the last: your body, and the width of your hips. 

The next time Shouto sees you, it’s on video call, and you don’t think you’re mistaking the way his face tightens a little. “Have you been eating?” He asks you, direct and straight to the point. 

You are not really lying when you tell him that yes, you have, and you are not really lying when you don’t tell him: not as much. You are not really lying as you don’t tell him that you threw up the other day, sick on the taste of one of the foods you used to love so much, because you’d eaten it, and then started thinking of how many calories it was, how bloated you would look for the next picture, how your likes would fall, how your followers might fluctuate. 

You only thank him for liking all of your posts, anyways, like he always does. Between the rest of your activities, you barely have any time at all to yourself, and when you do manage to scrape some together, you are texting him. You tell him about your dances, how you feel about them, the music, your upcoming performances, and he tells you about his days in return. 

You tell him about the company you’ve started dancing for, how you’re not one of their lead dancers yet, but that you’re really good, so you might very well be one day. You’re not sure though⏤ you know you’re an amazing dancer, it’s a discipline you have carved inside you, like an extension of your very soul, but there are also a thousand-and-one girls who have done the exact same, who wear themselves out in hopes of achieving the coveted title of prima ballerina. You’re not that worried, though, you know you’re good, and achieving it isn’t just a pipe dream; it’s a very real possibility that you will achieve with your own two hands in the future. 

Shouto nods, and says, very seriously, that he knows you will, too. 

You smile at him when he says this, and your chest is so light that you almost forget everything else⏤ the gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach, the despair you’d felt after your last post didn’t gain so much traction, the fact that you hadn’t gotten the lead role this time, because there’s another girl who’s not-quite as good as you but that your company still wishes to see develop; see flourish. Shouto has always had this effect on you⏤ you don’t know if it’s because of the simple way he says it, or the genuine way he seems to believe in you, and in everything you do, but when you talk to him, your worries seem entirely insignificant, like nothing else even matters.

But your mother does not think the same.

She believes a woman’s worth is measured in three things, just as you do. The worth of the man’s arm you cling to, but you are still a little young for this, your body⏤ the width of your hips⏤ and your face, and by extension, your youth. The world views women as flowers, she has told you once. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

She means it the first few times as a criticism of herself. But every time after that seems to sound more like a warning; a prodding to you⏤ you, freshly thirteen, and at the very start of your career, you who are undoubtedly talented at dancing, so much that becoming the most renowned prima ballerina in the world isn’t just a pipe dream, but very real possibility you will achieve, with your own two hands in the future. 

You don’t know if your mother thinks the same, but you do know that in the future is just not good enough for her.

After all, youth to her is like a broken fountain, a well with no water, a stream already run dry. Yours may be glorious and still-gushing, but the timer is ticking, and in the future is not good enough at all.

And when everything after happens, you will understand, innately, that this is the why. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The third of your core memories starts something like this. 

You are in a room with three people: you, your mother, and a man you do not know.

You do not remember the specifics of his face. You remember only that he was older, so much older that much of his hair had turned white, that he smelled sort of like your grandmother, in the way that all old people do, and that he was touching you.

Your mother was in the room with you. She was not watching, but she was aware⏤ you know she was, because you were looking at her, wondering if it was okay⏤ you did not think it was, but she didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything, and you thought that it was, that it had to be, that you were the strange one. ( This is your mother, the one that has held you, nursed you, sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. ) 

You remember only that he was touching you, and that you did not like it. 

It’s not sex. You’re thirteen, so you’ve learned enough about it in school to know what that is, but he’s touching you in places that no one ever has before, and you think that there is something wrong with the situation, but you’re not sure⏤ your mother does not say a thing, so you think that you’re the one in the wrong. This is normal, and it’s strange of you to feel so profoundly uncomfortable, to want to tell him to stop, but you don’t, because your mother doesn’t say anything, so it’s okay, so it has to be, right? 

You suppose it’s not something to care about that much, anyways. He doesn’t hurt you, you’re only uncomfortable, and his company is so renowned that when you land the lead ballerina role the next week, your social media account does numbers. 

It’s fine, you think. You were only uncomfortable, and when you ask your mother about it later, she says only this. Well, you didn’t say no, and then she gives you a look. You’re doing just fine, aren’t you? 

She’s right, you think. You had been uncomfortable, and you hadn’t wanted it, but you hadn’t said no, so really, it’s your own fault for not communicating properly. And you’re the strange one⏤ your mother had been in the same room, after all, and she hadn’t said a thing, so it must have been normal.

You do not tell anyone else about this. You are not sure if you should; you are ashamed, and you do not think you want to. There is no one else you can, anyways, outside of your mother, because the only one you are really close enough to talk to about non-surface level topics is Shouto, and you don’t want to bother him with your worries. He’s studying to enter UA, he has enough on his plate, and you were the strange one for overreacting like you did, how you are the strange one for being uncomfortable.

It is your fault in the first place, you think, because you did not say no.

You do not end up telling Shouto about it. 

This is the third and last of your childhood memories, and it is also one you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You flourish like your mother wants you to. 

Your social media account explodes, your follower count with it, so many that you are not just known as a dancer and occasional influencer in circles, but a celebrity, true and proper. You are recognized on the streets now, there are people that ask for your autograph, you are scrutinized everywhere you go; your outfits and your makeup are the talk of the town.

It is not so strange. You have always been the subject of scrutiny wherever you go⏤ when you were young, it was because you were your father’s youngest child, the one born from his whore-wife turned eventual actress, the subject of a thousand countless speculations; if they had gotten together only because of you, and if you were even his child at all. 

But even before that, it had been your mother always; watching you with an eagle eye, micromanaging your every move, every step, and after, you had started to do much of it yourself. You know what beauty requires of you⏤ hunger gaping like a chasm in your stomach, pain as they wax the hair from your arms, angles that make you look better than the others, though at the moment, you do not yet need procedures only money can buy. When you are not dancing, you are primping yourself, obsessing over the slightest of flaws⏤ your mother boasts that you don’t need drugs like all the others in the industry to survive, to keep yourself slim, and there is pride in her voice. 

Shouto still makes sure to text you every day, and you do the same to him. Sometimes it’s longer, the two of you managing to scrape enough time together to have a longer conversation, the ones where you always initiate a voice call, missing the sound of his voice. ( Eventually, he starts asking you if he can call you, and your heart beats beautifully light in your throat. ) But you don’t video call him, not like the first time⏤ where he’d asked you if you were eating, and you could only try your best not to lie. 

You do not see each other often. Sometimes you miss the early days, when you could go over to his house every week and spend hours simply sprawled in the sun, doing whatever you could, whatever you’d like. You miss your conversations about anything and everything and nothing at all; some manga you thought he’d enjoy, learning how to bake⏤ he’s horrible at cooking, and so are you, but you have fun while doing it, and that’s all that matters⏤ but more often, you simply miss him. 

But you get your chance to see him soon enough, two years since you last laid eyes upon each other, sometime during the school year. 

It’s been a long time since your mother withdrew you from your own school⏤ you still have your tutors, but they’re significantly lesser than before. Your career is already set in stone, after all, and you are neither a man nor your father’s heir, so anything you learn beyond the basics is mere formality. But your brother’s giving a presentation to the older business kids at UA, and he asks you if you’d like to tag along. 

You know your father would disapprove⏤ he doesn’t like it when you interact with his heir. But your brother has always been kind to you, even though you are a child from another mother, even if your mother is not so kind to him⏤ he is kind to you when he offers, and you think you have never been so grateful. 

UA is large in a way you have never known a school to be. Their campus sprawls before you, building after building, and it looks so cool. You are a little in awe, and just a little jealous of the people that get to go here⏤ not that you have any particular desire to learn, you were never very good at it, but more so because you’ve never really gotten the chance to experience what it’s like. And the interior is even better⏤ the halls almost exactly like the ones in the shoujo manga you enjoyed, once upon a time. You wonder how many of the people who attended here have gotten to live out those scenes in real life; the people that are loved enough to make protagonists out of, whose stories are enough to touch their audiences, to inspire them. 

You have seen many of these faces on social media, up-and-coming heroes that the Pros post, on occasion. You are a little surprised when some of them even recognize you⏤ not that much, because you’re something of a celebrity by now, but you did not think people as cool as these aspiring heroes would pay attention to something like you. You honestly thought your brother would be the popular one⏤ he’s your father’s heir, after all, and he’s already a rising star in the business industry, but it’s you they’re fawning over, you who’s being asked for your autograph, you who the girls approach with shy smiles on their faces, complimenting your outfit, your lip shade, calling you pretty. 

“I’ll go ahead and get set up. Text me when you’re ready to leave, alright?” Your brother smiles down at you, and you’re about to ask him why, but then you see a flash of red-and-white, out of the corner of your eye. 

Heart held like a butterfly in your throat, you turn. 

You’ve seen him on the television, of course⏤ you watch every moment of his from the Sports Festival, complimenting his cool moves, telling him to start posting actively onto his social media account⏤ you’d be famous! you tell him, but it’s only teasing; you know he has no interest. You’ve seen him fighting villains, follow all the fan accounts there are of him with your alt account⏤ he makes an account for you, and you decide it’s only fair if you make one for him⏤ but you haven’t seen him like this in person, in almost three whole years. He’s taller than you remember, of course he is⏤ he’s not thirteen anymore, and he’s significantly more well-muscled, and you understand why girls gush over him, even though he’s not officially a Hero; the real-life version of your fairytale Prince Charming. 

He’s panting a little as he walks towards you, the crowd parting before him⏤ you wonder if he’d run to see you, but then your arms are opening, and he’s holding you, cupping the whole of you in your hands like he did the first time⏤ hesitant and careful, as if you were one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, like something precious. You don’t want this moment to end, and from the way he’s holding you, if you were delusional enough, you might have thought him to think the same. You squeeze back a little⏤ it’s been years since you’ve seen him, and he doesn’t say anything at first, and you don’t need him to. Shouto has always spoken more with his actions than he ever has his words, as you have come to know⏤ you don’t need him to say anything to know that this is his way of saying I missed you. 

You don’t want this moment to end, but it’s broken, eventually, by a voice from the other side of the hall⏤ “She’s your girlfriend ?” A golden-haired boy gapes. “You’ve been holding out on us, man!” 

You’re the one to step away a little, flushing. “It’s not⏤” 

“Todoroki, you bastard,” Someone else moans. 

“It’s not like that,” You correct, a little more firmly. You don’t want them to get the wrong idea⏤ you don’t want to ruin anything he has. You are his best friend, you have decided a long time ago; you will not destroy what you have for something so uncertain, and that is why you inform them. “Shouto-san’s only going to marry for love.”

You realize right after the words leave your mouth that there are multiple interpretations to this. First, the way you meant them, that Shouto is only ever going to marry for love, and as an extension, that he is not in love with you. There’s a beat of silence⏤ they’re looking at you a little bit strangely, you think, and the thought has you clutching your box a little tighter to your chest.

But then, you remember. That’s right. Your box. You hold it up like an offering, a practiced smile spreading over your face⏤ “I brought macarons for you!” You say, bright. “I practiced a lot after the last time, so they’re a lot better than the last time we tried to make them, so I thought you could maybe share them with your class? Or your friends? The chefs helped me, so they should be okay to eat⏤” 

You’re rambling, you think, just a little, but you are relieved when he accepts the box as you thrust it towards him. 

He stares at it a little blankly. “Why?” 

You blink. “Why did I make them?” 

“Why do I have to share?” 

“Todoroki, you bastard.” Someone⏤ a different someone this time, groans again. 

“Think of it as me bribing your friends so they’re a little nicer to you.” You laugh a little at the small frown on his face. “Do you want to introduce me to them?” 

You see his mouth open, already forming a no. 

“The friends and classmates in question would love to introduce themselves to you.” A pink-haired, pink-skinned girl cuts in, grinning. 

You smile a little at this, but then Shouto cuts in, a little assertively. “Over lunch, then. I’ll buy it for you.” 

You are about to say, oh, there’s no need, or I’ve already eaten today, but he only glances at you, the purse of his mouth a little insistent. 

You think of the way he’d asked you the one and only time you facetimed him if you’d been eating well, to take care of yourself, and you see that same worry in his eyes now.

You nod, mentally counting up the calories, but you still say in the end, “Okay.” 

His expression softens, brightening a little, and though you don’t really think you should be eating, you don’t entirely mind. 

You think he is a bit different from the boy you once knew.

You remember how he was sullen and a little bit quietly churlish, though he was not actively trying to be⏤ closed off to the world, a pearl stuck in a clam shell. But you look at him now, and you think he is not at all the same. There are some parts of him left, of course, but he seems brighter, now, more open; comfortable and almost entirely at ease. And it’s no wonder⏤ you think his classmates are very lovely, and they are very kind. 

You find yourself enjoying their company⏤ you internalize their names, telling them that they can reach out to you if they’d like; you’re pretty alright at social media yourself, and are always happy to help them with anything, though you’ll only probably be of help in the public relations aspect, you note a touch apologetically. You offer to do some photoshoots with the girls Shouto’s closer with⏤ the brown-haired one looks a little starstruck, though the black-haired one looks less sure.

“I’d hate to trouble you,” She says, politely⏤ Yaoyorozu Momo, you remember, from a family less well-off, but still memorable enough to occasionally haunt the same circles.

“Shouto-san’s friends are my friends,” You sense him watching you, so obligingly, you take another bite of your food.

You’re not watching him, but you still get the general sense that he is pleased.

“Yaomomo, you did mention you like tea, right? Maybe we can all meet up sometime for a party!”

“Oh! Yes, I’d love that! My place is open, I’d love to host⏤” She glances at you. “Would that be… amenable to you?” 

You smile, and you feel a little warm. “I’d love to attend, if you’ll have me.”

She smiles back, delighted.

You only think, you are glad that Shouto has so many friends like this at his side; open and warm, accepting him for who he is, as comfortably as you have ever seen him.

You tell him exactly this as he walks you back to the front entrance.

“Your friends are really nice,” You say. “I’m glad I got to meet them. Tell me how they’re doing, every once in a while?”

He glances at you, a question in his eyes. “Why not ask them yourself?”

He must have seen the question in yours.

“They want to be your friend. Anyone would.”

He says it so simply, so naturally, that your heart is beating so fast you think it might escape from your chest.

“Thank you,” You say, because you don’t know what else to.

He nods. Your brother is there, you have arrived, the limo and your driver in the background, but his mouth opens, and you find yourself hesitating, wanting to hear what he has to say.

“When you said I was going to marry for love,” He says slowly, and you are hanging onto his every word. You get the sense that he is watching you very carefully. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?”

And the first thought that rises to your head when he asks you this is: no. 

You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of it the first time you meet him, and every time thereafter, because how could you not?

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who texts you every day, even when you know he is tired from all the training he has to do, who listens to your long rambling over the phone, who doesn’t hang up on you so that you can fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. Shouto, who makes sure to send a small gift to your residence every year after you cry at the first one he gives you⏤ because it is the best present you have ever received in your life. Shouto, who notices all the little things, pushes the things he knows you like towards you, asks if you’re eating, who makes his one and only social media account for you to like your posts and solely to like your posts.

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now, as you look at him. You look at him now, your heart tight, your chest light⏤ at the face of your best friend, and when you look at him, the thought comes to you, naturally, upon a breeze, as if it were as easy as breathing.

But you do not know if he feels the same; he tells you once upon a time that he is only going to marry for love, and you have long since decided that you are happy enough like this, with what you have, so long as you are able to stay his best friend for the rest of your life.

You smile, and when you say we’ll see what happens, it does not feel entirely like the truth, and yet it also does not feel entirely like a lie.

You turn away before he can see your expression shutter, and that also means you do not see his.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your father has always been an intimidating man.

It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a businessman, and a powerful one which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people.

You understand this quite well; after all, that is why he married your mother.

You learned the reason for this when you were younger. You had never questioned his treatment of you before⏤ after all, your father is a traditional man, and you are neither a man nor his heir, so it has never really bothered you that he treats you differently from your brother; addressing you only across the dinner table to inquire about the state of your connections, when he does deign to speak to you. And you don’t mind⏤ you’ve always thought of him a little cold, a little intimidating, and your mother is the parent you go to, anyways⏤ your mother who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. 

But you are six when you first learn the meaning of bastard, and then all of a sudden, it all makes sense.

Your mother was a famous actress, this, you know. You also know of how she was made from nothing, how she never finished high school, how her first agency whisked her away before she even turned fully sixteen. How she, a girl born from nothing, who had nothing, managed to dig her roots deep, carving out her own place in the world, clawing her way to the top. A woman’s worth, she says to you once upon a time, is made of three things⏤ her face and her body, two things she has in abundance, and the arm of the man she clings to.

You are six when you understand; your father is a traditional man, and that is the only reason he marries your mother. 

Perhaps that is why when he gives you your ultimatum, you are already expecting it.

You have already known from early on that this is what your parents want from you. Your father is a businessman, his heart ruled in strict transaction, and your mother is not much better in her own views⏤ marriage to her is a way of elevating her social standing, of cementing her worth. 

And that is why when you stare at the file before you, the world around falling away, you are not surprised when she does not say a thing. 

He is a good enough match, you suppose; a rich man, one that’s greeted you after your performances enough time that you see his face, and you are able to recall his name. You could do worse⏤ he is handsome enough, and rising quickly through the ranks⏤ likely blood money, you think, but that is common enough in your circles that you do not bat an eye. You feel the satisfaction in your father’s gaze, and wonder how much he offered for you, if it was a fortune⏤ it had to be no small amount, you think, but you would not be surprised if it wasn’t. 

“Surely we can find a suitor closer to her age,” Your brother is the one to break the silence. You are a little surprised⏤ he doesn’t usually question your father’s decisions, after all, he is the golden child; the one that is favored most. “What about any of the children from the other families?” 

“None of them would’ve matched the offer,” Your father rumbles, and you hear what he doesn’t say. How none of them would be able to match the offer, to be willing to pay enough, because you are not worth that much, because all you are worth is your face, the width of your hips, and what you are; your father’s bastard daughter, the one conceived out of wedlock. 

He adds, as an afterthought. 

“Unless, of course, you manage to convince the Todoroki child, that friend of yours, to marry.” 

Your fork pauses midair, and you consider the possibility, for all of a moment. 

( You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now. You think you always have, and it was simply so natural, how could you not? )

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who knows you just as well as you do him, and that is also why you know, if you asked him, he would undoubtedly say yes. 

And then, the guilt hits.

You think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. 

And that is also why you put your fork down, and say, quietly. 

“The man you’ve picked will do, father.” 

You think your brother’s eyes widen as he looks at you, the only member of your four-man table who looks even remotely upset at your answer. Your own face is blank, as it always is at these dinners, your mother sees no difference between the two of them; one man’s arm to her is worth just the same as another.

Your father is smiling, pleased. 

“Very well. We shall announce your engagement within the year.” 

Your mother smiles. “Is there something you’d like as a present, darling? Some new pointe shoes, maybe? You were always complaining about how yours don’t even last a full two weeks.”

“No need.” Your father places his fork down. “You’ll be stopping all your dance activities. It was one of the conditions of your marriage.” 

The food tastes like ash in your mouth. 

You think: you can handle being a wife. You were always prepared for the eventuality of it. But not dance⏤ a prima ballerina’s time in the spotlight, you have known, will always be limited, but you are not prepared for this. You are not ready for this part of you to be cut away just yet, like a surgical incision.

You swallow. “But father⏤” 

“A wife has no need for such trivialities as dance.” 

The words die down in your throat. 

Your mother is silent. Your brother tries, at least. “But surely some⏤” 

“That is final.”

You dip your head. Your voice is thick. You say only one thing.

“Yes, father.” 

You say only the mantra you have been repeating for the most of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first thing you say to your future husband is to ask if you may finish up the rest of your season’s performances. 

He allows it of you. Of course he does; he is drunk on his victories, pleased enough to offer you this small consolation. 

You dance the best you ever have. The tabloids applaud each of your performances as better than the last, the kinder papers worry about your health, you dance for you and yourself, the years you have put into it, the years you will lose; you dance like you will never get the chance to ever again.

You won’t; you know this, and that is why you dance until your body breaks, ignoring each and every last one of your friends’ concerned messages⏤ from both Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. 

You dance until your body breaks, literally, on the last of your performances. 

Your fall from grace, the media calls it.

You do not care. You have given it all you have, and there will be no more dance after this, anyway. 

You ignore your friends’ concerned messages⏤ both from Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. He calls you directly⏤ is everything alright, you hear him ask you, what’s wrong, what can I do for you, what happened? 

He must have seen the articles, then. You think it is the most panicked you have ever heard him. 

You tell him that you are fine, you just hurt your ankle a bit.

You don’t tell him that the doctors do not think you will be able to dance like you did ever again. 

He is silent for all of a moment, and then he asks you, simply. “Are you okay?” 

The sound of it, his simple concern, is enough to bring tears to your eyes, a lump to your throat. You don’t remember the last time anyone’s ever asked you that. 

You almost break, right then and there. You don’t want to marry this man you do not know, this man who reminds you of the other one, once upon a time, from your core memories, this man that you do not want. You know if you did, if you asked, he wouldn’t even hesitate to agree, because it’s you, only because it’s you, and you want to. You want to ask so badly that it aches.

( But then, you think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. 

You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. )

You do not ask.

Instead, you tell him only the truth, soft and quiet. “I’m getting engaged, Shouto.” 

There is a beat of long silence. Only then do you realize the question he had asked⏤ are you okay, and realize what his mind is undoubtedly sifting through at the moment, that you are not okay because you are getting engaged.

You hasten to correct yourself. “I mean, I’m fine, that’s not why. It’s just…” 

You swallow. You don’t want to say this, but you know you should. You know what kind of person you are, you know that you will cave eventually, at some point down the line, because you love him so much that your heart hurts, and you do not think you can bear the burden of continuing like this any longer.

“I don’t think we should call like this any longer.” 

You want to take the words back as soon as you say them. Already, you are trying to memorize the way he shapes his words, the tone of his voice.

He is silent on the other end. Too silent, and for too long. And then, all he says is this, softer than you have ever heard. 

“Do you love him?” 

You think: no. Never.

You say: “Yes.” 

Another beat of silence. You listen to the sound of him breathing, thinking of all the other calls you have had, where he stays on the line just so you can fall asleep a little easier. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and furious.

“Okay.” You can almost see him hesitating, the tentative look on his face. “I’m always here for you, whenever you need it.”

“You’ll always be my best friend, Shouto. You know that?” 

“Forever,” He says, a tad serious now. “We pinky promised.” 

You laugh. You can’t help it, thickly through your tears. “I can’t believe you still remember.” 

“Of course.” He says, and all you can think is, of course he’d remember.

You think you love him so much that it hurts. 

Your mother walks in, a questioning look in her eye.

You don’t want to cut this last conversation of yours so short, but you say, anyways. “I have to go now, Shouto. It was really nice talking to you.” You mean it.

You hang up first.

“You shouldn’t be calling him anymore,” Your mother advises. “You’re to be married soon. Your husband won’t like it.” 

“I know,” You say. 

Your smile feels bitter.

“It won’t happen again.” 

Your mother looks at you, her lips pursed. “See that it doesn’t.” 

You wait until she leaves, the basket of fruit left behind her.

Then, and only then, do you turn your head into the pillow, and let the tears fall. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time he sees you, he thinks you look a little like a porcelain doll. 

Your skin is just as smooth, your features just as exquisite, but he thinks it’s more of the frailty of your figure, and the delicate grip you have on your parasol. You are ephemeral in a way he has never seen before, but with the kind of beauty that he thinks he’d see in a book, or in one of his manga. 

And yet⏤ you are beautiful, yes, but he has no intention of marrying you⏤ not when he has seen what the lack of love can do to a household, to his mother and father, and to every other soul that lives still in it. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you⏤ and then you say, it’s okay if you don’t want to.

He blinks a little. No one has ever said that to him before. 

He is a little apologetic, when he tells you the truth: that he only ever plans on marrying for love, and he is relieved when you smile. 

You ask him if he’d like to be friends, but you also say that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to be⏤ but he does. He’s never had a friend before⏤ he has his tutors, his combat instructors, his siblings, but he hasn’t been allowed outside yet, so he hasn’t had the chance to, and you are kind, he thinks. The kindest person he has ever met, to be kind to him for no reason at all; you are not his sibling, not his anyone, and he thinks you are kinder to him than he deserves. He wants to be your friend, and that’s why he thinks to himself the whole of the month you are gone, thinking of how to get you to call him by his first name, like they do in the manga, in the stories.

You are a little surprised when he tells you that you can, and he adds the only reasoning he can think of⏤ it’d be confusing with so many Todorokis in the house.

You are smiling as you call him Shouto-san for the first time, and at that, he feels oddly pleased. 

It’s a little awkward at first⏤ he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say; he’s never had a friend before, and neither have you. But friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before, he finds, like something natural, something that comes to him like breathing. He does not know if he’s doing it right, only that you are pleased when he remembers something that you said the other day, something that you like. You weren’t interested in the manga he liked before, but you try them for him, and he finds he doesn’t mind your romance ones, not entirely⏤ he doesn’t mind reading them, listening to you ramble about anything and everything you found interesting. He only hopes you don’t mind that he doesn’t talk as much, but you don’t seem to⏤ you cover up all the awkward silences with a change in topic, even when he’s a little more curt than he means to be. 

Friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before. You don’t mind his awkward pauses, his sharper silences, the shortness of his words, and you are simply so easy to talk to. You are thoughtful and altruistic, pay close attention to every single one of his moods, and even though he knows there is more you don’t say⏤ he knows it’s you that leaves soothing cream on his desk, there’s no one else that would, and his heart clenches then, an ache, like something painful. You and your soft, considerate way of doing things, thinking it’s not your place but wanting to show your support for him anyways, doing it in a way that he might never see at all, without expecting even a thanks.

He tries really hard, combs every shop with Fuyumi he can think of, practically every one in the city.  

He stares at the pile of CD’s held in your hands, afraid of looking up, but when he does, you’re crying. 

I do like them, you tell him, but you’re crying.

You smile. “Happy tears.” And then you’re reaching for him, cradling him in your arms, and he’s freezing⏤ he doesn’t remember the last time he was held like this, that he was able to hold something like this. You fit perfectly into his arms, though he doesn’t know where exactly to put them, and he thinks he likes the way that you hold him, the way you smell, the way you bury your face in his chest. “I love it.” You croak, somewhat thickly. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

And he doesn’t know how to say it, nor what exactly the feeling in his chest is, but he thinks: he doesn’t mind if he’s frozen in this moment a little longer, maybe even forever, just so long as he gets to hold you like this.

He does not know if this is what they call love, but he thinks it must be; the love that they show in your romance novels, your shoujo mangas, the ones he reads on occasion, because you ramble about them to him. Nothing else can explain it⏤ not the way his steps seem to lighten whenever he sees you, the way he checks his phone more often than ever, just in case you’ve left him another message, so much that his father starts threatening to take it away for the whole of the week. It must be⏤ it’s more than caring on just a fundamental level, it’s feeling delighted when he wakes up on his birthday because he knows there will be a present from you sitting there, reading a passage and hearing your voice in his head, thinking of how you’d react. It’s asking you to show him all your dances, and thinking you are an art form; the way you look, the way you move, and thinking you look beautiful even when you stumble; in spite of it. 

It’s running across the school when he hears that you are here. 

He is panting a little, but his steps are light, and he doesn’t mind, not when he hasn’t seen you in two years, and then there you are. 

You look just like you do in the photos, he thinks. Taller, more grown, but still so beautiful that as always, it takes his breath away. He’s always thought you are; like a porcelain doll the first time, like the heroines in some of the shoujo manga he reads or the princess of your romance novels. You are smiling at him, a vision in the sunlight, and he simply steps towards you. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way you fit in his arms like you are made for them, and then he notices how thin you have become, your muscles lean, but your wrists like bone, and all he can think of is: you need to eat. It’s the way he doesn’t want to share the macarons you make him, because you spent time on them, you made them for him, not his friends that you do not even know. It’s the way you make everyone around you feel instantly at ease, smiling at Yaoyorozu as you tell her: Shouto’s friends are my friends, in the way you are simply thoughtful and considerate, in everything that you do.

“When you said I was going to marry only for love,” He says, and it’s a careful question. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?” 

You hesitate, and he’s hanging on to your every word, your every breath. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way his heart shutters when you smile, and when you say: “We’ll see what happens,” and his feelings do not change towards you, not even when you make it clear that you don’t feel the same. It’s the way he tamps down upon them, careful not to let them seep into his messages, into your conversations, because he thinks the only alternative worse than a world where you don’t love him is a world where he can’t talk to you at all. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, as long as you let him stay in your life and by your side; he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

And then you tell him that you’re getting engaged. It’s out of nowhere, you’ve never even mentioned such a thing to him, and he’s still worrying about whether or not you’re okay, what this means for you, because dance is your everything, it’s a discipline hewn into you like heroism is to him, you haven’t even told him about a man? And then you tell him⏤ I don’t think we should call like this anymore, that he finally realizes the enormity of what you’d just said.

Some part of him had always thought it would happen one day, he thinks. He just had not expected it to happen so soon. And he is fine with it, he tells himself⏤ you only said no more calls, that doesn’t mean you don’t want to talk to him, you’re still allowing him to stay in your life, and he will, even if his heart is breaking, even if it hurts.

He only asks you: “Do you love him?” 

He knows you just like how you know him. And that is why, when you say yes, he knows you mean no. 

He almost offers to marry you, right then and there. He wishes he would, he wishes he could. He wants to. But then he thinks of the way you have steeled yourself when you lie to him, the conviction in your voice.

And in the end, all he settles upon is: “Okay.” 

Your wedding is a small affair, closed off to only the closest of friends and family. He hears it is at your bequest. 

You do not invite him, and he is almost glad for it⏤ he knows he is your closest friend even without the invite. But what he wonders is if you didn’t invite him because you knew all along; the love he holds for you, and decided to spare him this pain.

You have always been so thoughtful, so considerate of him, after all, and when he thinks about it like that, his heart hurts a little. 

It’s okay, he thinks. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. 

He is better in some ways than your father. 

He allows you to speak to him, though you must be respectful when you do so⏤ you do not mind, of course, you have lived that way much of your life. He does not make you cook, nor clean, nor anything that a typical housewife should; understanding of your upbringing and your dancer background. You have all the food in the world, a roof above your head, a mattress beneath you, all the jewels a woman could possibly want, a mountain of wealth before her. 

You only have to smile when he comes home, kiss him upon the cheek, drape yourself around him, and allow him to use you as he wishes. 

Your mother has told you in advance about some of it, what you should expect, and how you should let him take what he wants from you, keep quiet. What if he hurts me? You find the courage to ask, because though your father hasn’t, you think it is a very real possibility, and she only looks at you, pursing her lips. 

“Keep quiet, of course. Anything else would be shameful.” 

You had meant during sex, but you internalized her words, the judgment on her face, much as you had the first time, all those years ago, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember. After all, this was your mother, the one who has always known best; the one who has always meant to give you her best, this mother that has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you. 

You think of her very often, and more specifically, her words, because you don’t think you can bring yourself to think of much else, not when their wounds are still fresh, still gaping. You think back to that time when you were thirteen, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember, how it felt the same, how you are still as uncomfortable then as you are now. You don’t like him, you don’t want him to touch you, even on the days he is gentler, even though he is your husband⏤ you think a part of you never will. Your mother is not there this time, so you cannot look to her for advice, and you already know what she will say the same things that you think. After all, this is your husband, the one you are supposed to stay with for life, and it’s like the first time, where you did not want it, but you’re not sure if you can say no, or even how to. 

He’s not a bad husband. He showers you in gifts. His arm is worth a lot, you know very well⏤ you have seen the jealous stares in your usual social circles, while he only grins, arrogantly all the while. But you don’t trust it, not entirely⏤ your mother had warned you about the honeymoon era, and she does so again on your next outing, when you tell her that he is treating you well. 

“All men are like that,” She tells you. “They treat women like flowers. Something to admire, something to pluck when you are fresh and fully in bloom. Just wait until you wither.” She scoffs. “Your father was exactly the same.” 

You think here, instinctively, protectively. Shouto wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. 

The thought brings a wave of fresh agony to your throat, but you only dip your head a little forward and nod. “Yes, mother.” 

You don’t text him as often now. You don’t have that much to tell him, and honestly, you don’t really know what to say, in fear that you might break or cross the line in a way that you shouldn’t. He’s the one that texts you, asking you how your day went, sending pictures of cats he found on the road, things he thought were cute, things he thought you might like. You text him back when he does⏤ you want to talk to him, after all, even when you think that you shouldn’t, and it feels a little bit like the old days, back when you were young and had all the time in the world, to do whatever you wanted, whatever you’d like. 

You don’t text him as often now, but you are glad when he does you. 

You think that, in the early days, he was the only thing holding you together; the only thing that kept you from falling apart. 

It takes a while for your husband to lay a hand on you, but when he does, you are not entirely surprised. 

Your mother had prepared you for this, after all, showed you what was expected of you, even if she had not explicitly said it herself. And he is terribly apologetic of it after⏤ he’d just been really stressed at work, he’d said, but this was something you had already known, from his rougher treatments of you the nights previous. It’s because you’re texting that friend of yours so often, he says, and he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but it might help if you text him a little less.

You hesitate. You don’t want to text Shouto less, you already are, you’re texting him less than you ever have before, but you agree. He’s your husband, after all, and that means his comforts should take priority over yours, right?

Yes, you hear your mother in your mind, agreeing.

You nod. You can text him a little less. 

He is tender with you that night, apologetic and loving.

You weep to yourself after he falls asleep. Quietly, because he does not like it when you do.

It takes him one month until the next. He tells you the same thing, once again⏤ work is stressing him out, he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but you are still texting that friend of yours so often.

You have heard this tirade before. You do not know why you hope it to be different the second time.

Still, you nod. You do not know what else you can do.

It happens five times, and on the fifth, he shatters your phone. 

You stare at its remnants, trying your hardest not to cry. 

“Please don’t cry,” He murmurs. “You know I don’t like it when you do. I promise this won’t happen again, okay?”

You want to tell him that he is a liar. You want to tell him that you don’t like it when he holds you, when he touches you. You want to say: you said this the last time, and every time after that. When will it stop? When will it end? 

( Your mother tells you your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. )

You are out in public, and you splashed a little bit of water on yourself by accident⏤ you’re not eating that much, less than you ever have before, and your wrists trembled just a little. You cover the wet spot on your skin immediately, the greenish-blue prints, but too slow⏤ you see the way her eyes flicker over you, assessingly, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips.

“You could do worse,” She simply tells you again. “He’s handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, doesn’t he?” 

She is supportive in the way that she says it, in the way she always is. 

You dip your head forth and say, quietly. “Yes, mother.” 

You suppose that she is right. It could be worse. Because while he hits you, he makes sure not to break you, in places that are easier to conceal, places that heal easier, and never on your face.

You are making your way back to the limo when you see Yaoyorozu Momo, or rather, she sees you.

You hear the gasp first, and then she’s before you, as present and beautiful as if your first meeting was just yesterday. Instinctively, you hide your wrist⏤ the exposed bruise, the one where your makeup had been accidentally washed and wiped away⏤ but she only blinks at you. “Hi! It’s been so long! How are you?” 

It strikes a chord within, and your smile stretches onto your face, bright and unfeeling. “Just fine. And you?” 

“I’m doing good, thank you for asking.” She smiles warmly. “It’s so good to see you. I never got to properly thank you for that shoot you helped me with.”

You remember this. It had been one that had helped her significantly in kick-starting her Hero career, after all. “Oh, it was no trouble. I’m happy to help. Shouto’s friends are my friends.” 

Even after all this time, the words still come naturally to you, and you don’t realize you have said them until you do. 

Your heart shutters, but your face does not. 

Your mother has trained you well. 

“Speaking of Shouto… he tells me he’s worried about you,” She says, haltingly. “We all are. He tells me you haven’t texted him back in a while.” 

“Oh,” Your excuse slips smoothly. “Tell him there’s no need to be. I just broke my phone, that's all, and lost the numbers upon it.” 

She is looking at you a little strangely here, you think, though she tries to keep her eyes trained upon yours, you see the way they flicker, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips. 

You watch her take out her notepad, write a series of numbers upon it. You think of what your husband would say if he knew you were talking to him again, what he would do.

“I don’t⏤” You begin. You feel only your shame. 

But this friend of yours has always been smart. Perhaps smarter than anyone has ever given her credit for. After all, she grew up in a world quite similar to yours⏤ not quite the same, but similar enough, was told of the stories, haunted the same circles, was made aware of what might happen, and what could. 

“It’s not Shouto’s,” She asserts, cutting you off. “It’s mine. Call me if you need anything, alright? I’m a Pro. I’m here for you.” 

It has been so long since anyone has told you that.

Your eyes burn. Your chest feels a little tight.

She presses the paper to your hand insistently, and smiles when you finally curl your fingers around it. 

“Thank you,” You say.

It feels empty. You don’t think you will use it, but you think it should be fine; after all, it’s only a number, you’re not texting anyone, and the person on the other end is a girl.

You are wrong. 

It is not, and you have barely managed to place it upon your dresser when your husband comes in.

He’s early today. You have not yet had the time to change from your outdoor clothes, to prepare yourself mentally to greet him, and you are only half-risen from your seat when he crosses the room. 

He doesn’t head for you like he usually would, and when you look back upon this moment in hindsight, his target is clear. 

“Wait⏤”

You don’t even manage to get the whole of your words out before he rips your lifeline to pieces. 

You stare at them as they fall from his hands, and you don’t know how exactly you manage to find your voice⏤ you never have before this, but you do. “That was a woman’s number, one of my friends, it wasn’t⏤” You don’t know what you’re saying. You just don’t know why he’s doing this, he shouldn’t be jealous like this, you haven’t texted him in months, haven’t reached out to contact him since. You don’t understand. Why isn’t this okay? 

“But she’s one of his friends, isn’t she?” 

You don’t even know how he knows about it, who you’d met. The driver, you think, but he’s only continuing, more frenzied than you have ever seen him before. 

“Your Shouto. The one you didn’t want to stop texting, the one you’ve known since you were five. Yeah, your mother told me all about him.” You don’t know what expression you have on your face. “Your Shouto, the one you made an account for, to like all his fan’s posts?” 

You haven’t gone on that account in years⏤ it’s too painful to see him as he was, as he is. The protest rises to your throat. “I don’t⏤” 

“I give you everything a woman could ever want, anything you could ever ask for. I attended all of your recitals, brought you flowers after every single one, drape you in any gem you could ever think of, I give you the world.”  

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. Your mother tells you that he is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, and he is; he allows you to dance out the rest of your ballerina days, even after it’s already stated in your marriage clause, after your father forbids you from it. You could do much worse, your mother says, and you truly could⏤ he pays your father a pretty fortune, bedazzles you in diamonds, more than you have ever seen, more than you are worth⏤ ( you, your father’s almost-bastard child, the daughter born to your whore of a mother, conceived out of wedlock )⏤ and while he hits you, you know from your mother’s look that she thinks it is normal. You are lucky, even, that he hits you only in places that are easy to cover, so that the world may not know of your shame, your failings.

You could do worse. You could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to apologize after he hits you. You could do worse, because at least he does not break you. 

His voice is strained when he asks you. “What does he have that I don’t?”

Even after all these years, your answer comes to you easily, naturally, as if you were only taking another breath.

His heart. His gentle hand. His thoughtfulness, his willingness to listen, his ability to remember the little things. The way he holds you. How heroism is carved into him so naturally, as if he were born for it, like dance was for you. How you can talk to him about anything, everything, all your fears and your insecurities and your smallest of worries, and he will only nod understandingly, a comfort to you, even if he does not entirely understand. How you knew, then and now, that if you were to only ask, he would marry you in an instant, even though he’d said he’d only ever marry for love, because it’s you. How you know that even now, though it’s been years since the last time you’d talked to him, if you decided to reach out, to call for him, he would be here for you. 

You think that in another world, one where you didn’t love Shouto as you did, as you do, you might have been able to learn to love your husband, to accept his temperament and his feelings. 

And you do not say a thing. 

Your answer is written all over your face. 

For the first time in all the years you have known him, he strikes you right then and there, as if it will do anything to erase the expression he has already seen upon it. ( Your mother tells you once upon a time that your worth as a woman lies in your body, in your face, and he knows this, so that is why he is careful when he hits you. ) He is not this time, you are thrown, sprawling across your shared bed, and then he strikes the wall above you⏤ you feel the force in your body, the thunderous anger behind it. Beneath his fist, it crumbles, and you do not move.

You lie there. He does not apologize, and yet you feel no fear. 

You might have, once upon a time. Might have burst into tears. But your eyes are dry, there is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; scoured of even your last trace of hope. 

“FUCK!” He roars, and he punches the wall again. His fist is bleeding, you register, like something distant, as the crumble splatters against your skin, bouncing off like gravel. 

Your mother tells you that you could do worse, and you believe her. He is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, but beyond that, he is large enough, strong enough, that he has always been able to beat you to a pulp if you so wished. You could do worse, because you could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to curb his hits into something softer, something lesser, so it does not break you. 

You close your eyes. You might have cried, once, felt the hot sting of tears behind your eyes. 

But you have been wept dry. There is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

“Fuck,” He says quieter, something quieter, almost like defeat. 

You lay there, the shell of a woman, scattered into a thousand shards, rubble on your face, and crumbled around you. 

He sweeps from the room. 

At some point, the maids come in to clean you up. 

You lay there and let them.

He does not come back for a week, and in his absence, you throw up for the first time in several years. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s not the first time you’ve thrown up in your life, of course. You’ve thrown up because of sickness, though that’s rare⏤ your mother coddles you too much, and you have access to too many doctors, to ever be sick with something remotely serious. And when you were older, into your teens, sometimes it was because the hunger ached so much that you couldn’t help but gorge yourself, and then you felt so full, so sick, that you had vomited into the nearest toilet you could right after. 

But you have not done that in years, so when you vomit, you think only that you are sick.

You are fine the rest of the day, and you wonder if it was just a fluke.

But the next day, you throw up again. 

It’s not. You look at the two lines on the test the maid handed you.

“Congratulations!” She tells you. 

Your head is empty. There are no thoughts in it.

You think only that this must be a joke. 

But it isn’t. You take more tests, one after another, as many brands as you can get your hands on, as many as you can find. 

The trash can overflows. You stare at them, each of them double-lined, mute, a silent scream building up in your throat. 

The door slams open. You flinch a little at the sound, what it means, and you are right: your husband stands there, his shoulders heaving, hair in disarray. There is blood on him, you note idly, though he himself is unharmed⏤ it does not surprise you. You have always known to some degree that his hands are unclean. 

You watch him, resignation in your chest.

Your pregnancy tests are still strewn all around you, and there is no point in hiding. He had not allowed you to take contraceptives, and you know he will not allow you to even think of abortion. 

He looks up at you, and you think he is more delighted than you have ever seen him; the smile on his face so bright that you almost see him for what your mother says he is: handsome, charismatic, caring. He touches your stomach, and you do not move to stop him⏤ you never have, even when you didn’t want to, and you don’t care enough anymore, anyways. 

“We’re having a baby?” He breathes, reverent.

You echo the words in your mind.

We’re having a baby. 

You only think, somehow, that your tone does not sound anything at all the same. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Despite yourself, you decide, about a month in, that you will love this baby, and that if you don’t, you will learn to. 

You do not think it’s possible not to, anyways. It hits you one day, as you’re holding your hand over the flat of your stomach, and then you understand how your mother felt, why she’d held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years, and put all she had into raising you after. 

You do not love your husband. This much has been made clear to you, even though he is kinder now to you than he has ever been before, from even before you married him, before the early days, when he allowed you to dance in the spotlight for the very last time. 

You will not ever grow to love him. This much has also been made clear to you. He has done too much, you have seen too much, to ever trust him in the ways that matter, even if he remains kind to you for the rest of your life⏤ the memories will linger forever, even if the bruises do not. 

But, you think, you understand how your mother felt. 

You understand why she sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you, bore you for the full of the nine months, even when she did not love your father beyond the worth of his arm, why she did not mind the wreckage it made of her body, the scars that linger even after the thousand and one different operations and treatments to clear her from the remnants of childbirth, free of the remnants of you. 

You think, that even if you do not love his father, even if you never will, that you can love this child, that you will. You are sure of it, and even if you can’t, you hope that this child will be able to live out the rest of their days, sure and happy in themselves, never wanting for anything, that they will turn out better than you. 

And when you think of this, you straighten.

You don’t know what exactly prompts you to. A sense of motherhood, perhaps, which is almost laughable, because while you had always known that it was a very real possibility for your future, it had not seemed real to you. You had never considered that you would ever be a mother; you did not think you would be a good one. 

But, that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

You eat more than you have in years. Your body gobbles it up, famished after so long, a little bit at a time, and you’re slow, but you try to eat as much as you can, as many types as you can. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror⏤ you are scared of what you will see, you don’t want to think yourself bloated and lose the fat of your hips again. You accept the things the baby’s father lavishes upon you, allow him to look upon you in reverence, to touch your stomach. He does not apologize for what he has done, though the wall seals up, and you do not ask him to. 

You think only that for the sake of this baby, you are willing to try. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are three months along when it happens, and your husband is beside you when it does. 

There is no warning, other than a loud knock at your door, and the way you see your husband’s shoulders tense, sense him still. 

He shoves you towards your shared bedroom, harsher than he ever has these past few months. “Hide”, he hisses at you first, and then: “Call for help.” 

You sense, rather than hear the doors close shut between you, lock behind you, separating the two of you. 

You think you have always had an inkling that this would happen, one day. Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered, but only because he could be worse⏤ he is not that good of a man. You have also known this. 

But even then, even after all he has done, you do not think he deserves to die. 

That is the only thing that has you moving towards the phone. 

Your hands move on instinct. You do not have his number saved anymore, you do not know if he has changed it, and no one has offered it to you, but there is a part of you that has always remembered, part of you that hopes he hasn’t had the heart to change it.

The first thing you say directly to Todoroki Shouto in several years, after you tell him not to call you again, and after your phone is broken and the two of you stop texting⏤ is the whole of one word.

Help. 

It’s been so long that you don’t know if he recognizes your voice. You don’t know where he is, if he knows where you are, so you say, your heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “The penthouse,” You rasp, and you hope he knows what you’re saying. You still trust implicitly, somehow, that he does. 

And then you hang up. 

You call the police department next. You know it’s stupid, the order in which you did things, but you were so panicked in the moment, you could not separate one thought from the next. The operator manages to calm you down enough that you say this time, more coherently, more clearly than you have in years. “There are men in the house. I don’t know who they are. My husband is dealing with them right now. Please send help as soon as possible.” And then you remember, they don’t know where you are. “The penthouse,” You say, automatically, because you don’t quite remember the address. 

You have never had a need to remember it, after all. There is a driver to take you to and from the place, and you have never quite thought of it as anything important; it is not your home. 

Panic freezes in your chest. Of all the things to be unable to remember, at a time like this⏤ you tell the operator your husband’s name, and when the moment of silence stretches just a beat too long, then you tell him yours. 

That seems to work. 

He tells you that they will be there as soon as possible. 

But then, the locked door bursts open. 

An unfamiliar man smiles at you. “There you are, darling.” 

You’re frozen, like a deer in headlights, the phone still clutched in your hands, the operator still on the line. 

“DON’T TOUCH HER.” You think it is your husband that is roaring. 

The man ignores him. 

He steps forth, and instinctively, you take a step backwards. Out of the room, and onto the balcony. 

Your heartbeat is roaring in your ears. You are terrified. It’s like something out of a movie, you think, something that you had never even considered happening to you.

Distantly, you register the gun held in his hands. 

He takes another step forth. 

You stumble.

Your back hits the glass of the rail. 

“She has nothing to do with this,” You think you hear your husband saying. 

The man laughs. 

“She’s pregnant,” There is a note of desperation in his voice. 

The man laughs. “So was my sister, you piece of fucking shit.” 

He raises the gun, levels it at your head. 

Please, your husband says in the background. 

( You have always known your husband is not that bad of a man, though he is not that good, either, because he could be worse. )

You think there is desperation in his face, and there is only resignation in yours. 

He is not looking into the eyes of your would-be killer, after all. Does not see the set of his face, the determination, the anger and the hurt and the loss. 

And honestly, you are not really thinking. You do not know why you say it, why you tell him you are sorry.

You think, there is some part of you that is. You do not care about yourself⏤ you have been wept dry, there is nothing left in you, you are bare of anything and everything; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

You do not know why⏤ it’s not you who had done it, you did not know it even happened; it’s not your fault and it never has been. You are not responsible for the actions of your husband, you never have been. There is no reason for you to apologize, save for the faults others have placed unreasonably upon you.

But you are sorry, you think, for your unborn child, the one who will not ever get to know life, to treasure the small things in it, to hold the joyful ones close to their chest, even amidst the tides of their sorrow. And you are, you think, for this man’s unknown sister, because even though you do not know her, you imagine that in her final moments, she feels a little bit like you. 

You do not know why you say it, but you do, anyway. 

His face tightens. You do not know what he sees on your face, but you imagine it is the picture of resignation. His finger tenses on the trigger.

You only stare back at him. 

You have been wept dry, you are empty, and you do not even bother to plead.

Please, you think your husband whispers.

The gun moves. You don’t feel the shot. 

You are nothing more than the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards.

He hits what he aims for; your womb. 

The glass shatters, and with it, so do you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

The walls are white, and there is a machine at your side, beeping. A hospital, you recognize, somewhat distantly. 

Your mother is at your side, your brother, too. Perhaps they notice your particularly sharp intake of breath, the tremble of your fingers. 

“You’re awake,” Your mother says, before her face crumples⏤ in a way she never would have allowed of herself before, for fear that it might give her wrinkles. “Oh, my baby.”

She presses her face to the back of your hand, and you feel the tears that stain it.

You only turn your head to your brother. “The baby?” 

He is silent, but you see his face, the way it tightens.

He does not need to respond. You feel the pain in your own body very well, you remember exactly what happened; you already know the answer. 

You close your eyes. You feel the loss acutely, and yet they do not sting, do not prick, and are not hot. 

You have been wept dry, after all. There is nothing left.

Then, you sense, rather than hear, your father walk into the room. 

“They’ve caught the culprits,” He announces. “The Heroes are dealing with the lot of them now.” 

You think of the way the man’s finger had tensed on the trigger. How he had moved his gun away from your head. Does that make him a better man than your husband? But, you suppose, that’s an irrelevant question⏤ you don’t know what to feel, and in this moment, you don’t really care. 

Your father continues, into the silence. “I’ve found you another suitor, one who’s still willing to take you⏤” 

You suppose you are not really surprised; after all, that is all you have ever been to him, a bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; your worth only so much as the fame you can bring in, the connections you can make. 

You just did not expect this level of callousness, so unashamed of his words that you almost find it funny. 

“Surely there’s a better time⏤” Your mother begins.

Your brother jumps to his feet. “She has just lost her child,” He hisses, and he sounds angrier than you have ever heard him be in your life. “I asked you not to let her marry him. I told you he wasn’t the good sort, that he was dabbling in the black market⏤” 

“That is enough,” Your father snarls. “I will not tolerate this disrespect from you.”

“His corpse hasn’t even cooled,” Your brother hisses right back. 

You have never seen him speak up to your father like this before. 

Your father sets his shoulders, and then he turns straight to you. “There is a suitor willing to take you. He’s offered more than enough, given your condition.” He glances, you think somewhat distastefully, in the direction of your womb. “I plan to accept the offer. You will likely never get one so high again.” 

Your brother’s seething is so loud, despite its silence. Your mother seems similarly disapproving, but she has never spoken up once, and you do not think she will, now.

You can only think: once, you might have tried.

( Your father is a businessman to his core. It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a powerful one, which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people. You have known him long enough to know that his heart speaks only in transactions, as does his mind, calculating the worth of the things and the people around him, how much he stands to gain from them, squeezing them dry for every last drop. You know your worth in his eyes: bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; worth only so much as the fame you can bring him, the connections you can make. )

But you did not, then, back before you were wrung dry, before there was nothing left in you, when there was still some semblance of hope, some semblance of fight.

There are no tears in your eyes, only the final sort of resignation. You are empty. You feel nothing.

You slide your ring from your finger, and you say, “Yes, father.”

Your brother’s face tightens so terribly you think he might yell at you. 

Your father nods, pleased. “Very well.” 

Your mother is silent. She presses your hand to her cheek.

You close your eyes. They do not sting, prick, or feel hot, not even the slightest.

You have long since been wept dry. You are hollow, there is no fight left in you; no hope. You are hollow, the shell of a woman, still living, still breathing, alive only in the ways that don’t matter. 

You are a wraith. You are a ghost. You are sold off to your next husband like a brood-mare before the corpse of your previous has even cooled. 

But there is not enough left in you; you are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards. 

And you cannot bring yourself to care. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He gets the call, and he does not recognize the number, but he still answers it, anyway.  

It’s like instinct, like clockwork, in the way that he does. He thinks he’ll never stop, though it’s been years since you’ve last called, since your last text. He thinks at first that something’s happened, but you’re seen in public again the next day, but you seem fine, so maybe it’s just something with your phone, or that you don’t want to talk to him. That’s okay, he can give you your space, but days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, and the text messages between you two turn one-sided, into a record of only his own. But he starts to answer every call, just in case it’s you on the other side, no matter how many of them are spam or entirely unrelated, because even though he’s not even sure you remember his number, there will always be some part of him that hopes you do. 

So he gets the call, and he still answers it, anyway. Another spam caller, likely. He doesn’t recognize the number. 

Help, you say, the first words you have said to him in years, and you sound different, but he would know your voice anywhere, blind and in the dark. 

He’s frozen. His heart is hammering a thousand miles in his chest. Where are you? He wants to voice⏤ are you at your penthouse, the one you share with your husband, or at your childhood home? Are you outside, and if so, where? He doesn’t mind combing the city for you⏤ he will if that’s what it takes to find you, to keep you safe and unharmed, but somehow, even after all these years, you manage to know what he’s thinking. The penthouse, you hiss, and then you hang up.

But that doesn’t matter, because that is all you have ever needed to say.

His mind shoots into overdrive. Your location is already being sent to his class group chat by the time he makes it to his car⏤ he’s halfway across the city. What if he’s late? It’s just your location, nothing more, but he knows that it’s enough⏤ Midoriya likely remembers that entire incident with the Hero Killer, after all, and his classmates should know that such a thing is urgent. 

The streets are packed. He leaves his car in the middle of it to start running.

His phone buzzes. He nearly runs headfirst into a pole while checking. It’s the location of a hospital⏤ Midoriya’s next text is frazzled. She���s fine, injured, but the doctors say she’ll live⏤ and his first thought is a bone-crushing relief. You’re alive. 

His next one is, you’re injured.

He breaks into another run. 

The hospital is closer than your penthouse, at least. He barely feels the burn of his muscles, though he’s sprinting faster than he ever has before, faster than he should⏤ the doors slide open before him, and he’s walking into the attention of a thousand gaping individuals.

He walks straight up to one of them, the man at the counter, and says, as calmly as he can. “Where is she.”

“U-um.” The man stutters. There is only one she they can be talking about⏤ the world has always known of your friendship, has speculated about it, along with the falling-out in the aftermath. “They’re limiting visitors to family only.”

Todoroki Shouto is not a violent man. It is not in his nature; he has seen enough of it in his father to know that even if he was, he would spend the rest of his life carving that part of it from him, until he wasn’t. But in this moment⏤ with fury gripping every aspect of his being, this man telling him that visitors are limited to family only, telling him that he can’t make sure you’re fine, you’re okay⏤ he seriously considers it. 

A hand clamps down upon his shoulder. 

He turns to look into the face of your brother. 

Your brother’s expression is blank.

“How is she?” He asks, the anger gone, desperation taking its place. 

Your brother’s lips tighten. “Come with me.” 

Shouto thinks of a thousand scenarios here. Ones in which you’re bleeding out on a hospital bed, and all the money in the world; the doctors, cannot hope to save you. But then he thinks of the way Midoriya had texted: she’s fine, injured, the doctors say she’ll live, and what he finally understands the words to mean is: I’ll tell you, just not here.

He listens, heart held in his throat. 

“She’s just lost her baby, along with her husband. The villain shot her through the stomach. But she’s stabilized, she’ll live.” Your brother lists the facts coldly, clinically. “My father has already sold her off to the next highest bidder.” 

The world seems to freeze.

He remembers your last call, how he asks you if you love him, and the way that when you say yes, he knows it is a lie. But he did not do anything, did not say anything, because he’d heard the conviction in your voice, the way you’d forced yourself to say it, and thought it wasn’t his place.

Your brother is watching him, and his voice is soft. “The final choice was him or you. But⏤” A pause. There is understanding there, lit up like a dawn. “She didn’t even ask you, did she?”  

No. You didn’t. And he wonders why, for all of a moment⏤ had you found the idea of marriage to him so horrible that you’d risk a man twice your age, a man you barely even knew? But you’re not like that, he thinks, and you know him just as well as he does you, which is why you’d also know that even if he didn’t love you, he would’ve married you in an instant, just because you were the one to ask.

Understanding dawns. His breath is like a gasp, something choked, like a sob.

You didn’t ask, because you did not want him to marry for anything other than love. 

He turns, hope held like a candle in his chest. “Is that choice still open.” 

Your brother blinks. “What?” 

“Where is your father?” 

A room number is given to him, and he’s running again. He still has a chance to save you, he thinks, and it’s okay if you don’t want to marry him, if you don’t love him, as long as you’re safe, alright, and happy. He would’ve married you if only you’d asked, even if you would never love him in the way that he wanted for the rest of his life⏤ but he doesn’t even need to worry that you don’t, he thinks.

After all, it’s so obvious that you do. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

You are no longer in the hospital. Your body does not ache any more than it did before, there is no pain between your legs, and yet you still wonder, very briefly, if your father has already married you off.

You would not put it past him. 

But then Shouto walks into the room. 

You stare at him, lost for words, entirely mute. His eyes widen. “You’re awake,” He says, putting the plate of fruit he bears off to the side. He steps towards you, reaching for your forehead, but then he hesitates. “I’d like to take your temperature,” He says softly. “Is that… okay?” 

Your throat tightens. Even after all these years, he is still the same; gentle and thoughtful and considerate in a way you have never known anyone else to be. 

“You came,” You say. It’s all you can muster.

“Of course. You called.” 

You close your eyes. 

His touch is feather light.

Your eyes sting, here and in this moment. 

“You don’t have a fever, I think. Are you feeling any pain?” 

“No more than before.” 

“That’s good to hear,” He says, just as soft.

You close your eyes. Inevitability dawns upon you. “What of my husband?” 

A pause. Then, “He’s dead.” 

“No. The one I’m marrying.” 

“You won’t be.” 

You are a little surprised by the conviction in his voice. 

He only continues. “Neither he nor your father will bother you again.” 

You had not known you could still feel relief. 

You are wordless. You only reach for his hand. 

You squeeze it, and you hope he knows what you are trying to say. 

And when he squeezes yours back, you know that he does. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You learn that the Pro Hero Deku was the one to save you that night.

You remember him from before, you think; green curls, a freckled face, back from the UA days, along with his name. You remember that he was one of Shouto’s closest friends, and that he was very kind.

You do not think you have it in yourself to meet him, to greet him properly. But you are your mother’s child, and your manners have been carved into you like a second nature. So you ask Shouto to pass on your gratitude, to let him know that you are thankful.

You suppose that, even if you are empty, even if you have been wept dry, that you are. 

You don’t do much the first few months. You do not even have the strength to try. Shouto brings you food in your bed, watches you eat, spoonful by spoonful. It’s not much⏤ you no longer have another life within you to feed, after all, and your appetite has never been particularly large. Sometimes, you think he swallows his words, tamps down upon the urge to ask you to eat more⏤ but you do not think you can handle another bite, and he does not push. 

He only accepts the plate you set down, your half-eaten meal, and comes back with another glass of water. 

You ask him, at some point, if this is okay. He’s a Pro-Hero, after all, and duty must be calling, but he only shrugs. 

“I have more than enough vacation days stacked up,” He informs you.

“I’ll be just fine alone,” You say. You don’t want him to waste them on you. 

“I won’t.” He says, immediately. 

You blink up at him. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way he flushes, just a little. 

“Let me take care of you,” He says, a touch softer. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But I want to.”

There is a firmity in his voice, and you are reminded of the conviction he’d had, all those years ago, when he’d told you he was only ever going to marry for love. 

You sigh. He’s as stubborn as you remember, and yet you think, somewhat ruefully, that you’re glad he hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Do what you’d like.” You say. 

He smiles, and just like every time before it, you think it is the most breathtaking thing you have seen in your life. 

You attend your husband’s funeral. It’s the first time you’ve been seen in public since the incident, and Shouto is by your side. You’re dressed in mourning black.

You watch as they lower his coffin.

You have long since been wept dry, and for him, you do not shed a single tear. 

Your brother drops some of your belongings off at Shouto’s house. Your clothes, mostly, some pieces of jewelry you’re partial to, but the bulk of it is your recordings, the CD’s you’d saved. 

Shouto pauses over one. “I did not know you’d kept them.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. You do not answer.

You only think, of course I would. 

You listen to the songs sometimes, watch the recordings of your dances. You haven’t in a long time⏤ when you still danced, you did only to examine every flaw of your body and note your falters with a critical eye. Later, you could not bring yourself to, not when it was only the reminiscence of everything you had lost; your ankle that still ached in the dead of the night, a phantom pain that served only as a reminder: you would never be able to dance again, even if you could. 

Even now, you do not listen to or watch them very often.

You allow Shouto to tug you outdoors, sometimes, for a walk, to stretch your legs, but mostly because he smiles when you allow him to. It’s always in the grounds of his estate, and never another soul in sight, for which you are more grateful than you think he will ever know. Sometimes his mother joins you on the walks, and you don’t mind⏤ she is lovely, she seems to like you, and she is very kind. 

You are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards, but though you are only alive in all the ways that don’t matter, you are still alive and breathing. So you sit up for food, you get to your feet to use the washroom, you stand when Shouto takes you out for a walk. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed.

People send you flowers, gifts of condolence⏤ mostly people you had known for the sake of your father’s money, your family’s connections⏤ but also from others, ones you have held closer to your heart. Shouto’s friends are my friends, you remember yourself saying, and you had meant it.

They seem to think the same. 

You look at the flowers they send you, the heart in their penned letters, so different from the short and clinical notes you have been surrounded with the whole of your life. 

You ask Shouto to thank them for you. You are more grateful than they will ever know, but you do not think you can muster the strength to meet them. 

He does not push you, nor does he ask. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed. Your father told you that the villain who’d done this to you had been caught, imprisoned, and you only remember the look on the man’s face. The anger and the hurt and the loss. The way his fingers had tightened upon the trigger, how he had moved the gun, from your head to your stomach. 

You do not know why he’d decided to spare you in those final moments, why he had chosen to aim at your womb instead. You think back to the moment you’d first vomited, the sheer horror with which you’d asked the maid to go to the store and buy you every single pregnancy test she could get her hands on, every brand, again and again, the lines littering the floor of that penthouse as the truth stared down before you and how your first thought was: he would never let me get an abortion. You wonder if the villain, this man who’d chosen to spare you, was only trying to wipe the last traces of your husband from the world, if he’d spared you because he thought you were a little like his sister. 

( You wonder if that makes him a better man than your deceased husband. )

Often, you think of your baby. How that, though you are grateful that you are free from the last remnants of your husband⏤ the guilt hits you as soon as you think it⏤ you think a part of you will always mourn your unborn child, how they will never know what it means to draw breath, the little things in life, the thousand and one little joys that will help tide them through their sorrows. You think of how, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had felt, how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

And in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You lay eyes upon your mother for the first time in months. 

You are sitting in a coffee shop. It’s quaint, homely. It’s the first time you’ve been out in public since your husband’s funeral, and you haven’t talked to her since that day at the hospital⏤ she had tried to talk to you at the funeral itself, and many times since then, but you have always asked Shouto to turn her away.

You did not tell him why, then, because you did not quite know yourself.

But, you think, now, you do.

There are three drinks on the table in front of you. Shouto had ordered them⏤ coffee for your mother, for himself, and another for you, just exactly the way you always have, the way you’ve always liked. 

Your mother cups hers somewhat nervously.

You do not reach for yours.

“I’m glad to see you doing better,” She starts. “Shouto told me you weren’t seeing any visitors.” 

You are silent.

“I was so worried. You didn’t call. You could have left me a text!” She frowns. “Not a thought spared for your poor mother, but you look well, at least.” 

Beside you, Shouto is tense. You reach for his hand.

He squeezes it.

It warms your throat. You set your shoulders, you lift your chin, and you find your voice. “I am well. Thank you for the concern. But that is not why I am here.” 

You pause to organize your thoughts. 

“I called you here to let you know that I am cutting ties. So is my brother. Father will know sometime within the week.” 

The store is oddly quiet. Beside you, you do not know if Shouto is breathing. 

You say, more clearly than you have in years. “This will be our last meeting. Please do not contact me again in the future. I do not wish to talk to you, nor do I wish to see you, and if I do, then I will be the one to reach out.” 

Your mother stares at you, silent. You do not think there’s anyone in the store who’s breathing. And then⏤ 

“I am your mother. What’s wrong? Is he making you do this? Is he holding anything against you? Talk to me, darling.”

You breathe in.

“He has nothing to do with it. This choice is entirely my own.”

You are expecting some of what she says next.

“I am your mother. How could you do this to me? I held you, nurtured you, fed you from my breast. I gave up my body for you, the whole of those nine months. I gave up my most youthful years for you. I could have lived out my career as an actress. I have loved you since the moments before you were born, before you breathed. I have attended every single one of your recitals, spent every single waking minute thinking of how to better you, how to advance your career. I was the one who pushed to let you continue dance, who won you your husband, I married your father for you. I was always there for you. How could you even say this to me?” 

It’s all true, you think. Every last bit of it. 

She has always been there. She has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed the most of her youthful years, sacrificed her body, so much that the remnants of childbirth still linger, even after the thousand and one surgeries. She has pushed you towards dance, allowed you to flourish, spent hours obsessing over every one of your flaws until you were perfect under the lens, because she had worried, had known, that the world would have made a mockery of you if you were anything but. 

But.

“As a daughter, I have forgiven you a thousand times over.” You tell her, quiet. 

You think of the way you had not wanted to get married, not the first time nor the second, and how she had been silent, how it was your brother who spoke up. It’s not her fault, you know, she truly thinks you could do worse⏤ she truly believes that a woman’s worth lies wholly in her face and her body and the arm of the man she clings to, and that once the flower has withered, all that is left is the man. She is trying in her own way, she loves you wholly and in the only way she knows how. 

And you have. As a daughter, you have forgiven her a thousand times over.

But then you also think of how you felt. When she had been telling you about how best to prepare yourself, and you had asked her: what if he hurts me? You had been talking about the sex, if he was rough, but she had taken it to mean: what if he hits me, and she had only told you to keep quiet, because to her, letting anyone else know about your personal business would be nothing short of shameful. You think of how you had felt when your father had pushed for your marriages, how you had not wanted to, but forced yourself to say yes. You think of how she had seen what your husband had done to you, what she had said, that you could do worse, of the difference between the way she reacted and how Yaoyorozu had. 

You think of that one time when you were younger, when your career had just started, flourishing too slow, not fast enough⏤ when she had stood in that office with you and that man you do not remember. You think of how you had not wanted it, how you had been uncomfortable, how you had looked to your mother, and she had not said a word. How you had asked her about it, told her of how you felt, a little ashamed, and she had only looked at you with a crease in her brows. But you did not say no, she had said, and you remember feeling guilty about it then and in all the years after. 

You think of your child. How that though you had not given birth to them, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

You say, soft. “But as a mother, I cannot.” 

You say it because when you thought of your child, now and all the times before, the thing you thought of most was: you did not want them to have to feel like you. Not ever. Not the way your mother had made you feel, that time when she told you you could do worse, that letting the world know of your hurts would be the most shameful thing in the world. Not the way she made you feel when she told you that you did not say no, when the answer was so simple.

You think, then, of the way Shouto treats you. How he has never touched you first without asking you if it was okay, if you had wanted it, until he had heard your consent. 

( You had not said no. And you had felt so much guilt over it after, over how uncomfortable you had felt, but the answer to this was so simple.

You had not said no, but you had also not said yes. ) 

You stand. You think there is heartbreak on her face, and you also think that though you do not wish to speak to her again, you think that there will always be some part of you that always loves her, even if the rest of you does not wish to. 

But this is a decision you have thought of a thousand times, have mulled over for a while. You’ve thought of it so much, how she will react, how you should, if you will regret it.

You turn. There is a steel to your shoulders, a firmity, your posture set. 

“If you walk away now, don’t you even think about coming back.”

It all comes down to threats, in the end.

Shouto squeezes your hand. 

You say softly, but no less clear. “Goodbye, mother.” 

You walk away, and you do not look back. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You do not speak the whole of the car ride back, and neither does Shouto, though your hand is still held in his own, and you sense that he is watching you carefully. 

You wonder if he expects you to burst into tears. It would not be strange of you, of the girl he had known; the one who had listened to everything her mother had to say, who took every single one of her words to heart. But it has been a while since you have been that girl, you are older, now, no longer vibrant and beautiful under the spotlight. You have seen yourself in the mirror, noticed your gauntness, the hollowness of your cheeks, the shadows in the eyes. You are the shell of a woman you once were, a thousand shards already wept dry and empty.

And yet. You pause by the doorway. Shouto’s still holding it open for you, an inquisitive look in his face, watching you questioningly, carefully. 

You say, “That was… oddly freeing.” 

A beat of silence.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Was this how you felt when you yelled at Endeavour all those times?” 

He laughs, the sound of it warm. “Just about.” 

You still feel empty. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop. But what you do know that is in this moment, there is a lightness to your chest that has not been there for years. A sense of freedom, perhaps.

“Is there anything you’d like specifically for dinner?” 

You hesitate. 

You are empty, but you are also light, and you are free; you are empty, but you don’t think you have to be.

It’s time, you think. 

And that is why you say: “Actually… would you like to cook together?”

He freezes. He looks at you, his eyes blown wide. You don’t think he’s breathing. 

You hasten. “Though it’s been a while, so I’m not sure if I’m still okay in the kitchen⏤” 

“I’d love to. You can make a mess of the kitchen all you’d like.” 

You smile a little. You don’t remember the last time you have, but you say: “Just like old times, huh?” 

There might just be tears in his eyes, and he asks if it’s alright to hug you. 

You let him, of course. It’s Shouto.

He holds you like he did the first time, hesitant and careful, like you are a porcelain doll, like something precious. 

You lean your head on his shoulder, your own throat something thick. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, when you look at yourself in the mirror. You are not as gaunt as you were, as hollow⏤ you see your cheeks fill up slowly, feel the flesh of your bones, the width of your hips. You get an urge to eat less, sometimes⏤ it’s hard to unlearn the habits you have lived in most of your life, but Shouto is always there, reinforcing, slowly and gently. You need to eat. You have always been beautiful, and still are, but first, you need to be healthy. 

Obligingly, you eat another spoonful, and this time, when you push the plate back towards him, he does not protest. 

He pulls you out to walk with him more often. It’s still always on the grounds of his estate, away from prying eyes, and when his mother joins you on occasion, you find it in yourself to talk to her. You don’t walk by yourself very often, but sometimes, you do⏤ just because it’s nice to feel the sun on your face, to see the flowers, and you don’t want to bother Shouto when he’s busy poring over his documents. 

He still sets a chair apart for you in his office, though, and he tells you you’re welcome to come in anytime. You do on occasion⏤ he has an extensive manga collection, ones from when he was younger, and some still that are new; ones that you’ve told him about and ones that he thinks you might like. You spend most of your time there poring over them, though eventually, you do wander over to him, asking if you can look at his paperwork, because though it’s been years since you’ve attended school, you weren’t bad in your tutor’s lessons, so maybe you could be of help? 

He says you don’t have to, but he lets you look, anyways, and when you say you want to, he lets you take what you’d like. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, but it’s not like you have nothing to do. You busy yourself in the kitchen sometimes, searching up old recipes and trying new things. You’ve always enjoyed it, you think, to some degree⏤ even back when you were absolutely terrible at it, because it was fun to be so horrendous at something, and have to work towards improving yourself. Sometimes Shouto joins you, and sometimes he doesn’t, but he compliments every dish you make, even if you personally think you’d added a little bit too much salt or burned it just a little. 

You are a year into this routine when the realization finally hits you, and you find the courage to ask. 

It’s evening. You are sprawled out upon the couch, your novel spread before you, an old classical piece playing softly in the background. It’s undignified⏤ Shouto himself is seated normally upon a chair, a manga volume held normally in his. But it’s the comfortable sort of silence, the two of you have never needed to put on particular airs; the sort of companionship where you’re settled just by knowing the other is there, by feeling their presence.

You think it has always been this way. You think of the care in the way he treats you, in how he touches you, and back in the early days, when he’d asked you about every little thing, if it was okay to touch you, skin upon skin. 

He’s focused on his volume, but you’re watching him.

You think of the way he tells you not to worry about his vacation days, that he has enough of them, you think of the way he’d told you your father and the man who was meant to be your husband would never bother you again, the certainty in his voice. You think of the way your brother had fetched all of your clothes, all of your belongings, the jewels that you’d liked, your recordings, and left them to him. 

Something clicks. And then, you say, as you push yourself up into a sitting position.

“You told my father you’d marry me, didn’t you?” 

You see the way he freezes. The way his hands tighten on his volumes. 

You already expect the answer when he says, softly. “Yes.” 

The breath you loose feels shaky as it leaves your chest.

He is kneeling before you in an instant, reaching for your hands. “I did it because I wanted to,” He starts, and you think there is a touch of desperation in it. “But you don’t have to feel pressured into anything. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, not now, and not ever. We can stay just like this. Whatever you want. Anything you want.” 

Your heart clenches. You reach up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. Your Shouto, you think, a little despairingly. Always so hesitant, so thoughtful, so considerate. You only ask him, a little quietly. “Was it for love?” 

Does he love you? 

He does not hesitate when he says, “Yes.” 

A pause. Your exhale sounds loud in the silence.

The words come out in a torrent. 

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same again. I’m not sure if I can bear another child. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if⏤”

You don’t know if you can bear another man touching you in the same way, even though this is Shouto. You might, maybe, further down the line, only because it is him, but you do not know if you will. You do not know a lot of things. You do not know if you’ll ever stop feeling so empty, if you’ll ever be anything like the girl he once knew, the girl he loved and loves.

He puts his hand on your cheek, and his thumb brushes across it, feather-light, gentle, and heartbreakingly tender.

He repeats, a touch softer, a touch firmer. “Whatever you want.” 

You look at him. 

Your Shouto, who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

Your Shouto, who knows your voice even with the years between you, who cannot make it in time for you, but ensures that his friends are there to rescue you anyways, who ensures that you are, first and foremost, safe. Shouto, who takes a whole year off for you, who asks you if it’s okay before he touches you, because he’s afraid that you don’t want him to, who is thoughtful and considerate of you, in a thousand different ways. 

Your throat feels tight, and in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

You say, “I’d like to marry you, if you’ll have me.” 

It’s not much of a proposal at all, but you still see him smile, like the widest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You think his eyes look something silvery, like something bright. 

He only tugs you up, and though you don’t know what he’s angling for, you follow, obligingly, as you always have. You always will, you think; after all, you trust this man, your Shouto, you always have, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

You watch a little confusedly, as he rewinds the music. It’s a familiar piece, not one you’ve danced to before, though you remember telling him you’d have liked to, once upon a time. 

He turns to you, and says, a little breathlessly. “Dance with me.” 

You splutter. You haven’t danced in years, you don’t know if you’re still any good, and though you know he doesn’t mean ballet and on pointe, you’ve never danced like this before. “I’ve never done ballroom.” 

“Neither have I.” He tells you honestly. “I’ll bet my entire fortune that you’ll still dance better than me.” 

It’s such a ridiculous statement that you laugh. 

But you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. You haven’t danced in years, and you’ve never learned ballroom, but you’re not that bad at it, you think. You’ll never dance professionally again, but dance is a discipline that has been carved into you, part of your soul. You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you, because you see the I love you he does not say, not yet, but is so evident in every one of his actions, in his thousand-and-one little considerations. And you know he sees it in you, too, because he knows you like you do him; knows that you love him, that always have, how you always will, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

( For the first time in years, you dance. )

There will be time for that yet. A thousand and one mornings where you wake up to the sun, your chest light and warm, no longer empty, where you wake up held in his embrace, like you are a porcelain doll, like you are something precious.

But for now, you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. )

You smile up at him, your heart light as a feather, as he holds the whole of you, your heart and your porcelain, like you are a fine-china doll, like something precious. 

He does not say anything, and neither do you; you do not need to. 

After all, there will be time for that yet. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. 

You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you.

And this time, when you dance, you dance solely for you. )

afterword

[anantaru]

— when he kisses you

including. zhongli, cyno, diluc, kinich

genre. making out & slightly suggestive, gn! reader

— zhongli

alongside zhongli, you feel his presence instantly, it reminds you of a comforting and reassuring constant— a cradling you wholly worshipped as the bustle of the harbor behind you faded away.

"thank you for showing me this place," your eyes glow as you said softly, glancing up at him, "it's beautiful."

with you, zhongli can leave his stern demeanor behind for once and actually smile, wholeheartedly, his golden eyes warm just by the mere sight of you, "it is a place i often come to for reflection."

"i thought you might appreciate its tranquility."

feeling a sense of peace wash over you, you took in the serene surroundings— the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft trickle of a nearby stream creating a soothing melody as zhongli held you in his arms.

the moment felt perfect, almost surreal.

his gaze was intense, dragon eyes yet so tender when he looks at you.

before you could say anything, he leans in, his hand gently cupping your cheek to feel you on his cold skin— within this subtle second, the world seemed to pause as he fully leans in, his lips meeting yours in a slow, purposeful kiss.

it was unlike anything you had ever experienced before— his lips were soft, his tongue deep, and filled with a profound sense of reverence as he captured you.

your mind swirled with a mix of emotions as his kiss was turning measured, each movement precise and purposeful, as if he was savoring every second— almost as if he was scared you'd one day, disappear from his lonely, immortal life.

the experience he held in life and the time he's conquered was evident in the way he guided the kiss, controlled it, drew you in and made you feel cherished beyond words.

as he deepened the kiss, a heated curl crept up your cheeks, your shyness growing with each passing moment.

you couldn't help but feel self-conscious about your own inexperience compared to his practiced, almost ancient touch— yet, zhongli's gentle and patient approach made you feel safe and valued, as if you were the only person in the world.

— cyno

"ugh— today was exhausting," you exhale shakily, bound within exhaustion, yet your voice was barely above a whisper, not wanting to break the serene silence as you rested against cyno's shoulder.

and well, he? he simply looked at you, his eyes intense yet gentle, "indeed, it was," he agrees with a small smile playing at his lips, "but it was worth it, having you by my side Iimean."

the butterflies finish filling your stomach, and the spinning in your mind begins— fuck, you adore him so much, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart race, "i'm glad i could be with you," you replied, your smile tight to your teeth like you're holding back a grin, "thank you for taking me,"

before advancing, he takes your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing your skin, "there’s just something about you i cannot discern," he begins to ponder, his gaze never leaving yours, "that makes everything we do together feel special."

you knew what was coming— was this finally it? cyno has never kissed you before and beneath your nervousness, your breath hitched in anticipation.

his hand moved to the back of your neck, his touch firm yet controlled as he pressed you closer.

his lips met yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle— it was messy and raw, filled with a demanding passion that took your breath away— it's as if he was waiting, storing this bubbling energy and deep want inside his heart for the longest time.

it pained him, fuck, he wanted to kiss you a million times already.

cyno kissed you as if he couldn't get enough, his mouth moving against yours with an urgency that left you feeling dizzy— truly, you could feel the heat of his desire inside each kiss and lap of tongue, in the way he seemed to pour all of his stored up emotions into every movement.

you moaned softly against his lips, your hands gripping his shoulders for support as he continued his fervent assault on your plush lips.

cyno's kisses were unrestrained, a chaotic mix of tenderness and hunger that sent shivers down your spine, no, it was beyond that— well into the confines of your flesh, he took over as he nipped at your bottom lip, teasing you before deepening the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor.

— diluc

the tavern was quiet after closing hours, even quieter after the last customer have left minutes ago as the dim lighting created a cozy, intimate atmosphere.

you actually favored this time of the night, especially when you helped your boyfriend diluc clean up the tavern, the clinking of glasses and the soft hums of the wind outside the only sounds that were almost as serene and familiar as his tender exhales.

in all honesty, he never wants you to help him, rather does he love watching you wait for him as he does all the work— yet he cannot lie, it makes his heart ten times faster when you really want to help him, just because you love him so much.

"thank you for staying to help," the master of the dawn winery says, despite a little awkward, yet his voice gentle as he wiped down the bar covered in wine, "you really didn't need to,"

"of course, diluc, no need to thank me," you reply, smiling at him. "i enjoy spending time with you, no matter what we do as long as we're together."

he glances at you in an almost shocked expression, like your little confession was struck inside his heart and carved there for eternity, a soft look in his eyes making your heart flutter, "there’s something about these quiet moments that i cherish too,"

you felt a warmth spread through you at his words, they're always so carefully selected, so passionately exuded, and you keep sneaking little glances over to him while he finishes off his task. 

as you finished your own, you too noticed how diluc was watching you with a contemplative expression and before you could ask what he was thinking, he stepped closer, his presence magnetic, his smile intoxicating.

he exhaustedly huffs out before nuzzling his head in your neck while wrapping one large arm around your waist.

you giggle, welcoming him and stroking over his silken hair as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

the touch was soft at first, almost hesitant, but as he felt you relax into him, his kisses grew more confident.

diluc’s lips moved with a slow, unhurried precision, each kiss a perfect blend of pressure and tenderness— beyond that, he seemed to know exactly where to place them, as if he had memorized every inch of your neck.

the sensation was eye crossing, a mix of warmth and electricity that left you breathless and at his total mercy.

you close your eyes, your fingers gripping his shirt as he continued— each kiss seemingly lasting an eternity when in reality, not long enough.

his mouth explores with a patience and care that enveloped you, all of his senses filled by your scent, the temperature of your body and your traces on his scalp.

the way he kissed you spoke volumes, a silent declaration of his feelings as the way you welcomed it made him feel safe.

when he reaches a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, you couldn’t suppress a soft moan— and you're a sweating mess by now , yet diluc abruptly paused, his breath warm against your skin,

"did I hurt you?" he asks, concern lacing his voice.

"no," you whisper and tug him closer to you "it feels… incredible."

— kinich

"kinich," your breath hitches the moment you open the door to your bedroom and find yourself looking at the mysterious man you've barely known for a week, a hand over your heart signalizing your surprise.

"you scared me."

"apologies, my dear," he drawls, smirking, his voice smooth and calm, " i didn’t mean to frighten you, i would never intentionally do such."

"—although, i needed to see you,"

you smile at him, slightly awkwardly but granted, he did break into your home.

up till now, the tension eases as you placed your jacket on the drawer next to your bed, "uh, it's alright, it would be better if you could tell me next time."

kinich's gaze softens, a playful glint in his eyes, "so— you don't like when i surprise you?" he says, stepping closer, "the quiet of the night is a perfect time for surprises, no?"

you roll your eyes, feeling a warmth spread through you at his sudden nearness— he's so close, but what was he thinking? what games was he playing and were you even able to participate?

fuck, there was just something different about kinich tonight, a confidence in his demeanor that made your heart skip a beat.

and as he moved even closer, you could feel the intensity of his presence and his signature musk, his eyes immediately locking onto yours.

"you want me to show you my actual reason for coming here?" he toys with you, pinching your cheek.

shortly after, he closes the gap between you, his hand gently but firmly pressing against your lower back as with a swift, smooth motion, he guides you until you felt back against the soft mattress of your bed.

the suddenness of it took your breath away, catching you off guard and as you looked up at him, his eyes glow wide.

"I couldn't help myself, —couldn't get you out of my head," he whispers, his lips a hairbreadth away from yours, "you draw me in like no one else, you put a spell on me or something?"

without another word, he captured your lips in a kiss that was both confident and playful, a perfect blend of passion and control that marked the obvious in his personality.

his mouth moved against yours with a practiced ease, exploring and conquering with a fervor that left you wish for more, thighs clenching— not to mention the intensity of his kiss which was simply overwhelming, in fact, you found yourself surrendering to it, letting him lead you.

kinich's free hand found its way to your hip, holding you firmly against the bed as he deepened the kiss in no time.

for the first time, you could feel the strength in his grip, the possessiveness in his touch, and it made you both a little scared and excited.

beyond second thoughts, his lips were hungry, his kisses demanding and full of a restrained desire that seemed to build up with every passing second he wasn't able to see you.

you melt against him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his abs tightly as his tongue lapped around your own in a masterful dance that left you yearning for more.

"you're irresistible," he admits bluntly before releasing his grip on your hips and sliding his palm lower, "—and every time i see you, i have to fight the urge to do this."

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[moonstruckme]

OMGGGGGGG

the first kiss was so cute!!! perfect!! james was so sweet and gentle w her😍😭😭

can’t wait to see there dynamic from now on

Thank you gorgeous! I held onto this so I'd have something to post this last part to, hope you don't mind <3

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

James is buzzing while he makes breakfast the next morning. Golden morning light pours in through the front windows, brightening the kitchen and warming his back where he stands in front of the stove, the buttery smell of pancake batter wafting up from the pan. He’d gone to bed later than usual last night and slept hard but woke jittery, desperate to do something about the commotion in his chest. 

A run hadn’t done it, nor had replaying the previous night in his head, and now he’s convinced he won’t be able to rest until he can kiss you again. It’s your fault, really. Your little sighs, your careful touches, the way you’d tugged at the roots of his hair when he asked you to, like all this time you’d only been waiting for permission. You’ve fucked him. James will never be able to get over it. Now, all he can think about is getting more. 

He’s made more pancakes than a family of five could eat when he hears the stair creak. 

“Good morning,” he says, turning around just as you pad into the kitchen, quiet as a ghost. 

Your eyes are bleary, but they still manage to widen slightly as you take him in, along with the precarious tower of pancakes beside him. You’re in that sweatshirt he loves so much, sleeves hanging limply from your hands and hem hitting just above your knees. 

“Morning,” you say, softer than soft. 

“How’d you sleep, lovely?” 

You shrug, not quite looking at him. “Fine. You?” 

James grins. “Beautifully. You want some pancakes?” 

Your gaze goes again to the stack beside him, and he can practically see the quip brewing in your eyes. Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice. Are you planning to feed an army?

“Sure,” you say in that same quiet voice. “Thanks.” 

James studies you, intrigued. “Great. C’mere, sweetheart.” 

He plates up a few pancakes, keeping one eye on you as he does. You seem disinclined to look even in his general direction, finding distractions with the stove, your plate, the weather outside. 

“How’s this?” He turns around with the plate. You take it cautiously, by the complete opposite end to avoid any possibility of making contact with his hand. James’ heart warms at the way your fingers just peek out from the sleeve of your sweatshirt to grasp the plate. He wants to kiss you until you don’t know what day it is. “Too many? Not enough?” 

“This is good.” 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t let go of the plate. He tilts his head, trying to catch your eye, but you evade him. He has a hunch that if he were to touch your face (and god, does he want to) he’d find it burning hot. “Are you alright?” 

Your eyes flit up to his for a half a second before fleeing again. You hum, the sound tense and pitchy. “Mhm.” 

“You sure?” he asks, matching your soft tone. “Don’t go getting shy on me now.” 

You look like you stop breathing. 

And ordinarily James might feel bad, but post-kiss James cannot be prevailed upon to treat you as cautiously as he ordinarily might. Unfortunately for you, your secret’s out. You’re lovely, you’d said, voice soft and breathy and mere inches from his own mouth, I like having you around. I do. I really like you. Also unfortunately for you, post-kiss James knows things. 

He slips his palm alongside your face, working his hand behind your ear and letting his fingers burrow into the hair behind it. You melt, leaning into the touch. Your eyes meet his. 

It’s grueling work to keep from smiling. “What’s wrong, angel?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, still quietly but now with more of yourself in your voice. 

“Really? Because you’re acting like we’ve just met.” 

“Don’t you—don’t things feel different to you?” You seem almost distressed, eyebrows hooking upwards just slightly, pretty eyes imploring. Your voice softens again, now more with intimacy than reticence. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk with you about.” 

James lets his smile loose, thumbing at the skin behind your ear before letting you go. “We can talk about anything you want,” he says simply, grabbing his own plate and leading you into the living room. 

You’ve got a perfectly good kitchen table but almost never use it, each preferring to eat your meals on the couch. He flops down, careful not to tip his pancakes onto the cushion as he crosses his legs underneath him like you’re at a sleepover. 

“So, have any fun dreams last night?”  

You smile. It’s as heart-stoppingly lovely as always, and James thinks his own probably doubles in magnitude in response. 

“A couple,” you admit. 

“Oh? What about?” 

Your smile goes sheepish, bottom lip slipping in between your teeth as if to impede its progress. You fork clinks against the plate as you start cutting up your pancake. 

James’ brain short-circuits. 

“You were in my dream,” he blurts. 

Your eyes flit up to his warily. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. It was one of those weird, super vivid dreams where nothing really happens, you know?” You seem to relax a bit. James douses his pancakes in syrup, starting to cut them up as he talks. “We were here, and someone had spilled something on the rug—probably Sirius, to be honest—and it made this huge stain. I’d tried to pour baking soda on it, but the whole box had collapsed and it got everywhere. We were both sitting right there scrubbing with literal toothbrushes, and I think I was worried you’d be upset with me but you were just laughing.” His heart warms at the pseudo-memory, the hazy feeling of contentment that had permeated the dream. The sound of your laugh, exactly as sweet as in real life. “Your hands were totally covered in baking soda, and the rug was ruined, but we were both laughing our heads off.” 

You’re smiling again, a small, knowing thing. “Had you said something to make us laugh?” 

“No,” he says honestly, “I think it was you.” 

James is aware that he’s barely functioning. It’s almost too much to talk and cut his pancakes at the same time while you’re looking at him like that, like he’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen. It makes it both a relief and a disappointment when you drop your gaze. 

“Do you think the stain might’ve been a premonition?” you ask. 

He raises his eyebrows. “How do you mean?” 

You laugh, and he’s instantly spellbound, caught somewhere between fantasy and reality. It takes him a second to realize you’re touching the edge of his plate, tipping it up. James looks down. It had been nearly falling off his lap, his pancakes cut up into tiny pieces and syrup pooled near the rim. 

You look up at him, seraphim with the morning light brightening your features and the hint of a smile playing on your lips. He thinks of how soft they’d felt on his the night before, the way they’d fallen open like welcoming him home. 

“You were almost spilling syrup onto the rug,” you say, that rare and beloved teasing lilt to your voice. “It would’ve taken more than baking soda to get that out.” 

“See?” he asks. “You know how to talk to me just fine.” 

You look surprised, then self-conscious, though not nearly as bad as when you’d come into the kitchen a few minutes ago. He covers your hand with his to keep you from going anywhere. Sets his plate on the coffee table. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Your eyes are wide. “Again?” 

“Yes, again,” James laughs. “And again after that, preferably. Only if it’s okay with you.” 

You shake your head, looking something akin to bewildered. “Yeah. Yeah, please.” 

He starts to lean toward you, and you meet him halfway. Already, it’s a bit different. There’s no tentative stillness, no slow yielding. Your lips are pliant and eager, parting and closing around his like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Your fingers wind in his hair without instruction, and James responds by placing his hand in that spot you’d seemed to like it so well last night, the material of your sweatshirt soft beneath his touch. You taste like his pancakes, the syrup sweet on your tongue. 

“Keep talking to me,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your lips worshipfully, “okay?” 

Your voice is breathless. “Why?” 

“Because I like you.” He tugs at you, wanting you closer. “And I think I’ve put in the work for you to warm up to me, if it’s all the same to you.” 

You make a tiny, amused sound. “Fine,” you say. You grow bolder, kissing your way up his cheek, the top of his eyebrow, until your nose is nestled in his hair and your lips are caressing his forehead. “Consider me warmed.” 

James grins, unable to help himself. He thinks that becoming your friend didn’t go quite as he planned, but he feels as though he won in the end.

[jamminvroomvroom]

big dad vibes.

dad!ln x fem!reader

in which lando becomes a dad, and a series of moments that follow

back with more brainrot! this time it’s for dad!lando bc the baby fever is fevering and lando just had to go and talk about having kids on that podcast. my first time using social media elements as well so i hope you enjoy! ALSO! huge thank you for 3k, love you all and i cannot thank you enough for your support! 💘

warnings: minors pls dni with my work! mentions of pregnancy, children, minor angst, super duper fluff, suggestive jokes here and there, dilf!lando

1. the birth

lando’s legs couldn’t have carried him any faster than they already were. the hospital rooms disappeared past in a flash, his eyes scanning the hallways for one door. everything he’d ever wanted waited for him on the other side of that one door.

it was typical, really, that the one time he’d left your side since the season ended, you went into labour. he’d begdrudgingly listened when you told him to go to his meeting, despite the feeling in his gut that told him not to. lando knew, now, that his instincts were right.

the second he’d seen your face flash up on his phone, he was out of the conference room. you wouldn’t have called him unless it was an emergency. everything seemed to be moving in slow motion when he put the phone down, but then he was sprinting, through the double doors before him, past the line of cars, and out towards his car, speeding away from the MTC. the traffic fine he knew he was in for was worth it.

your words rang in his ears.

“lando… it’s time.” you’d breathed down the phone, accompanied by a shaky laugh.

and now he was looking at the door. it opened, slowly, and there you were, draped in a hospital gown, tired eyes bloodshot and soft. you were smiling, crying, and he fell to his knees before you.

“someone wants to meet you.” you cooed, and then he was crying too.

lando squeezed your knee, trying to pull himself together but it was futile. the most precious ray of light stirred in your arms, how would he ever be able to stop crying? you’d created that, you and him, and now she was here.

“can i…?” lando stood from where he was worshipping you, hoodie sleeve mopping up his tears.

“take all that off.” you replied.

“trying to get me naked already? i thought it would be at least six weeks-“ he teased.

“no, you sod. skin on skin contact.” you groaned, grinning helplessly at the man that had made you a mother.

he laughed along with you quietly, stripping the layers and sitting beside you on the hospital bed. you searched his excited eyes, melting as you placed your little girl in his awaiting arms.

and then he was falling in love.

the winter sunlight streamed through the window, a soft glow encapsulating your little family. lando sat next to you in dead silence, counting ten little fingers, ten little toes, memorising the dimpled curve of two lips, the crease between two softly shut eyes. his heart was bursting in a way it never had before, a new lease of life breathed into his body that fulfilled him more than anything ever had.

“are you okay, baby? i’m so sorry i wasn’t here.” lando mumbled, kissing your shoulder. he looked up at you, scanning your tired face, knowing that you’d never looked so beautiful. you cupped his cheek, pressing your forehead against his.

“the pain was worth it.” you quirked your lips, tilting your head so that you could kiss him. you felt his fresh tears wetting your cheeks, and you smiled into the kiss.

“i got here as quick as i could, i’m so sorry i wasn’t here to hold your hand.” lando was heartbroken to have missed the birth of his first child, guilty even, but you wouldn’t let that feeling linger.

“i’m just happy that you’re here now, i promise. we’ve gotta name this little love.” you pecked his lips again, cuddling into his side.

you’d been backwards and forwards on names for months, never landing on anything that seemed to fit. you’d read countless lists of names, brainstormed names of people you loved, but you just couldn’t agree.

“can we talk about it later? just wanna look at her for a bit longer. like, forever.” lando mumbled, and as if she recognised her daddy’s voice, your baby’s grey blue eyes fluttered open.

“oh.” he gasped.

you watched in pure adoration as they stared at each other, neither of them willing to look away first. a bond was forming before your eyes, and you felt like the earth was moving under your feet.

lando knew, staring into big blue eyes, that nothing would ever be the same again.

landonorris via instagram

liked by: f1, youruser, sebastianvettel and 1,245,000 others

landonorris: welcome to the world, the one and only matilda norris ❤️

-

2. the race

“lando, you cannot take her into the bloody media pen!” you scolded, ignoring the bark of a laugh he let out in response.

you were midway through changing matilda’s nappy, dressing her in the tiny mclaren t-shirt that the team had gifted you when you welcomed her to the world.

she was nearly six months old now, with the cutest smile and a laugh that could bring an entire room to tears. you were at your home in monaco, preparing to descend down the hills towards the marina where the race would be. this would be her first race weekend, and lando couldn’t have been more excited for her to make her debut at the track.

he also couldn’t have been more nervous.

the idea of putting your baby into such a hectic environment made lando sweat, which was why you’d left it until monaco, so that you had a home base to sneak away to if it all got too much.

“are you nearly ready to go, baby?” lando came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. he was peering over your shoulder, gazing at the giggling baby on her changing mat. “and what about you, matty? you ready to watch daddy drive?”

“i’m sure you’ll have her undivided attention.” you joked, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “can you put her in the car?”

lando scooped up his daughter, placing her gently into the baby carrier. you grabbed the changing bag and followed him out of the apartment, smiling hard at the quiet nursery rhyme he was singing. you locked up and trailed behind the duo, watching intently as he secured matilda’s car seat.

“see something you like?”lando called behind him, shaking his ass at you cheekily.

“you know i do, that’s how i got pregnant.” you stuck your tongue out at him.

-

the entire weekend was hectic, lando having the time of his life. he’d put his mclaren on the front row, the race flying by where he claimed second place and a rightful spot of the podium. you’d kissed him hard, matilda’s grabby hands tugging at his curls when he’d dipped down to press his lips to yours. he smirked, scheming something, and then he took the infant from under your arm, whisking her over to his interview.

“lando norris, what a race that was for you!” jenson button bellowed into the mic. “and it looks like you’ve been busy off track, too! who’s this little one?”

“the one and only matilda norris.” lando replied, pearly whites on display. he’d never looked happier, and you could feel your eyes welling with tears. lando grabbed her little hand softly, making her wave at the camera. “proud of daddy, matty?” he cooed, and you were a wreck.

landonorris via instagram

liked by: maxfewtrell, youruser, lewishamilton and 670,894 others

landonorris: matty’s first race 🏎️ 🧡

-

3. that time matilda crawled

“babe!” lando’s voice echoed through the house, up into your bedroom. you were fresh out of the shower, wringing your hair dry with a towel, nearly jumping out of your skin when he called.

“what is it, honey?” you shouted back, grabbing your (his) robe from the back of the door.

“you gotta come see this.” he sounded giddy and you bounded down the stairs, speeding into the living room.

“what’s going on?” you asked him, watching him practically jumping up and down with excitement.

“matty crawled.” lando beamed.

your eyes flitted to your daughter, sat quite casually on her play-mat.

“uh…” you said slowly. you wanted to believe him, but the evidence was not lining up. she was getting closer each day, but still seemed to be a tad far off of going the full stretch.

“she did! i swear!” he turned his attention back to matilda, dropping to the floor beside her. “c’mon matty, show mummy! i know you can do it, sweetie.” lando cooed.

“can i finish getting ready?”

“baby, she’s gonna do it again and you’re gonna miss it!”

“okay, just shout if she starts spitting bars.” you teased, turning to leave.

lando was pouting, but as if she sensed her fathers frustration, matilda had a point to prove. she pushed herself up from her tummy, fighting her way towards you.

“oh, my love.” you cooed, hand splayed over your mouth. she was growing up way too fast, but that was eclipsed by the pride bubbling hot in your chest.

“see?” lando pulled you into his side, gleeful. you moulded into him, lip quivering as you watched her wriggle around. “oh, baby, don’t cry.” he pressed a kiss to your hairline.

“happy tears, i promise.”

“she’s so clever, just like her mama.”

-

5. the backlash

the clips circulating online made you feel ill.

lando had just done another podcast, and the topic of his family had come up. they’d set the trap, and he’d fallen right into it, pressuring him about how he approached racing and being a father. he’d tried, bless him, but the way they’d cut the interview made it look like little matty played second fiddle to daddy’s racing car.

you’d been in the studio while your baby slept peacefully beside you, you knew exactly what he’d said, and now the tweets circulating about your boyfriend made you want to scream.

you were no stranger to the occasional landogate, but he’d gotten a lot better over the years. lando didn’t care much for the way the media twisted his words anymore, but when it came to his family, his flesh and blood, he quite simply couldn’t take it.

lando hadn’t come out of his gaming room all day. you’d let him marinate for a few hours, but you hadn’t seen him in too long, and you were starting to panic. matty kept spitting out little strings of words, dadadada spluttering out her little mouth. she wanted him, and you needed him, so you swept her up in your arms and carried her up the stairs.

you tapped on the door, pushing it open before you got a response. he was slumped in his gaming chair, hood up, spinning around aimlessly. he looked so deflated, staring at nothing, manufactured guilt eating him up.

“hey, honey. matty wants her daddy.” you called softly, wading into the room. lando sighed, but took her out of your arms immediately.

“better take what i can get, before she realises what a terrible father i am.” he mumbled sarcastically.

“hey, no. don’t do that, lando. don’t fall into this mindset. you and i both know that you’re a fucking amazing father.” you wagged your finger at him as you spoke. he just slumped further into his seat, letting matty pull at the drawstrings of his hoodie.

“maybe they’re right, though. i was always so scared of this part. what if she grows up and is ashamed of me?” he whispered, eyes honing in on his daughter.

“oh, baby.” it physically hurt you to see him so down on himself. you were ready to burn twitter to the fucking ground. “you’re the best father i could have wished for. she’s literally a little lando! god, honey, she loves you so much. and of course she would - you’re her whole world.”

“when she won’t sleep with me, ten seconds in your arms, and she conked out. when she’s bored, she only wants her dad. don’t even get me started on that annoying stubborn streak she’s showing. lando, she could never be ashamed of you. she is you.” you continued.

lando sighed shakily, pressing a kiss to matty’s forehead before placing her carefully on the ground. some of her toys were scattered there, so she made a beeline for her orange teddy, without a care in the world for you and lando. he spread his arms for you, ushering you in and you sat on his lap, cuddling into him.

“i love you, baby. you don’t know how thankful i am that you gave me this life.” he said into your chest, kissing right over your heart.

you knew everything would be okay, anyone with eyes could see how much he adored his little girl. and anyway, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought; all that mattered was that you had each other, and that was more than enough for lando.

-

5. matty’s first birthday!

your house was full of laughter, shades of pink, purple and yellow decorating every surface. balloons covered the ceiling, a big 1 taking up half your kitchen. and in the middle of all the colourful chaos, your boyfriend held your one year old daughter, bouncing her on his knee.

they were a picture, a truly stunning one, two identical sets of eyes crinkling at the corners while they laughed together. your heart was bursting, nothing able to contain the butterflies in your stomach as you watched the two greatest loves of your life.

stuffed toys and little pairs of shoes covered every surface, wrapped up with big ribbons. all of your favourite people were in one room, your families coming together with all of your friends to celebrate 365 days of matilda.

matty had spent her day playing with sylvie, george’s young daughter, while lando took photos from every angle humanly possible. then there was the cake, which lando had let the little girl smash all over her face. you’d scold him later, the moment was far too precious.

you were caught up watching lando play with matilda, when max came up to you.

“never seen him happier.” max beamed, pulling you into a side hug. you ruffled his hair in response.

“can’t believe we made her.” you muttered, head falling against his shoulder. you were awestruck.

“when are you having another one? he’s gagging for it.” max was joking with you, but the look you gave him made him do a double, triple, quadruple take. you were smirking. “wait… wait what?”

“sooner than you might think.” you patted your tummy slyly. “he doesn’t know yet, i only just found out last night. wanted matty to have her day and then i’ll tell him when she’s gone to sleep.”

max was staring at you, bewildered. you may have even seen a tear in his eye.

“oh, i love you guys. so fucking happy for you.” he whispered.

you caught sight of lando watching, his head tilted in confusion. you just winked at him.

-

“she went down easy. think today really took it out of her.” lando said as he walked into your bedroom. you were sat waiting for him, hands resting behind your back.

“thank you for today, it was perfect.” you beamed when he leaned down to kiss you.

you watched him get ready for bed, stripping down to just his sweats, and then he joined you, lounging across the foot of the bed.

“hey, what were you talking to max about, babe?” lando asked.

“a gift that i got you.” you replied coyly.

“a gift?” lando looked confused, and the confusion only grew when you pulled your hands from behind your back, placing a little gift bag in front of him.

“yep. hope you like it.” you kept your expression neutral.

he picked up the bag, rustling through the tissue paper, and then he found it.

a little white stick.

lando stared blankly, eyes flitting rapidly between your face and the pregnancy test in his hand.

“baby…” he started, but he lost his train of thought. instead, he launched himself at you, cuddling you into the mattress. you were laughing while he pressed his lips all over your face, your neck, ending with your belly.

“good gift?” you giggled, watching as his hand smoothed over the soft skin of your tummy.

“the fucking best.”

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landonorris: for matty’s first birthday, we’re giving her a sibling 🫶

-

6. family sized

lando norris, father of two, reporting for duty.

leo norris was born under the english sun, the late august heat making your labour a difficult one.

from the minute he was born, leo had a personality, angry, passionate eyes glaring at you and lando, a cry tearing from him that could end wars. he was gonna be a force, that little boy, not that you were complaining.

lando had fallen in love again, only having a few days to adjust before he was racing around europe, but he always found a way to slip into bed with you in the early hours of monday mornings, leo sprawled across his tanned chest. he’d watch the two of you sleep, listening out for matty down the hall.

and then she’d wake up, and lando would lay leo by your side, padding next door to your daughters bedroom. the pitter patter of her little feet and lando’s big laugh would wake you up. mornings were the best part of your day, all four of you tucked up in bed together before the chaos began.

it was hard sometimes, but life was bliss. you had the most wonderful partner, two gorgeous children, happiness that you couldn’t have ever fathomed right at your fingertips.

lando finally realised how big the world was, now that his family was often on the other side of it. he ached every second his heart was away from his kids but watching them grow, getting to see them smile, matilda clinging to his legs the second he came home, made it all worth it.

and god, coming home to you, whether you were waiting with open arms at the door or tucked up in white linen bedsheets in one of his t-shirts, was fucking delightful. you were his person, the one that gave him a reason to get up and smile, and he’d do quite possibly anything to keep you happy until you were old and grey by his side.

“matty, what do you say when we say goodbye to chat?” lando asked his little girl.

he was wrapping up a stream, matilda finding her rightful place as his new cohost - max was hardly coping with being replaced but that was a separate issue.

lando bowed his head, looking at matty encouragingly and she beamed hard at the screen. she was two years old, with the bubbliest personality and the brightest eyes in the entire world.

“gg boys.” she grinned toothily at the camera, and lando’s squawk of a laugh summoned you into the room.

lando was logging off when you walked in, watching from the doorway. leo was down for his nap, and matty was soon due hers.

“what are you two getting up to?” you chimed in, leaning into the wall.

“matty’s gonna be a gamer.” lando said in his sing-song voice, the one he reserved for when one of his kids did something that made his eyes sparkle.

“no call of duty.” you said sternly, looking at him pointedly.

“don’t worry, baby. f1 game only, she’s gonna be a racing driver.”

“just like her daddy.” you whispered, watching the duo high five in their matching hoodies.

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landonorris: @/mclaren i’m gonna need a bigger car

-

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youruser: big dad vibes 💘

-

7. long time coming

lando held his son tight, watching you and matty examine tiny sea shells in the little rock pools that were forming. the sun was setting over the monegasque beach, beams of pink and orange light bathing your family as it bounced off the soft waves.

leo was wriggling in lando’s arms, the two year old boy desperate to join his mother and his sister splashing around in the shallows, but lando kept a hold of him. leo was too mischievous for his own good, cheekier than the average two year old. perhaps it had something to do with who his father was.

“daddy, come look.” matty called, so lando waded into the water, ankle deep. that little girl had him wrapped around her finger. he cast his eyes over matilda’s inquisitive face, glancing at you for just a second, and that’s all it took for you to steal the air from his lungs.

you were more radiant than ever, as beautiful as the day he’d met you and fallen so helplessly in love. he hadn’t stopped falling in love since. you’d made him a father, you’d given him a family, you’d taught him what it was to be truly, unequivocally happy.

and now all you had to say was yes.

“that’s lovely, sweetie.” lando cooed at matty, eyeing the handful of seashells she’d collected. “wanna go play on the sand? we have that gift to give mummy.” lando winked at the little girl, who took off running, splashing sea water over you both.

once she was out of earshot, you turned to lando.

“you’re not pregnant, are you?” you teased, thinking back to the gift you’d given him those years ago, who was now tucked sleepily into lando’s chest.

“how did you know?” lando joked back.

he grabbed your hand, toes sinking into the sand as you made your way towards matty, who was fidgeting on the picnic blanket you’d laid out earlier. as soon as you reached her, lando gave her the sly nod, the signal that he’d taught her over the last few days, and her sweet little voice called out to you.

“mummy?”

“yes, my love?” you kneeled down on the blanket, eye level with your daughter.

“daddy wants to ask you something.” her doe blue eyes twinkled in the setting sun, and you whipped your head around to look at lando.

lando, who was down on one knee, balancing his son in one hand and the biggest fucking diamond ring you’d ever seen in the other.

“should’ve done this about four years ago, but we were busy popping out kids.” lando breathed, his eyes watery. you were already in tears. “my love, where do i even begin? i’m nothing without you, and every time i leave you, i leave my entire heart behind, so please, will you marry me?”

tears streamed down your face, and lando sat the squirmy toddler down next to his sister, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet.

you surged forward, the force of your movement leaving you both in the sand. you clung to him, lips meeting his with sweet urgency. you mumbled a million yes’s into the kiss, no one left in the world but you and him, and your two beautiful children.

and when you pulled away, you scooped your babies into your arms, holding them tight, knowing that you were in the presence of the purest form of love.

your little family, complete…

…for now.

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youruser: family day out 🥹🫠❤️‍🔥

-

i don’t know how to write fluff lol

-

taglist

some tags have been removed if they weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed from my list <3

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker

[post-it-notes7]

OHHH MY GOODNESS. MY GOD!!!!!!! OH MY GOSH

from: @starflungwaddledee to: @post-it-notes7

message from santa: "happy holidays post-it-notes! 🎄🥳 i know you very politely only wished for a few modest things- characters high fiving, or struggling in christmas attire- but i hope you'll still enjoy this given that i kinda went the opposite direction entirely! i'm an enormous fan of your work and most times you post anything i wind up browsing your art tag from tip-to-tail in enraptured delight. as such, i thought it was only fair i give back something a little more significant in gratitude for all the joy your work has given me. i knew i wanted to do a comic, so i was thrilled you already had a whole storyverse for me to work from!! this scene seemed the most obvious choice (chapter 8 of "wishful thinking" on ao3) given that i enjoy a dramatic fight scene 😂 i tried to stick as beat-by-beat to the writing as i could and worked in as many details as possible; i hope it'll be fun to see it envisioned this way! merry christmas! ~starflung 🎀🔔 "

[goxjo]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 ⋮ 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮

↪︎ bridesmaid series ∘ haikyuu mlist ∘ general mlist

In which you, a bridesmaid, come across a groomsman who cannot wait to get away from all the drunk and lovesick fools at the wedding reception, much like yourself ⋮ Alternatively, in which you get to know each other while he’s balls deep into you

pairing. groomsman! miya atsumu x bridesmaid! reader

warnings. no reader pronouns, f anatomy! reader, hookups, just a bunch of horny strangers, semi-public touching and grinding a.k.a. inappropriate pda, pet names (darling, sweets, he also keeps calling you cute & pretty), wedgie, masturbation, cockwarming, overstimulation, creampie, pillow talk, pregnancy joke, breast/nipple play

word count. 3.5k

an. this was the first smut I ever wrote (like 4 years back). this is also rewritten & reposted <3

꒰ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐝𝐧𝐢 — 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 ꒱

Your bridesmaid flower crown is long-forgone, swept along the late afternoon tide. The midnight blue scarf wrapped loosely around your neck is about the only thing keeping you warm and. Your borderline-sheer bridesmaid dress would’ve definitely suited the beachy occasion if it weren’t for the fact that temperatures this time of the year are starting to drop.

Still, you pay no mind to the cold when the salty breeze beckons you to dip your toes in the sea, leaving your woes behind in a quick attempt to remove yourself from the reception. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. And to think you’re the only one in your friend group who didn’t come with a +1. No wonder you came to the sea for some company when everyone else has just about taken the dancefloor, dancing not alone to some mood music.

You run your fingers through your hair, pulling it back in a lazy attempt at keeping it in place while you indulge in the ocean breeze. The cold wind kisses your now exposed back, hairs on your nape prickling as you close your eyes and tilt your chin up, baring your neck to the chilly sensation on your skin.

Snapping you out of your daze is the wind snagging the scarf off your neck — the garment didn’t go far but tides have started to be unforgiving at this hour.

It takes you a few good seconds to decide if it’s worth the risk of getting your dress wet, let alone accidentally drowning with no one aware of your whereabouts. Only, anyone who could save you is either drunk or lovesick.

Screw it. You reach for the hems of your dress, holding them up to your knees, about ready to brave the 2-feet-high seawater.

And as if the sea gods had just answered your plea, you freeze in place when you hear a snicker coming from behind you, the apparent source of it walking past you, beating you to your scarf.

It’s one of the groomsmen from your now friend-in-law’s side of the family. Dirty blonde with a clean black undercut, white dress shirt that’s four, five buttons undone, exposing his toned chest.

You wonder how long he was able to make a spectacle of you before rushing to your aid when you realize he’s already barefoot and had more than enough time to take off his shoes and socks. Funny, he didn’t even bother to fold his beige pants before charging on. He shoots you a smirk before picking up your scarf, gently wringing the saltwater out. His shins splash against the tides as he makes his way over to you, looking far too amused for someone whose getup had been needlessly soiled by the ocean.

“You didn’t have to, but thank you, uhm—”

“Atsumu?” He says it like it’s a sarcastic reminder, as if his name is something you’re already supposed to know. “Seemed like an important scarf, and uh — you can thank me tomorrow over dinner.”

You thank the sea gods for answering your prayers even though it almost took a human sacrifice (you) in order for them to grant you company — and someone so easy on the eyes too.

“I feel like I’ve seen this already,” half-impressed, half-suspicious, you say as you take your scarf back.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, in Hercules or the ones you see in clichés. You know… the whole damsel in distress trope? Then the hero conveniently hears her distress call, comes to her rescue, and they both get wet for it.”

“Darling, you barely even dipped in the water. I didn’t get you wet, did I?”

Your lips purse in amusement, causing you to bite the inside of your cheek as you chuckle. “Just a little. But don’t worry, you don’t have to commit.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Then I guess we could look into it after dinner tomorrow. I’m ___. Nice to meet you, Atsumu.”

“Scarf and a date. Must be your lucky day. Pick you up at 8?”

“Sure, but promise me you’ll change into something dry.”

That earns you yet another snicker from him. “I will if you will.”

Your planning is interrupted by the sound of roaring cheers and clinking bottles apparently for someone who had just passed out. It’s ridiculous since it’s only been barely a few hours into the afterparty.

“Whad’ya know. And it’s only 6 o’clock,” you huff out knowing you have to sit through more of these tonight, already mentally exhausted at the thought.

“To think there’s going to be 5 more hours of this or so.”

As if the gods hadn’t blessed you enough today, you find your would-be date as engrossed at the scenery as you. It turns out, he’s as impressed with you as you are with him. His face instantly switches from a scowl to an inquisitive one with a cocked brow. You swear you hear his thoughts as clear as day asking you ‘you thinking what I’m thinking?’.

In case the message didn’t come across, he holds a hand out, asking you again, “Wanna get outta here?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

…

Like some horny teenagers who had just gotten off prom, you find yourselves hand-in-hand running through endless corridors, leaving trails of giggles and sand past concerned staff and other guests on your way to your hotel room.

You try your hardest to brush off your pseudo-savior's eagerness while still in public. But with the way he keeps kissing the back of your hand and persists on planting kisses atop your shoulder every time anything blocks your way, you can’t help the lewd sounds that escape your lips.

The knowing looks that come your way don’t help either, not when Atsumu is just keen on trying you in every torturous way possible as some form of pre-foreplay.

Atsumu is ruthless even as you enter the elevator that had a family and a few other guests on board. He leads you to the back in his half-hearted attempt to be discreet.

Still a couple floors away, he passes the time by snaking both hands around your waist, pressing you up against his chest. As if timed right at the ding of the elevator, you feel two fingers pinch your ass, making your breath hitch a tiny squeak, forcing you to cover your mouth, and it takes everything in you not to take him on then and there.

“Atsumu, stop,” quietly, you plead, chuckling between syllables.

Ding, the elevator goes again, and for revenge, you grind your ass against his crotch.

“Mm,” he hums, chuckling low and breathy at the sudden wave of pleasure forcing him to dig his fingers into your waist.

“There are children in here,” one snarky lady comments as she tries to cover her children’s ears.

“Don’t worry. When they grow up, they’ll understand—”

“Atsumu!” You cover your mouth instantly in a futile attempt to stifle your laughter, earning daggers of stares from everyone else on the elevator.

The elevator dings one more time as the screen flashes your floor number, signalling your stop.

“Sorry!” You yell out when the doors are about to close with Atsumu dragging you to your feet, looking back to the unforgiving looks from the people left at the elevator.

…

“What’s taking so long, ___?” Atsumu whines.

“Shut up, I’m looking okay?”

You scramble through your tiny purse, cursing and wondering why your keys are never where you need them to be.

“Take any longer and I wouldn’t think twice to have you right here.”

“You’re not helping— found it!”

Atsumu stands right behind you as you fiddle with your keys. You can feel his impatience growing and pressing against you as he parts your hair to one side, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses on your jaw, down to the crook of your neck.

You suppose it’s the excitement in the air, where love and love-making are to be expected — the culprit behind why Atsumu just couldn’t wait to kiss you until you’re at least inside your room, where you’re hidden from the security cameras. It’s that or the party really must’ve sucked. In the heat of the moment, you kiss him back, hands roaming every which way, from his silky locks down to his biceps that feel so taut underneath your palms. You wonder if you’re probably putting on a good show for the people behind the cameras.

You enter your room after what felt like hours. Atsumu grabs your hand, interlocking with your fingers as he leads you to your bed. Mouths still latched onto each other’s, the need to be rid of clothes becomes urgent to say the least.

Shoes kicked off, and scarf discarded, he sits on the edge and you straddle him as you unbutton his shirt. The second you pull out, calloused fingers snake around the back of your head, and without an ounce of care, Atsumu pulls you back in, crashing his mouth onto yours.

“Sweets, you taste like heaven,” he says, moving on to trail your neck with kisses.

He runs his hands over your thighs, giving them a tight squeeze before he attempts to undress you. He attempts to tug at the zipper of your dress but it doesn’t budge.

”You’re hopeless,” you tease, playfully punching his chest. “Let me help you”

“I’d offer to rip it off but really, I just wanted to watch you strip.” He props his hands behind him, smirking as he chews on the inside of his bottom lip, eyes glistening with anticipation as he watches you get out of your dress. You take off both straps, letting your dress fall to the ground.

“Hh-ooly fuck,” he whistles, chest emptying out the chunk of breath he held back, pupils blown out as he takes the sight of your exposed top. His eyes are dead glued to your figure. With labored breaths, he slowly cups his aching bulge a few times before swiftly unbuckling his belt with one hand, head of his cock creating a dent on his boxers when he unbuttons his pants.

“My turn,” he coos, throwing his pants and shirt aside, revealing a rock hard build that could only belong to a sculpture of a Greek god. His breaths grow heavier the second he takes his cock out of his boxers, you gulp at the size of his girth alone, never mind the length you’re sure you’re not going to be able to take. His chuckles are low and carnal, ones that can’t wait to devour you.

He knows that look on your face. It’s one he’s so used to seeing upon showing his former lovers and fuck buddies his full and hard cock for the first time. The hollow of his palm gathers the slick from the tip. “Fuck, ____. The things I can’t wait to do to you.” He grunts while his fingers play with his foreskin, afterwards smearing pre-cum across his hard length.

With one hand slowly pumping his cock, he reaches for you with his free hand, drawing you back to him with your knees on either side of him, his free hand caressing your sides.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he utters and you feel his soft hair brush over your collarbone as he plants a kiss on your breast. He moves his mouth south of your nipple, tongue flicking the bud before capturing it in his mouth. He releases with a pop, alternating between licking and sucking on your supple flesh.

”Atsumu,” you mutter his name, fingers brushing through his silky locks while he’s in your embrace, clothed cunt lightly rubbing on the tip of his cock, “please,” you murmur.

”Hm? Can’t hear you,” he hums, teeth sinking into your tit as his tongue plays with your nipple, not having had his fill with them yet. He knows full well what you need with his fingers tracing along the hems of your underwear.

“F-fuck!” you cry from the sudden burning sensation on your ass down to your cunt, holding onto him for dear life as you try to grind against the much-needed friction, and you realize he’d pulled a fistful of your underwear from behind you.

“God, you’re so pretty. Even the sounds you make are so pretty.” He tightens his grip on your panties, running his free fingers between your spilled labias.

“You weren’t lyin’ about getting wet after all, were you, sweets?”

“S-stop teasing, Atsumu—fuck!” He parts your underwear and runs a finger through your slippery folds. “Mmf,” you mewl when he pinches your clit, teasing your sensitive bud, your body practically melting into his touch, nails digging into his shoulders.

“I’m just stating the obvious, ___. You’re so wet, it’s so cute. So eager. So fucking ready for me.”

“You fucking idi—ahh!” Atsumu relentlessly pumps his middle and ring finger into your wet hole, his thumb drawing fast slimy circles onto your clit, making you collapse onto him as he fucks you with his fingers.

“You want my cock? Say it. Say you want my cock. Beg for it sweets. I want to hear you say it. C’mon, say it.”

“P-please… your cock… Atsummff— hha!!” You whimper, head bowed, forehead leaning on his shoulder. You’re losing rhyme and reason as you mount his hand, hips bucking onto his touch riding your first orgasm, all while Atsumu peppers your shoulder blade with kisses.

“You’re so fucking cute, wanna hear you cummin’ all night long.”

Before you could shoot back a response, his mouth is on yours again, kissing you fervently with his tongue battling against yours. You moan into his mouth as he rubs now-menacingly slow circles on your sensitive bud, letting out a whimper when he slides two digits again inside you, exploring your velvet walls.

“Please, please, please, ‘Tsumu,” pressing your forehead against his, you purr, making Atsumu curl his fingers inside you.

He lets out a soft breathy chuckle. You could tell he’s pleased with himself, toying at you who has already come undone with just his fingers.

He hooks his hands under your thighs, fingers digging in your skin as he lifts you, gently laying you down on your bed.

His brown eyes are fixed on yours while he removes your underwear, making your breath hitch at your full exposure. His head tilts, looking at your puffy cunt with such hunger in his gaze. He lines himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock accidentally rubbing against your clit, and he doesn’t miss the way your mouth instantly formed an ‘o’.

And for the last time, “Atsumu, please. I need you,” you beg.

“So fucking pretty.” He shoots you a smirk before wrapping your legs around his waist, fully thrusting all of his length inside you, not giving you time to adjust at all. Luckily, your own juices help with the stretch as he pounds into you on all fours.

”Ah—god, Atsumu!” your eyebrows furrow as you cry out in pleasure. To stifle your moans, you bite onto your thumb, but that seems to do something to Atsumu, his gaze and pace both turning into something more animalistic.

”Fuck, keep doin’ that and I’ll be done in a matter of seconds,” his clicks his tongue and you feel him twitch inside you.

Wanting this to last as long as possible, you obey him, clutching onto the sheets instead. But at the rate he’s going, you can’t help but arch into him as you feel yourself nearing your climax once more.

“So glad we left the party,” you mumble to which Atsumu laughs. “Fuck yeah.”

Your breaths are getting shorter and you start to feel tears pricking your eyes. ”I’m almost- almost there- a-almost-“ Your eyes close shut, head craning back subconsciously as you await your orgasm.

”No, no. Fuck. Look at me, I wanna see your pretty face,” he demands as he continues to pound into you. You follow his command despite your self-consciousness over your unravelling expression, but a bolt of heat shoots down your stomach so hot, it stifles any complaint that could come from your mouth.

”Perfect,” he says as he clasps his calloused hands on yours, forcing you to let go of the sheets.

His strides have gone uneven at this point and you wrap your legs tighter around him, waiting to hit your peak for the nth time. Open mouthed and breath hitching, you force yourself to look at him while your insides clenches around his throbbing cock. You’re trembling in your high as he slams one more time into you — grunting in his own release before plopping on top of you.

“Damn,” you breathe out.

Clearing your throat, you lightly urge him to shuffle from his position.

“Damn,” he says back, leaving you a chaste kiss on your cheek, and for some reason, that makes your heart skip a beat in a different way compared to the intimate exchange you just had.

It doesn't miss you that he’s still in you, hard. He lays on his side after he exits you, and you bring your leg around so that he’s spooning you. You jolt back when you feel him sliding his cock back in from behind you, but the stretch is one you welcome, too tired to even complain about all the cum he’s squeezing out of you.

”You’re not gonna look me up three months later asking for support aren't ya?” he pants.

”You seriously only thought to ask that only now?”

He laughs sheepishly and you add, ”Don’t worry, we’re good.”

“How’d you end up going to the ceremony anyway? Big occasions don't seem like your type.”

“You — you’re not just trying to make small talk, are you?” you tease as Atsumu fiddles with your breast. Even during pillowtalk, he’s quite on brand as the tits kind of guy.

“Darling, it’s called ‘getting to know you’,” he retorts, squeezing your tit.

“I just like the beach,” you say plainly, slightly taken aback by the sudden interrogation. “And how are you related to the groom?”

“We’re cousins. But he’s closer to my twin than me.”

Looking over your shoulder, “you’re a twin?!”

Your insides suddenly twitch at your discovery, making him jolt forward “Careful there!” he grunts, warning you as he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Same undercut, dark hair. That’s right, I saw him too. How did I not see you were twins?!”

You feel the grumble of his chest while he chuckles, feeling hints of exhaustion in his laughter while he’s pressed up against your back. He kisses your shoulder, feeling his weight on you as he leans into you even more. “You musta’ just been looking at the right sort,” he replies cheekily, hand latched onto your breast again.

“By ‘right’, you mean you?”

“Yeah? You seemed to think so when you were screaming my name two minutes ago.”

”I’m just saying. I wouldn't know if you're the better twin. Just ‘cause—”

“What’s that?” He brings a hand over to your clit, viciously rubbing your sensitive bud, making your hips shake. He’s banking on your overstimulation from your multiple orgasms, obviously unwilling to let you finish whatever it is you were gonna say.

“What is it?”

“Nothingfff— I—”

“I what?”

“Feel so good, d-don’t stop—fuck!”

He lifts you by your waist so that you’re on all fours, fingers still stroking your clit. It doesn't take much until he’s thrusting into you again. This time, you grab hold of the headboard as he moves one hand to cup your breast and another on your back, keeping you just where he wants you.

The ram of his hips against your as is a mix of sticky and slippery, sticky where his cum began to dry out seconds ago. He pounds into you harder this time, apparently unhappy with your supposed comparison.

“‘Tsumuuuu,” you purr. If a while ago you were merely oriented with the stretch of his cock, now it’s something so familiar you’re sure no other cock can quite fit like a glove compared to his. And you suddenly remember that you had practically just met this person and yet he’s already balls deep into you for the second time today.

The sound of his rock hard thighs ramming onto your ass sends your insides coiling. Still slightly sticky from the cum that hasn’t fully dried out, your clit sticks onto the base of his cock before he fully exits and pounds into you again. Cunt gummy, slimy, and stuffed all at once, a bolt of heat from your stomach shoots down to your center making you scream in pleasure.

He squeezes your tit one last time before bringing his hand to rub circles on your clit. Once more, you arch your back, whimpering as you get off from your high. Pretty soon, he’s coming off from his own high, stuffing you full of his hot and thick seed.

“Just so ya know, I forgive you. Clearly, you weren't thinkin’ straight a while ago,” he says and you could almost hear the smirk in his face by how he said it. He plops back down on the bed, pulling you close to his sweaty, panting body.

“You are so full of it,” you sneer.

He pulls you in tighter before asking, “so, 8 PM tomorrow?”

“Deal.”

[ellecdc]

hii!! i rlly like your writing and was wondering if you could do a request ? remus (or wolfstar ) x reader where its like posthogwarts and she went to a diff wizarding school and the wizard thing was hush hush cuz she was a muggle, but then one day she like accidentally uses magic and they were like “ omg wait what” and like yeah. anyways pls feel free to ignore this its a very odd request LMAO. thank you so so much for taking the time to read this !!! (im sorry if this sounds weird i dk how to talk to ppl) ok bye 🫶

this was a very cute prompt! thank you so much for your request and your patience in my writing it!

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader who they believe to be a muggle [1.8k words]

CW: fear of werewolf prejudice, fear of muggle born prejudice, I also included a line in French and you can find the translation at the bottom of the work

Sirius knew that they were, perhaps, being a little bit selfish by keeping such a big secret from you.

Statute of Secrecy be damned, they were well beyond the point in your relationship where they could have (and likely should have) told you that he and Remus were wizards (oh, and, while we’re at it, Remus turns into a beast once a month so there’s that, too). 

And while their friends all suspected it was Remus who was hesitant to tell you the truth on account of his lycanthropy, it had actually been Sirius who kept procrastinating the long overdue conversation.

But Sirius had to admit that he was very scared to tempt fate, because meeting you had been a complete fluke and he wasn’t willing to muck it up by scaring you off. How many times in one life did someone get the chance to meet a perfect angel?

Sirius had already met Remus which felt like nothing short of destiny, and then they met you, and that felt prophetic. And who was Sirius to mess with the prophecy? 

“You cannot chicken out tonight.” Remus muttered as Sirius rapped on your door, earning him an indignant scoff from his boyfriend. 

“I’ve never once chickened out in my entire life, thank you very much. That’s why I was sorted into Gryffindor.”

Remus merely snorted. “Sure, that’s why this is our seventh attempt at breaking the news, yeah?”

Sirius refused to look at Remus before banging (slightly louder) on your door once more before you finally opened up.

Gods you were so bloody beautiful; smiling like you couldn’t physically be any happier that your two boys were here, eyes excited and bright and so full of love and fuck sakes he couldn’t do it.

“Hey dove.” Remus greeted for the both of them, seeing as Sirius’ brain was short circuiting on account of your beauty and loveliness, pressing a kiss to your hairline and all but shoving Sirius past the threshold of your door. “It smells amazing, what are you making?”

Your smile seemed to grow impossibly brighter at the praise. “A vegetable bake! It’s sort of Mediterranean, and I’m making pasta to go with it.” You explained excitedly, and Sirius honestly felt like he was going to start overflowing with the amount of fondness he had for you.

“You going to say hello to our girl, Siri? Or are you just going to keep staring at her?” Remus taunted as he walked further into your flat to place the flowers he was carrying for you in a vase - the routine of bringing you bouquets every time they visited so practised that he knew where to find your vases. 

“Of course, gorgeous. Sorry for being rude.” He murmured as he pulled you into his chest and breathed you in. “You’ve got to stop answering the door looking so bloody beautiful; I completely forget myself.”

You giggled into his chest and then leaned on your tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to his lips that he - the selfish bastard - didn’t find nearly enough before he pulled you into a second deeper, lingering kiss. 

“It’s good to see you, Sirius.” 

Sirius sighed happily - because really, it was even better to see you - as he shuffled the two of you towards the kitchen Remus was now fussing in. 

“Beautiful!” You cheered as Remus positioned the bouquet in the middle of your kitchen island; and Sirius could see the mischief in Remus’ eyes even if you couldn’t.

“Just like you, dove.”

And, quite possibly one of their favourite sights, they watched you turn bashful as you opted to fuss with the arrangement instead of looking at either of them. 

“Listen, sweetheart, we were wondering if perhaps before we eat, we could chat with you about something?” Remus decided to rip the bandaid, and Sirius wanted to hex him for the way your body tensed and you looked at him with what appeared to be mild horror.

“Oh- uhm, okay, yeah, sure that’s… that’s fine.” You stuttered as you moved to the kitchen table to take a seat, both boys following obediently. 

Sirius watched as Remus moved last week's bouquet - which Sirius had secretly cast a stasis charm over so that they would last longer - out of the centre of the table and closer to Sirius so that they could both have a better view of you. 

“Is…everything okay?” You asked cautiously as you fiddled with the sleeve of your shirt. Sirius wanted to throw up. 

“Of course, dovey.” Remus assured you, though it was Sirius’ thigh he gave a comforting squeeze under the table. “We just know that we’ve been seeing each other for a while now, and we’ve grown to care about you quite a lot- you know that, right?”

Sirius watched as the divot between your brows only deepened as you nodded hesitantly. “So much, gorgeous; we care about you so much.” He insisted when it didn’t look like you truly believed them. 

“But we just, well, we haven’t been completely honest with you, is all. And now that we’re at this point in our relationship, we…we feel like we owe it to you to be honest.” Remus continued, clearly beginning to feel just as out of his depth as Sirius was. 

Your face fell completely blank, though Sirius could tell you were still tugging nervously at your shirt sleeve.

“Baby, I swear this isn’t bad, we- I rather think I’m in love with you, and-”

But as Sirius went to reach his hand over to rub at your arm in a way he hoped to be comforting, he ended up knocking over the vase stationed in front of him.

It didn’t break, thank Merlin, but it did topple over before Sirius could catch it and the water poured over the table.

Remus went to stand quickly to avoid being soaked, but no sooner had he pushed his chair away from the table was the vase floating towards you and the water completely vanished. 

Not looking at the boys in front of you, you righted the vase and repositioned the florals to your liking before looking up at Remus who was now standing and staring at you owlishly, and Sirius who was gaping at you from his seat.

“Did you just-” Sirius started, voice no more than a whisper, but was quickly cut off by the sound of a timer in the kitchen.

You waved your hand in that direction mindlessly before sinking back despondently in your chair and staring down at your lap, the timer silent.

“Y/N.” Remus rasped. “Did- was that…are you a witch?” 

You appeared to flinch as if you’d just realised what you’d done before you looked up; all colour seemingly draining from your face.

“What? I-” You started with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about? There’s no such thing as witches…”

But Sirius knew what he saw, the first could have been an accident - a trick of the mind - but the second act of magic was all the confirmation he needed.

Silently, Remus summoned the vase of flowers towards him before charming them to dance to imaginary music, plucking one from its stem and turning it gold before reaching across the table to put it behind your ear as you gaped at him. 

“You’re…a wizard?” You whispered in disbelief. 

At that, Sirius stood and spun, turning into Padfoot and panting excitedly at your feet as his tail whacked against the table leg with every wag.

A wet laugh escaped you before either boy realised you were wiping your eyes.

“Oh my gods?” 

“Awe, dovey.” Remus cooed as he moved over to Sirius’ chair so he could take your hands in his. “Don’t cry.”

“Is this what you guys were going to tell me?” You asked cautiously, hopefully. 

Padfoot melted back into Sirius, but he stayed kneeling at your feet as he rubbed soothing stripes up and down your calf. “Yes, baby; this was it.” He assured you. “I’m sorry we scared you.”

“So, that boarding school you went to in France?” Remus asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Beauxbatons.” You confirmed with a nod of your head. “And your boarding school in Scotland?”

“Hogwarts.” The two boys chorused, and you all let out a chuckle.

“It’s almost embarrassing that didn’t give it away right there.” You laughed breathlessly. 

“Since we’re, uh, being honest about stuff…” Remus continued, trailing off awkwardly as he shared a grimace with Sirius. “I’m also, well, I’m also a werewolf.” 

“Oh.” You breathed quietly. 

Sirius held his breath as he watched you consider this before you nodded your head decisively. 

“I’m muggleborn.” 

Sirius and Remus shared a quick look before Remus let out a disbelieving chuckle. “Is that- …what?”

“Baby, are you trading that information like we might think that’s a negative?” Sirius teased you lightly. 

“I suppose it depends on who you ask…” You whispered, and both boys softened. 

“Not us, dove.” Remus offered. “Good.” You smiled at him. “Then me too.”

“Is that really how you feel about it? About me?” Remus asked quietly. 

“No, it’s not how I feel about you.” You denied. “J'ai l'impression de tomber très amoureux de toi.” You admitted shyly, and Sirius couldn’t be held responsible for the mortifying cooing sound that resonated from the back of his throat. 

He grabbed your face roughly and started peppering you with kisses: “how”, a kiss, “did we”, a kiss, “manage to find”, another kiss, “the most brilliant and beautiful witch”, kiss kiss kiss, “in the whole world?” 

You were giggling and trying - not very hard, mind you - to pull away from Sirius’ ministrations when you stilled and let out a gasp.

“What?” Both boys paused.

“Supper!” You nearly shrieked as you went flying into the kitchen, muttering to yourself in French as you turned off the stove top and fussed with various pots and dishes. 

“I am so unbelievably in love with her.” Remus murmured, eyes glued to your form as you danced through the kitchen. 

Sirius scoffed as he leaned against his boyfriend with his arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “I can’t believe you were so scared to tell her.”

Sirius didn’t need to look at Remus to know he was glaring at him; he could feel it.

But he also felt his heart grow three sizes when you turned to look at both of them with a beaming smile and a steaming dish in front of you, completely unphased that one of your boyfriends was a werewolf even though as a witch you knew exactly what that meant. And not only were you unphased, but you were still falling in love with them regardless.

Sirius had admittedly been very scared to tempt fate, because meeting you had been a complete fluke and he didn’t want to muck it up by scaring you off. Because really, how many times in one life did someone get the chance to meet a perfect angel?

If meeting Remus had been destiny, meeting you was prophetic; and who was Sirius to mess with the prophecy?

(translation: I feel like I’m very much falling in love with you).

[earth4angels]

𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

modern!jacaerys x ballerina reader ─── first clumsy kisses on the bleachers, fluff, MAJOR FLUFF, jace is a little piece of shit in the beginning, aegon is the best friend we all need sometimes, blind date, jace acts possessive - major simp too.

summary: it takes a very braggy best friend who says he is the best cupid to ever exist for you to finally accept a blind date. however, you did not expect to cross paths with the one male who everyone wanted, a reputation of a lady-man but what could be worse? right?

a/n: this one i do want to make a series but i'll see how it's treated first so pls lemme know. listen to lovesick by laufey as you read (trust me)

jace tag list: @jacaerysgf @star611, @jules420, @gracexthoughts, @astrxq, @reyndaisy , @hxtd , @smurfelle , @nanaldy @valdezthg @littleblackcatinwonderland @nixtape-foryou @starrgurl46 @ethereal-athalia @stelleduarte @canyonmoon-2 @ambrosia-v-black

"Y/n, again. You are not lifting your leg high enough!"

You turned your head to look at your dance teacher who stood behind you, with a scolding face. You sighed, already irritated that you had to skip your friend's home welcoming party for practice.

As the music started playing again, you twirled. Your feet glided through the marble floor, the music becoming you, and for a while, you created a storyline with every bounce, and twirl you made. The final note was played as your body twirled then bent upward with your hands elegantly stretched outwards.

You looked like a painting and the few lookers that were in the room with you stared in awe. You breathed heavily through your nose as you remained in the final position until your instructor spoke.

"Amazing y/n! I feel like you hit the emotion straight in the face! I think we're done here," your instructor said, "Get out of here, enjoy the weekend off, I will see you Tuesday morning for the last rehearsals. Your audition will be on Saturday, do not forget!"

You smiled giddy that you could go early as you missed your best friend. He was finally home after visiting his grandparents, and though you and he stayed connected through Facetime, you longed to hug him.

"Thank you, Miss Royce, I will be there!" You scrambled to grab your bag; you bounced in your ballet shoes as you fell onto the floor untying the laces at a rapid pace. Your phone rang then, and you sighed in annoyance yet still picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"I cannot believe the one person that I wanted to see the most is not here. What do you take me as?" Aegon whined making you smile widely.

"Aegon!!!! I promise! I finished practice early! I'm heading over to you as fast as I can!" You slipped on your ballet slippers moaning softly at the difference between your pointe shoes and your soft slippers that relieved the pain on your feet.

"You better! Helaena and Aemond are bitching off my ear how you're not here!"

At that, you heard the voices of his siblings yelling over the phone asking about your whereabouts. You laughed at Aegon yelling, "that's MY best friend you idiots! Quit bothering!"

"Hurry! You don't have to call or anything when you arrive, the door is opened, just come to the back!"

You laughed again, hanging up after saying your goodbyes. Your velvety nude sling bag bounced with every running step you took as you ran to your car.

The house was lit up in pretty lights, you figured it was Helaena's doing along with Rhaena's, they were always the decorators when it came to parties. As you parked your car in front, you moved towards the door finding yourself hit with strong alcohol and loud music.

A scream was heard and then you were suddenly surrounded by long limbs. You huffed as the breath was taken from you, "Ooof!"

"I can't believe you are here! I have missed you so much!"

You moved your head back to see who had hugged you and when you saw their face you squealed. Both of you now bouncing, squealing together like young girls.

"Oh my gosh! Hels! You look so beautiful!"

Helaena rolled her eyes, "You are so much more beautiful! I have missed you so much, I will never leave longer than 2 months I promise!"

You hugged her tightly again muttering into her chest as she was taller than you were - how much you missed her.

"Come, the boys would want to see you!"

As you were taken to the backyard of the house you found yourself with a large crowd of people, you realized this was no longer a small gathering but rather a party. You scoffed, ah Aegon. You arrived at a ping pong table where Aegon was playing against Aemond, cheers were thrown left and right every single time they landed a shot.

You quietly stood in the middle of the table, eyeing the brothers' match, grinning softly at them throwing insults at each other. You knew it was all child's play as you knew they loved each other, but they were competitive.

"Fuck! Seven hells! You cheated!" Aegon exclaimed as he missed the shot, Aemond smirked shrugging his shoulders.

"Tough luck brother, now are you taking the shots or are you too wuss to?"

Aegon sneered, yet he never backed down, he leaned forward and grabbed all six shots, one by one they went down his throat. He shook his head and lifted his arms up as the crowd went wild. Aegon screamed with them as he was smiling boastfully.

You cleared your throat, "It's come to my attention that the jackass has not left you."

Aegon turned towards you, his soft uniquely lilac, with green-tinted eyes glimmered with joy, "Oh how much I missed you!"

You laughed as he swung you around in a tight hug, Aemond ran towards you as you were now wrapped in a group hug.

"I missed both of you idiots."

Aemond clicked his tongue, "You missed me more though, right?"

Aegon scoffed, "Shut your big chin up, again, she is MY best friend."

Your head moved from his face to Aemond as they bickered, your smile never faltering, "I missed both of you, I can't believe you guys left me for so long... I hate your mom for sending you to Oldtown."

Aegon huffed as he stuck a tongue out to his brother who did it back, "Careful babe, mom will punish you by denying you any sweet treats she bought you from home."

You gasped, "No way?" Aegon smiled as he nodded, "She bought me back treats? Why!? She didn't have to!"

Helaena who snuck her way into the group with a shot glass in her hand shoving it to your hand and nudging you to drink, "Mom loves you. I think she still wants to hook you up with Aegon."

You swallowed the tequila down, feeling the burning sensation for a few seconds before you and Aegon exclaimed together, "EW."

"She's like my sister."

"He's like my gay best friend I can never!"

Aegon stopped, before he looked at you in shock, "WHAT?"

You smiled teasingly, "Kidding," you whispered to Helaena who was grinning from the playful jabs both of you were making at each other, "Maybe."

"Okay, enough of that, let's have fun and we will catch up later, y/n sweetie, you will stay over tonight! No exceptions!"

You groaned as you got pulled into the crowd towards the homemade bar by Helaena. You did not remember much from that night besides maybe dancing too much, and accepting a body shot from some guy named Jake, or perhaps it was Jace? All you remember was how soft his lips were and how his arms held your thighs as he held you against the ping-pong table.

You groaned sitting up from the soft pillows, your head spinning in endless swirls, "Oh god... I am never drinking again."

"Sure, you're not."

You blinked, your head in your hands as you spotted Helaena next to you smiling at you teasingly. You groaned again falling back into the softness of the bed, scooting closer to her, making yourself in a small ball.

"Tell me how much of an idiot I was last night."

Helaena softly patted your hair, her finger combing through the rough tangles of your hair, "Ay. You didn't do much, you kind of deserved to have some fun. You are always practicing or studying."

"You know how badly I want to be a professional ballet dancer, I can't be a complete mess," you muttered into her chest where she continued combing your hair.

"You are perfect, not being a biased person here because you know, we're almost like sisters but I think you will be the best ballerina to ever exist, everyone will love you."

You kissed her cheek, muttering a soft thank you as you groaned again, hot flashes appearing, "Really though... how much of a clown was I?"

Helaena laughed then, "You practically made out with my nephew."

You shot up from her hold, your head spun again but paid no mind to the swirls, "Huh?! When?! I don't remember..." You trailed off mid-sentence as you forced your brain to remember said situation. You scrambled your hazy memories until it finally hit you.

You moaned in embarrassment as your hand gathered your forehead, "Oh... I remember... this is so embarrassing..."

Helaena laughed, "Relax, I think he won't remember either, both of you were pretty locked in though, until you..." She started laughing harder, "You vomited on his shoes."

You stared at her as she laughed, she was clutching her stomach from the ache that began to grow from the hard laughter she released. You sat in embarrassment, all the while you moaned from the pain and the shame that came to you.

You slapped your friend on the shoulder as she was heaving from laughing too much, "Hels! That's not funny!"

Wheezing she replied, "Relaaaax. I don't think you will ever see him again; my sister does not come around too much, she's busy running the family's business. So, chances of you ever crossing his path are 1 out of 10."

You hid in the pillow as the moaning came from the headache you were going through. What you did not expect was how quick you saw him again.

The library was calming, if there was any other place anyone would find you that was not the dance studio, you would be found in the library, reading. You slurped on your smoothie silently as your eyes scanned the words of the book, intrigued.

A rough bounce beside you made you gasp out loud, dropping your book onto the floor, your interruption grinning at you teasingly.

"Call me the best cupid to ever exist, I just got you a date!"

You rolled your eyes, picking up your book and settling back into the couch, your legs tucking under your behind, "No one asked, and no I am not going."

Aegon clicked his tongue, "I was not asking, I was informing you."

You looked up from your book, finding your best friend looking at you with mischief in his eyes, "Why would I do that? I am too busy anyways."

Aegon removed your book from your hands, putting it up in the air out of reach from your grabby hands that began to fight him.

"Exactly why! You are always practicing! You need a little spice, some drama in your life!"

You huffed as you gave up trying to get your book back, falling back to the couch and crossing your arms, "I am fine, thank you very much! I am fine being on my own, it does not interfere with my dance rehearsals, you know how much I need to nail this audition to be accepted to the ballet academy."

Aegon smiled softly, his blonde curls falling over his hazel, lilac eyes.

"I love you, y/n, I really do. But you need to get out there, you never know what you can come across with. Maybe it will be the best decision, maybe it will not. But the fact that you went through something new, is exciting. So please, enlighten yourself, go on one date."

Both of you stared at each other before you sighed, "Just one date? Then you'll leave me alone?"

He nodded rapidly, "Just one. Promise."

You leaned your head back, closing your eyes in thought, you figured, it wouldn't hurt to try having fun.

"Okay."

"Okay? Okay as in I will do it?"

You peeked an eye open finding Aegon bouncing on the couch in excitement, "Yes. I will do it."

He did a fist bump in the air as he cheered quietly, "I promise you won't regret it."

"Hopefully so."

Maybe it was a bad idea. The person who sat in the booth was in fact the person who you thought you were never going to see again. He sat with a sly smile. You were clenching your hands together in irritation, you found him incredibly annoying, yet he was so beautiful.

"Ah. I am so glad I came instead of Cregan."

You snapped your eyes up in anger, "What?!"

"Cregan was your blind date. Not me. He was just occupied sucking face with his ex-girl again that he did not come here, so I came. I wanted to see what prize I would get for being a best friend. I admit it is quite a treat for me."

Your hands itched to slap him but held back the anger that was filling your stomach, you almost wanted to cry but again, you held back. The male sitting in front of you crossed his arms, he was lean but muscular at the same time, he had very nice curls, and small but bright brown eyes that were easy to get lost in.

You were too into the drinks the night of Aegon's party to remember him but his lips... that you did remember. You blushed.

"Well," you cleared your throat, your eyes darting to the exit door of the restaurant, "this was fun, but I got to go for practice." You stood up, grabbing your bag and phone before a hand stopped you.

"Don't go. Look, I am sorry for being an ass. We can make use of the time and chat a little. If you don't want to stay after 10 minutes, I won't hold it against you. But I want to know you, I have seen you around."

You had two choices. Stay and get to know this guy or leave and swim in the shame of being stood up. You decided to hell with it, as you sat back down the booth slowly.

He smiled widely, his slight bunny teeth showing making you grin.

"My name is Jacaerys Velaryon, but you can call me Jace, everyone does anyways," he rambled, your lips quirked at the personality seeping out of him slowly. You introduced yourself, feeling a little flutter when he repeated your name softly.

The waiter came by to take your orders, Jacaerys was kind to ask what you wanted, recommending you the best choices. You felt more relaxed in his presence, he made it easy for you to open up. The food came in then, but the conversation never stopped.

He talked to you about his games, and his connection to your best friend. You found out he was in fact the co-captain of the soccer team. You heard a lot about the soccer team, how they hosted parties just to hook up with girls, or the famous captains that every girl wanted to make their boyfriends.

You grimaced at the thought you were now on the list of girls who he had dated. Shaking your head you continued to listen as you took small bites into your food, replying when asked a question.

"I have seen you. You dance very... pretty."

You choked on your pasta. His eyes widened as he reached out with a napkin whispering 'Oh shit, are you okay?' Your eyes watered but you gave a thumbs up.

"You've seen me dance?" You asked shyly.

"Have I seen you? Y/n, you are all they talk about in the halls. The next big performer of Westeros? You do not realize how much popularity you actually have do you? I have seen you once, practicing. You quite literally took my breath away."

Jacaerys muttered the last bit, he scratched his neck in shyness. You were practically red-faced; you did not dare to face him. His hand was placed on your right hand that was placed on the table, "I believe it though. You will make it big."

The flutters in your stomach made your toes curl, you wanted to hide and scream by the way he was staring at you. Jacaerys was grinning, his dimples showing slightly. He was beautiful.

"Thank... you?" you whispered, holding his hand now, watching him smile his hand now holding yours fully.

"You're welcome."

You did not want to admit it, but the date was in fact fun. You got to know him better as did he, you. You laughed at his attempt at making a whipped cream beard only for it to fall into his shirt and as he groaned, your heart fluttered. Jace, like he begged you to call him, was in fact the prime example of not judging a book by its cover.

When the check came, he quickly paid offering to take you home. In the car you sat listening to the radio in comfortable silence, you did not realize how much his hand twitched to hold yours.

"Well, we're here now."

You glanced at your home, silently cursing the time for going too quick. "Thank you for the ride, Jace. I had a lot of fun."

He smiled before it started to fade, you unbuckled your seatbelt slowly hoping that maybe... he would beg you to stay longer. He hesitated, your hand going for the door handle losing hope he was going to say something.

"Wait... y/n."

You reacted too fast for your liking, "Yes?"

"Meet me after the game? I'd like to take you somewhere."

You sat stunned before you stuttered, "As in... another date?"

His lips quirked to the side, the frat boy side slipping, "No. Just to hook up." That caused you to open your mouth to tell him off when he rolled his eyes, "Yes a date y/n."

You blushed; you did not know how much of his teasing you could take, "okay." You giggled into your hands as you closed your door, your cheek on fire holding a soft kiss made by the guy you never expected to make you feel so giddy inside. You hoped to see him again soon, and as you slept you dreamt of a curly, tall male with pretty freckles and brown eyes that looked like gems in the light.

You found yourself sitting in the bleachers surrounded by hordes of people. You had your ballet slippers on, your silk ballerina jumpsuit being covered by a skirt and a hoodie. You rushed after practice, sighing in relief when you only missed the first twenty minutes of the game.

Your classmates began looking at you not expecting to see you at a game. You never did come, Aegon begged you many times to go, to support Daeron who was also on the team. You always put practice as an excuse, but this time was different, Jace was playing, and he invited you.

You cheered whenever Jace scored, and as if he heard you, he would always throw his celebratory victories to you. Whether it was a wink or lame gun fingers. You jumped up and down as the team won their home game.

You waited by the bleachers, your feet dangling enjoying the chill of the night until you felt a jacket be dropped onto your shoulders. Jace sat next to you, his hair damped indicating his rushed shower. You sat in silence, his hands holding yours, with his thumbs caressing the front of your hands.

"Did you enjoy the game?"

You nodded, feeling too overwhelmed to speak.

"Let's make a deal yeah?" He leaned forward bending his head to face you clearly, your face growing hot when you spotted his bright brown eyes, from this angle you saw his freckles more clearly.

"Come to every single game of mine, and I will come to every dance recital, and rehearsal of yours. We will be each other's cheer squad."

Your heart grew warm, the appreciation and growing adoration for him becoming more intense. You only nodded, muttering a sincere promise as your hand reached towards his curls, brushing it to the side to avoid the droplets of water from his hair falling into his eyes. He grabbed your hand pulling you closer to him, your noses brushing.

You did not move as you did not want to seem desperate. You felt the minty breath of his, his hand holding yours as the other reached to cradle your face. You closed your eyes the moment you felt him move, your lips were wrapped with warmth, melting away every worry, growing the mass of butterflies that flew in your stomach. You met every movement of his lips, pressing yourself closer to him.

"Yo Jace! Quit making out! Are you coming to the party or not?" Cregan yelled from beneath the bleachers

You felt mutter a curse as you giggled. He pulled away still holding your hand, now intertwined with his. "Not tonight, I will be with my girl."

Cregan stopped, his jaw slacking, "Wh-at?" You even looked at him shocked. Jace only shrugged when he faced you before he looked towards his best friend, "Oh, and tell jack-ass Lannister that if I catch him sexualizing Y/n, I will beat his ass so bad he won't be able to play the playoffs."

Cregan only stood with his mouth open, shocked to see the one playboy who never wanted to commit to serious relationships in a deep make-out with a girl who he was serious about. Jace pulled you who was also stunned to his car, as both of you passed the still shocked Cregan, Jace patted him on the shoulder.

"Thanks man."

That night you sat in the back seat of his car, deep in make-out sessions, going over ice cream cones and listening to both of your favorite bands. As you sat wrapped in his strong arms you decided to question him your doubts.

"Why did you tell Cregan that?"

Jace hummed and if like he said nothing wrong, he responded lightly, "That we were together?"

You nodded, "And Lannister? What's that about?"

You felt him tense before he let out a big breath, "I plan to make you, my girlfriend. I can't stop thinking about you since I've met you. Lannister..." he huffed, "... is a jackass. A douche with no respect for anyone, if you ever cross paths with him or any of his goonies, turn the other way, and let me know if he ever does anything, promise me."

You swore you felt your heart wanting to explode, you wanted to confess your true feelings as well but felt too cowardly to do so, you only responded with a soft 'okay.' He pressed a kiss on your head, pressing you closer to his chest, you closed your eyes, hearing the soft thumps of his heart.

You fell harder for Jacaerys Velaryon that night, but you will never know how much he already loved you from afar. How when he saw you the night of Aegon's party he was shocked to see you there with a pretty light floral dress - he just did not expect to get so hammered like you were. And you definitely will never find out how Aegon texted Cregan the night after to meet you for a date when Jacaerys himself was using Cregan's phone.

You will never find out how quickly he deleted the message and went to meet you instead because this was finally his chance to talk to you, since you never turned your eye to him every time, he tried on purposely to catch your eye. You will not find out how he always stood by the door of your dance rehearsals seeing you twirl, and bounce as if you were flying in the air so prettily.

Jacaerys Velaryon has loved you deeply for a long time and he planned to love you always, you were the person he wanted to take to his mother and proudly say he wanted to marry you.

[kisakis-boyfriend]

I genuinely cannot tell if you’re requests are open or not but if they aren’t jus reply saying they aren’t or leave this silly piece letting until they are. I want to see freminet BRED. That man deserves to be inflated and begging for more (if you could be so kind as to do this with lyney as well but I’m more then happy with just Freminet) thank you

Author's Note: I'm combining these two requests, I hope that's alright! — I agree, Freminet deserves to be bred and fucked like the world is ending tomorrow 💙

Pairings: Freminet x reader, Lyney x male reader (separately)

Warnings: Male!reader, dom/top!reader, adult characters, sub/bottom!Freminet, sub/bottom!Lyney, rough sex, breeding kink, creampies, loving degradation

“Isn't this what you wanted? You said 'break me, daddy! Break me like the cheap whore I am!' right?”

“I-I did n-o-o-o-t!!” He stuttered. Sharp thrusts cause his words to hiccup as you pound him into the mattress so hard that the poor thing can't even talk!

You smirk, “Ok maybe you didn't say that exactly, but you did ask me to break you, right?”

He began to protest, though he knew he didn't have a leg to stand on. “W-weeelll...”

The backs of Freminet's thighs were bright red — and you were nowhere near finished with him yet. His nails dug into the sheets, and the sound of skin hitting skin resounded heavily throughout your bedroom.

“Mm baby, you know I'll give you whatever you want–” You drawl, completely high off of pleasure as Freminet's hole squeezes around your cock, which feels fucking heavenly. “all you have to do is ask and you know- fffuuck! You know I'll give in eventually. Hah...”

Amidst the rough slapping sounds and labored grunting, you pick up on something else: “-der”

“Mm? What's that, babe?” You ask, tenderly brushing the hair out of his face.

Freminet turned his head slightly, meeting your eyes with a look that you don't get to see too often — “Harder!” He orders. And you smile wide in return.

“Yes, sir, anything you want.” After a quick kiss to Freminet's temple, you pull your hips back — nearly pulling out all the way — and slam back into him with a bruising force. Then you repeat the motion. And again. And again, and again, and again–

Picking up the pace and still keeping that full force, you fucked your boyfriend exactly how he wanted you to. Freminet's groans and screams filled the room, accompanied by increasingly wet noises when you fucked him through multiple orgasms (yours and his). Filling his little hole so much that your cum began to leak out and slide down his legs, and creating a slight bulge in his stomach. They say you can't impregnate a man, but if sheer force of will was enough, Freminet would be pumped full of your kids by now.

Rarely did you slow down, wanting Freminet to get the pounding that he desired. Even with a mess of cum dripping onto the floor, and a puddle forming under his hips, you kept up the pace. With a firm grip on his hips, you slammed into him harder and harder. Aftercare will be extra fluffy today, but until then, your partner isn't done whimpering for you to 'please keep going' yet.

“A-ah! O-ok, I do want you to break me! Happy n-now?” Lyney stammered, blushing furiously at the position you currently have him in.

His chest pressed into the mattress with his hands pinned behind his back, and his ass flush with your hips. It was too obvious how much that simple request had turned you on already; the not-so-subtle hard-on poking Lyney's thigh gave away your feelings.

“Well?” Your partner questioned, almost impatiently.

“Well what?”

Lyney rolled his eyes. “Weeell, are you going to break me or not?” OH- Duh.

No person has ever removed clothing faster in their life; you couldn't get either of you undressed soon enough. Your boyfriend's lovely moans were all the motivation you needed to spread his cheeks, line yourself up, and push in nice 'n deep.

It really didn't take long for a brutal pace to be set. Lyney adjusted quickly and practically begged for you to rail him until his legs stopped working.

Using his arms as leverage, you grip them tightly and slam inside of Lyney's ass repeatedly. The skin of his thighs ripples with every thrust, and he moans into the sheets as they become wet between his teeth.

You pull him up by his hair next, bringing him flush against your chest as you whisper into his ear, “Such a pretty whore for me, babe. I think you deserve to be filled up, don't you?”

Lyney nods in agreement, panting, “Yes, gods please–! Br-breed me!” And per his request, you speed up again — Lyney's clenching down on your dick draws a huge load of cum that floods his insides, giving him exactly what he desires.

Leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, you mouth all manner of compliments and adoration against your lover's skin–

“Fuck, I love you so much” as your cum drips from his hole

“So damn beautiful” as your tongue slides into his mouth

“You were made to be bred” as your hand is still tightly balled in his blond locks

“Good boy” as you start moving again, working your cum deeper inside so that you can pump another load into your precious twink of a boyfriend.

[irndad]

kiss me (under the milky twilight)- s.r.

a/n: this took so long and i'm so sorry! based on this post- reader has an ex that she keeps running back to, and spencer just wants her to see him. fake dating and hijinks ensue. VERY long. 4.6k words!! thanks to @fadingplaidtrashpatrol for ur thoughts and ideas!! masterlist // ask

The unraveling begins on a Friday. 

This is one of the rare Fridays where a full weekend is staring back at them, and Spencer is immeasurably pleased at his plans. He’s rented a Russian old movie, and his best friend had agreed to sit next to him on his shitty old couch while he whispers translations in real-time.

He loves spending time with her, a little hedonistically. She’s so kind, warm in both spirit and disposition, and Spencer treasures the time he gets to spend with her. Her desk adjoins his, and so one might assume that he could tire of her presence, but there’s something a little addicting about her, something he tries to have as often as he can. 

On this fine evening, she’s wearing an oversized sweater tucked into jeans- her position is mainly out of the field, and so she takes full advantage of the dress-code flexibility. Lovely earrings hang around her face, adorning her lovely features like a frame. 

Spencer’s more than a little in love with her. 

This has never really been a convenient fact, but Spencer’s used to wanting things he can’t have. And it was never really feasible not to want her- anyone who’s ever been in her presence would know this. It’s a foreign feeling, looking over at someone he’s lucky enough to know, and wanting them enough for that desire to turn into fantasy. 

“Spencer!” She greets him warmly, standing up to do so- if this wasn’t a workplace, if she was meeting him at the cafe like they do on Wednesdays, or his home, like she often finds herself in whenever he invites her, Spencer is certain she would wrap her arms around him in an incredibly warm hug. 

Because they are in the BAU, she believes it is inappropriate to embrace this way (which Spencer would argue isn’t true, given the way Morgan and Penelope are with each other, but if he told her that, it might be a little too obvious how desperate he is for her to touch him.)

The way she beams at him almost makes up for the fact that he doesn’t get to hug her. 

“I got you something,” he says in lieu of a response, clutching the bag of muffins in one hand. He’d woken up early to get her to stop by her favorite bakery, and it was worth it to see that look on her face. No one’s in the office now, the day long finished, and they’re getting ready to walk to his place. He lives so close by, and he’s grateful for this fact when they walk together back to his place. 

She grabs the bag, and he’s just so endeared by her, the giddy expression written over her lovely face.

“Have I mentioned that I love you? Because I do. You need to marry me, immediately.” She says to him, eyes closed in bliss, and even though she’s clearly joking, Spencer finds himself preening at her praise- wouldn’t it be incredible if she meant that? It sounds so pretty in her voice. I love you. 

He beams back at her, in a way he hopes doesn’t betray how much he wants. 

“I’m glad you like them,” he says back, his heart in his throat. 

“I have some news that you are going to be incredibly mad at me about.” She says, and a crumb is on her painted lip, and fantasy of kisses that he cannot have enters Spencer’s mind before he can shake it away.

“I could never be mad at you.”

“I think I have to raincheck tonight,” she says almost sadly, her voice apologetic, as though she has no choice in the matter.

“Is everything okay?”

He had picked up her favorite snacks yesterday night, tidied up his apartment top to bottom. 

“Josh texted me- he’s going through something and he needs me to come over-“

“He doesn’t need you to come over.” 

He rarely interrupts her, and he usually isn’t capable of being upset with her. He’s not really even upset with her now, but this is so exhausting, watching her deal with this asshole. 

It is a continuous surprise to Spencer that someone like her can be in a position like this.

Through Spencer’s eyes, the idea that anyone can not be in love with her is almost an impossibility. It’s not even his bias alone that makes him think this- it’s the truth of her. 

Josh is an asshole finance bro who works in the city center, and Spencer hates him more than most serial killers. 

He’s fucking careless with the thing Spencer wants the most in the world. Josh knows what it’s like to be with her, to be the person to falls asleep with her in his arms.  

Sometimes when Spencer can’t sleep, which is quite often, he pictures her soft cheek on her chest, pictures what she would feel like entwined with his own body, legs tangled with his and her fingers in his hair. It’s a sacred thing, this image- even though it isn’t real, Spencer knows he values the imagination of her presence more than Josh gives his attention to the real thing. 

They’ve “gotten together” and “broken up” and “started talking again” about 12 times respectively.

Spencer could kill him.

“Spence,” she sighs, shaking him out of his angry stupor, “please don’t be mad at me. He’s really going through something right now- he needs someone to be around. Besides,” she breathes out, “I can’t dump him. 

“Why is that?” He tries to temper his tone, but the memory of her mascara running down her cheeks as she sobs in his arms shoots through his mind, and manifests as a physical sharp pain in his chest. 

“That wedding is coming up,” she murmurs, looking down at her shoes. They’re scuffed, and Spencer thinks she might be embarrassed. Why should she be? He’s the asshole. “I told people I was going to have a date. Do you know how many people are going to be there, Spence? How many people are expecting me to bring my boyfriend?”

Her best friend is getting married. Spencer knows this because she’s told him, and told him gleefully when Josh had agreed to go with her. Spencer remembers thinking that he’d like to punch a wall.

Anyway. 

She’s the last of her friend group that’s not in a long term relationship, and in some twisted way, he kind of gets how Josh would be better than nothing, if you didn’t want to be seen as alone. 

“You don’t want to go alone.”

“Yeah, Spence.”

“I could go with you.”

It escapes his mouth without his permission, and he regrets it almost instantly. Because there’s no fucking way she’d go with him. He’s lanky and awkward and his blazers never fit and his ties are always tied wrong, and she’s beautiful and wonderful in ways he finds new ways to see everyday. He’s not a solution to her being worried about how she’s seen, he’d only make it worse-

“You would do that for me?” Her voice is small as she asks, and it shakes him out of his thoughts. He looks down at her, eyes softening at her lovely face. She looks touched, and he has to wonder, doesn’t she know?

He’d do anything for her. 

“Of course,” he breathes out, a nervous hand playing with the strap of his bag, “If it gets you to stop giving that asshole the time of day, I’d do it a million times.”

Her face shifts in a way he can’t read, and she swallows. 

“I can’t let you do that.”

“I want to,” he says, “Please. It would be fun, C’mon. You’re always saying I need to get out there and do things.”

“Being my fake boyfriend at my friend’s wedding is not getting out there and doing things,” she pouts, and his heart nearly jumps. It’s pathetic, but hearing her refer to him as her any kind of boyfriend is intoxicating. He wants to hear it, over and over. 

“It’ll be fun,” he says, touching her hand as it rests on the table, making intentional eye contact. She has been prettiest eyes. “C’mon, let me do this for you. I’m sick of this guy.”

She gulps again, an endearingly confusing gesture, and he finds the feeling a little desperate. Pick me, choose to be with me, even if it’s just pretend. 

“He’s going to be there anyway,” she breathes out biting her lip in a nervous gesture, “I- I’d owe you so much, Spence. It would make him jealous, I think.”

It’s a little hedonistic, how much he would enjoy that, he thinks. Someone would see her as his girl. He knows she might be doing this to get Josh’s attention, but still- the evening together seems like too lovely of a thing to turn down- too wonderful of a chance to not offer. He’d take a night of pretend over never getting to be with her at all. 

It’s enough to make him ignore that making Josh jealous is probably the reason she’s saying yes. 

“Okay, okay! Spencer, will you do me the honor of taking me to Julie’s wedding?”

“I would be honored. 

The weeks approaching the wedding are a bit of sweet torture. She’d had the idea that they could practice, whatever that meant, and the memory of it lives in his mind rent free. They’d been watching the movie, already touchier than most would allow of best friends. (She’s his best, Spencer’s just the tiniest bit resentful of Julie). 

She’d been sitting next to him on his worn out couch, her legs thrown across his, and true to his word, he was whispering the translation along to the movie. She smiled at him, watching his mouth move instead of the movie, and he felt tingly under her stare. How wonderful and bright it is, to be under her gaze. He kept speaking even though she wasn’t watching, because he imagines that if he stops, she might look away. 

Then, she had held his hand. 

Grabbed it really, fingers lacing with his own, and Spencer’s brain had short circuited. She has soft hands, he had thought to himself, and it was about the only thing he could manage to think. 

“We should practice,” she had whispered, even though it was just the two of them in the lowlight of his home, “Y’know, so people believe us.”

He didn’t say that he’s pretty sure no one needed to be convinced he’s in love with her. 

“Sure,” he had nodded, and squeezed her hand, “I think that’s a great idea.”

So they’ve been practicing. 

This has been in equal measures wonderful and torturous. She walks with him to work on half the days, with her fingers twined with his own, and Spencer finds it intoxicating that any passerby would assume he belongs to her. 

More than he already does, anyway. 

Her affection is her own, just turned up to 11. She’s gorgeous- this is a fact that was not instrumental in his love of her, but ornamental- still, this is hard to ignore when she touches him as much as she does now. When she’s out with the team at the bar, she rests her hand on the small of his back- he preens every time at this. This is simple, her domesticity, her claiming his presence as her own- it’s more than nice, Spencer realizes. It’s wonderful, to be wanted by her. Even if it’s not real.

On this night, they’re celebrating. They caught the unsub before he’d been able to kill his first victim. This is a rarity in their field, and she’d given the interview that had gotten the confession. It’s the closest to field work she’d gotten, and they’re all celebrating their win. Her win. 

She looks like a figment of imagination, lovely in a way he literally cannot believe he didn’t conjure up in fantasy. Her favorite song is playing out of pure serendipity, and Spencer likes that word for her. She is serendipitous as a whole. 

“Do you want something to drink, honey?” The endearment feels warm and natural as it comes out of his mouth. His hand is resting on the small of her waist, and he knows he’s being egregious with the practice thing. But this is so nice, her leaning into him, one drink deep and touchier than she is tipsy, and he loves this. He loves that under this pretense, he gets to know what she feels like in his arms. 

He hands her the water before she gets to answer, and she happily sips it. 

“Are you proud of me, Spence?” Her voice is immeasurably fond and he drinks it in like a man starved. 

“Of course,” he smiles at her. I’m always proud of you, he thinks. “You did so well, love.”

He’s not used to endearments, but she showers him in them. Before their little pretending, too. Called him dove, honey, darling. Packed an emergency lunch in his go bag in case he forgot his. She’s such a good friend, and he wants to be her lover more with each breath. 

He tries to return them, now. 

“Good,” she says serenely, looking at him in a way that kills him, because he will never, ever kiss her. She can hold him, and look at him like that, and he will never get to be with her, “I think my cider is too sour,” she scrunches her nose, and his heart swoops. 

“I’ll get you something sweeter, baby.”

“Yeah you will!” He hears Morgan laugh, and he flushes bright red. No one seems surprised, by how touchy they’d been. Even Hotch- he’d expected a talk, but then got a stern nod of understanding in its stead. 

She sips the sweet drink he got her, a little cherry on the step, and he thinks he’d do anything to keep looking at her. 

Five weeks to the wedding. 

He can do this. 

“Could you do me a favor, Garcia? I come bearing gifts.” 

Spencer’s snuck into her office- there’s not much to do today, but she hadn’t wanted to take PTO for no reason, so here she is, in her feathered and pink glory. 

“Is that a hot chocolate? From Dominicks? Ooh, you play dirty, Dr. Reid.” Penelope almost squeals, and despite his nefarious purposes, he finds himself joyful- it’s alwaysgood to talk to her. 

After a joyful, eyes closed and serene sip, she asks, “Alright, my sweet furry friend, what can I do for you?”

“Could you check on a Josh Collins for me?”

“Isn’t that your girl’s ex?”

“No,” Heat rises to his cheeks, before he can help it. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Oh, and my favorite color is black.” Penelope scoffs back, but begins typing furiously anyway. 

He needs to know what is so fascinating about this guy. Because lately he can’t figure it out. He’s always fucking hated the guy, even though he’s never met him. He never had to- she’d shown up enough times at Spencer’s door crying, been broken up with and brought back enough to know that this guy is awful. Doesn’t even come close to deserving the woman that she is. 

“He’s a financial analyst at a Marketing firm, went to state school for his Bachelor’s, says here that he played football in college, but I don’t think they met until after,” she says, “Oh, he has a scuba license. And skydiving! Looks like he’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

It’s an evil thought. Is that what she likes? He finds it hard to imagine, picturing the moments where she’s wrapped up in his arms on a movie night- that always seemed to be her preference. In, not out. 

“Is that him?”

There’s a picture of him on Penelope’s screen. Josh is chiseled and strong, smiling brightly in a polo on a jet ski- this is a photo posted on his social media, and Spencer has met a million of this guy. They bullied him in school. Spencer as genius and he’s a lot of things, but that will never be one of them. It’ll never, ever be him. 

Good to know, anyway. Better not to fantasize about what he knows he can’t have. 

On the day of the wedding, it’s actually a 6 hour drive. She’d offered to get them plane tickets, but he enjoyed his time with her. He was also desperate to extend the time until the wedding was over, and she’s probably the only person he wants to be trapped in a car with. 

They’re sharing a hotel room. She’s booked two beds, which he’s honestly grateful for- if they’d shared a bed, he might’ve combusted. 

Still, there is so much intimacy. She sings in the shower. He imagines a world where he’d know that in domesticity, where after a night spent in laughter and something like love, she showered in his home. But that’s not how he knows it. He knows it because he’s at her best friend’s wedding, pretending to be her boyfriend. 

When she comes out of her bedroom, she’s gorgeous. 

She’s got a green and purple dress on, a cinched waist and a sweetheart neck, a dash of plum lipstick on her lovely pout, and he’d like to kiss that smile very, very much. She’s a delicate kind of lovely, saturated in sweetness, and it’s sweet torture to have her this close.

“You look...” He struggles to find words, an uncommon occurrence in his life, “Like a vision.”

It’s sentimental and warmer than he wished he sounded, but god- she’s stunning. She looks like she’s made of old film, beautiful in that way that’s just a bit too good to be true. He adores her more with each breath.

“You think it’s okay?” She speaks to him with her doe eyes adorned with a concerned expression. He wants to kiss it away.

“You look lovely,” he says, a vast underselling.

The ceremony is a lovely affair, and Spencer learns that she cries at weddings. The bride and groom have lovely, saccharine vows, and Spencer tries not to picture a wedding that he will never get to have. 

It’s a little bit impossible with her at his side. 

She’s touchier now, even mores then when they were ‘practicing’. Her hands are warm laced with his own, her head leaning on his shoulder, and he feels lucky to have even a piece of getting to be with her. 

At the reception, she is tackled by her friends, and he performs dutifully as the caring boyfriend. It’s not hard.

It’s a lovely night. His arms glued to the small of her waist, and he’s been introduced as her “genius FBI agent boyfriend” many times tonight. He turns bright red every time. 

“This is my boyfriend, he’s the smartest ever,” she brags when she’s half a drink deep, and he cherishes the ability to draw circles on the small of her back in this moment- his words fail him in moments of praise, and touch is an avenue that he is rarely allowed to use.

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified-“

“Which is a thing that humble geniuses say.” 

So he’s having a great tine. 

Her lipstick is transfer-free, and his cheek is proof. She’s so affectionate his heart keeps doing somersaults. There’s a signature cocktail with some pun in the couples name.

“I’m fucking obsessed with these, Spence,” she says, a light airiness to her voice that he recognizes as her tipsy voice, “Can you get me another, my love?”

“Yes, honey.” He smiles at her, and kisses the crown of her hair before leaving her in the company of her friends. He’s indulging a bit too much, he’s aware. He’s going to have to give up this up when the sun rises, like some fucked up fairytale where Cinderella never gets the guy because she’s not worthy of it without the pretense.

“Could I get the house cocktail?” Spencer asks the bartender, flashing a smile at her with the giddiness of knowing he will return to her.

Spencer had nearly forgotten that part of the reason he was here was because of Josh. 

Who is at the bar.

“Hey man- you’re the dude she brought, right?” 

Josh is actually about 2 inches shorter than Spencer, and Spencer makes the most of this difference. He’s a broad chested muscle man, but he looks woefully underwhelming. 

“Yeah, I’m the lucky guy.” Spencer replies in a deadpan tone, turning to face him with a stony expression. 

“Careful, man,” Josh says, and it’s a little pathetic how he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care, “She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

“Really? Because it seems like you’d leave a bad taste in anyone’s mouth.”

“Whatever, dude. It’s clear that she just brought someone to make me jealous.”

“Actually, while I can’t read her mind, I imagine you’ve slipped hers entirely. Clearly your entire energy is based in whatever ego-driven shell your youth has shaped you into- and maybe one day someone will care enough about whatever tragedy made you the way you are, but I am deeply uninterested, and I’d wager she is too.”

He’s not sure if this is true, but Spencer’s noticed that in the time since their ruse has begun she hasn’t mentioned Josh. Not once. She might not love Spencer,  but she might not see Josh anymore. 

“Also, if you ever speak disrespectfully of my girlfriend again I promise you it will not end well for you.”

His voice is even and has an underlaying of quiet rage. It’s wonderful to call her that, even more so as she enters into his eye line.

“You looked mad,” she says in lieu of a greeting, her nimble arms wrapping around his waist with fluid ease, “Is everything okay?” 

It’s only then she sees Josh, and there’s something wonderful about knowing that she came here to check on him. Josh is about to say something, he can tell even though he’s only visible in the corner of his vision. 

It’s a calculated risk but he chooses to do it anyway. 

When he kisses her, he doesn’t know what to expect. It falls into line like puzzles into place, one of her hands falling to his waist and the other cradling his jaw with a delicate softness. She leans into him totally and this is an intoxicating feeling- her lips are so, so soft and it’s what he’s been fantasizing about since she first smiled at him and asked him to keep going when he was rambling about Russian literature. 

It’s actually better. 

When she pulls back, she scans the space. Josh is gone.

“Well that had the intended effect,” he says- it seems better than anything else, like confessing that the only reason he did it was that he could. He kissed her. 

She nods, clearly a bit frazzled, and fuck-

“I should have asked, fuck, I��m sorry-“

“No, no, you’re okay, um-thanks for getting rid of him.”

Her voice is hollow. 

Despite the awkwardness of the kiss, which Spencer cannot stop thinking about.

Did he imagine it, or did she lean in? Did she sigh into it? How is he going to ever get over the fact that he’s never going to do that again?

Her lipstick is grape flavored. Now they both know that. 

They get back to the hotel at half past midnight, and she’d been a little distanced- not so much they still didn’t look like a couple, but enough that Spencer knows. They’re winding down the artificial love affair, and all of the things he’s become kind of addicted to are going to go away. Her fingers running through the tendrils of his hair, her delicate fingers rubbing tiger balm on his temples when he’s got his migraines. Her cheek kisses, the honeys, my loves, sweethearts. 

Kissing her. 

When she drops her bag on the hotel bed and sits on the edge of it, he sits next to her. She’s been quieter, since the kiss. 

“Hey.”

“Hey back,” she replies, bumping her knee with his in fondness. 

“I’m sorry I surprised you with, you know.”

“Kissing me?”

“I should have asked- I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset that you kissed me,” she says, looking down at her shoes, “I’m upset that you only did it because you wanted to spite Josh.”

“What?”

“I know that this is my problem, Spence,” she says, “You never… led me on, you know? I know that this was always my thing to deal with. Being in love with you was never something that I thought would be a problem. But when you offered to go with me- to pretend to be my boyfriend, how could I pass that up?”

This makes no sense.

“I know,” she runs her fingers through her hair in a frustrated motion, “I know that it was never a good idea. But the idea of getting to be with you was just too much to turn down, even it it wasn’t the real thing. And now we’re going back to normal and I promise that I will go back to being your friend. It might take me a second, though-I might need some space.”

She needs space from him? Because she can’t transition away from being his fake girlfriend?

“You don’t need space from me.”

He’s so fucking bad at talking. 

“Spencer-“

“No, no,” because now he has a shot- now  there’s a reality where the pit in his chest doesn’t have to live there forever. He can be with her. Because for some crazy, insane reason, she wants him. “You don’t need space from because I don’t want space from you, okay?”

He sits next to her on the bed, eyes a little crazed with want with nowhere to go. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her voice is tempered, and he thinks he hears hope. 

“I love you. I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you as long as I’ve known you,” he grabs her hand-it feels desperate to say and he sure he sounds it, “I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to spite him. I did it because I couldn’t live with the idea that I would spend the rest of my life never have kissed you.”

He probably would say more- so many things are coming to mind, most of which are pleading. She’s the only thing he’s ever wanted this much. Before he gets to, though, she kisses him. 

It’s sudden, as all things of this nature are, but he pulls her close on instinct. She ends up on his lap, her hands around his neck, and it is so rare that fantasy lives up to reality. But this is better, the feeling of the weight of her pressed against him and the taste of her grape lipstick. 

It’s a minute when she pulls back, and it takes everything to not chase the contact.

“I love you too,” she says, the sweetness of it dripping from the sound of it. He wants to hear it again, and again, and again.

“For real?”

“For real.” 

When the run rises in the morning that follows, he’s wrapped around the length of her like a vice, right and close to him, Her head rests on his chest, and while there is another bed there, it’s clearly not seeing any use.

He’s never slept better in his life. 

[cryptfile]

★ kinktober file 01 — wandering star, d. winchester

based on this request here, fem! reader, 18+ mdni, warnings of established relationship, degradation, dumbification, edging, p in v, oral sex, praise kink, english is not my first lenguage (thank god!) any mistakes? i’m not sorry for it, feel free to hit me up with requests in my inbox to keep kinktober going! <3 also, dividers by @cafekitsune!

He’s cocky after a hunt goes the way he wants.

Dean Winchester’s always a damn headache after a sucessful solved case. He gets in this mood where he feels invincible and well, he just feels like he could win the lottery if he puts his mind into it.

Sam’s done by the time you guys are in the next town, checking into another cheap motel. The older Winchester has been a damn pain in the ass the whole ride so the first thing he does when you guys ask for separate rooms? Ditch the problem to you.

“He’s your boyfriend,” he’d say, obviously done with his sassy attitude as he left to his own private space — Sacred space he values since you appeared. “You deal with him.”

You love your boyfriend that’s for sure but after a hunt? Your muscles are sore, you feel like you’re going to get sick and on top of all? You been dying for a hot shower and bed.

Dean’s plans are way different, cause by the time Sam leaves saying he’s going to buy burgers in any open restaurant, he’s all over you. Literally.

“Why are you so needy?” you ask furrowing your brows, he’s in a good mood now that he survived a violent ghost who’s bones you had to burn, and honestly, it doesn’t make any sense: The rush of adrenaline? The near death experience? Usually he’s deep in his third dream by now, but that night? He got this grin in his face when he’s pushing you to the motel bed despite any response he could recieve—. “Dean.”

“Just want to make m’lady feel on cloud nine,” he says, planting soft kisses on the exposed skin of your neck, a fight you cannot possibly win. “Can I do that? Take care of my girl?”

Thing is, deep down, you don’t want to win any fight. Not that one at least when Dean’s pulling you to the edge of the bed, unblucking his belt as he lets the fabric of his jeans fall to the floor, he’s craving you ever since you pulled this show up in the morning when you said there was no time to shower together since the case was so important. Naked, standing in a foggy bathroom: You won’t let him have you? Not even ten minutes? Fucking unfair.

He can do a lot in ten. You do love it even when it’s rushed, when Sam’s pushing on the other side of the door screaming something about being late, his only goal is to take whatever he needs, so in ten minutes he can do plenty. He can kneel on the slippery floor, filthy thoughts as he helps you lift up your leg — “Such a pretty pussy, already dripping for me?” he would said, the sound of his voice imprinted in your memory. The warm water burns on your skin as he uses a hand to spread you open, buring his face in your cunt without a previous warning.

Even under the shower he makes you sweat. Dean’s damn skilled so he knows what spot he needs to hit to get you there, the wet sounds that fill the bathroom on random mornings — He knows you’re getting there when his digits finally fill you up in a way you can even describe, his tongue lapping over your clit, taking his time, savouring each sound he manages to get out of you, the way you say his name when he’s nose-deep in what he claims belongs to him.

And god you’re a mess. A fucking mess every single time.

“You owe me,” Dean says confident, “We solve the case, job done here. I want your full attention now.”

He has it soon after. Every ounce of it.

He’s not patient enough to play with you before like he would do in the morning, in the dirty motel you’re now at the hunter would mumble something about not giving a single fuck about preparing you cause you’re already wet enough for him, something about being already used to his size cause he’d fucked you plenty of times before, that your warm and tight cunt is already prepared for him cause you’ve been his for months, convinced that you can take him. No problem at all.

“You were such a bitch to me this morning,” he says, pushing your cheek against the matress, not caring enough about your comfort as he forces himself inside you, muffling the sounds of your moans as he places his hand on your mouth, keeping you in place—. “Do you have any idea of how hard is to concentrate on a ghost when all I can think is to have you beneath?”

He’s rough when he’s needy, straight up filthy as he lets his primal desires take over. Dean forgets about it all. His hand collides against your ass a couple of times, spanking hard enough so the skin is red to be visibly noticiable, to make you think about another pain more than the one you felt as he’s finally buried inside you.

“Atta girl” he praises, leaning to place kisses on your shoulders, giving you just enough time to adjust— “Lookin’ so pretty when full of my cock.”

He enjoys the view so much. So damn much Dean chuckles for a second, almost proud of the mess he’s done with you, always so damn tight, already clenching on his dick as you squirm desesperate to move. He got you where he wants you to be.

“Move that nice ass for me,” he says seconds after, demanding you to take him faster as he moves you at the rythm he needs—. “That’s it, fuck yourself pretty witch, work for it.”

“Dean,” you whine, the sound distant thanks to his fingers covering your mouth— “Dean-please”

“What are you begging for?” he chuckles, the sound of his laugh making your skin shiver as his hips buckle up to meet the pace you’ve been setting— “My girl is dumb for my cock already? Only a few minutes in and my baby is talking nonsense?”

He’s giving you exactly what you need, that nice pace as he grabs you by the tights, fingers buried in your skin as his movements become more erratic, desesperate as the time passes.

Dean waits. Cause he can be a cruel son of a bitch sometimes, drive you fucking mad cause he knows when’s you’re close to release, when you’re ready to cum as he slides his cock off, leaving you hollow as you loudly gasp.

“What the actual-fuck?” you ask clearly annoyed, looking over your shoulder as he offers you a sly grin—. “Dean, what the fuck?”

“We are goint to work in some manners here,” he says, grabbing you by the hair, roughly pulling your head to the side so he can look at your face while speaking—. “Cause you’re not doing to me what you did in the morning ever again. Teasing me all fucking day, acting all innocent about it. No. You’re gonna cum when I say so. And we’re gonna start all over again ‘till that big brains of yours finally gets it: No more leaving Dean Winchester all hard in the bathroom.”

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