#Right Click Agency

[agencyrightclick]

Craft your growth strategy with Right Click Agency

Elevate your business to new heights with tailored strategies by Right Click Agency. Maximize growth opportunities, optimize resources, and achieve sustainable success.

[whoslaurapalmer]

i've been watching a lot of david suchet's version of poirot lately so when you talk about your secretary work, just know i am imagining you as miss lemon at her typewriter fielding new cases for poirot

okay so i have regretfully very little poirot knowledge so i was googling miss lemon yesterday and i watched some clips and i'm DELIGHTED!! i'm so intrigued by her little hair loops and i dig her vibe!! (the clip where she's going through name nicknames with such dedication to it. oh i love it.) this is INCREDIBLE sadie thank you so much for telling me ✨✨

[megarywrites]

i think i need to rewrite this chapter. again. ugh.

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Baby Bear

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary: Bobs pretty sure the entire world knows he’s in love with you… well everyone except maybe you

WC: 2.5K

Thunderbolts HQ – Briefing Room

Y/N had a way of entering a room like she owned it.

She didn’t. Technically, Valentina did or maybe the U.S. government, or whatever shady agency had signed off on assembling a misfit team of reformed killers and walking catastrophes, but none of that mattered the moment she stepped through the door.

The energy shifted.

Like a pressure drop before a storm. Like every molecule in the air sat up a little straighter, paying attention.

Y/N dropped her guns onto the metal table like she was throwing down poker chips, their heavy ends clicking against the surface. Before walking towards the kitchen to find something to absolutely destroy.

The sound jolted him.

Bob blinked once. Then again.

She hadn’t even looked at him yet.

He’d seen her fight armies. He’d watched her slide down glass buildings, run across flaming wreckage and then ask for a mint afterward like it was a Tuesday morning.

She was fearless. Effortlessly confident, quiet dominance and honey slick sarcasm all wrapped up in someone who didn’t just walk into dangers, she made it look like a runway.

And she had no idea that Bob Reynolds, the Golden Guardian of Good, the one man on Earth who could wrestle planets and outrun light, forgot how to breathe whenever she was in the room.

Yelena Belova, seated beside him, noticed immediately.

She always did.

The blonde leaned back in her chair beside Bob with a barely suppressed smirk, elbow resting on the armrest, one boot kicking lazily in the air.

“You’re drooling again,” she whispered, lips barely moving.

Bob straightened, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down over his wrists. “I’m not drooling,” he whispered back.

“Very charming. Very nonchalant, she doesnt suspect a thing when your pupils turn into hearts.”

John Finally chimes in across them, leaned forward, arms crossed and smug as ever. “Bobby, she’s placed some kind of love spell on you or what? You go all mushy and dumb when shes around.”

Bob glared at him. “You try staying calm around her.”

“Please,” Ava mutters, eyes skimming the mission files in front of her. “Remember last week? She asked him to pass a pen, and he stared at her like she’d just proposed to him in a foreign language.”

“Three minutes,” Bucky said from the shadows in the corner, arms folded, metal hand tapping his thigh. “I counted.”

Alexei gave a booming laugh from where he was sprawled on a nearby couch, half eating a granola bar like it was his last meal. “You all tease him, but I say let Robert feel things!! He is soft hearted. Like bear. Very big. Very powerful. Very… squishy.”

“I’m literally indestructible,” Bob muttered through gritted teeth.

“Yes, yes,” Alexei waved him off. “Physically. But emotionally? You are like bear and she is child who loves you. Like story where she eats bears food and you know sleep in bears bed, but Robert you cannot get her in your bed- Wait! no no no. You are like crying child and she is baby bear that makes child stop crying.”

Then, as if summoned by the sheer force of Bob’s rising internal panic, Y/N walks her way back in looking right at him.

“Hey Bob,” she said, voice low and smooth. She tilted her head slightly, lips quirking into a lazy half-smile. “You got a hair tie?”

Bob froze.

His brain arguably one of the most complex thing in existence crashed.

Hair tie. She asked for a hair tie. Words. Say words, idiot.

“Uh- yeah. Yes,” he stammered, fumbling into his hoodie pocket. “I always carry extras. Because, you know… uh… long hair. Wind. Physics.”

She smiled, this soft, devastating thing that punched straight through his solar plexus. “Alright… thanks.” She Giggled

Her fingers brushed his as she took the black hair tie. She tied her hair into a high, messy ponytail, strands falling like silk over the curve of her neck, then sauntered off toward the training wing.

Bob stared at her completely entranced mouth slightly opened.

Yelena gave him a slow, pitying pat on the shoulder. “You poor, poor boy.”

Bob didn’t reply.

Mostly because his heart was beating somewhere around the edge of the universe and his entire body felt like it was trying to go supernova.

⸻

Thunderbolts HQ – Game Room

The downtime between missions was dangerous for one reason: the team got bored. And when the Thunderbolts got bored, anything can happen.

So, naturally, a storm of chaos had descended on their shared Game room. Alexei had rigged the speakers to play a playlist titled “Avengerz Promo Sponsor Party Mix”

John commandeered the liquor cabinet, and Yelena drunk on three Moscow Mules and pure chaos declared, “Truth or Dare. No cowards. No skipping. No secrets.”

Bob Reynolds had made the mistake of entering the room three minutes too late.

He saw the bottle in the center of the circle. The shit eating grins. The glint in Yelena’s eye.

He tried to retreat.

“Nope,” she said, catching him by the sleeve like a hawk snagging prey. “You’re glowing like a guilty conscience. Sit down, loverboy. Time to be emotionally violated for entertainment.”

“I’d really rather not—”

“Sit.”

Bob sat.

The circle was complete: Yelena, John, Ava, Bucky, Alexei with a martini in one hand and a sandwich in the other and Y/N, sprawled across a beanbag chair, legs crossed, sipping a fizzy drink.

It was John who spun the bottle. It clinked around like a grenade waiting to explode and landed on Bob.

“Oh no,” he mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Yelena purred, eyes lighting up like Christmas. “Truth: Have you ever had a very obvious, glowing, borderline worshipful crush on anyone in this room?”

Bob blinked. Then again. “I—I mean—define ‘worshipful’—”

“Oh my god,” Ava groaned, facepalming. “Just admit you’re in love with Y/N and we can all move on with our lives.”

Y/N, who had just popped a piece of candy in her mouth, blinked. “Wait, what?”

Bob looked like someone had unplugged his brain mid thought.

“You guys think Bob likes me?” she said, the laugh bubbling out of her like it was the most ridiculous concept she’d ever heard. “Why?”

Everyone groaned like it physically hurt.

“Why?” Yelena repeated, throwing her hands up. “Because he goes full blabbering when you walk into a room. Because he stares at you like you’re the damn moon during an eclipse. Because he carries extra hair ties like he’s your personal assistant-slash-devotee. And don’t get me started on the poetry—”

“I do not write poetry—” Bob cut in quickly, face now the color of Alexei’s suit.

“Yes, you do,” John said flatly, sipping a beer. “I read it. It’s in your dumb little notebook. You rhymed ‘dagger’ with ‘swagger’ and compared her to fire and divine judgment.”

Bob buried his face in his hands. “This is actual torture.”

Bucky, already drunk out of his mind laughed so hard he nearly choked on his drink.

Y/N, meanwhile, was still staring at Bob like he was a jigsaw puzzle she’d finally realized was a love letter. She didn’t look embarrassed. Just… quietly stunned.

“Huh,” she said at last.

“Huh?” Yelena echoed in horror. “That’s it?”

Y/N turned her full attention to Bob. “That’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Bob looked up through his fingers, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him genuine, unguarded. “I always thought you were cute. Didn’t know you felt the same.”

His jaw dropped. “Wait, what?”

“I thought you weren’t a fan of me that much. Or, you know… had some secret laser vision so you couldn’t look me in the eyes ever.”

Bob blinked slowly, like someone was rebooting his system.

Y/N shrugged, leaning forward now, elbows on her knees. “Guess we’re both a little oblivious.”

Yelena made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “What?! That’s it?! No dramatic kiss? No screaming ‘finally’ and falling into each other’s arms? What kind of slow burn payoff is this?!”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a grin, stood up, and stretched like a cat. “Sorry to disappoint, Belova.”

She turned to Bob, tossed one of her hands to him like a casually flirty peace offering. “Come on, Golden Boy. Let’s go spar. You can glow at me while I kick your ass.”

He caught it barely and stood, grinning like an idiot. “Only if you go easy on me.”

“Never.”

As they walked out, shoulder to shoulder, Bob practically levitating with joy, the rest of the room watched them go with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief.

Alexei raised his glass. “Look at my baby bear and my crying not so much crying now child.”

“Glad that’s out now, don’t know how much more yearning I could read about, but you do know they’re gonna be all gross and disgusting now right?” John added, taking a long sip.

Yelena stared at the door, still stunned. “Better then having to watch Bob sulk every day, you know what… Someone write this down. We made actual emotional progress today.”

Ava sighed. “I give them two weeks before we catch them together doing it somewhere crazy.”

Everyone nodded solemnly.

It wasn’t 2 weeks. It was 10 minutes after.

⸻

A/N: TOWER FICS ARE SOOOOOOO BACK

please comment more ideas!!

[acid-ixx]

(name), life is horrible after leaving the manor, malnourished, dehydrated 24/7, fueled by sodium packed noodles and the desire for human connection, hasn't had a lick of proper sleep in decades, in debt, almost died, BUT still away from their family: this is ok :)

(name), kidnapped and forced back in the manor: I'M SO COOKED bROOO NOOOOOOOOOO *screams like a banshee*

this scenario wouldn't stop festering in my brain like a parasite. have a nice day <3

— masterlist !

you, clearly pissed off that your latest escape attempt hasn't been executed according to plan, and now you're back to square one, trapped between a couch and your eldest brother, almost being suffocated by one of dick's tight hugs: *chokes* MOTHERFUCKER, GET OFF OF ME!!! THIS WASN'T PART OF BRUCE'S READJUSTMENT PLAN—

dick, busy smothering his face in your scalp, clearly dismissing your statement, grinning from right above your head: and what part of bruce's plans restrict me from cuddling my own beloved sibling as a punishment, then?

you, about to kick his shins if not for his quick hands redirecting your legs elsewhere:

you: THIS IS WHY LIVING ALONE IS BETTER, YOU HOE! DAMN IT BITCH, I SAID LET GO—!

damian, arms crossed by the doorway, rolling his eyes as he watches the scene unfold (jealous, probably, but he disguises his seethe with a click of his tongue): *tsk* language, sibling. and you never learn, do you not? anything is better than that garbage bin you call your old apartment. there is nothing even sentimental about it at best.

pausing from your struggle, you can only release a sharp breath when you feel dick's clamoring hands hold you tighter than a boa constrictor. you: *turns your head to damian, glaring* at least in my old apartment, i have a sense of agency, personal space — nobody choking me from hugging all the time, and no whiny ass demon scolding me every second i live in this hellhole—!

tim, suddenly appearing right behind the couch, rolling his eyes as he smirks at your obvious demise: *ruffles your hair, dodging your awaiting teeth about to bite his fingers off* but does that constitute for the packs of dollar store ramen you've been surviving off of, the unpaid bills, overdue rent, and constant break-ins, then?

dick, nodding at tim as you punch his biceps: see, baby bird? i agree. you're only gaining more than you are losing. over there, you're fighting for your life. over here, the only thing you lose is your freedom. but you know that still can be earned, right? that's if only you're only willing to cooperate with us.

you: ...

you: have you forgotten that i also lost my privacy and sense of autonomy within this household?! i can't even brush my teeth without one of you in the same room as me—!

tim: but—

you: and don't you dare try to even defend yourself, you freak! i see you try to match the pace of me brushing my own hair! and don't forget that you're the prime suspect for another one of my missing hoodies!

jason, popping up from the windows, platform boots scrunching above the carpet: hah, what's going on here again?

you, almost about to be released from his grasp, kicking harder against dick's thighs: I WANT TO BREAK FREE—!

damian: do not help them out, todd. they're long overdue for some exposure therapy.

jason: and nobody told me? c'mon, who says it has to be dickhead that has to hold my angel?

jason, about to rip you away from dick's hug:

bruce, watching the entire scene unfold, appearing from the shadows: *calmly* jason, no. dick, calm down, their limbs are still sore from dropping down two stories.

bruce: and (name)... tim is right, i don't get why you insist on living inside that unsanitary box when you could have anything you could possibly want in here, with us.

damian, nodding: and i agree with tim for once.

you, shooting a glare at damian, then to your supposed "father": NO, SHUT UP DAMIAN! AND BRUCE, GO TO HELL, I HATE YOU!!!

bruce, so close to a migraine, patting your head: it's father to you, dear. and don't say that again or else i might just extend your quarantine period inside the manor— that means no garden visits or even stepping outside the front porch anymore.

you, on the verge of crashing out even further when you felt dick kiss your forehead: THIS IS WHY I'D RATHER DIE IN MY APARTMENT!!!

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (01)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 4.2k

Aliyah's Notes: this is my first series on here so go easy on me (#adele) pls + some things are not going to be obx canon ... at least some of yall are warned. anyw im so excited for this cause lord knows the amount of time ive wanted to make a fake dating fic!!!!!!! anyw i hope you all will enjoy this i had so much writing the first chapter

The clatter of high heels against the marble floor echoed in perfect sync with the ticking of your watch. Every step was deliberate, poised—just like your life had to be. Perfection, it seemed, was not a choice but a requirement for survival.

You adjusted your sunglasses, your gaze skimming over the glamorous expanse of the fashion agency's lobby. People buzzed around you like bees in a hive, their worlds spinning, fueled by the weight of names, status, and flawless images. You smiled politely at the receptionist, offering a nod, though your mind was miles away.

To the outside world, your life was golden. The covers of magazines, the invitations to high-society events, the million-dollar deals with luxury brands—it was a fantasy that others could only dream of. It was your dream some time ago, too. 

But today, your reality felt like walking on the edge of a tightrope, the safety net fraying below you.

Your phone vibrated in your purse, interrupting your thoughts. You fished it out, your pulse quickening when you saw the text from your lawyer. Three words that sent a chill through your carefully constructed façade.

"We need to talk."

Your heart sank. The issue of your visa had been hanging over your head like a storm cloud for months now, growing darker by the day. You’d known this was coming, but knowing and confronting it were two different beasts.

Fame didn’t shield you from the cold bureaucracy of citizenship laws, and your time was running out. One misstep, one delay, and your golden empire could crumble. In a matter of months, you could be deported, left behind by the very country that had built you up.

With a deep breath, you silenced your phone and slid it back into your purse. This wasn’t something you could dwell on right now, not in public. Your expression remained serene, even though your mind was anything but. You had a shoot in an hour, a charity gala that evening, and at some point, you had to meet with the lawyer to discuss "options"—a word that had started to feel more like a trap than a solution.

As you exited the building, the cool breeze caught your hair, the city unfolding before you like a glittering stage. New York City. You looked out at the streets, the people, the life you fought so hard to build. The car pulled up to the curb, and you climbed inside. On your way to your lawyer.

You stepped into the law office, the familiar scent of polished wood and stale coffee wrapping around you like a tight band.

"Ms. Y/L/N, good afternoon," Nicolas Ramirez, your lawyer, greeted you, standing behind his desk. His expression was composed, but you knew him well enough by now to spot the unease in his eyes.

"Hi," you softly smiled at him. Your heels clicked softly on the floor as you sat down, crossing your legs tightly, as if holding yourself together. "Let’s just get straight to it, okay? How bad is it?"

Nico sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Your visa expires in less than three months."

You felt your stomach twist, your worst fear inching closer to reality. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "And what about the appeals? The extensions?"

"We’ve exhausted every possible option—work visas, artist visas, even humanitarian grounds. Immigration laws are tightening, and without a permanent solution like citizenship or residency, you’ll be forced to leave the country."

"Leave?" Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the full weight of the nightmare you’d been living with. 

Leave? Go back there?

The country you had fought so hard to escape. The country where your childhood had been marked by suffocating poverty, where your parents had already planned your marriage before you even turned 15. Where your dreams had been a distant, impossible hope until that one person changed your life forever.

You felt your throat tighten. You couldn’t go back.

Nico’s gaze softened slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "I know what this means for you. I know how difficult—"

"You don’t know," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. "You… You don’t know—I can’t go back there, Nico. I just… I can’t."

He nodded, giving you a moment of silence to compose yourself, but the pressure in your chest only grew. You took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"So what now?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Is this it? Am I out of options?"

"Well… There’s one option we haven’t explored yet." his tone was cautious, like he knew what he was about to say would open a new can of worms.

You furrowed your brow. "What?"

"Marriage."

The word hung in the air, thick and heavy. You blinked, unable to comprehend at first. "Marriage?" you repeated, as if saying it aloud would make the absurdity of it clear.

"It’s one of the few legal paths left," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "Marriage to a U.S. citizen could secure your green card and, eventually, permanent residency. It’s a legitimate route—many people in similar situations have done it."

You sat back in your chair, the tension in your body coiling tighter. The thought of marriage, of attaching yourself to someone you barely knew for the sake of staying in the country, made your skin crawl. You had already sacrificed so much for your freedom, for your career. And now this?

"You’re telling me the only way to stay here is to marry someone I don’t even love? Just to avoid being sent back to a country I don’t belong in anymore?"

"Not necessarily," Nicolas said, his tone measured. "It wouldn’t have to be a traditional marriage. Think of it as a business arrangement. It’s a legal partnership—nothing more. And it could save your career, your life here."

You crossed your arms tightly, your mind racing. Marriage. It was a word that had haunted you ever since your parents had tried to force you into it as a teenager. Back then, it was their way of controlling you, of keeping you bound to a life you didn’t want. Now, it felt like the universe was throwing the same chains back at you, just in a different form.

"I’ve compiled a list of potential candidates," Arjun continued, sliding a piece of paper across the desk toward you. "People who might be open to an arrangement like this. Athletes, businesspeople—individuals who might benefit from a similar deal."

You glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. The names blurred in front of your eyes. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to go. You’d already lost your family, fought tooth and nail to get out of your country and build something for yourself in the U.S. And now you were at risk of losing everything—again.

"I don’t know if I can do this, Nico," you said quietly, shaking your head. "I’ve already sacrificed so much. My family… I gave up everything to be here. And now you’re telling me I have to give up even more?"

"I’m not telling you that you have to do anything," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "I’m saying this is an option. One that could keep you here, legally. But the decision is yours. I’m just laying out the possibilities."

You swallowed the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. 

"I can’t go back there," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "I’ve worked too hard to get here. I can’t lose everything."

He nodded slowly. "Then maybe it’s time to consider unconventional options."

You finally picked up the paper, scanning the names but not really seeing them. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. Marriage. It felt like a trap, just like it had back then. But maybe—just maybe—it was the only way to keep your future intact.

"I’ll think about it," you said, standing up and smoothing the front of your dress. "But I’m not making any promises."

"Of course," he said, standing as well. "Just let me know. We’re running out of time, but I’ll support whatever decision you make."

You nodded curtly, turning toward the door. As you stepped out into the cool city air, your chest tightened with the weight of everything you stood to lose. The lights of New York City flickered ahead of you, just out of reach, as though the life you’d built here could vanish at any moment.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly afraid.

Your phone buzzed, dragging you out of your spiraling thoughts. You fished it out of your purse, heart skipping a beat when you saw the name: Nina. Your agent.

With a shaky exhale, you answered. “Nina, hi.”

“Hey, babe!” Nina’s voice was all cheer, a stark contrast to the storm inside you. “So, I have amazing news! Guess who just got major campaign offers coming in? You! Chanel, Loewe, and oh my God, don’t even get me started on Louis Vuitton. The year starts beautifully for you!”

You should’ve felt ecstatic, but instead, the words passed over you like an echo. All you could think of was the countdown Nico had set in motion: three months. Three months before everything you’d built here would be taken away from you. 

“That’s… amazing, Nina,” you managed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Really amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound like your sunshine-self.” Nina’s voice softened, concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause. Nina had been there through all your ups and downs, from your rookie days as a model to your rise in the industry. But the immigration issues, the fear of being sent back to a life you couldn’t return to—that was something neither of you could control. 

“Three months?” she repeated, her voice going higher. “Oh my God—what the fuck? I thought… I thought you had more time.”

“So did I.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Nina, I don’t know what to do. I’ve called Nico and he tried everything—extensions, appeals—but the laws are tightening, and he said there’s only one real option left.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “What option?”

You bit your lip. “Marriage. Nico says I could marry someone for a green card.”

“Marriage?” Nina’s voice came out in a shocked squeak. “Like a fake marriage? Babe, are you serious?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, frustration and fear colliding. “I don’t know what to do! I can’t go back there. I can’t. My parents… My parents already wrote me off as dead, and if I go back, I’m stuck in a place I spent my entire life trying to escape.”

Her voice softened. “I know, honey, I know… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—God, I can’t imagine how scary this is for you.”

You took a shaky breath, grateful for her understanding. Nina wasn’t just your manager—she was one of the few people who you actually close to. She was a 34 years old American-Filipina woman. You trusted her with your life. 

“Okay,” Nina said, her voice more focused now. “Okay, now listen. We’ll figure this out. I know Nicolas wouldn’t suggest something like this unless it was a real option. Do you trust him?”

You sighed. “Yeah. I do. But the idea of marrying someone just to stay… it feels like another version of what my parents wanted for me. Like I’m back in that same time of my life.”

“I get it. But this isn’t like that. You’re in control this time,” Nina said. “If this is what you need to stay here, it’s not about love or being owned by someone.”

You nodded to yourself, trying to absorb her words. “Well, um, Nico gave me a list of potential candidates—people who might be willing to make an arrangement. You’ll never guess who’s on it, though.”

“Who? Shawn Mendes? Harry Styles? Tom Holland—”

“Rafe Cameron,” you said, cutting her off. “The basketball play—”

“Yeah, I know who that man is, Y/N. His reputation is a total mess right now. It’s not surprising for him to be on that list.”

“Exactly,” you muttered. “It’s a perfect business arrangement for him, too. He needs a way to look respectable again, and I need to stay in the country.”

“So, you’re actually considering this?”

You leaned against a streetlamp, staring at the city around you. “I don’t know. Maybe? It just feels wrong. Like I’m giving up a part of myself.”

“As nicely as this can be said, you are being dramatic here, babe.” Nina sighed softly. “Look, I’m not going to push you either way, okay? But I do think you need to look at it from a different angle. You’re not giving up on yourself. You’re doing what you need to do to stay here, to keep fighting for your career and your future. And Rafe—or whoever you’ll end up marrying—is not your parents. He’s not going to control you or he’ll get slapped.”

You closed your eyes, trying to let her words sink in. She was right—you were in control now. This wasn’t the same as being forced into a marriage you didn’t want. This was about survival. About keeping your life in the U.S. intact.

"Yeah… I guess you’re right," you said softly, feeling some of the tension release from your shoulders. "I just need time to think."

TWO WEEKS LATER.

The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting warm light across your living room. After two relentless weeks of back-to-back fashion shoots, campaign meetings, and gala appearances, you had finally found a moment of peace. You curled up on the plush sofa, sinking into its embrace as the hum of the city outside became a distant murmur. The oversized, loose pajamas you wore were a far cry from the designer gowns and couture you’d been draped in recently, but they were yours—soft, comforting, and familiar. Your hair was twisted into a lazy bun under a satin bonnet.

You exhaled a sigh of relief, finally feeling the weight of exhaustion slip from your shoulders as you closed your eyes.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound of your phone vibrating on the coffee table pulled you from the calm. You groaned softly, reaching for it with one hand, expecting to see another notification about a meeting or event. Instead, it was a message from Nicolas.

“Any thoughts on who you're going to marry? We need to move quickly if we want to ensure everything goes through in time.”

The familiar weight of the situation you’d been trying to avoid crept back into your chest. Two weeks had passed since your lawyer had first laid out the reality of your visa situation. In those weeks, you'd thrown yourself into work, hoping the constant flurry of activity would drown out the anxiety. But now, in the quiet of your home, the decision loomed large again.

You typed back, hesitating for a moment before hitting send.

"I haven’t decided yet."

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

"We need to discuss this in person. Can you come to my office today?"

You frowned, your eyes darting around the cozy room, not quite ready to leave your home.

"How about you come here instead?" you typed. "It’s been a long week, and I’d rather talk in private."

There was a pause before the three dots appeared, and then the message followed.

"Sure. I’ll be there in about an hour."

You put your phone down and leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have, but it was necessary. Time was running out, and you knew you had to face it—whether you wanted to or not.

An hour passed in a blur, and soon enough, you heard the knock at your door. You padded across the room in your socks, your oversized pajama pants swishing softly as you walked. Opening the door, you found Nicolas standing there, looking as composed as ever in his tailored suit.

“Come in,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in.

Nicolas entered, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on you. "You look... relaxed."

You gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to your pajamas. “Don’t mock the pj’s until you’ve tried them.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a hint of emergency in his expression as he took a seat in the armchair across from you. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but we really need to make a decision.”

You nodded, sitting back down on the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I know… I’ve just been avoiding it.”

“And I noticed,” he said, pulling out a folder from his briefcase. “But with the visa expiration approaching, we don’t have much time. We need to find someone—someone who understands the situation and won’t make things harder.”

You bit your lip, holding a smile, glancing at the folder in his hands. “You bought the list?”

He nodded, and handed it over, and you flipped through the names, recognizing some immediately. Athletes, businessmen, even a couple of actors/singers. And then there was Rafe Cameron, his name standing out like a bold headline.

“I’ve looked at these,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t know who to choose. None of ‘em feel right.”

Nico leaned forward. “It's not about right or wrong. It’s about who can offer the least amount of personal complications and help you secure your residency. Rafe Cameron, for instance—he’s someone who could benefit from this arrangement as much as you. His reputation needs mending, and this could be a mutually beneficial situation.”

You stared at Rafe’s name, the memories of seeing his name in the news about how much of a womanizer he was… Could you really tie yourself to someone like him in a fake marriage?

“Alright, but I need you to help me decide,” you admitted, looking up at him.

He nodded, his expression understanding. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Let’s break it down together and figure out who makes the most sense, not just legally but for your peace of mind.”

Nicolas opened his briefcase again, pulling out more detailed files on the potential candidates. He laid them out neatly on the coffee table, each name with a stack of information—financial records, personal histories, public perceptions. It was all very businesslike.

You leaned forward, looking at the pages in front of you. Each one represented a major decision, a shift in your life you weren’t entirely ready to accept, but you knew you didn’t have much of a choice.

“Let’s start with the most practical options,” he said, sliding the file on Rafe Cameron toward you. “I know his name has come up before. He’s wealthy, influential, and… well, let’s be honest, he could use a boost to his public image right now. It’s a good match on paper.”

You stared at Rafe’s name again, tapping the edge of the file with your finger. “Yeah, but he’s also a bit of a mess, isn’t he? I mean, the media paints him as this… whore, and his personal life is always talked about. What if that blows back on me?”

Nicolas raised a brow. “That’s something to consider, but you also have to think of the benefits. His public image might not be very clean, but he’s powerful. Marrying him would put you in a stable position, and if it’s a business arrangement, his private affairs don’t have to concern you.”

You exhaled slowly, still feeling uneasy. Rafe Cameron was trouble, and you knew it. But at the same time, trouble might be exactly what could make this work—for both of you.

“What about the others?” you asked, flipping through the files. “There has to be someone who’s… less complicated.”

“Well,” he said, tapping another file. “there’s Owen Turner. He’s a succesful tech entrepeneur, keeps a low profile. No scandals, no messy reputation. He’s reliable, but you’ll have to approach this differently. He’s more private, less likely to want his personal life on display.”

“And boring—plus, he seems like the type of white guy to want a traditional wife. Like he would expect me to cook for him every night… and he has an ugly name.”

“Owen won’t be expecting home-cooked meals, Y/N. He’s a tech guy; he probably lives on energy drinks and instant ramen,” Nico pointed out, trying to steer you back to the serious topic. “But if we position it as a legal arrangement, he could see the value in it.”

You sighed, leaning back on the chair. “Okay, maybe Owen is the safer options. But can you imagine our wedding announcement? ‘Succesful Tech Entrepeneur Married Famous Model: They Share a Love for Cats and Instant Noodle.’”

Nico shook his head, trying not to smile. “Focus, please. This is a serious matter.”

“Right, right, sorry…” you said, wavering your hand dismissively. “But, what do you think about Rafe?”

“Rafe Cameron is the most straightforward option,” he said, his tone now more measured. “He’s already in the public eye, which means there won’t be as much of a shock if you’re suddenly married. Plus, his need for good press aligns with your need for stability.”

“And personally?”

He smiled softly, a rare gesture from him. “Personally, I think you should go with the person you think you can manage.”

You nodded, appreciating his honesty. Staring at the stack of papers in front of you, Rafe Cameron’s name glaring up at you from the top of the list. Every name on the list had its pros and cons, but something about Rafe’s file felt different. Maybe it was the intensity of his media coverage, the scandals, or the way he dominated the headlines for all the wrong reasons. But as much as you hesitated, his name kept pulling you back.

“I know his reputation isn't spotless,” Nico said, sensing your hesitation, “but in this situation, a clean reputation isn’t the priority. You need someone powerful, someone with enough influence to make this arrangement stick without getting tangled up in emotional complications.”

You nodded, again.”But I don’t know if I can handle all the baggage that comes with Rafe Cameron. His public image is a trainwreck. Wouldn’t that only complicate things more?”

Nico leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Possibly. But think of it this way: his personal life is already so chaotic that a stable, respectable marriage might be exactly what he needs to repair his image. And that’s where you come in. You’d be helping each other.”

Your eyes dropped back down to his file. "Do you think he'd even agree to something like this?"

Nico chuckled softly. “If there’s one thing I know about men like Rafe Cameron, it’s that they understand deals. His reputation is hanging by a thread, and a marriage to someone like you—someone with a pristine public image—could be the ticket to restoring his credibility. It’s a win-win, really.”

You considered Nico’s words. He was right. Rafe had everything to gain from a marriage of convenience, just like you. And while his scandals were messy, they didn’t define him entirely. He was still an elite athlete, one of the best in the game, and with the right PR strategy, you could both come out looking better.

But the thought of marrying someone like him—a notorious playboy with a history of messy breakups—made your stomach churn. 

“You know,” Nico continued, “if this were just about your visa, we’d be having a different conversation. But this is about your entire future. Your career, your freedom to stay here, everything you’ve built. I’m not saying it’s an easy choice, but it’s one worth considering.”

You sighed, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. "What happens if it falls apart? What if things with Rafe go wrong?"

"That’s why we’ll draft a contract," Nico reassured you. "This won’t be a traditional marriage, Y/N. You’ll both have clear boundaries, and legally, we’ll protect your interests. If things go south, you’ll be covered."

You stared at the file a little longer, then closed your eyes.Rafe Cameron. He was cocky, possessive, and reckless—everything you usually avoided. But maybe that was the key. You wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to control you or make this anything more than a business transaction.

It would be messy. It would be complicated. But it would also keep you here, in the country you’d fought so hard to call home. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the solution you both needed.

“Okay,” you said softly, your decision finally settling. “I’ll do it.”

Nico’s eyebrows shot up, a little surprised at how quickly you’d made up your mind. “You’re sure?”

“No,” you admitted with a weak smile. “But I think this is the best option. I’ll marry Rafe Cameron.”

Nico nodded, closing the folder with a satisfied smile. “Good. I’ll set up a meeting with him. We’ll get the ball rolling.”

Oh God, you were going to marry Rafe Cameron…

chapter two

[ghostlycamil4]

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑇𝑤𝑜 𝐻𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑀𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛

• Marterlist

The hot steam filled the small bathroom, covering the tiled walls in droplets and fogging up the mirror completely. A few last streams of water dripped from the showerhead, showing the shower was over, while Bakugo ran a towel through his wet hair, messing it up even more. The heat made him feel half-asleep, his eyelids heavy, and he muttered a curse for waking up late. He didn’t even have the energy to argue that maybe this time, you should be the one making breakfast.

With a rough and annoyed gesture, he wiped his hand across the fogged mirror, leaving a visible streak in front of his face. He scowled. His reflection was there, slightly flushed from the heat, blond strands stuck to his forehead… but it was what was just below his jaw that made him freeze.

His eyes shot open, brows furrowed, jaw tight. His hand went to his neck quickly, fingers tracing the damp skin with a mix of urgency and disbelief. He tilted his chin up, turned his head. One. Two. There they were. Two dark, purplish marks that stood out harshly against his skin tone: one hickey right in the center of his throat, and another, longer and deeper, on the left side. Like a damn trophy. Like your signature—one he didn’t remember giving you permission to leave.

“Goddammit, Y/n,” he growled under his breath, his tone rough, irritated, and embarrassed all at once.

How the hell hadn’t he noticed before? Was he so damn drunk on desire last night that he didn’t feel it? Or did he feel it and just ignore it like an idiot?

He couldn’t go to the agency like this. The damn hero agency! And on top of that, in the middle of summer. There was no way in hell he could wear the winter uniform with the high collar without being cooked alive in the first five minutes.

When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp and sticking out messily, his boots hit the floor with force as he walked straight toward you, standing with your back to him in the kitchen, busy at the stove. The smell of breakfast filled the air, warm and tempting.

Without thinking much, he snapped:

"Fix this!" his voice was harsh, loaded with genuine irritation... though also tinged with a slight, very slight trace of desperation.

You turned your head curiously, blinking with an innocent smile that fooled no one.

"Fix what?" you asked, tilting your head.

Your eyes widened, first in surprise, then with a guilty giggle you tried to hide behind your hand.

"Oh... about that..." you murmured, glancing away as if the floor had suddenly become very interesting. "I got carried away."

Your excuse sounded weak, even to your own ears. And Bakugo knew it. He scowled deeper, arms crossing over his chest, his biceps tightening under the fabric of his suit.

But he couldn’t afford this right now. Not if he wanted to get to the agency on time.

"Tch..." he clicked his tongue, turning abruptly so you wouldn’t see how his mouth twisted into a resigned—yet deep down—amused smirk. "You’re gonna pay for this, Y/n."

The only solution, after Bakugo nearly wrecked the bathroom trying to think of alternatives, was the most humiliating one: makeup.

Of course, there was no way he’d know how to apply it, so you had to do it yourself—between stifled giggles and his threatening growls.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, he had to admit—grudgingly—that the makeup did a decent job hiding the hickeys. You could barely see them. As long as no one looked too closely, they’d go unnoticed.

Or so he thought.

A few hours later...

The scorching summer heat weighed down on the city like a curse.

The mission with Kirishima was intense: chasing villains, rescuing civilians, explosions, running.

And with every drop of sweat that rolled down his skin, Bakugo could feel the makeup melting, mixing with the sweat, wearing off.

At first, he didn’t pay much attention.

Until, during a break, Kirishima gave him a weird look. A really weird look.

"Hey..." the redhead frowned, leaning toward his neck. "Is that...?"

Bakugo took a sharp step back.

"The hell are you staring at, dumbass?!" he snapped, instantly on the defensive.

But it was already too late. Kirishima burst out laughing, loud enough to catch Denki’s attention. Curious as ever, he jogged over.

"No way! Is that a hickey?" Denki said, pointing straight at it.

"Two of them!" Kirishima added between laughs, doubling over.

Bakugo growled, clenching his fists as he felt what little makeup remained sliding off, exposing the purple marks now practically screaming to the world: "I'm taken, and my girlfriend is a damn savage."

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[springismss]

ᱬ⛧ heaven ~ i. midoriya

sum: after years of not seeing him, he finally shows up, asked to join the agency you work at. you remembered him, but did remember you?

pairing: pro hero! izuku midoriya x female pro hero! reader

content: 18+ - mdni. p in v, slight teasing, dirty talk, marking, multiple/implied multiple orgasms, fingering, reader gets called princess/baby/good girl, general NSFW content, aftercare.

a/n: slight spoiler ahead - set in an au where the end events of the manga didn’t happen, where izuku doesn’t lose one for all, still finishes u.a and is currently the world's number one pro. this has been rotting in my drafts for a while, but i didn’t have a chance to edit it. as always, likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated!

word count: 1.9k

links: bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist

Looking around the semi-crowded street, you let a soft hum of annoyance pass your lips as you continued forward. Due to there being hardly any criminals for the past few days now, you had found yourself, yet again, on patrol on a slow day. Not only were you patrolling, but you also caught glimpses of three other pro heroes who were in the area, looking as bored as you were.

A sudden chime in your ear made you stop as you looked at the other heroes, noticing they were still patrolling and talking to citizens. How odd. Lifting your finger, you tapped on the device and placed your free hand on your hip as you continued to scan the area out of habit. "What’s up?".

"(h/n), can you come back to the office? We have someone coming and we want our best hero here when they arrive". Furrowing your brows, you glanced in the direction of the voice, opening your mouth to question the communication when they spoke again, seemingly reading your mind.

"And yes, it's been cleared. We've heard it's another slow day, so there's no need for you all to be out there".

Letting out a hum, you turned on your heel and began to make your way back to the agency you were working at. "Sure you're not trying to butter me up there? I'll be there in ten".

Walking through the doors, you stretched and sighed softly, the cool air of the air con lapping against your skin felt refreshing. You had a few spare moments before heading to the meeting room, so you opted to grab a drink, making your way to the meeting room not long after.

Opening the door with a click, you noticed quite a few of the other heroes you worked alongside already there. A sea of murmurs greeted you as you greeted them back, taking your place at the side while you all waited for whoever they had made you come back for.

Up front, you saw the owner of the agency standing there with another figure by their side, most likely their assistant, who called you back. "Ahh, (h/n), now that you're here, I can introduce you to the newest hero to join us~". Your boss lifted a hand and motioned to the door as eyes followed, looking at the door that was clicking open again.

Green was the only colour you could focus on as your eyes widened. You had to be seeing things, this couldn't be real, right? You had to be in some sort of dream. Yeah, that's right, a stupid dream. You and the rest of your classmates thought he'd disappeared, seemingly moving away to the other end of the country or beyond.

No one had heard from him in years. Yet there he was, walking past you as everyone followed with their gaze. "~The number one pro hero, Deku". A confident wave and bright smile replaced the once timid and shy movements of the young boy you remembered.

As you tried to wrap your head around what you had just seen, a group began to form around the hero with words of excitement buzzing in the air. By the time you had managed to somewhat comprehend things, the group had disappeared, giving you the perfect time to go over and say hello to an old friend. Would he recognise you? You'd doubted it, but it didn’t hurt to see. "Well, if it isn't Izuku Midoriya in the flesh".

The sudden intrusion of your words, and the fact that his name had been used, seemed to take him by surprise as he took a closer look at your face. It took him a moment longer than usual to put the pieces together, but he got there, eyes widening as you smiled brightly at him. "(y/n)? Is that you?".

Ever since that day when you had both been reunited, the two of you had been virtually inseparable. Spending more time together, be that on missions or in general, had resulted in the two of you becoming close again. Closer than what you both had been before.

Then came the rumours that surrounded you both, some sweet and innocent and others downright dirty. Of course, the latter made Midoriya blush. He couldn't imagine people saying those things, and yet there they were, plain as day. You were nothing more than a friend to him.

Sure, it had been a good few years since he last saw you and the rest of your friends, but he couldn't deny it even if he tried; you had become a beautiful young woman. Foreign feelings stirred deep inside of him, feelings that caused his body and mind to react in ways he hadn’t had since he was a teen. Sure, he'd had partners, but none of them fired him up the way you did.

Feelings he thought he had buried were starting to resurface all over again. Starting to increase each time he was with you until he couldn't handle them any more, the way he felt became too much to bear. Doing the only thing he could think of at that time, acting on how he felt around you, something he should have done back when you were both younger.

Everything seemed to move in a bit of a blur. One minute, you were sitting on the couch in Midoriya's house with him, TV on in the background as you both sat talking about various things. The next minute, you were on your back, pinned to the cushions as you both shared a hot kiss. The feelings that poured out between you both during that kiss had been pent up for some time.

A dark blush covered his face as he pulled back, trying to catch his breath, frame hovering over your panting form. "I-I can't take it anymore, (y/n), I-I need to do s-something~".

In what felt like mere seconds to you, articles of clothing had been scattered all over the floor before thick digits thrusted into your wet cunt, walls stretching deliciously making you whine out at the burning desire you felt again. "Hah, Izuku, p-please. I need you".

His fingers disappeared, causing you to whine out from the sudden emptiness before his stout cock began to press deep within you. Pressing past the ring of resistance, as desperate moans sounded. The overwhelming feeling of Midoriya stretching you made your back arch, hips wriggling as he buried himself deep inside. The pro hero took a moment to savour the feeling of your walls pulsating tightly around his cock, your needy cunt desperately trying to keep him there.

“Shit, you’re gripping me so good princess. Like that pretty pussy was made for me”. Those words alone had you moaning out, hands grabbing any part of him you could. You had to keep yourself sane.

With the slow pull back of his hips, you gasped slightly as the emptying feeling until you felt him thrust hard back into you. You swear if your eyes could roll any further back than they were already, they would. Bringing your legs up, you wrapped them around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as you pulled him closer to you. Your fingers dug into his forearms, nails leaving crescent moon marks as you tried to ground yourself.

Green eyes glanced at the fucked out look on your face, before dragging down your body, watching the way your tits jiggled with each desperate thrust. Watching the way your body bounced in time with his movements, the small sheen starting to cover your body. He was eager to show you how much he needed and wanted you, even after all these years. "F-Fuck, why did I wait this long to get in this cunt of yours?".

The words caught you off guard as a loud mewl slipped past your lips, hands flying to his back before you dragged your nails down, red marks being left against pale skin as you arched further into his body.

You could feel that knot in the pit of your gut tighten, and you knew, knew it wouldn’t be too long before you were crying out from the pleasure. You could already hear how wet you were, messy sloshing noises only added to the way you were feeling. "Izu, fuck, I-I'm gonna~".

His rough thrusts never ceased as he reached between you both, pad of his thumb rubbing circles on your clit as his fingers pressed against the small bump he was creating inside you. “Come on, baby, let go for me, want to feel you all over”.

All it took was a few more harsh thrusts to have you lose your sanity, to have your back arch beautifully as you gasped out. Broken cry of Midoriya’s name sounded from your throat as your vision blurred. You were almost sure you felt some of your slick squirt out, no doubt coating not only his cock and thighs, but the sofa beneath you.

The overwhelming feeling of feeling full took over your now overly sensitive cunt, breathy moans sounding louder. “That’s a good girl, but I'm far from done, princess".

Before long, you’d lost all sense of time as you continued to be fucked senseless by the man above you.

Your legs were numb, your clit and cunt were overly stimulated and your body began to grow tired. Despite that, you felt another wave of euphoria nearing, gripping Midoriya's arm as you anchored yourself, a strangled sob left your throat as tears slipped from your eyes. Your nails were sure to leave more marks, marks that would no doubt bleed, not that the pro seemed to mind.

Deep moans sounded from above you as you turned your watery, glassy stare to the man responsible for the state you were in. You could tell he was close as his thrusts became sloppy, desperately rutting into you as he chanced his own euphoria. After a few more sloppy thrusts, Midoriya let out a guttural moan, hips stalling as he filled your cunt with his cum. “F-Fuck, that’s it (y/n), take it all. Going to fill you so full you’ll be dripping me for days”. The hot fluid seeping deep within you as sparks of his quirk flashed around you both.

Lifting your arm, you brought a hand up to his face and cupped it, guiding him down to your lips as you held him close. You took a moment to press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, humming softly as you mumbled against the skin. “I love you, Izuku”.

The words took him by surprise, green eyes widening as they looked down at you, face still flushed as hair clung to you, offering his own sweet smile a moment after. “I know you do, and I love you too, (y/n)”.

Wrapping his arms around you as best he could, he pulled his cock out of you. A moan of loss sounded from you before you felt yourself being moved, held close against his chest as he carried your sore body to the bathroom, helping clean you up once you were settled in the hot water.

A thumb rubbed the small of your back in a comforting manner. No words needed to be spoken, but at that point, you both knew what you were to each other. The feelings you both held were finally shared for the other to feel.

Although you had both been caught up in the throes of pleasure a few minutes ago, nothing could have prepared you for the words that were uttered next.

"Next time, I’ll show you that blackwhip is good for something other than restraining villains".

© springismss 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.

[strawberry-nugget]

Based on the ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ tiktok trend

Tags // Warnings: MDNI, Suggestive, Crack

Characters are 20+

It’s Wednesday afternoon, that dooming hour after a 10 hour long patrol that included everything a hero should do in the span of a week. It has left you and Katsuki beaten and bruised, tired, and grimy all over your hero costumes and he has —rightfully so— spent the fifteen minute drive from his agency to your favourite restaurant whining because he will have to have his car detailed again.

Nonetheless, you’ve been doom scrolling on Tiktok from the second he stepped out of the car to get you the food he promised you; all you can eat sushi, boba tea for the drive back home and maybe a sweet treat that you hope and pray is strawberry mochi.

You're scrolling through endless edits, ‘get ready with me’s, pets, babies and yet the only thing that gets your attention is that new silly couple trend.

“Somebody point me to the best ass eater” the song chants and numerous girls have recreated the trend with their boyfriends and it’s just so silly, so stupid, so so funny that you wanna do it too.

You look around the parking lot, scanning to see if there’s any people around but it’s for sure empty, given the fact that it’s too early and you click on the sound on one of the TikToks and decide to set your phone on Katsuki’s phone holder on the dashboard.

And right on cue -perfect fucking timing- there goes your hero, with two big fat paper bags filled with food on one hand and two boba teas on the other. You can’t help but smile an evil grin as he sprint marches toward the car.

He opens the door, practically collapses in the seat, and you scrunch your eyes as you smile at him when he hands you your tea before smooching your lips. “Boba for my girl” he smiles against your lips and then, kisses you again.

“Katsuki gimme your phone baby” you ask and reach your open palm at him. 

“Sure—“ he hands you his phone, presses his lips into a thin awkward smile as you go to open Spotify. Then his eyes fall finally on your phone on the dashboard.

“wait, the fuck is your camera open?”

“Shhhh I wanna film something”

He sighs, deeply, almost comically, rubbing his face with his palm.

“Can’t we go home first, i'm so tired” he whines, his voice cracking like you asked him to do another ten hour long patrol, but you just giggle, sipping on your tea before setting it down.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” you grin, unlocking his phone and queuing up your shared playlist—because ambiance matters, obviously.

Katsuki groans again, louder this time, and slouches into the seat like he’s trying to merge with it. “If it’s another cutesy dance thing, I’m crashin’ this car into the nearest pole.”

“You just got this car”

“And i'm damn serious” 

“You say that every time, but then you eat up the comments when they say you look hot,” you quip, tapping through TikTok with laser focus. “It’s not a dance. It’s just a sound. A trend. Just trust me.”

“No,” he says immediately.

You ignore him and cue up the sound, and before he can protest again, your phone blasts from the dashboard: “Somebody point me to the best ass eater—”

Katsuki freezes like someone’s just shot him with a tranquilizer dart. One eye twitches, while he's giving you the nastiest side eye.

“What the fuck—” he starts, but you’re already cackling, doubled over in your seat, wheezing into the straw of your boba like it’s life support.

“You’re deranged,” he mutters, ears red, one hand suddenly gripping the steering wheel like he’s going to need it for emotional support. He bumps his forehead against it once, twice, then groans like he’s aging in dog years.

You pause the video and open a new draft under the sound, already giggling as you press record.

“Please, let’s go again. At least try to pretend you’re eating my ass.”

There’s not even a beat of hesitation—even if the phone is still recording, Katsuki reaches, lunges over your seat, full chest-over-console, arms reaching like a man possessed and makes it fly flat onto the back seat and grabs both of your hips with his palms to shimmy you towards him. He leans, leans fucking over your thighs with his mouth all open like a horn dog.

He’s fully tilted, upper body hunched over your thighs like you’re the dinner you’re supposed to be having at home. His mouth is still open, stupid and dramatic, like some depraved cartoon wolf seeing red.

“KATSUKI WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” You’re shrieking now, half laughing, half horrified by how fast of a turn this took.

“WHAT!?” He yells, sounding genuinely offended.

You’re laughing so hard, you're wiping actual tears from your eyes, when Katsuki, very slowly, very cautiously, says

“You’re askin’ me to eat your ass here.”

You choke.

Literally choke. You’re coughing into your boba straw. Katsuki’s immediately panicked, reaching across the console to slap your back softly and manspreads into the driver’s seat

“No! Katsuki—no! That’s not—” You’re laughing and wheezing at the same time, eyes wild, mouth burst open so wide that your jaw could just drop to the floor “That’s not what it is! It’s just a stupid TikTok sound!”

“But the sound said—” He furrows his brow like he’s solving math “It said—somebody point me to the best ass eater. You told me to pretend I'm eating your ass. How else am I supposed to do it then?”

You start giggling again and grab his bicep. “Yes, but it’s not literal! That’s just the trend! You point at your boyfriend when the sound plays and look really smug, maybe pretend you’re eating something out of my hand. It’s supposed to be funny!”

He blinks, pouts, fierce vermillion eyes stare deeply into your soul, like you’ve offended him once again.

“So… you’re not asking me to eat your ass.”

“NO, KATSUKI.”

“Shame” he says, lips pursing to the side of his face as he throws his hands in the air in surrender. Smirking. Eyes wide in condensation.

“KATSUKI- I wouldn’t ask you to do that in broad daylight, at a parking lot” You’re breathless from laughing, stomach sore and tears streaking your already grimy cheeks as you swat at his arm. “And wait, hold up—What do you mean ‘shame’?”

Katsuki just shrugs, forges a motherfucking stank face and says “Woulda done it.”

You nearly spit out your drink. “IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING LOT?”

He raises an eyebrow and deadpans, “You were the one who pulled out the camera and told me to pretend.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” You’re halfway between scolding and wheezing, already imagining the absolute clownery that’s going to flood your comments once people realize what just happened if you were to post that video.

He leans back against the driver’s seat with a long, satisfied exhale, smug little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like he just won a fight no one else was in.

“I’m just sayin’. If you wanna do stupid internet trends, don’t blame me when I commit to the bit.”

“KATSUKI”

“Ahhhh” he whines, voice cracking again, mocking “Katsuki this, Katsuki that, just get on all fours and let me get to work”

“Shut up bro, what the hell”

He raises his brow at that, latching his forehead to yours. Had it been any other time you’d gulp, but he cracks a laugh, lets you know it’s not that serious… yet.

“Call me bro one more time” His lips twitch. “See what happens.”

Katsuki bites his lower lip, his nose bumps into yours. You pretend to shove him away, scrunching your face in fake disgust, but he pulls you back in, huge biceps trapping you in between his arms as he places ugly sounding kisses to the top of your head, your cheeks, your face. Anywhere he can land them, seriously.

“Im all dirty and musty from patrol you freak” 

“Mmmmmmm” he smiles deviously, licking his lips.

You slap your palm over his mouth before he can say whatever ungodly thing he was about to follow that noise with.

“You need to be stopped.” You’re fully hot in the face now, not from any sort of flustered romantic nonsense—no, from the secondhand humiliation of knowing that your camera was absolutely still recording when he started making mating sounds over you telling him you’re absolutely musty after patrol.

Then again, Katsuki licks your palm.

“OH MY GOD���EW” You rip your hand away and flail, smacking the dashboard. “You’re disgusting. Depraved. Unwell.”

“‘S what you signed up for,” he says proudly, smug as hell and sipping on his tea like he didn’t just try to go full National Geographic in the front seat of his car. In front of a recording camera too.

“You’re not even denying it anymore.”

He shrugs. “I’m a man of the people. They want ass eater representation.”

“The people?! You didn’t even know about this trend a second ago, what people!?”

“My fans,” he says, nodding solemnly.

“Your fans? Katsuki, you have one fan and she’s sitting right here rethinking her entire life.”

He hums again, but this time it’s smug and low, and he wiggles his brows in a way that tells you he’s about to say something that will absolutely get him banned from the bed for tonight.

“So you are my fan…” he laughs, falling back on his seat, pulling that silly face he thinks is the sexiest thing on the planet—newsflash, it is. He looks at you, up and down, licking and biting his lips “Sorry sweetie, I don't sleep with groupies.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “I’m going to make you sleep on the couch.”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon illegally interferes with an historic UK warehouse election

I'm in to TARTU, ESTONIA! Overcoming the Enshittocene (Monday, May 8, 6PM, Prima Vista Literary Festival keynote, University of Tartu Library, Struwe 1). AI, copyright and creative workers' labor rights (May 10, 8AM: Science Fiction Research Association talk, Institute of Foreign Languages and Cultures building, Lossi 3, lobby). A talk for hackers on seizing the means of computation (May 10, 3PM, University of Tartu Delta Centre, Narva 18, room 1037).

Amazon is very good at everything it does, including being very bad at the things it doesn't want to do. Take signing up for Prime: nothing could be simpler. The company has built a greased slide from Prime-curiosity to Prime-confirmed that is the envy of every UX designer.

But unsubscribing from Prime? That's a fucking nightmare. Somehow the company that can easily figure out how to sign up for a service is totally baffled when it comes to making it just as easy to leave. Now, there's two possibilities here: either Amazon's UX competence is a kind of erratic freak tide that sweeps in at unpredictable intervals and hits these unbelievable high-water marks, or the company just doesn't want to let you leave.

To investigate this question, let's consider a parallel: Black Flag's Roach Motel. This is an icon of American design, a little brown cardboard box that is saturated in irresistibly delicious (to cockroaches, at least) pheromones. These powerful scents make it admirably easy for all the roaches in your home to locate your Roach Motel and enter it.

But the interior of the Roach Motel is also coated in a sticky glue. Once roaches enter the motel, their legs and bodies brush up against this glue and become hopeless mired in it. A roach can't leave – not without tearing off its own legs.

It's possible that Black Flag made a mistake here. Maybe they wanted to make it just as easy for a roach to leave as it is to enter. If that seems improbable to you, well, you're right. We don't even have to speculate, we can just refer to Black Flag's slogan for Roach Motel: "Roaches check in, but they don't check out."

It's intentional, and we know that because they told us so.

Back to Amazon and Prime. Was it some oversight that cause the company make it so marvelously painless to sign up for Prime, but such a titanic pain in the ass to leave? Again, no speculation is required, because Amazon's executives exchanged a mountain of internal memos in which this is identified as a deliberate strategy, by which they deliberately chose to trick people into signing up for Prime and then hid the means of leaving Prime. Prime is a Roach Motel: users check in, but they don't check out:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

When it benefits Amazon, they are obsessive – "relentless" (Bezos's original for the company) – about user friendliness. They value ease of use so highly that they even patented "one click checkout" – the incredibly obvious idea that a company that stores your shipping address and credit card could let you buy something with a single click:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1-Click#Patent

But when it benefits Amazon to place obstacles in our way, they are even more relentless in inventing new forms of fuckery, spiteful little landmines they strew in our path. Just look at how Amazon deals with unionization efforts in its warehouses.

Amazon's relentless union-busting spans a wide diversity of tactics. On the one hand, they cook up media narratives to smear organizers, invoking racist dog-whistles to discredit workers who want a better deal:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2020/apr/02/amazon-chris-smalls-smart-articulate-leaked-memo

On the other hand, they collude with federal agencies to make workers afraid that their secret ballots will be visible to their bosses, exposing them to retaliation:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/amazon-violated-labor-law-alabama-union-election-labor-official-finds-rcna1582

They hold Cultural Revolution-style forced indoctrination meetings where they illegally threaten workers with punishment for voting in favor of their union:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/31/business/economy/amazon-union-staten-island-nlrb.html

And they fire Amazon tech workers who express solidarity with warehouse workers:

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/amazon-fires-tech-employees-workers-criticism-warehouse-climate-policies/

But all this is high-touch, labor-intensive fuckery. Amazon, as we know, loves automation, and so it automates much of its union-busting: for example, it created an employee chat app that refused to deliver any message containing words like "fairness" or "grievance":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/05/doubleplusrelentless/#quackspeak

Amazon also invents implausible corporate fictions that allow it to terminate entire sections of its workforce for trying to unionize, by maintaining the tormented pretense that these workers, who wear Amazon uniforms, drive Amazon trucks, deliver Amazon packages, and are tracked by Amazon down to the movements of their eyeballs, are, in fact, not Amazon employees:

https://www.wired.com/story/his-drivers-unionized-then-amazon-tried-to-terminate-his-contract/

These workers have plenty of cause to want to unionize. Amazon warehouses are sources of grueling torment. Take "megacycling," a ten-hour shift that runs from 1:20AM to 11:50AM that workers are plunged into without warning or the right to refuse. This isn't just a night shift – it's a night shift that makes it impossible to care for your children or maintain any kind of normal life.

Then there's Jeff Bezos's war on his workers' kidneys. Amazon warehouse workers and drivers notoriously have to pee in bottles, because they are monitored by algorithms that dock their pay for taking bathroom breaks. The road to Amazon's warehouse in Coventry, England is littered with sealed bottles of driver piss, defenestrated by drivers before they reach the depot inspection site.

There's so much piss on the side of the Coventry road that the prankster Oobah Butler was able to collect it, decant it into bottles, and market it on Amazon as an energy beverage called "Bitter Lemon Release Energy," where it briefly became Amazon's bestselling energy drink:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

(Butler promises that he didn't actually ship any bottled piss to people who weren't in on the gag – but let's just pause here and note how weird it is that a guy who hates our kidneys as much as Jeff Bezos built and flies a penis-shaped rocket.)

Butler also secretly joined the surge of 1,000 workers that Amazon hired for the Coventry warehouse in advance of a union vote, with the hope of diluting the yes side of that vote and forestall the union. Amazon displayed more of its famously selective competence here, spotting Butler and firing him in short order, while totally failing to notice that he was marketing bottles of driver piss as a bitter lemon drink on Amazon's retail platform.

After a long fight, Amazon's Coventry workers are finally getting their union vote, thanks to the GMB union's hard fought battle at the Central Arbitration Committee:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/04/26/amazon-warehouse-workers-in-coventry-will-vote-on-trade-union-recognition/

And right on schedule, Amazon has once again discovered its incredible facility for ease-of-use. The company has blanketed its shop floor with radioactively illegal "one click to quit the union" QR codes. When a worker aims their phones at the code and clicks the link, the system auto-generates a letter resigning the worker from their union.

As noted, this is totally illegal. English law bans employers from "making an offer to an employee for the sole or main purpose of inducing workers not to be members of an independent trade union, take part in its activities, or make use of its services."

Now, legal or not, this may strike you as a benign intervention on Amazon's part. Why shouldn't it be easy for workers to choose how they are represented in their workplaces? But the one-click system is only half of Amazon's illegal union-busting: the other half is delivered by its managers, who have cornered workers on the shop floor and ordered them to quit their union, threatening them with workplace retaliation if they don't.

This is in addition to more forced "captive audience" meetings where workers are bombarded with lies about what life in an union shop is like.

Again, the contrast couldn't be more stark. If you want to quit a union, Amazon makes this as easy as joining Prime. But if you want to join a union, Amazon makes that even harder than quitting Prime. Amazon has the same attitude to its workers and its customers: they see us all as a resource to be extracted, and have no qualms about tricking or even intimidating us into doing what's best for Amazon, at the expense of our own interests.

The campaigning law-firm Foxglove is representing five of Amazon's Coventry workers. They're doing the lord's work:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/05/02/legal-challenge-to-amazon-uks-new-one-click-to-quit-the-union-tool/

All this highlights the increasing divergence between the UK and the US when it comes to labor rights. Under the Biden Administration, @NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo has promulgated a rule that grants a union automatic recognition if the boss does anything to interfere with a union election:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

In other words, if Amazon tries these tactics in the USA now, their union will be immediately recognized. Abruzzo has installed an ultra-sensitive tilt-sensor in America's union elections, and if Bezos or his class allies so much as sneeze in the direction of their workers' democratic rights, they automatically lose.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/06/one-click-to-quit-the-union/#foxglove

Image: Isabela.Zanella (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ballot-box-2.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[yokohamapound]

Ooh, a new BSD blog! :D How about the reactions of Dazai, Ranpo, Chuuya, Akutagawa and Fyodor when they see their female S/O in fancy attire for the first time? Like if they're going to some formal events together as a couple.

Hmm, it's almost like you knew I am addicted to fancy clothes...this sent me on a deep dive through my extensive Pinterest board.

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Edogawa Ranpo, Nakahara Chuuya, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Fyodor Dostoevsky

Contents: fem!reader, possessive, controlling Fyodor

Dazai Osamu

Dazai is the type of man to enjoy seeing you in everything you wear, especially when you're puttering around the apartment in just one of his his shirts, but seeing you in formalwear is something special.

Maybe it's another award ceremony for the Armed Detective Agency, a fancy gala that requires you to wear something more upscale than business casual. Dazai has a suit he can fall back on—probably something in a dark blue or a shade of camel, because black reminds him too much of his time in the Port Mafia.

He's waiting in the living room for you to come out of the bedroom, periodically whining for you to come out of the bedroom and pay attention to him.

"I'm going to die of neglect out here," he calls forlornly. "And I always wanted us to die togeth—"

The door slides open, and Dazai cuts off his wailing, looking over his shoulder. There's a moment of silence—yes, actual silence from Dazai—as his gaze moves slowly up your legs, his eyes getting progressively wider as he takes in the slinky little number clinging to your curves, how the neckline reveals the arch of your throat. Your make-up, those smoky eyes and glossy lips...

"I don't want to go," he blurts, shuffling over on his knees and wrapping his arms around your waist. "Let's stay home. I'll pour you sake and feed you grapes."

Edogawa Ranpo

Ranpo doesn't tend to make a big deal about what you wear. He notices of course, because he notices everything, but he'll only comment if you're wearing something particularly cute or if he's deduced something interesting from your choice of attire, which usually goes like:

"Are you wearing that skirt 'cause you wanted me to notice you waxed your legs?"

"Ranpo, even if you know something, it doesn't mean you have to say it."

"What? You wanted me to notice and I'm noticing. It's not my fault you're not subtle," he says, grinning around his lollipop.

"Right, because I'm the one that's not subtle."

He's fiddling with his tie as the pair of you get ready for a formal event thrown in the ADA's honour (normally he'd complain about going to something so boring, but Fukuzawa promised him there'd be a buffet and lots of people wanting to praise him) and complaining that he can't tie it and he doesn't want to wear it.

"Oh, you big baby," you chide playfully, sauntering out of the bedroom, heels clicking as you fix one of your earrings in place "You wear a tie every day."

Taking the ends of the tie, you start to weave it into a simple Windsor knot, glancing up to see Ranpo gawking at you, his pretty green eyes wide open. For once, his brain isn't processing information at warp speed. It's crickets in there, like he's short-circuited.

"That good, huh?" you ask, tightening his tie. "No deductions, smart boy?"

"Uh..." Ranpo falters a bit as you draw him closer by his carefully knotted tie. "Nope."

You give him a kiss and release him. He's grinning like a Cheshire Cat as he follows you to the door.

"Hey, is there room for snacks in your clutch?"

Nakahara Chuuya

If you're Chuuya's girl, you'll never want for the finer things in life, but that first, first time he sees you all dolled up is very memorable. Even if you have cash of your own, he would have handed you his shiny black card, pressing it into your hand with a kiss and a grin.

"Let me treat ya. Don't even look at the prices."

After some credit card BDSM—that plastic rectangle got used and abused and it liked it—you came back to the penthouse laden with shopping bags, your hair freshly styled, a mani pedi, and a facial. By the time Chuuya comes to pick you up, you're dolled up to the nines.

Chuuya walks in, calling out for you, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees you. You've got your back to him, carefully fixing the edge of your lipstick in the vanity mirror, when you spot his reflection.

"Hey, babe, almost ready," you say, turning to face him.

A slow grin breaks out across Chuuya's face. He reaches up and pushes his hat back, as if to see you better, his blue eyes wide.

"Fuck me, doll," he says, his voice coming out rough. "You look incredible..."

You make a show of checking your beautiful antique watch. "I don't think we have time for that right now, but when we get home..."

Chuuya lets out a groan, pulling you toward him by the hips. You won't let him smudge your fresh lipstick, so he leaves a love bite on your throat instead, like a promise for later.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Akutagawa swears by formalwear (even if his taste in formalwear is over a century out of date), so he's no stranger to being suited and booted. Perhaps the two of you have been tasked to infiltrate a high society soiree as part of Mori's plans, or perhaps you are his undercover bodyguards while he attends one himself.

Akutagawa dislikes clothes shopping, so he flatly refused to accompany you to buy a dress for the occasion. This is probably for the best. It's a lot less stressful to shop with Gin and Higuchi than it is with an irritable, murderous Ryuunosuke dogging your heels and glaring daggers at the sales assistant.

Which is to say, he has no idea what you are wearing until you show up to the gala. He's watching Mori from near the wall, his hands thrust into the pockets of his long black coat. Disinterested.

His pale grey eyes sweep over you at first, mistaking you for another of the wealthy partygoers.

Then they snap back, going wide. Akutagawa stands there as if he's been locked into place as you saunter over to join him, a flute of champagne in each hand.

The way the dress moves, how it flows or clings to the various planes and curves of your body, how you move while you wear it, as if you've become a new, elevated version of yourself.

"Sorry I'm late," you say, handing him a champagne flute. He's surprised enough to take it without muttering that he doesn't like champagne. "The boss did say to arrive separately."

"...what are you wearing?" he finally manages to say. "You look—"

"Ridiculous? Yeah, I know, but this is what we have to wear to these stupid things. I can't even get away with hiding a gun under this thing."

"No—"

Too late, you've already moved away toward the buffet to grab a couple of hors d'oeuvres for you and him. Akutagawa finds his voice a little too late.

"You don't look ridiculous."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

I can guarantee with 100% certainty that Fyodor knows exactly what you're wearing, because he took you to the exclusive boutique in order to purchase it—after he had you model several dozen gowns for his appreciation and approval. He had to spend all that money he stole from the Guild on something, after all, so there were shoes and jewellery into the bargain.

There are staff to pamper you: a hairstylist, a nail tech, and a make-up artist, all under strict orders not to speak to you or dare look you in the eye as they primp and doll you up.

"Doll" being the operative word, because you look like a porcelain doll by the time they're done with you.

Airy layers float around you as you carefully pick your way down the sweeping staircase, ankles wobbling in your slightly-too-high heels, giving you that vulnerable, fawnish air that Fyodor likes so much.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs, cool violet eyes watching every tentative step. His masterpiece is complete.

"Myshka," he purrs at the sight of you. "You look perfect."

He offers you his hand, cold fingers closing around yours as you stumble off the very last step and into his arms. He makes a soft, slightly mocking sound of amusement in the back of his throat.

"Careful, darling," he chides, his hand settling firmly, possessively in the small of your back. "I can't have you falling for anyone but me."

The humour carries a note of truth. Fyodor's finger traces along the line of your jaw, curling beneath your chin and tipping your face up toward his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

"I will have to dress you this way more often."

AO3 | Other Blogs: Bleach | BNHA | Naruto | JJK

[kateschi]

don't make it weird

synopsis: you fix things. he breaks things. somehow, this feels like the beginning of a very complicated maintenance schedule.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!support!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: i CAN'T with this man i love him

the door slams open hard enough to rattle the tools hanging on the wall.

you don’t look up right away.

mostly because you’re elbow-deep in the exposed wiring of a damaged support item, but also because you’ve worked in this repair shop long enough to recognize the type.

heavy boots thud against the worn floor. there’s the distinct scent of burnt fabric, metal, and something sharper—nitroglycerin.

it’s a pro hero. and a pissed-off one, by the sound of it.

“oi.”

you sigh, wiping your forehead with the back of your wrist before finally glancing up.

and there he is—bakugou katsuki, standing in the middle of your shop like he owns the place, shoulders squared, posture tense.

he’s still in his full hero gear, minus the gauntlets, which he holds in one hand.

they’re charred, the inner mechanisms partially exposed, the reinforced metal plating dented in places you’re not sure should even be possible.

he shoves them onto the counter with a thud, red eyes locked onto yours.

“can you fix ‘em?”

you lean back against your workbench, wiping grease-streaked hands on your coveralls as you take him in fully.

he’s scowling like someone just insulted his entire bloodline, arms tense, jaw set. there’s a thin cut just above his brow, a smear of soot along his cheekbone.

you doubt he even noticed.

you, on the other hand, are just exhausted.

“you’re bakugou, right?”

his eye twitches. “obviously.”

“then you should know your gauntlets aren’t exactly easy to repair.” you tilt your head, dragging your fingers over the jagged edges of the damage. “who worked on ‘em before?”

bakugou crosses his arms. “support team at my agency.”

“uh-huh. and they kicked you out, didn’t they?”

a muscle ticks in his jaw, which is all the confirmation you need.

you exhale sharply through your nose, finally pulling his gloves toward you for a closer look. the weight is familiar in your hands, but the extent of the damage isn’t something you see every day.

“gonna take a while,” you tell him, rolling your shoulders before reaching for your tools. “come back in a few days.”

bakugou scoffs, a sharp, irritated sound. “the hell kinda shop is this? don’t you people do rush orders?”

“I do if I like the customer.” you flash a too-sweet smile, tapping a finger against the metal casing. “you’re not there yet.”

his scowl deepens, fingers twitching at his sides. for a second, you think he’s going to argue, but then he just clicks his tongue and turns on his heel.

the door slams behind him.

you shrug and get to work.

two days later, the bell above the shop door jingles violently, more from force than necessity. the entrance swings open with enough momentum that it nearly slams against the wall.

you don’t bother looking up because you already know who it is.

heavy bootsteps echo across the floor, purposeful and impatient.

the smell of burnt fabric and faint nitroglycerin lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of oil and metal shavings.

you keep your eyes on your workbench.

“shop’s closed,” you say, voice even, fingers steady as you adjust the wiring on a half-repaired gauntlet.

“don’t care.”

of course he doesn’t.

you finally glance up, finding bakugou katsuki standing in the middle of your shop like he owns the place. his gauntlets—still charred, still in desperate need of repair—hang at his sides.

his eyes are locked onto you.

you nod toward the stool in the corner. “sit there and shut up.”

he grumbles something under his breath—probably about your damn attitude—but he listens, dropping onto the stool with a barely contained huff.

you feel him before you see him. it’s like sitting next to a live wire.

he’s not a man built for stillness, and it shows—the way his fingers drum impatiently against his thigh, the restless flex of his arms, the slight bounce of his knee.

minutes stretch between you, the only sounds filling the room being the quiet hum of machines and the precise clicks of your tools.

then—

“how the hell did you end up doin’ this anyway?”

you pause, fingers tightening around a wrench before shifting slightly to glance at him over your shoulder.

“you mean fixing broken things for stubborn heroes?”

his eye twitches. “s’not what I meant.”

a lazy shrug. “I like making things. always have. didn’t wanna be a hero, but I still wanted to help.”

bakugou hums lowly, head tilting slightly, like he’s actually thinking about it.

which is impressive, considering patience isn’t exactly his strong suit.

another stretch of silence follows, longer this time.

then—

“they done?”

you click your tongue. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

the words spill out before your brain catches up.

and the moment they do—

you freeze.

across the room, bakugou stiffens like a live grenade, head snapping toward you so fast you half expect to hear a crack. his eyes widen, flickering with something unreadable—shock, maybe? amusement?

you’re not looking close enough to find out.

you clear your throat, face heating. “I meant your gloves are cute. functional. whatever.”

a slow shift.

his lips curve, the corners twitching upward into something dangerous, something smug.

“you think I’m cute?”

“no.”

he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “you just said—”

“I said the gloves—”

“uh-huh.”

“shut up.”

his smirk widens, but—for once—he doesn’t push further.

and when you finally hand over his gloves, he flexes his fingers, testing the fit, and grunts.

“not bad.”

which, coming from him, might as well be high praise.

he keeps coming back after that.

sometimes his gauntlets are actually broken. other times, you’re almost positive he just finds an excuse to show up.

a busted strap here, a dent there—things that a hero like him could fix himself if he really wanted to. but he doesn’t. instead, he plants himself in your shop, arms crossed, shoulders squared like he belongs there.

you don’t call him out on it.

mostly because it’s kind of nice having him around.

not that you’d admit it.

one afternoon, he leans against your counter, his weight making it creak slightly under him.

his arms are crossed, biceps straining against the fabric of his black tee, and his gaze is unreadable—steady, but not as sharp as usual.

like he’s thinking too much about something.

“oi.” his voice cuts through the quiet hum of your workspace. “you ever take breaks?”

you blink up at him from behind the goggles perched on your head, adjusting the strap absentmindedly. “what?”

“you’re always here.” his brows pull together slightly, a crease forming between them. he looks almost… annoyed. “you ever get out?”

you snort, grabbing a screwdriver and turning back to your work. “and do what? go on a date?”

there’s a pause.

a long one.

the air shifts, charged in a way that makes your fingers tighten around the tool in your hand.

you frown, glancing up just in time to catch the way his jaw clenches.

his gaze flickers across your face, something unreadable swirling in his red eyes before he schools his expression again.

“…you got a problem with that?”

you arch a brow, waiting, watching. “you got a problem if I do?”

his scowl deepens, and his weight shifts slightly, like he’s uncomfortable. his fingers flex against his bicep, a sign of irritation—or hesitation, maybe.

“no. just figured you’d be too busy fixin’ shit for idiots heroes.”

you tilt your head, smirking slightly. “so you admit you’re an idiot?”

he clicks his tongue, sharp and quick. “I am not one of them. plus, that ain’t the damn point.”

“then what is the point, bakugou?”

his gaze snaps back to yours.

there’s something behind his eyes now—determined, stubborn, a little reckless. his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates, just for a fraction of a second.

and then—

“you got plans tonight?”

your brain short-circuits.

you open your mouth, then close it, blinking. “you asking me on a date?”

he exhales sharply, like he’s already regretting this, like you’re the one making things complicated. “I’m askin’ if you wanna grab dinner. don’t make it weird.”

you stare at him for a second, screwdriver still clutched in your hand, the weight of his words settling in the small space between you.

it’s not exactly romantic.

but, somehow, it’s so him.

your lips twitch, amusement bubbling up despite the way your heart has decided to trip over itself. “alright, dynamight. you’re paying.”

bakugou scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there’s something almost…relieved in the way his shoulders relax a fraction. “yeah, yeah. hurry up.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[fresitasmoribund]

frame by frame

-`♡´- pairing: Poly!Wolfstar x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- summary: Your first time working with Sirius and Remus - of course you're going to be nervous.

-`♡´- contains: model!sirius, model!reader, photographer!remus, modern au

-`♡´- masterlist

-`♡´- word count: 1.3k

-`♡´- a.n: this was the oneshot that made me have a two-month writer’s block… this was gonna be so much longer but I literally cannot LOL

You narrowly miss a huge puddle as you speed-walk as fast as you can to the location of the photoshoot. You haven’t checked your phone, afraid of it slowing you down, but you can feel you’re late.

Holding the handle of your umbrella tighter, you mutter curses under your breath. What a great first impression, you think to yourself. My first time working with a high-profile model and photographer, and I’m late. You’re sure your agent is going to murder you.

The hotel exuded chic sophistication: polished wood surfaces gleamed under the soft glow of amber pendant lights, and an energetic buzz fills the air as the team flits between tables. Your shoes click against the floor as you slip through the entrance, heart pounding. The strap of your bag was slipping off of your shoulder for the third time since you’d stepped out of the taxi. A quick glance at your phone confirms it – late. Not disastrously, but enough to have you inwardly groan.

“Brilliant start,” you murmur, tugging your bag back into place and folding your umbrella.

Before you spiral too far into self-recrimination, a voice cuts through the muted din of clinking glasses and conversations.

“There she is!” The rich, velvety voice carries across the room, instantly turning heads. Your cheeks warm as you hurry toward him, your steps a mix of soft clicks and light bounces. He leans casually against the bar, his grin as radiant as the spotlight he so clearly deserved. “We were starting to think you’d been kidnapped by a rival agency.”

Your shoulders sag with relief, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You hope your voice doesn’t sound as unsteady as you feel. “Wouldn’t that have been a story?”

Sirius pushes off the bar and strolls over for proper introductions. His charm is practically tangible. Just as he reaches you, another figure merges from the cluster of crew members setting up. Remus approaches with a clipboard in hand – the perfect calm counterpoint to Sirius’ vibrant energy. His smile is soft and reassuring as his eyes meet yours.

“No worries,” he says, his voice lower and smoother than Sirius’ but no less welcoming. “You’re right on time for the fun part.”

You nod, the tension in your frame slowly unwinding. “Thanks. I was worried I’d throw everything off.”

Sirius let out a laugh, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “Our world revolves around pretty girls like you. You could’ve arrived an hour late, and we’d still be waiting.”

Remus gives him a sideways glance, his lips twitching in barely concealed amusement.

“We’ve only just finished setting up,” he clarifies, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly.

“Come on then.” Sirius throws an arm out to gesture toward a corner of the restaurant where the stylist is. “Let’s get you sorted. Big day ahead, yeah?”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you allow them to guide you deeper into the space.

The stylist ushered you to a corner sectioned off with screens. The team works like a well-oiled machine in the background, and you see the occasional test flash of a camera. You can feel the liveliness, and it’s only heightened by the nervous flutter in your chest.

“This is yours,” the stylist says, holding up a dress with reverence. It was breathtaking: a sleek black silk that shimmers faintly under the soft lights, with delicate lace accents that hint at sophistication without overstating. The smooth fabric is cool against your fingertips.  

Slipping behind the screen, you take a deep breath as you begin to change. The silk whispers against your skin, a perfect fit that clings to your frame in all the right places. Once dressed, you turn to face the full-length mirror propped against the wall, smoothing out any wrinkles in the fabric. Your heart races.

“I can do this.” You stare at your reflection like you can will the confidence into existence. “It’s just a shoot. With two very hot guys.” You bit your lip, rolling your eyes at yourself. “We’re professionals.”

The makeup artists gives you a final sweep of powder, a quick touch of a frosty gloss, and then steps back with a satisfied nod.

“You’re all set,” she smiles brightly, and the stylist chimed in with an agreement as she adjusts the strap on the dress.

You stand up and step out from behind the screen just as Sirius saunters over, his grin lighting up the space around him. He gives you a once-over, his eyes glittering with unmistakable appreciation.

“Feeling alright, love?” he asks, voice playful but with a sincerity that softened the edges. “You look so good; I fear I might get distracted.”

Your cheeks warm, but you manage a small smile. “High praise coming from you.”

“It’s only the truth,” he says with a wink, hands tucked casually into his pockets as if he hasn’t just made your heart skip a beat.

Remus, who has been adjusting the lighting nearby, glances up and chimes in. “He’s right. You’ll warm up as you go, I’m sure.”

You inhale deeply, letting their easy confidence in you take root. Your nerves don’t vanish completely, but they shift into something more bearable – a nervous excitement that sparked rather than suffocated.

“Ready?” Sirius asks, extending a hand toward the bar.

The first shoot begins just as you settle in front of the lights pointing toward the bar. Sirius is already in position, leaning against the counter with effortless poise. His tie is loosened just enough to seem rakish; his hair is tucked behind his ear to expose the left side of his face.

You step into your mark opposite of him, and every muscle in your body suddenly becomes hyperaware. His smile is maddening, his pose causal yet commanding. Meanwhile, you feel like a bundle of awkward limbs trying not to fall over.

“Alright, darling,” Sirius drawls. “Just pretend I said something devastatingly charming.”

You laugh nervously, trying to match his energy. But as the camera clicks, you realize how rigid you are. Your arms are still, shoulders tight, fingers curling like they don’t know where to go. It was like it was your first time all over again. You’re not usually this nervous. How does he make it look so easy?

“Relax.” Sirius clearly read your mind. He straightens slightly, rotating his shoulders in a slow, exaggerated roll. “We’re not mannequins. We breathe, we stretch.”

He demonstrates again, the movements so fluid it makes you want to sigh with envy. “Come on, try it with me.”

You hesitate, then mimic his shoulder roll. It feels ridiculous at first, but Sirius gives you an approving nod. “There we go. Much better already.”

From behind the camera, Remus steps forward, his gaze calm and steady as he considers you.

“Think about it like this.” His voice is thoughtful and deliberate. “If you were having a secret conversation with him,” he gestures to Sirius, “what would it look like?”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the thought. The idea makes you feel like you are being examined, and more like you were part of something intimate – something shared. You angle your head just a tad, letting the thought play out in your mind. And almost without meaning to, your lips part and the sides curve into a small smirk.

“Now you’re getting it.” Sirius smiles. He leans in, raising a brow as if he can hear the imaginary exchange you conjured,

The camera clicks rapidly as Remus’ voice cuts through occasionally. “Yes, that’s in. Hold that for me, love.” His praise felt sincere and grounding – a subtle tether keeping you steady.

“Perfect,” Sirius adds, his grin widening. “And just think – we’ve only just started.”

Bit by bit, you feel the tension eases out of you, and your movements become more natural. They keep the energy light, Sirius throwing in the occasional quip, and Remus’ steady voice offering praise like, “That’s gorgeous, stay there.”

[formulakracing]

"my hero" - m.v.

pairing: social worker!reader x max verstappen

word count: idek tbh (i’m posting this on my lunch break hehe)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, max in bf mode, long distance couple, cursing here and there, mentions of mental health, mentions of mental health disorders, mentions of physical health, yada, yada, yada

a/n: i know i said i was working on requests but this idea would not leave my brain all day. i couldn't stop thinking about it so i had to write it. (it's def a little self-indulgent) i hope y'all enjoy!

"ah! there you are. i can see you now!""

a giggle bubbles up in your throat, your lips forming a wide smile, "hi baby, how are you?"

he shrugs, the image distorted for about a millisecond. he comes into frame once again, slightly pixelated. however, you can make out the sleepy grin plastered across his face, and the twinkle in his eye as he looks into the camera.

max verstappen, three time world driver’s champion, is on facetime with you, donned in nothing but a black cotton tee and his boxers. you can tell from the background that he’s in his motorhome, settled in his room.

his hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up haphazardly. he more than likely just got out of the shower, as the fabric of the tee clung to his toned frame. underneath his eyes were two faint circles, the skin slightly puffy.

yet, here he was, calling you at god knew what hour just to hear the sound of your voice.

"tired. very fucking tired."

"i can imagine so," you nod, typing along at your laptop, "what time is it there?"

he hums, leaning over his phone, "it's about eleven thirty?"

"max!" your eyes widen, "you need to get some sleep. it's qualifying tomorrow!"

"and?" he counters, arching a brow, "i wanted to hear how your day went. from your messages, it seemed like it was quite eventful."

"i'm just wrapping up my notes now," you exhale, your shoulders slumping slightly, "it was a long day."

"i can imagine my baby," he coos, settling underneath the covers, "tell me all about it."

"i can assure you being a case worker is not nearly as riveting as a formula one driver," you snort, shaking your head, "you go first."

"nope," he was not budging, his attention still fixated solely on you, "tell me about your day, and then i'll share about mine. it's only fair."

"well," you wrinkle your nose, glancing over the open document on your laptop screen, "my day started with one of my clients experiencing a small crisis. she was without food so she called me, asking if i could take her to the nearest pantry. while i was with her, another client of mine called asking if i could transport him to his appointment.

i probably could have, but he reached out to me only fifteen minutes before his appointment time. i received my new staffing form today. i have a couple of clients who are in need of housing so i had to make some calls to some local agencies."

"and how did that go?" you can't help but feel heat flourishing into your cheeks at the intrigue laced in his tone, "were you able to make some progress?"

"not really," you inhale sharply, "housing is really difficult to find right now. it's sort of like when your tires are giving out, but you need them to last a few more laps. you have to remain hopeful so that you can keep pushing."

“i like that analogy,” he fights a yawn, but continues regardless, “that’s a good one. i’m going to use that.”

“as long as you credit me,” you muse, clicking your mousepad as you finalize your note, “how was practice today?”

“so-so,” he chirps, “i missed you a lot today. thought about you nearly every second of the practice session. you’re flying out next week, right?”

you nod, shutting your laptop, “yes. i’ll be leaving wednesday evening and catching a late flight. hopefully when i land, there will be this insanely handsome dutch man waiting for me.”

“is that right?” max’s dimples appear, causing your heart to skip a beat, “i’m hoping that my good luck charm arrives safe and sound. i can’t wait to see her.”

“counting down the minutes are we?”

“you have no idea,” carefully, he plucks his phone from his makeshift stand, bringing you closer into the bed with him, “will you stay on till i fall asleep?”

at his request, there’s a tug at your heart. fuck, if only you were with him. then he would have been able to lay on you until he dozed off. his head would have been snuggled into uour collabone, your hands tangled in his hair, playing with it as his chest steadily rose and fell.

if only you were there. if only you were an influencer or a model. if only you could take work with you, dropping everything to fly all over the world. if only you weren’t separated by time zones, where you had to carefully coordinate facetime calls.

if only you weren’t long distance, then maybe you wouldn’t feel like this.

if only.

“hey,” max’s voice is merely a whisper, “are you okay?”

your lower lip trembles, tears welling up, threatening to spill over. there’s a choking sound, as you attempt to suppress a sob.

yet, it was too late. they were streaming down your cheeks now, your hands instinctively shielding your face.

“baby,” max murmurs, “what’s going on?”

“this shit sucks,” you shake your head, the words strained, “i hate that i’m not with you right now. i hate that we’re long distance. i hate that i have to stay here and—“

“but your clients need you,” his tone is delicate, “you’re the one person they can count on when everything else is going to shit. they need you like i need you. i can tell you had a long day baby, but i’m here. i’m here for you, no matter what.”

“i-i love you,” you manage to sputter out, wiping your cheeks, “i love you, max.”

“and i love you more than you’ll ever know,” in the frame, a pillow is held against his chest, “i’m even cuddling this pillow right now pretending that it’s you.”

“i can’t believe you fell in love with some plain girl from the states,” you sigh, resting your head against the couch cushion, “out of everyone in the world, you happened to fall in love with me.”

“you’re not just any girl from the states,” for a moment, you’re shocked at the firmness in his tone, “you’re my girl. it takes someone special to do what you do. you’re my hero baby. i aspire to be as strong as you.”

“i love you,” the corners of your lips curl into a quaint smile, “am i really your hero?”

“of course,” it doesn’t even take him a second to respond, “like i said, you’re the strongest person i know. you inspire me.”

“i can’t wait to see you,” you murmur, taking note of the way his eyes were drooping, “i’ll stay on till you sleep, my love. it seems like you need it.”

“hey,” one eye opens, barely a slit, “i know this shit sucks right now, but we’ll make it. okay? one day you’ll get to come home to me and tell me all about your day rather than calling. it’ll be worth it. i promise.”

“i hope so. i love you, maxie. sleep well, my love. i’ll be there before you know it.”

“try to have a good evening,” you could barely make out the statement, as he was beginning to doze off, “just end the call when i’m asleep. i’ll message you in the morning.”

“i’ll be here,” opening your laptop, you prop it against the screen, “goodnight, maxie.”

“night, night, baby.”

as sleep takes a hold of the dutch driver, you remain on the call, opening youtube. cautiously, you click on one of your favorite videos. it’s a montage of all of max’s wins, starting from the 2016 spanish grand prix.

the video begins to play, the volume carefully adjusted so that it doesn’t wake him.

as your gaze shifts to your phone once again, you can’t help but hear his words ringing in your ears.

one day this would all be worth it.

and one day, max verstappen would be able to be with his hero.

every single day for the rest of his life.

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Masterpost and Prologue

dead on main fic, intro + four chapters.

Summary: The Red Hood starts off his righteous campaign with a lot of nerve but no legal identification that will let him behind the wheel of a car. Public transportation really doesn't have the panache he needs to start off as a fearsome crime lord, so he needs a driver. He finds Danny Fenton, a grungly college student trying not to be noticed by any government agencies or vigilantes.

to subscribe to this post, on mobile open the notes and click the bell on the upper right hand corner of the post. on desktop, open the notes at the bottom and press the bell on the right edge of the notes.

Links will be added to chapter list as the story posts. Chapter one will go up on July 14th. Updates are approximately every other day.

LINKS/ chapter count

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

prologue

“No, Habibi,” Talia said calmly into the phone. “I will not falsify you an American non-commercial driver's license for motor vehicles. If you cannot prove yourself to Gotham without American motor vehicle operating permissions, you will never prove yourself. Rise above this challenge.” Talia covered the phone for a second but he could hear her talking to someone else about tile options.

“It's an unnecessary challenge,” Jason argued, doing his level best not to let his tone go up. It was undignified to whine. He was a man now. “The important parts of the challenge are the tactical planning and the skills.”

Talia sounded like she was filing her nails. “Tactically plan to take the bus. Or walk. Walking is free and healthy.” 

Jason made an indignant sound but she mercilessly hung up. The worst! She made the top three of his worst mother figures, easily.

“She's just doing this so I can't go drinking.” He scowled into the air. “I don't even want to!” His voice broke mid whine, which was an insult to add to all the injuries visited upon him by the cruel whims of women who weren't even his legal guardian. He was an adult in most countries!

The worst part was that Talia didn't care about underage drinking. She just didn't want to hear shit about enabling him from Bruce when he eventually figured out that Jason was alive, 19, and in Gotham. His passport claimed he was 21 because it had to for him to travel alone, but she knew damn well no one used their passport as ID in bars. 

He couldn't just go get a license. Jason sulked viciously and threw himself into fixing his plans to accommodate for this. 

He was legally dead and living under a fake name. If he tried to sign up for the driving exam, it'd be too much scrutiny on his paperwork. But he was not taking the bus around as a crime lord. It lacked panache. More importantly, it didn't go where he wanted it to go.

Fine. He didn't need her help. He didn't need anyone's help. He just needed to download Uber. 

That was how Jason wound up wiping a mob lieutenant’s blood off of his hand onto his pants so that he could use the guy's touch screen phone. Victor Woodward's account put in a request for a ride to the Gotham police headquarters. He killed time kicking ass in all the Words with Friends games that Victor had ongoing, which was really gonna surprise anyone who normally played with that boob. Victor’s last ever play was ‘cat,’ for fuck’s sake.

A few minutes later, a skinny teenager pulled up in his clanker and opened the door. Jason put on a smile and hefted his duffle bag a little higher on his shoulder. 

“Hi! Victor?” The guy, Danny, waved his phone at Jason.

“That's me!” Jason lied breezily. “Can I put this in the trunk?” 

“Go for it.” Danny popped the trunk open from inside the car. He watched Jason with his big blue doe eyes.

For an instant, Jason thought that Danny might have seen something. Paranoia reared up. Was there blood visible? Was it easy to tell that the shapes in the bag were heads?”

The moment passed. Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Jason got in the car and let satisfaction wash over his body as the weirdly timid kid pulled them out into traffic at a snail’s pace. Whatever. They wouldn’t get stopped for a traffic violation when the driver was cautious.

He’d done it. His debut as the terrifying Red Hood, hunter of the wicked and bane of the Batman, was launched. And he didn’t need a license to do it.

[pagejodi]

⊹₊You Always Show Up - LN4

Masterlist - Requests

Pairing: Lando Norris x model!fem!reader

Summary: After a long day in Milan, you surprise Lando by showing up at his apartment, exhausted but needing to be near him.

Warnings: Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship

a/n: Just a little one shot I wrote with Lando being a clingy boyfriend. Enjoy -Jodi🤍

My heels click against the marble floor of Lando’s apartment lobby, a steady rhythm echoing in the quiet. The afterparty in Milan ended four hours ago. I didn’t stay not when Lando texted, “Wish you were here tonight.”

My agency wouldn’t call it a smart decision, and neither would my body. After a long, grueling show, rest was the logical answer. But I knew sleeping in Lando’s arms would be better.

I made it to his door and knock softly once. Then again, with more force. The door swings open with that familiar creak. Lando stands there, hair tousled, hoodie on, looking like he just stumbled out of bed.

He blinks, then breaks into a sleepy, toothy smile. “Y/N... you actually came! I missed you, baby.” Before I can say a word, he pulls me into a tight hug, arms winding around my waist. He peppers soft, hurried kisses on my cheeks, my jaw, and lips. like he’s making sure I’m real.

“You actually came,” he murmurs again, his breath warm against my skin. “I didn’t think you would.” I smile against his mouth. “I almost didn’t.” He leans back to look at me properly, hands still resting on my waist. “Why?”

“I was exhausted. My team advised me not too. The show ran late, my flight was delayed… and yet I still managed to get here.” I shrug, a little breathless. “I guess I’m either crazy about you, or just really sleep-deprived.”

He smirks. Looking me up and down.“Maybe you should stay the night. It’s what ten, fifteen minute drive to your place? I wouldn’t want you driving tired.”

I roll my eyes. “Baby, you don’t have to convince me to stay.”

His smirk deepens, that cheeky glint in his eyes softening into something tender. He leans in again, pressing his forehead to mine.

“Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you go.” He says as he pulls me toward the living room, arms snug around my waist. The city hushes behind the sheer curtains. The low hum of the heater fills the stillness in the room.

I curl up under a thin blanket, limbs tangled. His arm wraps around my waist, chin tucked into my shoulder. He groans softly, half-asleep, pulling me closer like even in dreams, he needs me near. I smile into the darkness, fingers brushing his. Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, but in his arms, it’s softer. Safer.

"You're gonna suffocate me, you know." Voice groggy, muffled against my shoulder "Worth it." Smiling as my fingers brushing over his knuckles "You always say that." Pulling me closer, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder. “Cause it’s always true.” Silence settles in the room not uncomfortable, but warm and gentle. The clock ticks somewhere in the dark, but neither of us care.

Lando’s grip loosens as he murmurs, “Honey, you okay?” I hum in response, too tired for words, but he knows what that means.

“Lando, baby... let’s sleep in your bed. You’ve got a race tomorrow,” I whisper, starting to sit up. He looks up at me, hood still over his head, blinking slowly, like he’s fighting sleep. He groans in protest, eyes heavy under the hood, blinking slow like he’s already halfway asleep. “But I’m warm and I still want to talk to you.” He mumbles, voice low and thick with sleep. “You’re not even talking, love you’re falling asleep.” I said with a soft smile. “Come on I don’t want you passing out on the track tomorrow.”

He huffs out a sleepy laugh, fingers tangling in my hair. “And I don’t want you to wake up sore and grumpy again,” I added, gently brushing his curls back and tugging the hood off. “Not exactly race ready behavior.”

He scrunches his nose he knows I’m right. With a dramatic sigh, he sits up, resting his head on my shoulder, his breath soft against my skin.“You’re gonna fall asleep sitting up,” I murmur, slipping an arm around him. “I’m not,” he lies, yawning.

I press a kiss to his hair. “Come on, love.” He groans but lets me pull him to his feet. His hand stays in mine as we make our way down the hall, quiet footsteps in the dim light, the city casting slivers of light across the hardwood.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

In the bedroom, Lando collapses face-first onto the mattress with a groan. I laugh softly. “Real graceful, Lan.” He rolls onto his back, arms already outstretched. Yawning loudly as he mumbles to himself in a dramatic and drowsy way.

Stepping closer to him lifting his arms giving me a confused look in response. I answer with “I’m getting your hoodie off. You’ll thank me when you’re not sweating through it at 4 a.m.”

I peel the hoodie up and over his head carefully. His curls spring free in every direction. I smooth them down with my fingers, lingering for a moment before crossing to his closet. An old team shirt and a pair of his sweats my usual sleep uniform. When I climb into bed beside him, he pulls me in instantly, like a magnet. My bodies fit without thinking, like the kind of comfort that’s been earned over time.

For a while, there's only breathing soft and steady and the distant hum of traffic far below. Then he whispers, barely audible: “You always show up for me.”

I blink, surprised by the quiet weight in his voice. “Of course I do.”

“No, but even when it’s hard. When you’re tired. You come anyway.” My heart aches, warm and full. I press my forehead to his chest. “You’re important to me, Lando. I don’t show up because it’s easy. I show up because I want to.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. His fingers trail slow, lazy lines along your spine. “Promise me you’ll always tell me when it’s too much,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to be the reason you burn out.��

My chest tightens at the softness in his voice like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. “I promise,” I whisper, sealing it with a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

This time, when my eyes close, there's no more resistance. Only warmth. Only peace.

© pagejodi tumblr 2025, please refrain from plagiarizing my work, translating or claiming my works as yours.

images from pinterest !