#as a mixed person the way i see it is that in that moment- when he protected that pakistani kid- he went from being tolerated

[sheep-from-rad]

Idea! Neglected bar singer darling.

The joint they sing in is on the very outskirts of Gotham. The bars in the basement of a restaurant.

Its pretty clear darling is saving up money to slowly inch away from Gotham and from there neglectful and sometimes (often) cold family.

So they dress as a Him/femme/them fatale and saunter up to the stage and sing there lil heart out and get both the thrill of all the attention in a room being on them and the money in there tip jar to boot.

Imagine what happens when a clip of darling singing goes fucking viral. (I'd like to think it's would be "be your baby tonight" give it a listen if you want. I like norah jones' cover)

What I'm saying is there is no way any of the batfam would approve of darlings career choice.

I love this kind of asks!~ Requests are now open again but we warned, I'm a snail paced writer T__T This took a while because I have this habit where I write it down first on paper before typing it. Like I make a draft first and reread before typing it to see if I should add more or remove some. First fic about singer reader: here and part 2 here. 😅

**DC characters belong to DC and I don't give permission to feed my writings to AI. Thank you**

Masterlist(Batfam)

Masterlist (All of my other fics)

divider by: @k1ssyoursister

Okay okay, here me out. I know you said secret bar under a restaurant but my brain read the word ‘bar’ and ran away with it 😭. 

You know what this smells like? Scandal and maybe even a disaster waiting to happen too. You know what's a famous bar in Gotham? The Iceberg lounge that is run by Mr. Cobblepot (Penguin) and  is frequented by rogues  such as Riddler. 

Life in the Iceberg Lounge isn't that bad, maybe intimidating at first but it became a small comfort. Mr. Cobblepot lets you keep the tips, the lounge beauties (Raven, Lark, and Jay) are great companies, and workplace harassment? You don't really have to worry about that. If you ever get flirted on or harassed by small fries and drunkards and then rest assured a bigger, scarier person at the back of the crowd will beat the harasser and throw them out. They might be villains but they have standards and harassing the lounge’s songbird is a big no no! 

The clip of the singer reader went viral for a ton of different reasons: (1) The singing and the amount of simps you raked 24 hours after the clip has been posted. I have a headcanon that Mr. Cobblepot will nickname you as either Nightingale or Songbird to fit the crew because the lounge beauties are nicknamed after birds.(2) People can see villains just chilling at the background of the video. Riddler's nursing a whiskey at the counter, Two face is playing chess with Penguin who is multitasking in helping mix some drinks. Hell, even Harley and Ivy are in the background having a moment with the strippers.

(3) Why is Bruce Wayne’s kid at the Iceberg lounge? I have a teeny tiny headcanon that even though the reader was neglected they are still forced to attend galas once or twice because Bruce won't and then it will be like a big media scandal. Also reader's public appearances with Bruce or with the other Wayne children might be low but they still have hundreds of followers. The Wayne name alone is basically a celebrity name because of Bruce being heavily revered by the public. Think of it like nepobaby shit. (4) That stage presence and sheer seductiveness. Being a Wayne, I'm sure the reader was taught etiquette by Alfred and was taught how to dress properly. They are also taught how to behave. However on that vid, you look like you were dressed by the Gotham sirens (Ivy, Harley, and Selena) themselves. All those good boy, good girl, good child stuff are out of the window. If the reader was just blending in the background before and the video is the opposite. It's almost commanding every viewer to look at them, pay attention to them, worship the very ground they walk on, and love them! At this point just expect simps. 

The family loves the video but at the same time they also hate it. They had their copies downloaded and saved and then they'll immediately task Barbara into scrubbing the video off of the internet but it's too late. The video has been re-uploaded to hundreds of different accounts and some  news outlets had already published articles about it. The articles ranged from sweet ones like praising the reader for their awesome stage performance and singing to downright insane clickbaits like ‘Bruce Wayne secretly allied with Gotham rogues?’ 

The whole thing is very stressful and I pray to the DC gods that Bruce Wayne is very healthy because this guy's blood pressure might as well go high up. Imagine trying so hard to keep up with the ditzy playboy public persona to hide your vigilante secret identity only for your kid to be filmed singing and being cozy at the Iceberg lounge. Not only that! You also placed yourself in danger too! It's not a secret that a lot of rouges knew Batman's real identity (Joker knows it, he just doesn't care. He's so cool for that). Sure they don't attack Batman when he's Bruce and sure they are a sweet pseudo-family to you right now but who's to say that they won't use you when push comes to shove? 

While Bruce deals with the media, Barbara and Tim work on the damage control and tracking every video, expect heavy guilt tripping and interference from Damian, Dick, and even Alfred (in his defense, he wants you safe and will only ask for you to get a better job or at least work in a place not frequented by villains). Dick will be actively poisoning the well. He'll make you sit down and read the crime archives with him (starting from the heaviest crime down to the pettiest crime) and will tell you stories about their encounters with each of them. Damian will try to keep you from getting to work and will try to keep you in your room if you haven't moved out of the estate. He'll ask you to go around with him, feed his pets with him and even asked you to watch him train (he doesn't know how bonding works, please be understanding). If you had left the estate and then expect him to show up and walk in your place like he owns it. He's one of those cats that you feed once and then suddenly shows up and won't leave you alone anymore. 

Oh, you still won't come home? You still wanna continue that dangerous job of yours? Pick your poison then. Do you want them to call Jason to get to the bar and take you home, knowing him some heads will sure go flying. Or do you want the family to stage a stakeout, infiltrate the bar, and capture and lock up all the villains forever. Go on, go choose. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Any advice for figuring out how to work on writing characters arguing?

I’m just curious and also I mistakenly derailed part of my writing over struggling to write a scene of characters starting an argument that was meant to escalate.

Writing Notes: Arguments

Arguing is full of tension.

Even benign conversations between friends so often belies subtextual personal agendas that are antagonistic or covertly full of anger or upset.

Honesty itself sometimes is the product of extreme tension and upset.

One’s resistance to telling the truth to another or admitting to oneself a truth can be excruciatingly tense and stressful, even between lovers.

SIDESTEPPING

You instantly create conflict in dialogue when you avoid “on the nose” responses.

On the nose means a direct response, sometimes even echoing the previous line.

You can avoid direct response:

With a statement that is unrelated to the prompting dialogue

By answering a question with a question

With a line of dialogue that is going to need some explanation

Also consider using silence:

“Are you ready to go, dear?” Bob asked. Sylvia said nothing.

Or use an action response:

“Are you ready to go, dear?” Bob asked. Sylvia picked up the mirror.

OPPOSING AGENDAS

Always know what each character wants in a given scene.

If a character in a scene is just taking up space, give him an agenda or get him out of there. Or cut the scene entirely.

Scenes require conflict or tension, even if it’s subtle.

Before you write the scene, note what each character wants.

Then spend a few moments playing with those motivations.

List 3 other possible motives for each of the characters, then mix and match to decide which ones will make for the best conflict.

It is also important to create tension among allies.

One of the danger points in fiction is when two friends, or people who are at least on the same side, have a talk about what’s going on. The trouble is there might not be any trouble between them. So much of the dialogue becomes a friendly chat.

This will violate Alfred Hitchcock’s axiom (Hitchcock once said that a good story is “life, with the dull parts taken out.”).

The fastest way to handle it is to make sure there is tension manifested from the start.

Create tension in at least one of the characters, preferably the viewpoint character.

Example: When you have Allison meeting Melissa, her college friend, for coffee, don’t have them sit down and start talking as if nothing’s wrong in the world. Put the trouble of the story into Allison’s mind and nervous system and make it an impediment to her conversation with Melissa. In Melissa, place something that might be in opposition to Allison’s needs. Allison needs to ask Melissa’s advice about a crumbling marriage. Maybe Melissa is full of news about her sister’s impending wedding to a wonderful man and gushes about the prospects.

Spend some time brainstorming about the ways two friends or allies can be at odds. Then weave those things into the dialogue.

DIALOGUE AS WEAPON

Look for places where you can use dialogue as a weapon, a means for your characters to charge ahead in order to get what they want.

Keep in mind that dialogue is action.

It’s a physical act used by characters to help them get what they want. If they don’t want anything in a scene, they shouldn’t be there.

Note that not all weapons are explosive. They can be small and sharp, too.

PARENT-ADULT-CHILD

A great tool for creating instant conflict in dialogue is the Parent-Adult-Child model, popularized in the book Games People Play by Eric Berne (1964). This school of psychology is called Transactional Analysis.

The theory holds that we tend to occupy roles in life and relationships.

The 3 primary roles are Parent, Adult, and Child (PAC):

The Parent - the seat of authority, the one who can “lay down the law.” S/he has the raw strength, from position or otherwise, to rule and then enforce his/her rulings.

The Adult - the objective one, the one who sees things rationally and is therefore the best one to analyze a situation. “Let’s be adult about this,” one might say in the midst of an argument.

The Child - not rational, and not with any real power. So what does s/he do? Reacts emotionally. Throws tantrums to try to get his/her way. Even an adult can do this. We’ve all seen clandestine videos that prove this point.

So it is a helpful thing to consider what role each character is assuming in a scene.

How do they see themselves? What is their actual role? (It may indeed be different than what they perceive it to be.)

Most important, how will they act in order to accomplish their goal in the scene?

Answering these questions can give you a way to shape your dialogue so there is constant tension and conflict throughout.

Also consider that the characters might change their roles (try something new) in order to get their way. Thus, this is a never-ending source of conflict possibilities and only takes a few moments to set up.

TIP ON DIALOGUE

Look at all of your dialogue exchanges, especially ones that run for a page or more.

Analyze what roles the characters think they’re inhabiting.

Rework the dialogue by getting each character to be more assertive in their claimed role. (Also note that a character can change roles as a matter of strategy. For example, if the Parent isn’t working, a character might switch to pouting like a Child in order to get his way.)

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[bestofmultiverse]

Roses 🥀

Kathryn Hann x fem!florist!reader

A/N: Ive written it pretty drunk so idk what make sense at this point (I'm still pretty drunk)

Week 1

The market buzzed gently with life in the crisp morning air. It was early, the sun just beginning to cast its warm glow over the stalls. Y/N stood at her flower stand, dressed in her favorite comfortable jeans, her hair swept into a messy updo, with a few stray pieces rebelliously escaping the floral clip she’d used.

Vendors greeted each other as they set up their stands, the atmosphere familiar and friendly. Y/N chatted with Darren, the tall young man at the neighboring vegetable stand, who was enthusiastically recounting his latest adventure with his horse, Rhody.

Her attention, however, was soon caught by a sight that made her lose track of Darren’s words. A woman—possibly the most beautiful woman Y/N had ever seen—was walking through the market. Her long brown hair shimmered under the sunlight, and her radiant smile lit up the space around her. She wore oversized sunglasses, but even from a distance, her presence was magnetic.

Y/N’s breath caught when the woman paused in front of her stand, inspecting the flowers with an appreciative smile. Excusing herself from Darren with a quick word, Y/N approached her, offering one of her own dazzling smiles.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly, trying to sound casual.

The woman looked up and returned the greeting with a warm, “Hey.”

“I noticed you’ve been eyeing the white roses,” Y/N said, nodding toward the blooms. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

The woman glanced at the flowers, then back at Y/N, her lips curving into a small smile. “They are,” she admitted.

“They symbolize purity, innocence, and new beginnings,” Y/N explained, her voice light but confident. “They’re one of my personal favorites.”

The woman’s smile deepened, and for a moment, Y/N thought she saw the faintest blush on her cheeks. “That feels fitting,” the woman said, her tone thoughtful. “New beginnings, I mean.”

Y/N tilted her head, intrigued. “Good for you,” she said, her own smile bright. “May I ask what it’s about?”

The woman hesitated before slipping off her sunglasses, revealing striking blue eyes that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. She was breathtaking.

“I’m officially divorced,” the woman admitted, her voice tinged with relief. “The good part of that relationship ended a long time ago.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze softening. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you deserved,” she said sincerely.

The woman laughed softly, the sound like music. “Well, it’s what I’m leaving behind that matters now.” Her eyes sparkled with a playful edge. “You always give life advice with your flowers?”

Y/N chuckled. “Only when I sense it’s needed,” she replied, her voice dropping into a teasing tone. “It’s a bonus that comes free with every bouquet.”

The woman smirked, tilting her head as if sizing Y/N up. “I like that.”

Y/N grinned, reaching for a bouquet of white roses and wrapping them carefully. Before handing it to the woman, she slipped a single red rose into the mix.

The woman raised an eyebrow, her lips curving. “And what does the red rose mean?”

Y/N held the bouquet out to her with a mysterious smile. “I’ll let you know when you come back next week.”

The woman took the bouquet, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s for the briefest moment. “Next week, huh? Confident, aren’t you?”

Y/N shrugged, her grin widening. “Let’s just say I have a good feeling.”

The woman laughed, her smile lingering

"Im y/n by the way"

"Kathryn" the woman said back before she walked away, leaving Y/N standing at her stand, feeling the warmth of the encounter linger long after she was gone.

Week Two

For the next week, Y/N found herself thinking about Kathryn more often than she cared to admit. She could still hear the soft cadence of Kathryn’s laugh, see the way her blue eyes sparkled when she teased her. It wasn’t the first time someone captivating had passed through her little flower stand, but there was something about Kathryn that lingered, an inexplicable pull she couldn’t shake.

By the time Friday rolled around, Y/N had spent an embarrassing amount of time rearranging her display. She told herself it was for the customers—it was spring, after all, and the flowers deserved to shine. But deep down, she knew she was hoping Kathryn might come back, though she had no real reason to expect her.

The morning passed quietly, filled with regulars buying their weekend blooms and Darren chatting her ear off about his horse yet again. But just as she started to convince herself she’d imagined the connection, there Kathryn was.

She walked through the market much the same as before, her stride confident and her hair catching the sunlight. This time, though, her smile seemed a little brighter when her eyes met Y/N’s.

“Hey there, stranger,” Kathryn greeted as she stopped in front of the stand. She was holding a coffee cup, which she raised in a small salute. “Miss me?”

Y/N leaned against the counter, her lips curving into a teasing grin. “Maybe a little,” she said smoothly. “Though I have to say, the roses you picked up last week looked a little lonely without you here to keep them company.”

Kathryn chuckled, setting her coffee down. “Well, I figured I’d stop by and see what you’ve got this time. Thought I might spoil myself again.”

“Good call,” Y/N replied. “Everyone deserves a little indulgence now and then.” She gestured to the display. “What’s the occasion this time? Another new beginning, or are we celebrating something else?”

Kathryn shrugged, her smile turning a little softer. “Maybe I just needed a reason to get out of the house. It’s been a weird week—quiet, but in a good way.”

Y/N nodded, sensing there was more to the story. “Well, I’m glad you came by. I was starting to think I’d scared you off with all my flower wisdom last time.”

“Oh, please,” Kathryn said, rolling her eyes with a playful smirk. “It takes more than that to scare me.” She paused, her gaze flicking over Y/N. “Besides, you’re fun to talk to. It’s nice… refreshing, even.”

Y/N felt a warmth rise in her chest but kept her tone light. “I’ll take that as a compliment. So, what are we feeling today? Bold? Romantic? A little mysterious, maybe?”

Kathryn laughed, leaning closer to the display as she examined the flowers. “You know, I think I’ll let you decide. You seem to have a knack for this.”

“Oh, dangerous move,” Y/N teased, already pulling together a bouquet. This time, she chose a mix of peonies, for healing and prosperity, and lavender, for peace and serenity. She finished it off with a single deep red rose, placing it prominently in the center.

Kathryn raised an eyebrow when she saw it. “You and these red roses,” she mused, her voice warm with amusement. “Are you going to keep me guessing forever, or do I finally get to know what it means?”

Y/N handed her the bouquet with a wink. “Patience, Kathryn. All good things in time.”

Kathryn shook her head, smiling as she tucked the flowers under her arm. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I try,” Y/N said, grinning. “But seriously, if you ever need more flower wisdom—or just someone to talk to—you know where to find me.”

Kathryn hesitated for just a moment, then reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. “Here,” she said, handing it over. “In case I need a private consultation or something.”

Y/N took it, her fingers brushing against Kathryn’s as she did. “Noted,” she said softly, feeling that pull again, stronger this time.

Kathryn lingered a moment longer, her gaze steady but kind. “Thanks for the flowers,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And for… well, just being you.”

“Anytime,” Y/N replied, watching as Kathryn turned and walked away, leaving her with the lingering scent of lavender and the promise of something new.

Week Three

The days that followed Kathryn’s visit felt lighter somehow, as if her presence had left an invisible warmth in its wake. Y/N couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the little business card sitting on her counter, its edges slightly frayed from where her fingers had traced it absentmindedly.

By midweek, she decided to take a chance. Pulling out her phone, she stared at the number for a moment before typing a quick, casual message:

Hi, it’s Y/N, your personal florist 😊 Just wanted to check in and see how the flowers are holding up!

She stared at the screen for a beat too long, second-guessing herself, but before she could overthink it further, her phone buzzed with a reply.

Hey, Y/N. They’re beautiful, just like last time. You have quite the touch.

Y/N smiled at the response, feeling a little flutter in her chest. She quickly typed back.

Glad to hear that! Let me know when you’re ready for your next bouquet.

Kathryn’s reply came just as fast.

How about tomorrow? I could use a reason to step out again—and maybe some more of your flower wisdom.

Y/N’s heart did a little flip.

Tomorrow it is. Same time as last week?

Perfect.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at the market a little earlier than usual, taking extra care to set up her display. She arranged everything just so, the vibrant colors of tulips, daisies, and roses creating a cheerful splash against the wooden crates.

By the time Kathryn arrived, the market was already bustling. She walked up with her usual confident stride, her hair swept back in a loose braid and a light jacket slung over her shoulders. Y/N couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly she carried herself, a mix of ease and grace that was undeniably magnetic.

“Hey, Y/N,” Kathryn greeted with a smile that instantly brightened the morning.

“Hey, Kathryn,” Y/N replied, her own smile matching the warmth in Kathryn’s voice. “Here for more flower therapy?”

“Something like that,” Kathryn said with a chuckle. She leaned lightly on the counter, her blue eyes twinkling. “I’ve decided I’m going to make this a weekly tradition—though I’m pretty sure I just come for the company at this point.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, but she kept her composure. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. What are we celebrating this week?”

Kathryn shrugged, her expression thoughtful. “Not sure it’s a celebration, exactly. I’ve been spending a lot of time rediscovering what I like—figuring out who I am outside of that old chapter.”

“Sounds like a celebration to me,” Y/N said, her tone soft but earnest. “Starting fresh is always worth celebrating.”

Kathryn tilted her head, her smile growing. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

Y/N grinned. “Occupational hazard, I guess. Now, let’s find something that suits this new chapter of yours.”

As she worked, Y/N felt Kathryn’s gaze linger, warm and steady. She chose a bouquet of daisies for simplicity, yellow tulips for cheer, and added a few soft pink carnations for gratitude and admiration. To finish, she tucked in another single red rose, letting it stand out.

Kathryn noticed immediately, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Another red rose, huh? Are you ever going to tell me what they mean?”

Y/N handed over the bouquet with a playful grin. “You know you could just Google it if you really wanted to know.”

Kathryn chuckled, shaking her head. “I could, but where’s the fun in that? Besides,” she added, her voice dipping slightly, “I have a feeling it’s worth the wait.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked down, busying herself with arranging the paper wrapping around the bouquet. “You’re dangerous, Kathryn,” she muttered with a laugh, unable to hide her own growing smile.

Kathryn leaned a little closer, her tone teasing but warm. “You have no idea.”

Y/N handed over the bouquet, their fingers brushing again, and looked up to find Kathryn’s eyes fixed on her, soft but searching.

“Well,” Y/N said, her voice steadier than she felt, “if you ever feel like waiting isn’t your thing, you know where to find me.”

Kathryn’s smile deepened, and she tucked the bouquet close to her chest. “I think I’ll enjoy the suspense for now,” she replied lightly, though her gaze lingered for just a moment longer.

“Thanks for this,” she added as she stepped back, the bouquet in one hand and her coffee in the other. “And for making my mornings a little brighter.”

“Anytime,” Y/N said softly, watching as Kathryn turned and walked away, her braid swaying lightly with each confident step. As the crowd shifted and swallowed her figure, Y/N found herself already looking forward to the next week—and whatever surprises Kathryn might bring.

Week Four

The next week, Y/N found herself waiting for Friday with a kind of nervous energy she hadn’t felt in years. She spent her mornings distracted, her evenings restless, and by the time the day arrived, she could barely focus on her usual tasks.

She tried to tell herself it was just another Friday at the market, but the thought of seeing Kathryn again made her heart race in a way she couldn’t ignore.

The day unfolded much like the previous ones, with the usual flow of customers and Darren’s cheerful chatter in the background. But when Kathryn appeared, weaving her way through the busy market, the whole scene seemed to slow.

She wore a light blue blouse that perfectly complemented her eyes, her hair loose and catching the breeze. She had that same confident stride, but this time, there was something softer about her expression, something warmer.

“Hey there,” Kathryn greeted as she approached the stand, her smile as radiant as ever. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Y/N replied, her own smile spreading naturally across her face. “You’re right on time, actually. I just got in some new flowers I think you’ll love.”

Kathryn set her coffee cup down on the counter, her gaze lingering on Y/N. “You always know how to make a girl feel special.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “Just doing my job. So, what’s the occasion this time? Let me guess—another step in the new chapter?”

Kathryn tilted her head, her smile turning a little sly. “Actually, I was thinking about starting a whole new story.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what kind of story are we talking about here?”

“The kind where I stop beating around the bush and ask you if you’d like to go out with me,” Kathryn said, her voice calm but her eyes sparkling with something playful, something hopeful.

Y/N blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait, are you serious?” she asked, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her surprise.

“Dead serious,” Kathryn replied, leaning lightly against the counter. “I know it’s a bit unconventional, but I figured, why not? You’re charming, you’re kind, and you seem to have this uncanny ability to make me smile every time I see you.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “Wow. I mean, I’m flattered. Really flattered. But I thought I was the one supposed to be smooth here.”

Kathryn laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Don’t worry—you’re still winning in that department.”

Y/N glanced down at the flowers in front of her, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Okay,” she said finally, looking back up at Kathryn. “I’d love to go out with you.”

Kathryn’s smile grew, her eyes lighting up. “Really? I was half-expecting you to turn me down just to keep me guessing.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Y/N teased, her confidence returning. “I’m sure I’ll keep you guessing plenty on the actual date.”

Kathryn laughed again, shaking her head. “I have no doubt, I’ll text you tonight to figure out when we can make this happen.”

“Looking forward to it,” Y/N said softly, her eyes lingering on Kathryn’s.

As Kathryn picked up her coffee and bouquet, she paused, glancing at the flowers Y/N had been arranging. “No red rose this time?” she asked teasingly.

Y/N grinned. “Nope. I’m saving that for the date.”

Kathryn’s laughter filled the space between them, light and warm. “You’re impossible,” she said, but her smile betrayed just how much she enjoyed it.

With a final glance, Kathryn turned and walked away, leaving Y/N standing behind the counter with a heart full of anticipation and a grin she couldn’t shake.

And as the market buzzed around her, Y/N found herself already counting down the hours until their next meeting.

Week 5

Y/N sat across from Kathryn in the cozy, candlelit restaurant, the evening stretching out like a perfect melody. Conversation flowed effortlessly, Kathryn’s laughter bubbling over at Y/N’s quick-witted remarks, and Y/N finding herself leaning in closer as the night wore on.

The single red rose, nestled in the center of their table, seemed to glow in the warm light, catching Kathryn’s eye once again. She tilted her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright, Y/N,” Kathryn said, her voice soft but teasing. “You promised me no more guessing. Are you finally going to tell me what the red rose means, or are we keeping this a mystery forever?”

Y/N hesitated, her confidence flickering just enough to make her cheeks flush. She reached for the rose, her fingers brushing its delicate petals as she carefully avoided Kathryn’s gaze. “It, uh… it symbolizes love and passion,” she admitted quietly, her usual bravado giving way to something more vulnerable.

Kathryn’s smile widened as she leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Love and passion, huh?” she echoed, her tone light but her gaze steady. “That’s quite the statement for a first date.”

Y/N chuckled nervously, her cheeks growing even warmer. “I mean, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just… I thought it suited you.”

Kathryn’s laughter was soft and low, a sound that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. “You’re sweet,” she said, her voice dipping into something a little huskier. She picked up the rose, twirling it slowly between her fingers as she watched Y/N. “But you know, passion can mean a lot of things.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the subtle shift in Kathryn’s tone. She swallowed hard, her voice coming out a touch more uncertain than she’d intended. “Yeah? Like what?”

Kathryn leaned in just enough to close the distance between them, her blue eyes locked on Y/N’s. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her smile turning sly. “It could mean staying up all night talking… or something else entirely.”

Y/N felt her stomach flip, her mind racing at Kathryn’s implication. She cleared her throat, trying to play it cool despite the blush creeping up her neck. “I guess it depends on the company,” she managed, her voice soft but steady.

Kathryn’s grin widened, and she reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s face, the gesture so casual yet so intimate it made Y/N’s breath hitch. “Well,” Kathryn murmured, her tone warm and teasing, “I’d say the company tonight is pretty exceptional.”

Y/N laughed, a nervous but delighted sound, as Kathryn leaned back, her expression softening. “You’re impossible,” Y/N said, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile.

“And yet, you seem to like me anyway,” Kathryn replied with a wink. She placed the rose carefully back on the table, her fingers lingering on the stem for just a moment. “Thank you—for the flowers, for tonight, for… everything.”

Y/N nodded, her smile growing as she mustered her courage. “Anytime. And I mean that.”

Kathryn’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before she stood, her movements graceful and deliberate. She bent down, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s cheek, her lips warm and lingering just enough to make Y/N’s pulse quicken.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Kathryn whispered, her voice low and filled with promise. “And thank you for being… bold.”

As Kathryn walked away, the red rose still resting on the table, Y/N couldn’t help but smile to herself. Whatever the future held, one thing was certain: Kathryn was every bit as extraordinary as Y/N had imagined—and then some.

[paxtito]

forbidden

pairings: cairo x fem!reader

word count: 2120

warnings: smut 18+, swearing, cunilingus, strap-on

summary: you've gotten yourself tangled in a love affair with your father's top student

a/n: this is a filler so don’t mind the length- also credits to whoever requested that one cairo bot!

MASTERLIST | BOT

The dorm room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the campus settling down for the night. You fumble with your keys, a quiet sigh escaping your lips as you push open the door. It’s been a long day—one full of stolen glances, hushed conversations, and the constant weight of secrecy pressing on your shoulders.

You flick on the light, and your heart skips a beat.

There she is.

Cairo Sweet, perched on the edge of your bed, her legs crossed casually, her hands resting on the quilt your mother sent last semester. She’s still in her uniform from earlier, though the loosened tie and unbuttoned top collar give her an air of reckless confidence. That signature cheeky grin of hers—equal parts playful and infuriating—greets you as if she has every right to be here.

“Miss me?” she teases, tilting her head just so, the dim light catching the mischief in her eyes.

You close the door behind you, leaning back against it for a moment. “Cairo,” you say, your voice a mix of surprise and exasperation. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs, feigning innocence as she leans back on her hands, her posture lazy but intentional. “Thought I’d pay my favorite person a visit. Is that a crime?”

“It is when you sneak into my dorm,” you retort, though there’s no real heat behind your words.

Cairo’s grin widens, and she pushes herself to her feet with a slow, deliberate grace. “Relax,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “No one saw me. Besides,” her voice drops slightly, low and teasing, “don’t pretend you’re not happy to see me.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing the way your heart is racing. “Cairo, we’ve talked about this,” you begin, your voice quieter now.

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes playfully. “We shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. Your dad’s my teacher. Believe me, I’ve got the speech memorized.”

“And yet, here you are,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

She steps closer still, and now you can smell the faint traces of her perfume, something warm and sweet that lingers in the air between you. “Here I am,” she agrees, her voice soft but still teasing. “Because I can’t stay away.”

Your resolve wavers under the weight of her gaze, and she knows it. Cairo always knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to get under your skin in ways no one else ever has.

“You’re going to get us caught,” you whisper, though the words feel weak even as you say them.

Cairo's eyes sparkle with mischief as she takes another step closer, closing the distance between you. "So what if we do?" she murmurs, her voice a low purr. "Live a little, Y/N. Life's too short to play by all the rules."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. Cairo always has this effect on you—making you question everything you thought you knew, making you want things you know you shouldn't.

"I... I don't know," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not that simple."

Cairo's hand comes up to cup your cheek, her touch gentle but electric. "It is that simple," she breathes, her face inches from yours. "It's just you and me, Y/N. The rest of the world can fall away."

You lean into her touch, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. God, it would be so easy to give in, to let her sweep you away on this tide of forbidden desire. But...

You lean into Cairo's touch, letting out a shaky breath.

 Fuck it. 

Your resolve crumbles under the intensity of her gaze.

"Cairo..." you murmur, your voice heavy with want.

A triumphant smirk curves her lips before she closes the remaining distance, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. Her fingers tangle in your hair, tugging lightly as she deepens the kiss, her tongue teasing along your bottom lip.

You melt into her, your hands coming up to grip her waist, pulling her flush against you. The heat of her body seeps through the thin fabric of her uniform, igniting a fire deep in your core.

Cairo's hands roam over your body with a new urgency, her nails digging lightly into your skin through your shirt. She breaks the kiss, panting softly, her eyes dark with desire.

"Touch me," she breathes, her voice low and needy. "I want to feel your hands on me, Y/N."

You comply eagerly, your fingers slipping beneath her shirt to explore the smooth expanse of her back. Cairo arches into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Just like that," she pants, her hips grinding against yours. "Don't hold back, baby. I can take it."

You lose yourself in the sensation of her, in the taste of her, in the way she makes you feel alive in a way no one else ever has. Cairo is a force of nature, wild and unpredictable, and being with her feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, dizzying and exhilarating all at once.

As your hands roam lower, skimming over the curve of her ass, Cairo lets out a low groan. "Mmm, yes," she hisses, her hips bucking forward. "You know just how to touch me, don't you?"

The knowledge that you make her feel this good, that you can unhinge her so completely, sends a rush of power straight to your head. You nip at her bottom lip, relishing the way she whimpers in response.

"Fuck, Y/N," Cairo gasps, her fingers fisting in your hair. "I need you. Right now."

You don't hesitate, sweeping her up into your arms and carrying her the short distance to your bed. You lay her down gently, taking a moment to admire the sight of her spread out before you, her chest heaving, her skin flushed with desire.

Cairo watches you with hooded eyes as you slowly undress her, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Each piece of clothing you remove reveals more of her smooth, tanned skin, and you can't help but trail your fingers along her newly exposed flesh, mapping out every curve and dip.

"Y/N," she whispers, her voice thick with need. "Please, I want to feel you."

You obey, your hands and mouth worshipping every inch of her body as you work your way down. Cairo arches into your touch, her fingers tangled in your hair, urging you on.

By the time you reach her hips, she's practically shaking with anticipation. You hook your fingers in the waistband of her panties, drawing them down slowly, teasingly.

"Fuck, baby," Cairo groans, spreading her legs wider, inviting you in. "I need you so bad."

You don't make her wait any longer, diving in eagerly, your tongue hot and wet and perfect against her most sensitive parts. Cairo cries out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tightening in your hair almost painfully.

"Yes, fuck yes," she pants, her hips bucking against your face. "Just like that, don't stop."

You double down your efforts, licking and sucking and teasing until Cairo is a writhing, incoherent mess beneath you, her thighs trembling and her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

"I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna come," she warns, her voice strangled. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

You redouble your efforts, pushing her closer and closer to the edge until finally, with a scream of your name, she comes undone, her body shaking and convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her.

You work her through it, gentling your touch as the aftershocks fade, until finally, she collapses back onto the bed, spent and sated.

You crawl up her body, capturing her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "Was that good for you, baby?" you murmur, nipping at her bottom lip.

Cairo hums contentedly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. "Mmm, that was incredible," she purrs, her voice low and sultry. "But don't think we're done yet. I'm far from satisfied."

You reach for your nightstand with trembling hands, fumbling for your trusty strap-on. In your haste, you knock over a lamp, sending it clattering to the floor.

"Whoops!" you exclaim, stifling a laugh. "Graceful as always."

Cairo watches with hooded eyes as you fumble with the strap-on harness, your fingers clumsy in your haste. She bites her lip, trying to hold back a laugh at your determined expression.

"Eager, are we?" she teases, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Shut up," you mutter, finally getting the harness secured around your hips. You turn to face her, a mischievous glint in your eye. "I'm going to rock your world, Sweet."

Cairo rolls her eyes, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Big words for someone who can't even put on a strap-on without help."

You narrow your eyes, stalking towards the bed. "Oh, I'll show you big, alright."

Cairo's laughter dissolves into a moan as you descend upon her, your hands and mouth mapping the contours of her body. You take your time, savoring every inch of her, until she's writhing beneath you, desperate for more.

"Please," she gasps, her hips lifting off the bed. "I need you inside me."

You smirk, reaching for the lube. "Patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait."

Cairo groans, burying her face in the pillow. "You're such a tease."

You just chuckle, coating the strap-on liberally. "And you love it."

Her only response is a muffled moan of agreement. You line yourself up, pushing forward slowly, sinking into her welcoming heat inch by delicious inch.

"Fuck," Cairo whimpers, her hands fisting in the sheets. "You feel so good."

You set a steady rhythm, losing yourself in the slide of your bodies, in the slick sounds of your lovemaking. Cairo meets you thrust for thrust, her nails raking down your back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

The strap-on rubs deliciously against your own sensitive parts with each deep thrust, the pressure building steadily. You grit your teeth, fighting the urge to let go, determined to make this last for Cairo.

"That's it, baby," you growl, angling your hips just so. "Take it all."

Cairo keens, her head thrashing on the pillow, her body trembling beneath you. "Harder," she demands, her voice ragged. "Fuck me harder, Y/N."

You oblige, snapping your hips forward, driving into her with renewed vigor. The bed creaks in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall, but you're too lost in the heat of the moment to care.

Cairo's moans grow louder, more desperate, her body clenching around the strap-on like a vice. "I'm close," she gasps, her eyes squeezing shut. "So fucking close."

You can feel your own orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. "Me too," you pant, your rhythm starting to falter. "Come with me, Cairo. Now."

With a final, powerful thrust, you bury yourself deep inside her, grinding against her sweet spot. Cairo screams, her body convulsing around you as she comes apart, milking the strap-on for all it's worth.

The sensation is too much, pushing you over the edge with her. You throw your head back, a guttural moan tearing from your throat as you find your own release, your hips jerking erratically.

For a long moment, you both remain locked in each other's embrace, panting harshly, your sweat-slicked bodies pressed together. Slowly, you come back to yourself, the post-orgasmic haze receding.

You pull out carefully, collapsing beside Cairo on the bed. She immediately curls into your side, her head resting on your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin.

"That was amazing," she murmurs, her voice soft and sated.

You reach down, fumbling with the straps of the harness with clumsy fingers. It takes a few tries, but finally, you manage to unbuckle the straps, the harness falling away from your hips.

Cairo lifts her head, watching you with a lazy smile. "Need some help there, sexy?" she teases, reaching out to trail a finger along your hip.

You shoot her a half-hearted glare, even as a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. "I've got it," you mutter, tossing the harness aside carelessly.

Cairo just chuckles, settling back down on the pillows. "Alright, alright, I won't mock your struggle-bus hands."

You roll your eyes, flopping down beside her with a huff. "You're a brat."

"And you love it," she retorts, nuzzling into your neck.

You can't argue with that, your arms coming up to wrap around her waist, holding her close. For a moment, you just bask in the afterglow, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the soft whisper of her breath against your skin.

[gfbillpotts]

I was just thinking this. And it's also something about their personalities as real people that makes their personas work. Greg is genuinely a confident guy who's also bubbly and loves physical intimacy. If you see moments of him off set, you'll see he genuinely loves hugging and holding hands with friends. When he holds Alex's arm to talk to him, it's not only the Taskmaster persona but also Greg, the guy who just genuinely likes touching. Additionaly, Alex as a person is a guy who likes to do things for other people and likes to make people laugh by doing things for them. There are many stories of real life Alex doing random things just because he was ordered to, such as eating a full block of butter and stealing a statue. I think it's super cool and sweet how they've both found a middle ground on this show where they can be themselves and also their personas at the same time.

This is a very good example this season:

Greg realises Alex has never said cunt out loud and tells him to say it. Alex is embarassed so Greg tells him to whisper it in his ear. It looks like real-life Alex being embarassed and persona Greg forcing him to do it. But then, when Alex instictively used his iPad to hide himself from the camera, Greg automatically and honestly very sweetly tells Alex to put it down and guides the iPad down. This was a very real life/persona mix from Greg. Yes, he is giving orders, but he also so naturally realizes Alex is embarassed in a way he really doesnt have to be and is visibly trying to encourage Alex not to be ashamed. He then kisses Alex on the cheek, and again it seems like a Taskmaster persona thing but also just Greg messing around and finishing the scene in a sweet way that takes the focus out of Alex's embarassment.

One of the (many) things that thrills me when it comes to Taskmaster is how they bend and question reality. The tension that exist in the span between "this is objectively true" and "this is obviously pure fiction" is where this show lives and thrives.

On the one hand we have the objectively true reality of Greg Davies and Alex Horne existing as real people. They are corporeal, they pre-dates the show, they have actual relationships with people outside the show, real accomplishments and real lifes. Alex Horne is married, has three children and one dog. Greg has a small house in Spain. They are actual, existing persons.

On the other end of the spectrum we have all the things that are said, shown or implied in the show that are obvious fiction. Where we don't have to wonder if it's true, even a little bit.

Greg Davies doesn't live in the Taskmaster house. He hasn't kidnapped Alex and he isn't keeping him from his children. Alex doesn't spend 9 minutes and 34 seconds every morning waking Greg up with small kisses, and Greg doesn't make him move around like a carpet snake, his beard full of mouse droppings.

(Series 4, episode 8, outtake)

[Alex: Are you going to shout at me, like you do at home?

Greg: No, I'm just going to wach. But I want you to sing the carpet snake song. LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO!]

Most entertainment resides in one of these extremes. Even when we know for example a stand up comedian has a "persona", we are encouraged to think they mostly tell us the truth. And even if we know the actor influences the role, we are encouraged to believe they are completely separate.

Taskmaster has instead firmly made camp in the middle and spreads out from one end to another, often during the same episode. And it's joyous and thrilling and confusing in the best way.

Because the power Greg has over Alex seems to transcend pure fiction. Yes, Alex plays subservient in the show, he's the showrunner, in a way Gregs boss, and he is obviously very much volunteering and initiating things.

But just like in real life romantic Power Exchange relationships the transferring of power is real and tangible even when it is based on consent.

Sometimes Greg does something to Alex, or demand something from him, that isn't expected.

Alex as a carpet snake, improvising a little tune about how everyone knows he's a carpet snake, is a delight. But to me, what's even more intriguing is the three seconds of negotiation that happens just before it.

[Greg: You are aware that when we are at home, Alex is only allowed to move around like a snake? [laughter}

Greg: I mean.. I mean, that beard is full of mouse droppings.

Noel: A carpet snake?

Greg: Yeah

Joe: Can we… can we see that demonstrated now?

Greg: No, why not?]

This isn't Alex' idea. He visibly do not want to be a carpet snake. He looks at Greg, gets a curt nod in respons, and lo and behold, there is an adorable singing carpet snake on the studio floor.

It is not true that Alex lives with Greg and is only allowed to move like a snake. It is, however, visibly apparent that Greg can make Alex flop around on the floor on a whim.

There is another good example of this type of negotiation on camera, when Greg demands to see Alex underwear, mocking him for having long johns in summer. This is the only time so far I've seen Alex actually saying no. He dosn't want to show Greg his underwear.

Is this pre-planned? I don't know. This is the place right in the middle between absolutely real and obviously fiction. Maybe it's Alex idea al along, maybe the long johns is a prop, like many others. But it doesn't look like it. It looks like Alex is surprised, and a little baffled, and rather a lot embarrassed.

[Greg: Take your trousers down.

Alex: No… Do they all have to see?

Greg: Ooops! There goes my heart rate!]

From what I see, the power exchange present in the show, the humiliation and sadism directed at Alex, is complete fiction. And completely real. At the same time. Just like in any other consenting power exchange relationships.

And I absolutely adore having this kind of dynamic for once shown and visible and appreciated in public. It is rare and funny and precious.

(I'm not saying anything about sex here. I have no way of telling if any of the sexual innuendos between Alex and Greg are anything else than pure fiction. But there are many ways to play and pretend, and many reasons to do so - one important one being that it's simply fun.)

[dissapointu]

Drabbles: Arcane Characters with a Partner Who Got Hurt

————————————————————————-

Jinx

Jinx freaks out when she sees you with a bandaged arm, her eyes wide as she grabs your hand.

“What the hell happened? Who did this?!” she demands, scanning you for other injuries.

When you try to brush it off, she pouts dramatically. “Nope, not buying it! You’re sitting down, and I’m fixing this!”

She rummages through her workshop for a med kit, her frantic energy softening as she carefully tends to you. “If anyone ever hurts you again, they’re dead meat,” she mutters, planting a kiss on your forehead.

Vi

Vi freezes when she sees the scrape on your forehead, her fists clenching.

“Who did this?” she asks, her voice low and controlled, though her eyes burn with anger.

When you insist it’s no big deal, she shakes her head, gently tilting your chin to examine the cut. “Doesn’t matter. You’re my priority right now.”

She patches you up with a surprising gentleness, muttering under her breath, “If I find out who did this…”

Sevika

Sevika doesn’t say a word when she notices your limp. She simply crosses the room, scoops you up, and sets you on the couch.

“Explain,” she demands, her tone leaving no room for argument.

When you downplay it, she snorts. “You’re terrible at lying.”

She patches you up herself, her hands surprisingly steady. “Next time, call me before you get yourself into trouble,” she mutters, though her protective gaze never wavers.

Silco

Silco’s sharp eyes narrow as he notices your injury. “How did this happen?” he asks, his voice dangerously calm.

You stammer an excuse, but he doesn’t seem satisfied. Instead, he motions for you to sit.

He personally applies the ointment to your wound, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You should take better care of yourself,” he murmurs.

His tone is firm, but there’s a glint of concern in his expression that he can’t entirely hide.

Vander

Vander’s brow furrows deeply when he sees you cradling your wrist. “What happened?” he asks, his tone a mix of concern and frustration.

When you try to shrug it off, he sighs, shaking his head. “Let me see.”

He carefully examines your wrist, his rough hands surprisingly tender. “You need to be more careful,” he scolds lightly, wrapping your wrist in a bandage.

Afterward, he pulls you into a hug. “I can’t have you getting hurt like this.”

Ekko

Ekko rushes to your side the moment he notices you wincing. “What happened?”

When you try to downplay it, he frowns. “Don’t do that. If you’re hurt, just tell me.”

He grabs his med kit, kneeling in front of you as he patches you up. “Next time, I’m sticking by your side,” he says, his voice tinged with guilt. “I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

Jayce

Jayce’s heart sinks when he sees the bruise on your arm. “Hey, what happened? Are you okay?”

You try to laugh it off, but he shakes his head. “No, seriously. Talk to me.”

Once he’s sure you’re not seriously hurt, he lets out a sigh of relief. “You scared me for a second there,” he admits, pulling you into a gentle hug.

“You’ve gotta let me protect you better, alright?”

Viktor

Viktor notices the scrape on your knee immediately. “You’re hurt,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

You wave it off, but he grabs the first aid kit from his desk. “Please, let me help.”

He kneels down, carefully cleaning and dressing the wound. “You need to take better care of yourself,” he murmurs, his worry evident in the way his hands tremble slightly.

Once finished, he gives you a small smile. “There. Good as new.”

Caitlyn

Caitlyn’s sharp eyes catch the cut on your cheek the moment you walk in. “What happened?”

When you shrug it off, she places her hands on her hips, giving you a stern look. “Don’t downplay this.”

She grabs her med kit, her touch gentle as she cleans the wound. “You have to be more careful,” she says, her voice soft but insistent.

Once she’s done, she presses a kiss to your uninjured cheek. “I’ll always take care of you, but let’s try to avoid this next time, alright?”

[al0velyuniverse]

Body Shots

I woke up in a cold sweat to write this and it went from a short little paragraph to a four part series, please enjoy

●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●

Pt.1 |

CW: Drinking (duh), drunk sex, (oral male!receiving), exhibition (kinda? In a loose term), mentions of Simon sharing you with the team

The first time you suggested body shots you were in your boyfriend Simon’s apartment drinking with his team. 

Johnny and Gaz sat at the kitchen counter, chatting about something unimportant. You and Simon sat on the couch, but he was turned away from you talking to Price. You were feeling incredibly bored so you spoke, “I think body shots could be fun right now., don’t you boys?” When the words left your lips all conversation ceased and you could see all of their eyes light up, thinking they’re about to not only see you topless but they get to lick you. What nobody excepted; however, was for you to gently push Simon onto his back on the couch. When you asked, Gaz scrambled to find and hand you the supplies without a second thought. The room was silent except for the quiet radio as everyone watched you pull Simon’s shirt up, sprinkle a trail of salt onto his chest, and place a lime wedge between his lips. A strained “fuck” left Johnny’s lips when you moved to straddle Simon. You could have sworn you saw Johnny and Gaz adjust themselves in sync when you leaned down to slowly lick the salt off of Simon’s chest. You threw back the shot of tequila with ease before taking the lime from Simon’s mouth with your own. With a self satisfied smirk on your face and the attention of all four men in the room you sat back up properly. “Anyone else want a turn?” Unfortunately nobody else would get a turn that night, Simon demanding they all get lost. You stood to let him physically push everyone out of the door, laughing at the chorus of ‘boos’ and complaints that you two received. 

When the door finally shut Simon whipped around and grabbed you by the hair, using his grip to push you to your knees with one hand and undo his fly with the other. “Think you’re cheeky huh? Think it’s funny to let ‘em think they get to put their mouths on you, just to be a fuckin’ tease and make ‘em all watch you take the shot instead?” His words surprised you for a moment, he wasn’t mad that you implied his team could put their mouths on you…oh no, he was pissed because you made them think they could and then denied them. The realization sent chills down your spine, but before you could get any words in either to tease him or poke at the idea of him sharing you Simon was forcing your mouth open. “C’mon luv, open up for me. You were so eager to use your mouth earlier. Let’s see you do it again yeah?”

Simon laid his leaking tip on your tongue when you stuck it out for him. You looked up at him with those pretty doe eyes you knew made him crazy as you slowly took more of him into your mouth. The taste of his pre-cum mixing with the aftertaste of the shot you had just taken caused you to let out an involuntary moan. As if acting on some primal instinct Simon pushed your head as far down as you could go, 3/4 of the way his pushing was met with resistance “come on sweet’eart…swallow. Swa-yeah, attagirl.”” You manage to get those last few inches down your throat, your nose brushing against those pretty blonde curls at his base. Your hands reached up to brace yourself on his thighs as he started to move your head, using your mouth like his own personal toy. The gagging and slurping sounds that emitted from you were downright filthy, and your looked matched the sounds. Saliva covering your chin and dripping down onto your chest. After what felt like forever but was probably just a few minutes or so your boyfriend pulled you off of him with a satisfying ‘pop’. Your chest heaved as you attempted to catch your breath. Simon let go of your hair and moved to sit back on the couch, you didn’t dare move a muscle.  Once he was comfortable he looked you over and patted his lap. The simple non-verbal command and you stripping your bottoms and moving to straddle his lap.

You were already soaked and both of you knew it. “You this fuckin’ wet just from sucking me off dove?” His words were accompanied by the feeling of his finger sliding across your slit, gathering up some of the wetness that leaked from you. The gentle touch alone had you bucking your hips, an action that was quickly halted by Simons free hand gripping your thigh. “Wait” His voice dark and rough and had that ’don’t fuck with me’ tone that made your stomach do backflips. You watched with wide eyes as Simon brought his finger to his lips and sucked your slick off of his finger. “Fuckin’ divine you know that luv?”  Your response came in the form of a desperate whimper and another attempt to grind your aching cunt against his cock. It was right there, so close and still wet from your saliva.

Simon let out a chuckle before lifting your hips a little so he could properly position himself, lining up with your hole in a practiced manner that came from far too much couch sex. He helped you slowly lower yourself down onto him, letting you accommodate to the stretch. “Thats it. Thats a good girl, just like that,” When you were properly sat you both let out a shuddery breath. No matter how many times he fucked you his size was still a shock to your body that you had to adjust to, but once you were ready your hips became an unstoppable force. Not that Simon would want to stop the way you bounced up and down, moved back and forth, greedy walls gripping him and trying to suck him back in every time you pulled up even a little. It was absolute heaven for both of you and it was bringing you closer to your orgasm faster than you cared to admit. 

Your moans raised in pitch the closer you got to your orgasm “Simon..Si..Simons please im-“ He covered your mouth with his hand quickly. “Not yet, please…just a little longer, wanna fuck your cunt for just al little longer. You can wait cant you doll?” You whined in protest but nodded nevertheless, you couldn’t say no to him. Especially when his eyebrows scrunched together and his eyes squeezed shut as his hips rammed up into yours, the feeling making you borderline delirious. Simon didn’t tell you that you were allowed to cum yet , at least not verbally. Instead he reached a hand down between your bodies to rub at your poor sensitive and neglected clit, it was too much. The please making your head spin and hips falter. “S’okay dove, let go for me.” Thats all you needed to absolutely fall apart on top of your boyfriend, his own Orgasm following soon after.

One satisfying and much needed shower later Simon was tucking you into bed and pulling you close to him. As you drifted off to sleep you could hear him mutter about how well you did and how good you could be for his boys.

[dykedvonte]

You ever just see a Mouthwashing take that makes you want to bang your head into a wall? I literally just saw someone claim Curly couldn't have been emotionally abused by Jimmy before the crash because he was in a higher position of power than Jimmy.

-Shrimp Anon

The mouthwashing fandom has shown me that people genuinely do believe that certain types of abuse are not as detrimental as other types especially when they deem those immune/resistant, ergo, believing one is objectively worse no matter how it affects the person nor the intersections of power, history and dynamics at play.

Get ready cause this is a yap session:

Cause like it's heavily implied that Curly and Jimmy's friendship was toxic and abusive, pointedly in the direction of how Jimmy uses Curly's belief/comfort in him. Curly wasn't forced to enable Jimmy but he was emotional and mentally on edge around him in almost every scene in some way. Mental and emotional abuse are not contingent on what positions you have at work. Yeah, he's Jimmy's boss but he was Jimmy's friend first and it's like getting into Psych discussion to talk about how social power tends to overshadow any perceived organizational power in the human mind. People are concerned about their jobs ofc but they tend to hang onto and put more value/investment into their personal relationships, hence why there tends to be laws and restrictions around mixing the two.

I always see the sentiments that "Curly is a grown ass man", "Curly is bigger than Jimmy", "Curly is Jimmy's boss", "He just needed a backbone" as criticisms of Curly and while I do agree that on the surface level all of these to be true and viable ways Curly could've taken more control of the situation, I often look at the parallels of Anya and Curly as victims of Jimmy pre/post crash.

The way Jimmy talks to Anya post crash is how he talked to Curly in the pre-crash segments. It's hard to pin-point mainly because we know he hates and wants nothing to do with Anya compared to his contrary but similarly handled obsessions with Curly. It's a weird sort of "honey-moon" effect of abuse Jimmy does in terms of emotional and mental victimization. He is always horrid to Anya, always talking down or questioning her abilities and thoughts in a situation, this of course includes the harassment and assault. However, he has a moment of attempted gentleness/conditioning when he question her about the mouthwash when she's contemplating drinking it at the table. The key difference is he has no personal investment in Jimmy outside wanting nothing to do with him, meaning there is no sort of romanticized version of him that he can condition her off of. He knows this, hence, why he always reverts to trying to make her to scared to oppose him.

This sort of give and take of "kindness" doesn't work on her because she knows he is just doing it to take more from her than whatever he could possibly give but it reflects even the "softer" scenes between him and Curly where he always rewords or rephrases Curly's sentiments and concerns to sound more shallow. He is feigning a deeper understanding by reworking Curly's emotions into something bad and needing to be hidden. Everything is laced with envy and resentment, an outburst just around the corner, I mean he even slams the table in the birthday party scene, a tactic in emotional manipulation to set the victim on edge and cloud their ability to respond. Even if Curly knows Jimmy won't get physical in that moment, the physical actions is intended to make him back down in the confrontation in case it does. This is something that is just not person specific. It ingrains itself into how you interact with the world and life and it shows in major and minor ways with Curly.

Post-crash, the abusive nature is more in tandem to the physical victimization Anya went through and the stripping of voice and autonomy we see take place. Like the parasite in HFIM, Jimmy speaks for Curly most of the time and puts words in his mouth, similarly to how he takes Anya's plans as his own. He very commonly, with the both of them mind you, supplements the worst aspects of himself into them; pettiness, selfishness, lack of understanding... And tries to cover himself with their best qualities; kindness, planning, initiative, etc...

These parallel are just to say that positional power has little to do with if a person can be abused and how it can even be flipped to further the abuse. There is no doubt that Curly could've picked up on Jimmy's envy of his position hence another reason he never confronted him as a Captain but as a friend as doing so would immediately put Jimmy in a space to be confrontational/combative.

I think the disdain some people have when they talk about the heavily implied if not implicitly stated emotional/mental abuse Curly experienced being Jimmy's friend is when treating it as an excuse to why he didn't do more. I can understand that completely because it is not an excuse to why he didn't do more but is a very real reason people in his position in these scenarios can experience whether in the context of a work or social environment. However, I also think the way people talk about it really does demonstrate a bigger problem when talking about abuse when somehow who is/was abused is either part of the issue or enabled it.

Harkening back to the sentiments about Curly's inaction regarding Jimmy, I think the exact phrases I used/have seen show how there is an inherent belief that it is easier to overpower the effects of emotional/mental abuse that go in tandem with the perception of Curly as someone who should be able to. There is not an age you suddenly stop being susceptible to abuse nor a set point or low where you realize how it has affected you. You don't suddenly know to stand up or put a face on to face your abuser nor admit that you inadvertently enabled them to subjugate someone else to the same treatment. Maybe it's my psych brain but their is this growing belief that direct action is somehow easy or always the best method with the game shows you instances where it is not always the case. In real life that rings true too. He should have done more, but it's not impossible to see why he struggled to find a way or didn't even if it makes us mad.

It's not easy to suddenly gain a "back-bone". You don't immediately want to resort to aggression, especially if it mirrors the type you were a victim to. You don't want to believe you allowed yourself to be treated this bad, let it get that bad or allowed something bad to happen to someone else. It is easy to be in denial, to retreat to your thoughts or make excuses to avoid the painful truth. It's frustrating but in a way we know is relatable. It why we both hate and love Curly for it. We know we'd be better, we think we'd be better, we like to think we wouldn't falter in the same ways but it's always easier to say that from the outside looking in. It's easy to see what he was doing wrong because we are seeing it, not him, but the game really does make you picture what you would do if this was your raw reality and it's why this debate about Curly seems so never ending/contradictory. We can all say what we'd do but bottom line is that's much different when you're in the moment with all the emotions and human feelings attached.

I personally think Mouthwashing tackles the themes of rape culture, enabling, toxic masculinity, types of abuse and patriarchy in ways that are meant to deconstruct the typical straightforward views we mostly have of these concepts and how little subtilities of them are just as, if not more, detrimental than the overt/obvious parts. The game deals with the idea of little details and bigger picture in a way to show that sometimes the bigger picture is not the issue but the little details that make it up. It's why I have a personal dislike of depictions of Jimmy as the typical horrible person who would of course do something like this because the game is about noticing the little warning signs, the foreshadowing and foresight.

It's why I dislike the typical discussion of "bro code" and "boys will be boys" for the game because the game makes a point to avoid the standard depictions of such. It is about the type of men who still enable despite not condoning, agreeing or even perpetuating harmful beliefs because they can't see the little details or the ways it seeps into their everyday. The severity is not obvious to them as it was not obvious to Curly, Swansea or even Daisuke the way it was to a woman like Anya. There are little details about Jimmy that should ring alarms but if you are too naive like Daisuke, too distant like Swansea or too conditioned like Curly, they are just off markers.

There is 100% more constructive/concise ways to say "Curly was a victim of Jimmy's abuse on an emotional and mental aspect that clouded his judgements and perceptions in the scenario" while also critiquing on the side of "Curly still had a responsibility to protect Anya as a crew mate and Captain that he failed to do due to biases and stigma's he failed to surpass" without the weird condemnation people give him about should've knowing better than to let himself be manipulated by a person he considered a close, if not family/best-friend and had his own reasons to trust initially. Also stop being weird about victims of abuse in general with this fandom, like sorry not everyone has a like social epiphany the moment someone's nasty to them. People are treating it like you immediately know when you are in a toxic relationship immediately or comprehend when a person is actively dangerous and either it's your fault for not knowing how to leave/cut them off or you deserve it. Like the hypocrisy of people believing how certain fans treat the story reflect their irl views but not their own is crazy.

End statement is: I honestly don't even know man, I've been writing this too long and just like no man on that ship was perfect or really helped Anya when it mattered and I feel like pitting them against each other in discussion on who did the least or most or how it was justified sucks cause in the end Anya always did the most and best thing for herself.

[dayabelle]

Whatever this is

Pairings: Mha!Shota Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Oneshot!

-

Shes in her twenties, the night soft with the hum of city life outside her window. She’s dozing on her couch, the flicker of a late-night movie casting shifting shadows across the walls. Then, a faint knock—hesitant but urgent—cuts through the quiet.

She startles awake, blinking into the darkness. It takes her a moment to realize it’s coming from the window. Her pulse quickens as she moves toward it, pulling aside the curtain. There he is, slumped against the frame, his face pale, a gash above his brow leaking crimson. His knuckles are raw, his shirt torn, and the faint glint of pain dances in his eyes.

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Oh my God,” she gasps, fumbling to unlock the window. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He tries to smile, his voice hoarse. “Bad night.” But his knees buckle as he climbs inside, and she catches him, her hands shaking as she helps him to the couch.

She doesn’t ask more questions, not yet. Grabbing her first aid kit, she works with a single-minded focus, dabbing at the blood, her voice soft but firm as she tells him to stay still. He winces but doesn’t complain, watching her with a mix of gratitude and something else—something quieter, more profound.

When the cuts are cleaned and the bandages are secured, she sinks onto the couch beside him, her breath shaky. “You scared me,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice low. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

And that’s when it happens—the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way he lets his guard slip just for a moment. She sees him not as the tough, unflinching guy she thought he was, but as someone who’s been carrying too much, for too long.

The hours pass, and he stays. They talk in whispers, his defenses softening as he tells her bits and pieces of what led him here tonight. She listens, her own walls crumbling as she begins to see him more clearly.

By the time dawn breaks, painting the room in soft hues of gold, she realizes she’s falling for him. It’s not just the way he looks at her, or the quiet strength he carries despite his pain—it’s the way he makes her feel, like she’s someone worth leaning on. Someone worth knowing.

The living room is cloaked in a warm, muted glow, the faint hum of the city outside their only soundtrack. He leans back against the couch, exhaustion etched into his features, the adrenaline fading and leaving him raw. She sits close, the first aid kit still on the table, her fingers resting idly on her lap as she studies him. His face is pale, the bandage on his brow stark against his skin, but his lips curl into a faint, tired smile when he catches her gaze.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. There’s a vulnerability in the way he says it, a hesitation she’s not used to seeing in him.

“Of course, I did,” she replies, her voice firmer than she expected. “You were bleeding on my fire escape. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t?”

He chuckles softly, but it fades quickly, his eyes dropping to his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t mean to drag you into… whatever this is.”

Her heart twists at the way he says it, at the shame laced in his words. “Stop,” she says, her tone gentler now. “You don’t have to explain. I’m just… I’m glad you came here.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m glad you trusted me.”

For a moment, silence settles between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. His eyes meet hers again, searching, as if trying to understand why she’s not angry, why she hasn’t pushed him away. The look they share lingers, and something unspoken passes between them—an understanding, a connection that neither of them can quite put into words.

“Sometimes, it feels like I don’t have anyone,” he admits quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Like I’m just… out there, on my own.”

Her chest tightens at his words. “You’re not alone,” she says softly. “Not tonight, at least.”

He looks at her for a long moment, something vulnerable and raw flickering in his gaze. Then, almost hesitantly, he reaches for her. His arms wrap around her, tentative at first, as if unsure she’ll accept the gesture. But she does, slipping into his embrace like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She feels his heartbeat against her cheek, steady but slightly erratic, as if he’s as uncertain about this moment as she is. His body relaxes by degrees, the tension melting away as her arms tighten around him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against her hair, his voice barely audible.

She doesn’t reply, just lets her fingers trace soft circles on his back. The weight of the moment pulls them both under, and before long, the rhythm of their breathing syncs, their exhaustion catching up to them.

They fall asleep like that, tangled together on the couch, her head resting against his chest, his arms securely around her. In the quiet of the early morning, with the world outside just beginning to stir, everything else fades away—the worries, the pain, the distance. For a few precious hours, it’s just them, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

.

The soft glow of morning sunlight filters through the curtains, painting the living room in shades of gold and amber. The city outside is slowly waking, the distant hum of cars and faint chatter of early risers drifting through the cracked window.

She stirs first, her eyes fluttering open to the sight of him still asleep. His face is relaxed, the tension she saw the night before melted away in the quiet vulnerability of slumber. His arm is still draped loosely around her, and she can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. She studies him in the golden light, noticing things she hadn’t before—the faint crease between his brows, the way his jawline softens when he’s at peace, the faint stubble catching the light. He looks so different from the man who had stumbled through her window just hours ago, battered and broken. Here, he looks almost... boyish, as if the weight of the world has momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

Her heart swells with something she doesn’t dare name yet. It’s too soon, too fragile. But as she lies there, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the blanket draped over them, she knows she’s crossed a line. She’s fallen deeper than she intended.

He stirs beneath her, his breathing shifting as his eyes flicker open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, his gaze darting around the room before landing on her. His expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Morning,” she replies, her own voice quiet. She shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him more clearly. “How are you feeling?”

He chuckles softly, wincing as he sits up. “Like I got hit by a truck. But... better. Thanks to you.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t pass out on that fire escape,” she teases gently, though her eyes betray her lingering worry. “What happened last night, anyway?”

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to his hands. “It’s... a long story,” he says finally. “One I’m not sure you want to hear.”

“I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t care,” she says, her tone firmer than she expects. Her hand brushes his, a small but deliberate gesture. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just... don’t shut me out.”

He looks at her then, his eyes searching hers as if trying to decide whether he can trust her with the pieces of himself he’s been guarding so tightly. After a long moment, he nods. “Okay. Not now, but... soon.”

The tension eases between them, replaced by a quiet understanding. She rises from the couch, stretching and offering him a small smile. “I’ll make coffee. You look like you could use some.”

He watches her as she moves toward the kitchen, the corners of his mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. For the first time in a long while, he feels something unfamiliar—a sense of belonging, of safety.

As the rich aroma of coffee fills the air and the morning light grows brighter, they settle into the rhythm of the day, both knowing that something between them has shifted. They don’t name it yet, but it lingers in every glance, every word, every shared silence. Something fragile, yet undeniable, has begun to bloom.

The week passes in a blur, but she finds her thoughts constantly drifting back to that night. She catches herself glancing at the window more often than she’d like to admit, hoping for another knock, even though she knows it’s foolish. He has his own life, his own battles to fight. But the way he held her, the quiet sincerity in his voice, lingers like a warmth she can’t shake.

Then, one evening, just as the city begins to settle into its nighttime rhythm, there’s a soft, familiar tap at her window. Her heart skips, a mix of surprise and anticipation surging through her as she pulls back the curtain.

There he is, standing on the fire escape. This time, there’s no blood, no torn clothing, no pained expression. His face is softer in the faint glow of the city lights, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. His black hair falls in loose, unkempt strands around his face, framing his sharp jawline and tired eyes. He wears his usual dark attire—fitted black pants, a black shirt clinging to his lean frame, and that ever-present scarf looped loosely around his neck. Even now, there’s an intensity about him, a quiet strength that draws her in.

She quickly opens the window, her voice a mix of surprise and worry. “Shota? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, stepping inside with a fluid grace that feels so distinctly him. His dark eyes meet hers, and the faint smile grows just a little wider. “I just… needed to see you.”

His words take her breath away. She watches as he steps throughthe window, his gaze softening as it roams over her face, taking in every detail like he’s memorizing her. Before she can say anything, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a firm, almost desperate embrace.

Her breath hitches as she feels his warmth, the steady thrum of his heart against hers. “I missed you,” he murmurs against her hair, his voice low and rough with emotion. “I missed your laugh, your voice... everything. It’s been a hell of a week, and I’ve been so damn busy, but I couldn’t stay away.”

She melts into his arms, her hands clutching the back of his shirt as if afraid he’ll disappear again. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence filled with unspoken emotions that hang heavy in the air.

When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on her shoulders, his dark eyes searching hers. “I know I didn’t leave things the way I should’ve the other night,” he says quietly. “But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About... this.”

Her cheeks flush under his gaze, but she doesn’t look away. “I thought about you too,” she admits softly. Her eyes flick over his face, taking in every detail—the faint dark circles under his eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the way his hair falls messily into his face. He’s tired, but there’s a softness to him tonight, a vulnerability she rarely sees.

“You look like you’ve been running yourself into the ground,” she says, her voice tinged with concern.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Comes with the job. But being here... with you... it’s worth it.”

She can’t help but smile, her worry easing as his words settle over her. “Well, since you’re here, I guess you’re staying for coffee this time?”

He smirks, a rare glint of humor lighting up his expression. “Only if you’re making it.”

She rolls her eyes, but her heart swells as she heads to the kitchen, his presence filling the space in a way that feels both comforting and exhilarating. As the night stretches on, they settle into easy conversation, their laughter echoing softly through the apartment.

For the first time in what feels like forever, she feels like they’re finally moving toward something real, something they both desperately want but are too scared to name. And as the hours slip away, she knows one thing for certain—this time, she won’t let him go.

The air between them feels different tonight—charged, alive. There’s an unspoken understanding that neither of them cares to question anymore. Labels, reasons, boundaries… they’ve stopped mattering. What’s forming between them has a rhythm all its own, one they’ve surrendered to without hesitation.

She sits cross-legged on the couch, her face glowing under the warm light of the lamp. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders as she gestures animatedly, recounting the absurdity of something that happened earlier in the day. He listens, his body turned toward her, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, but his eyes never leave her. The way her lips curve when she laughs, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear—these little things ignite something deep in his chest, a warmth he didn’t know he could feel so intensely.

“...And then I told him, ‘Sure, because cats definitely know how to use a spreadsheet,’” she finishes with a grin, leaning back with a playful toss of her head.

He chuckles, the sound low and rare, like a secret only she’s allowed to hear. “That’s your response to workplace chaos? Mock the guy?”

“What can I say? I thrive under pressure,” she teases, her eyes sparkling. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep things interesting. Not everyone can be all serious and broody like you.”

He smirks at her, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” But there’s no edge to his words, only affection.

She notices the way the corner of his mouth quirks when he smiles, how his eyes soften in a way that makes him seem less like the stoic man the world knows and more like the Shota she’s come to love. It’s in the small moments—his hand grazing hers as he reaches for his mug, the way he unconsciously leans closer when she speaks. Every touch, no matter how brief, feels like a spark, warm and grounding.

Her heart burns at the realization: He’s here. He’s hers. A man like Aizawa Shota—reserved, rational, and always tethered to duty—is sitting on her couch, laughing at her jokes, holding her like she’s the one constant in a chaotic world.

As if sensing her thoughts, he reaches out, his hand resting lightly on her knee before trailing up to cup her cheek. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

She laughs softly, her cheeks warming. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitates for a moment, then leans into his touch, her voice soft but steady. “About how crazy this all feels. How someone like you—��� Her words falter, but she pushes through. “—how you’re here. With me.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying her, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. “And what’s so crazy about that?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “You shouldn’t be. You’ve got a million things to do, responsibilities that are way bigger than me. But you’re still here.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You’re mine.”

His expression softens, the faintest smile curving his lips as he leans forward. “I’m here because I want to be. Because you make it worth it.”

The words hit her like a bolt, warm and overwhelming. She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just smiles, the kind of smile that makes her cheeks ache, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He holds her tightly, his chin resting on her shoulder, and for a moment, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

They stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, their breaths synchronized, their hearts pounding in time. When they finally pull apart, she feels lighter, like something inside her has shifted. They talk about their days, their words easy and natural, punctuated by her silly jokes and his dry quips.

But it’s in the quiet moments between the words—the way his fingers trace lazy patterns along her arm, the way she leans into his side without thinking—that they both feel it. This is more than fleeting. It’s something that’s settling into the marrow of their lives, warming every corner of their being.

By the time the night deepens and the city outside quiets, they’re still together, his arms wrapped around her as they sit in comfortable silence. Aizawa Shota, the man she never expected to fall for, has become her anchor. And as her head rests against his chest, she knows without a doubt—this is where they both belong.

The past four weeks had felt like an eternity. Each passing day without a knock at her window or a call from him had chipped away at her resolve, leaving her with an ache she couldn’t shake. Her mind spiraled into overthinking—was she just a convenience for him? A distraction from his responsibilities? Did he grow bored and decide to disappear without a word? The doubts gnawed at her, and the quiet nights without him felt colder, emptier.

She tried to convince herself she didn’t care, but every time she caught herself glancing at the window or checking her phone, the truth hit her all over again. She missed him. She missed the way he’d smile just for her, the warmth of his arms, the quiet strength he carried with him. She missed him.

Then, on a night like any other, she heard it—the knock. Soft, almost hesitant. Her heart leapt and froze all at once, her legs moving before her mind could catch up. She opened the window, and there he was. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but the moment he saw her, his entire body seemed to give out. He stumbled forward, falling into her arms like a weight she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting to catch.

Her breath hitched as she wrapped her arms around him, steadying him. “Shota,” she whispered, her voice a mix of relief and confusion. “What happened? Where have you been?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He just held her, his grip almost desperate, as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he let go. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his words muffled against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to leave like that. I didn’t want to. I had to go undercover—mission came up, no time to explain.”

She felt the tension in his body, the way his breath hitched as he tried to keep his composure. “You don’t have to explain,” she said softly, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “I was just… worried. I didn’t know if you were okay.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his dark eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite name—guilt, relief, maybe even fear. “I’m back,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters. I’m back.”

She nodded, her heart aching at the weariness in his voice. “You’re here now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s enough.”

They moved to the couch, and the night stretched on as he let everything out. The stress of the mission, the toll it had taken on him, the way he’d thought about her every night he was away but couldn’t risk contacting her. She listened without interruption, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her presence a quiet reassurance.

Eventually, he rested his head on her lap, his eyes fluttering closed as her fingers gently threaded through his dark, messy hair. It had grow longer, just how she liked it. The tension in his body began to ease, his breaths growing steadier. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, a small gesture of comfort.

But the moment her lips brushed his skin, his eyes snapped open, and he shot upright, their faces suddenly inches apart. Her breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest. His dark eyes searched hers, intense and unreadable, the air between them charged with something she couldn’t name.

She froze, unsure of what to do. The closeness, the way his gaze seemed to pierce straight through her—it was almost too much. But he didn’t look angry. If anything, he looked... conflicted, like he was weighing something in his mind, making a choice.

Her lips parted, a soft exhale escaping her. “Shota,” she began, but her voice faltered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand rose slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The touch was featherlight but burned all the same. His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, his jaw tightening slightly as if fighting some internal battle.

Neither of them moved, the moment stretching on endlessly. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable—just charged, electric. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the intensity of his presence making it impossible to look away.

And then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, like he was confessing something he couldn’t hold back anymore. “I don’t think I can keep holding back,” he murmured.

"... then dont" she smiled, and less then a second later. One last lingering gaze.

The tension broke like a dam, and before she could say anything more, he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was soft, lingering, but filled with an unmistakable intensity. His lips moved against hers with a quiet certainty, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long. She felt the weight of his emotions in the way he held her face so gently, the way he kissed her like he wanted to memorize the feel of her.

When he pulled back, his gaze was on her, and her breath caught. He looked at her with such raw, unguarded tenderness that it nearly broke her. His dark eyes softened in a way she rarely saw, and there was a quiet vulnerability in the way his thumb brushed her cheek.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost shaky.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare back at him, her heart thundering in her chest. Instead, she reached up, her fingers grazing his jaw, her touch featherlight but filled with meaning.

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face against her neck, his arms wrapping around her as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. She felt his weight against her, the way his breath shuddered as he exhaled. His body was warm, grounding her in the moment, and she closed her eyes, letting herself melt into him.

Her back pressed against the couch as he shifted, settling against her with a quiet sigh. His head rested against her chest now, his arms wrapping around her tightly, almost like a baby sloth clinging to its favorite tree. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, her fingers instinctively finding his hair again, stroking it in slow, soothing motions.

“You’re not leaving again anytime soon, right?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, his voice muffled but firm. “No. Not if I can help it.”

Her heart softened even further as she leaned her head back, staring up at the ceiling while her hands continued their gentle rhythm in his hair. She felt his body relax fully against hers, the tension he’d been carrying for weeks finally melting away.

For a long while, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s presence, the world outside forgotten. Every rise and fall of his chest against hers, every small shift of his fingers on her waist, burned itself into her memory.

She smiled to herself, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “You’re not as stoic as you pretend to be,” she teased lightly, her voice filled with affection.

He let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly to look up at her. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

She laughed, the sound soft and warm, and for the first time in weeks, the ache in her chest disappeared entirely. He was here, with her, holding her like she was his entire world. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

... 5 years before.

They met when they were 18. Their last year of U.A. High.

In high school, they couldn’t have been more different—at least on the surface. She was the girl everyone knew, her warmth and laughter a magnet that drew people in. Her smile was infectious, her kindness unwavering, and she had an uncanny ability to make even the shyest people feel seen. People adored her, but she was never the type to let the attention go to her head.

He, on the other hand, was the quiet one who preferred the background. Aizawa Shota was sharp, observant, and fiercely independent, but he carried an air of solitude that made him unapproachable to most. It wasn’t that he was disliked—he just didn’t care for the trivialities of high school life. He moved through the halls with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes unreadable and his messy black hair perpetually in his face.

But for some reason, she noticed him.

It started with a random moment in their last year. She’d seen him sitting alone under a tree during lunch, his nose buried in a book, entirely disconnected from the buzzing chaos of the school courtyard. Something about him intrigued her—his quiet demeanor, the way he seemed so at peace on his own. On a whim, she approached him, her bright smile disarming him immediately.

“Hey,” she said, plopping down beside him without an invitation. “You always sit alone. Don’t you get bored?”

He looked up from his book, startled by her sudden presence. His brow furrowed slightly, but there was no annoyance in his tone when he replied, “Not really. I like the quiet.”

“Well, that’s boring,” she said with a teasing grin, resting her chin in her hand. “I think you need a little chaos in your life.”

From that day on, she seemed to make it her mission to be that chaos.

She started dragging him along everywhere, whether he wanted to or not. Behind the school, where they’d sit on the steps and talk about nothing and everything. To her favorite café after school, where she’d insist on buying him coffee despite his protests. She was the one who developed his taste for coffee, even to his throties ot just stuck with her in mind. To the park, where they’d sit under the trees and watch the clouds.

What struck him most was how, when they were together, everything else seemed to fade away. She didn’t care about his lack of popularity, about what anyone else thought. She saw him—not his reputation, not his stoic exterior, just him. And he liked that.

Then came graduation. The reality of moving on, of leaving behind the little bubble they’d created, hit them both harder than they expected. They promised to keep in touch, but life had other plans.

For 5 years, they drifted. Life pulled them in different directions, their once-frequent conversations growing fewer and farther between. She missed him more than she wanted to admit. And he, though he didn’t show it, thought about her often, wondering if she’d moved on, if she even remembered the quiet boy she used to laugh with behind the school.

Then, at age 23, fate brought them back together.

It was a chance meeting, the kind that felt almost too perfect to be real. She saw him first, across a bustling street, his familiar messy hair catching her attention. She called out to him, her voice cutting through the noise like a lifeline. When he turned and saw her, the surprise in his eyes melted into something softer, something closer to relief.

Then came the nights—the nights when he’d knock on her window, looking like the world had been weighing on him. She’d let him in without hesitation, their conversations stretching into the early hours. Slowly, those visits became a constant, a quiet reassurance that they were no longer just ships passing in the night. The nights they spent in their twenties, every knock on her window.

And as they spent those nights together, something deeper began to grow, something neither of them had the courage to name just yet. But they both knew—what they’d found in each other was far from ordinary. It was rare, it was real, and it was theirs.

But life of course, had other plans. He became a teacher, and became even more busy. And as he grew he started distancing himself. Afraid to hurt her with the reality of their different lives and how it would never work.

.

7 years later. 30 years old.

.

In the years they spent apart, both carried the weight of their unspoken words, their unfinished story. She, in the comfort of new routines and distractions, tried desperately to forget him, to put the memories in a box and lock it away. But every time she laughed, every time she saw something that reminded her of him, his name would sneak into her mind like an uninvited guest. Shota—the word tasted like both a balm and a wound. She had tried, for so long, to push him out of her thoughts, but there he was, always lingering, a shadow in the corners of her mind.

It wasn’t that she wanted to forget him. She couldn’t. How could she? He had been her world, once. But she tried to move on—she had to. Her life demanded it. She started to date, to build new connections, but no one ever felt right. The way he’d kissed her forehead, the weight of his hand on her back when he held her close—it was a ghost she couldn't shake. She loved the idea of moving forward, but in the back of her mind, there was always him, Shota.

For him, it was worse. He never stopped thinking about her, not for a single moment. Her name felt like home—a strange, bittersweet home that he couldn't return to. When the memories came, they came like floods. He’d hear her laughter in his mind, her smile flashing in his memory, and everything inside him would burn with regret. Why did I leave her? It was the question that haunted him every night when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He had told himself it was for the best, that he was protecting her by walking away. But that reasoning had never quieted the ache in his chest, the guilt that gnawed at him.

He couldn't even say her name. It felt like betrayal. Each time he thought about her, it hurt like a raw wound, and so he buried it—shoved it deep, hoping it would disappear. But it never did. The thought of her lingered, twisted, and became a silent weight he carried with him everywhere.

His friends, even those who knew him best, never dared mention her. They saw the way his face would tighten whenever her memory surfaced, and they respected that unspoken silence. They knew it was better to avoid it, as if talking about her would make the pain real again.

But with every passing year, that pain grew only sharper, harder to ignore. He would see a woman laugh in the same carefree way she used to, and his chest would tighten with longing. He’d hear a song they used to listen to together, and his stomach would flip with a sense of loss. Every memory, every moment spent with her, was a reminder of how much he had left behind.

As the years wore on, he tried to fill the void. He threw himself into work, into missions that demanded his attention, but none of it could distract him enough. Every victory felt hollow. He never dated date anybody, he rarely made friends, so dating anybody was out of the question. None of it filled the space that she had occupied in his heart. She was the one I let go, he would tell himself. And in those quiet moments, he couldn’t help but feel like he had failed her.

But she had moved on, or at least, she had tried to. She built her own life, filled with things and people who were kind to her, who made her laugh. And yet, every time she found herself at a quiet moment, alone, she would think of him. Her heart would ache in a way she couldn’t explain. She forced herself to keep going, but in the back of her mind, Shota was always there.

And now, seven years later, as he knocked on her window, she realized how little had truly changed. He was still the man she had known, and yet he was so different—scarred, haunted by his own regrets, and carrying a pain she knew all too well. And he still had that same power to stir something deep within her, a feeling she had buried for far too long.

She didn’t know what to say, how to make sense of this moment. But looking at him, seeing the bruises and blood, she knew that despite everything—the time, the distance, the hurt—they were still connected in a way nothing else could touch. His presence, even broken and raw, still felt like home. And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to feel that comfort, that quiet longing.

Seven years had passed since the last time their lives had intersected, seven years since he had walked away without a word, leaving her heartache and confusion in his wake. Time had done its work, and both of them had moved forward, building their separate lives. She had her own world now—new friends, new routines, and a heart that had learned how to heal, even if the scar he left behind would never fully fade.

He, too, had changed. He had grown into the man he had always been on the inside—stronger, more grounded, but still carrying the weight of his own demons. He had tried to bury the memory of her, to keep her in the past where he thought she belonged, but the truth was, she had never fully left him. He thought about her often, his mind haunted by the days they spent together—the quiet, stolen moments behind the school, the laughter, the closeness. But he had left, had to leave, because he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.

Now, at 30, he found himself at her window once again, but it wasn’t a planned visit. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He hadn’t meant to end up bruised and bloody, his body aching from whatever fight or mission had left him shattered. He had no idea how he found her new apartment, but somehow, some instinct led him to her.

The knock on the window was weak, desperate. He didn’t even know why he was there, why his feet had brought him back to her. He hadn’t spoken to her in so long, had convinced himself that he was doing the right thing by staying away. But now, standing outside her window in the dead of night, all of that seemed like a distant memory, a mistake.

She stirred from her sleep, groggily blinking into the dark room. The night was quiet, almost still, and it took her a few moments to register the sound at her window. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him—his figure shrouded in shadow, but unmistakable.

At first, she thought she was dreaming. The figure was different—more mature, older, with a weariness in his posture that hadn’t been there before. But when he looked up and met her gaze, her breath hitched. Shota.

Her mind was still racing, but her body moved without hesitation. She rushed to the window, pushing it open as quickly as she could. She didn’t even say anything; her hands were already reaching for him, pulling him inside. He collapsed into her arms, unsteady on his feet, and she guided him to the couch without a word.

His appearance struck her immediately. His face was older, more defined with the years. His eyes, though, still held that same familiar vulnerability, the same depth she remembered. He was bruised, battered, and covered in blood, but there was something in the way he looked at her—an apology, a quiet desperation, and something more.

She quickly moved to get her first aid kit, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating faster than usual. This moment felt unreal—like they had both woken up from some long, drawn-out dream, and now here they were, face to face, with the years between them suddenly irrelevant. She knelt beside him, her fingers trembling as she cleaned the blood from his face.

His voice was raspy, hesitant. “I didn’t mean to come here... I just... didn’t know where else to go.”

Her fingers stilled for a moment, her heart catching in her throat. “I’ve heard this before .... Shota,” she whispered, as if saying his name aloud could make sense of everything. She had thought of him so many times over the years, wondering what had happened, if he was okay, but she never imagined that one day, he’d show up like this.

He met her gaze, his eyes full of regret. “I shouldn’t have left. I just... I was too scared. I thought I was protecting you, but I was only hurting both of us.”

Her heart twisted. The familiar ache from all those years ago surged within her, but now, she couldn’t find it in herself to be angry. There was too much between them, too much unspoken, but the years of silence didn’t change the fact that she knew him. She always would.

She finished cleaning his wounds in silence, the moment stretching on, neither of them knowing what to say. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, a history neither of them had fully processed. She was stunned, and maybe he was, too. They both had changed, but in the quiet of the room, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence. “What happened to you?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. It was a simple question, but it carried so much weight—so many years, so many unasked questions.

His eyes flickered with pain, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I... I didn’t mean to drag you back into my mess. But I couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t be alone.”

She let out a breath, her hands gently pressing against his shoulders, grounding him. The words were there, but the timing wasn’t right. So, she didn’t push.

Instead, she reached up and cupped his face with both hands, her thumb brushing the bruise along his cheekbone. “You’re here now,” she said softly. “And that’s all that matters.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other—two people who had been apart for so long, yet in this moment, were exactly where they needed to be. The room felt smaller, the distance between them nonexistent. The years, the pain, the silence—it all melted away in that one glance.

And for the first time in seven years, the weight that had hung between them seemed to lift.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heating system, the sound of the snow falling softly outside, and the occasional crack of the fire in the corner. It was winter now, colder than they both remembered, but warmer in ways they hadn't expected.

They sat together on the couch, just like they had so many years ago—before life had pulled them apart, before time and distance had stretched their bond thin. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came with familiarity, with shared history. But now they were different people, adults with lives they had built separately.

She glanced at him, her gaze soft but searching, and couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in him. He looked more weathered, more worn, as if the years had taken their toll on him in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Yet, despite the bruises on his skin, despite the exhaustion in his eyes, he was still her Shota—the one who had stayed in the back of her mind, the one she never truly let go of.

After a moment, she asked softly, "Do you want to go to my bedroom? This couch is too uncomfortable for you." She had noticed how much he towered over her now, and God she liked it.

He hesitated, unsure of how to answer, feeling like he was intruding in some way. His chest tightened with the overwhelming need to protect her, to not impose on her life any more than he already had. But she didn't give him much room to protest. She looked at him again, with that familiar, determined spark in her eyes, and said, "You don’t have to be so polite. Please, just let me take care of you."

With a sigh, he relented. She helped him to his feet, supporting him gently as they walked to her bedroom, the soft shuffle of their feet on the hardwood floor barely audible in the stillness. To anybody else, this would have seemed dirty and inappropriate, but to them, it didn't matter.

Once inside, she settled him on the bed, pulling the thick, warm blankets over them both, a comfort that made the weight of everything outside the room seem so far away. There, tucked under the covers, it felt like time had folded in on itself. The ache from all those years apart seemed to dissolve, replaced by something different, something softer. He lay there, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his body unwilling to let her go, as though he had spent too many nights alone, too many years trying to survive without her.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax into his embrace, but tears slipped down her cheeks nonetheless. She didn’t try to hide them. She couldn’t. The years of trying to forget him, of convincing herself that she was better off, were crashing over her like a tide she couldn’t fight. The pain of missing him, of the uncertainty, of the questions that had lingered without answers—it all flooded back in an instant.

Without a word, he pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her like he was afraid to let her slip away. She could feel his warmth, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. His embrace was like a promise, a silent apology, and it was so familiar it almost made her ache even more.

He held her tight, as though he were afraid that if he let go, she might disappear again, like she had seven years ago. "I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I never should have left you."

She giggled softly, trying to hold back her tears, but they spilled over anyway. “You’re squeezing me so tight, Shota,” she murmured through a watery laugh, her back nearly cracking from the force of his hold. She didn’t mind. In fact, it made her feel more alive than she had in so long.

His grip loosened slightly, but not by much. He brushed his lips against her hair, the quiet comfort of the moment settling over both of them. It was different now, more fragile but no less significant. They were no longer two young people trying to figure out what it all meant. Now, they were two adults, broken by time and life, but still clinging to something that neither of them had fully understood until now.

The snow outside began to fall harder, and they stayed there together, wrapped up in the warmth of each other’s company. She played with his hair, the same messy strands she had once found so charming. Her fingers traced the scar under his eye, the one that marked him as someone who had been through battles—literal and metaphorical.

“You’ve changed,” she whispered, her fingers stilling for a moment, tracing the curve of his ear. “But I can still feel you. I still recognize you, Shota.”

He smiled at that, the first real smile she’d seen from him in what felt like forever. It was soft and honest, a quiet acknowledgment of the distance they had traveled, the years they had spent apart. But in that moment, they were closer than they had been in a long time.

“I’ve changed,” he admitted, “but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m different now, but with you, I can still be…me. The me I was with you.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel the need to protect herself from the emotions that rushed to the surface. She leaned up slightly, kissing his cheek softly before resting her head back against his chest.

They stayed like that for a long time, finding their way back to each other in the quiet. No more words were needed. Everything they hadn’t said over the years hung in the air between them, but it no longer felt heavy. They had time, now. Time to heal, to find new answers, to rebuild what had been broken.

She closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his breath, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they had finally found their way back home.

As they lay there together, the world outside seemed so far away, the cold winter air forgotten in the warmth they shared. Her skin, soft and delicate, radiated a warmth that enveloped him in a way he hadn’t known he needed. He could feel the heat of her body pressed against his, the way her heartbeat fluttered gently under his touch, reminding him that she was real, that she was here with him. His hand, which had once been so unsure of where to place itself, now found its way to the small of her back, cradling her as if she might slip away at any moment.

Her warmth, the feel of her skin against his, was a balm to the aching part of him he’d buried for so long. His heart had hurt for years—ever since the moment he walked away—but now, in this quiet space, in the tenderness of her touch, that pain seemed to fade, just for a moment. Her skin was like a living, breathing reassurance, a reminder that some connections never really break. The heat of her skin, soft and comforting, wrapped around him like a quiet promise. It soothed the hurt that had nested in his chest for so long, making him feel whole again in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing her in—the faint scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her chest. It was so familiar, so deeply entwined with everything he had ever known and wanted. Her warmth was a contradiction to the chill that had haunted him, a promise that maybe, just maybe, the years apart hadn’t broken them entirely.

For her, the feeling of his embrace was no less powerful. She had spent so much time convincing herself she was fine, that she had moved on, that life had continued in the absence of him. But with him here, with his strong arms around her, she couldn’t deny how much she had missed this—the way his presence filled up the spaces inside her that she had let go empty for so long. His warmth made her feel alive in a way she had forgotten. She felt the strong beat of his heart beneath her ear, steady and sure, like the constant rhythm of a song she hadn’t realized was playing in the background of her life all these years.

But it wasn’t just warmth in a physical sense—it was deeper, something that ran through the both of them like an unspoken thread. He could feel her warmth reaching deep into the scars in his soul, the ones he had left untouched for far too long. Her touch was a healing salve, drawing him back into the present, into this moment with her. Her skin against his felt like an unspoken apology from the universe itself—a reminder that the pain of the past could be soothed, that what they had lost might be waiting to be found again.

As they lay there, so close, so warm, the world outside might have been cold and distant, but inside this room, they were exactly where they needed to be. Her warmth against him made his heart hurt in the best way, a sharp ache that told him they had never been fully apart, that they had always carried a piece of each other. He wasn’t sure if this was the beginning of something new or the continuation of something unfinished, but for now, he didn’t care. Her warmth made him feel whole again, and for the first time in so long, he allowed himself to believe that they might just have a chance to heal together.

Her breath, soft and even, was a lullaby against the storm inside him. He closed his eyes, pulling her even closer, as though to make sure she was really there. The ache in his heart, the one that had been a constant companion, started to feel different. It wasn’t pain anymore. It was something new, something raw, but something he could hold onto.

She felt him tighten his grip, his fingers tracing the line of her spine, and she shivered slightly, not from the cold but from the intensity of the emotion that hung between them. She didn’t need to say a word. She could feel the way his heart was in his chest, beating steadily against her. He was scared, just like her. But the warmth between them, the connection they had once shared, was something that no amount of time could erase.

And as they lay there together, he kissed the top of her head softly, whispering the words neither of them had dared to speak for so long: “I’m sorry... I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Those words, warm and steady like the heat of their bodies pressed together, were all she needed. In the moment, they didn’t need to ask for more. They didn’t need answers. They just needed each other. And in that warmth, wrapped up in the quiet stillness of the night, they found a place to heal.

"Shota.."

"Y/n"

She slowly lifted her head from his chest, her breath shallow, her pulse quickening. Her gaze met his, and in that moment, she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a long time: care. Deep, raw care. It made her heart skip a beat. His eyes softened as he gazed at her, and it felt like he was searching her face, trying to find the right words, or maybe just trying to reassure himself that this was real—that they were really here, together, again.

She hesitated, her lips parted as if unsure whether to move or to stay suspended in the moment. His eyes never wavered from her.

She felt the pull, the old connection drawing her in, and before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in slowly, closing the space between them. Her lips brushed his, a light and tentative kiss, soft and almost fragile, as if testing the waters after all this time apart. The sensation of his lips against hers stirred something deep inside her, a flood of memories and feelings that she had kept locked away for years.

But then, as if he couldn’t help himself anymore, he responded. The kiss deepened, and his arms tightened around her. His hand moved to the small of her back, gripping her firmly, pulling her closer until there was no distance left between them. The kiss was no longer tentative; it was full of longing, of need, as if all the words they couldn’t say were wrapped up in every touch. His lips pressed against hers with an intensity that took her breath away, the urgency of his embrace matching the hunger in his kiss.

She melted into him, her body responding to his, her hands instinctively reaching to find his shoulders, her fingers curling into his shirt as she felt him pull her even closer, as if he couldn’t get enough. His warmth, his strength, his presence—it was all consuming, and she let herself be lost in it. The years apart, the pain, the regret—it all faded as their kiss deepened, leaving only the raw, electric connection between them.

When they finally pulled away, both of them breathless, the silence that followed was thick with everything they hadn’t yet said, but somehow, words weren’t necessary. They just stared at each other for a moment, the world outside the room completely forgotten, their hearts both racing. He didn’t let go, his arms still holding her tightly as if afraid she might disappear if he let her go.

And in that moment, neither of them cared about anything else.

The silence lingered between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, like a quiet promise that everything was going to be okay, even though they hadn’t spoken the words out loud yet. She looked at him, her heart still racing from the kiss, from the sheer intensity of the moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with sincerity. There was something about the way he said it—like he meant it, like it was more than just a promise. It was a vow, and for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

She searched his eyes, her expression softening. “Please don’t. I... I need you here.”

His hand gently cupped her cheek, brushing away a stray strand of hair. “I won’t leave. I swear,” he whispered, his thumb gently tracing her jawline, the contact grounding her in the moment.

She smiled at him, her heart feeling lighter than it had in years. “Good,” she said with a playful, teasing tone, her laughter bubbling up unexpectedly, bright and free. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed the simple joy of being around him, of laughing with him in the quiet of the night.

The sound of her laughter filled the room, and it was like music to his ears—familiar, comforting, and full of life. For a moment, he couldn’t help but smile, the weight of everything else lifting as he listened to her laugh. It was like they were back in time, in those carefree days of their youth when nothing else mattered except being together.

As the night wore on, the warmth of his arms and the peaceful quiet of the room made everything feel like it was exactly where it needed to be. She snuggled into him, feeling the pull of sleep wrapping around her like a soft blanket. The last thing she remembered was his steady breathing beside her, his presence anchoring her, making her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

She fell asleep in his arms, her body relaxed against his, her head resting on his chest once again, just like it had all those years ago. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm beneath her ear, and she drifted off to sleep with a quiet sigh, her mind finally at peace.

And he, too, lay there, not wanting to move, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that had settled between them. He watched her, the way her breathing slowed, the way she fit so perfectly against him, and he allowed himself a moment to just… be. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the weight of regrets or fears. He just felt... complete.

Soon, his eyes grew heavy, and the warmth of her body beside him lulled him into a peaceful sleep. They both slept soundly through the night, wrapped in each other’s presence, the kind of sleep that comes only when you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

-

[sc0ttstre3t]

queen of disaster

ballerina!reader x glasses!spencer reid

summary: you are a principal dancer for the american ballet theatre. currently, you are playing juliet in the company's production of romeo & juliet. unbeknownst to you, a certain genius is sitting in the audience, in complete awe.

warnings: ballet inaccuracies? idk. barely proofread. just complete fluff.

After solving an especially difficult case, the team had been forced to allowed to take some time off. Spencer has mostly spent it reading in the confines of his apartment, but has finally decided to take a trip. New York, somewhere he's only been for cases, wouldn't usually seem appealing, but after he found out that a production of Romeo & Juliet was currently showing at one of the best ballet companies in the world, he booked a ticket.

The show has been going well, quick paced and entertaining, with strong dancers bounding across the stage every second. Spencer's eyes are moving back and forth, trying to take in every movement.

And then it all slows down.

You appear on stage, dressed in a white and gold dress, dancing across the stage. Your arms and legs strong, yet delicate and youthful, you are the perfect Juliet. For the first time in forever, Spencer's mind is blank. He has never felt this way before. He's been captured by you, and your movements, and the emotion on your face. As a man of reason, Spencer knows love at first sight isn't real. What he is experiencing is simply infatuation, a projection he placed upon you as soon as he saw you. But that can't be right. This, all of this is real. You're real, and in front of him, and Spencer couldn't be more confused.

After the show, Spencer finds his way to the lobby with the rest of the attendees, brain still hazy about what has just happened to him. It doesn't make sense. He only saw you for a few hours, playing someone entirely different than who you really were. He doesn't know your name, or who you really are as a person. How could he…

Oh.

There you are again.

Standing with other dancers, giggling and talking. Still in your costume, but much more relaxed. Just as angelic as you were on stage, if not more. Everything stills once again, you the only focus of his attention.

Spencer walks to you, his feet moving without his own realization. Wading through the crowd, before you finally end up face to face.

You turn to him, eyebrows furrowed for a moment, before you really see him.

Gosh.

You hesitate, before putting on your best smile when he doesn't speak. "Hi."

That seems to wake him up. "Oh, hi. Sorry to bother you, I'm Dr. Spencer…" He trails off. Seeing you close up seems to rattle him. He blinks. "Not doctor, you don't have to…just Spencer."

"Nice to meet you, Spencer." You fail to hide the amusement in your words. You take a second to observe him. He's undoubtedly gorgeous. Golden brown eyes, and perfectly parted hair, his round glasses perched on his nose. His outfit is unusual for his age, a sweater vest and dark brown dress pants, complete with a pair of purple converse. A weird mix of grandpa-esque and youthful. A perfect one. Suddenly, you're hyper aware of your slightly melted makeup and the sweat on your back. You look down at his fiddling fingers, tapping back and forth as if to level his nerves somehow. You apprehensively bring out a hand, quietly introducing yourself as you do.

Spencer intakes a tiny breath. "Oh, sorry, I don't really shake hands, it's um, it's a germ thing." He readjusts his glasses as he speaks, and you grin despite yourself, you can't help but find his awkward nervousness endearing.

"Oh, sorry. That's alright." Your voice breathy and light. You nod along with your words to reassure him.

He looks down for a second, attempting to hide the red creeping up his cheeks. "No need to be sorry, I just…I wanted to say that you were amazing up there. I mean, you definitely already know that considering that only a very small percentage of ballet dancers become professional, let alone at a prestigious company like the American Ballet Theatre, and you play Juliet, the female lead role, but um, i just-"

"Spencer." You cut him off, and he finally brings his eyes back to your lingering gaze.

"Yeah?" He looks completely out of place, nerves jumbled and chest heaving. Him being nervous almost calms you down--it's confirmation that you both feel the same way.

You softly smile up at him. "It's okay. Thank you for saying that, it um, it means a lot."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I mean it, you were…brilliant." He returns your smile. Thinks to himself that you must be the sun.

Now it's your turn to blush. You bite your inner cheek, resisting a bigger smile. For a second, you both just look at each other. Eyes wide, cheeks pink. Silent, but not uncomfortable.

"Listen, I um, I should go get changed." You speak quietly, as if saying one thing will wake you up from this fairytale of a dream.

"Oh." He visibly deflates. "It was…it was really nice to meet you."

"No! I mean, I can talk to you after, if you don't have anything else to do, I shouldn't assume…"

Spencer's grin reappears. "No, I don't have anything planned." He adjusts his glasses again, excitement rising with your words.

You nod, heart fluttering as you speak. "I'll meet you back out here?"

"Yeah, yeah I'll wait." He awkwardly waves as you walk away.

You tentatively look back, making sure he's still there, only to see that dopey grin still plastered on his face.

[mapiforpresident]

Family Time

Patri x reader x Pina

The evening was winding down, the end of another busy but beautiful day in your shared home in Barcelona. You were nestled on the couch with Patri and Claudia, the warmth of their presence wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The TV was playing softly in the background—one of Claudia’s favorite Disney movies. Noah, your ten-month-old son, sat comfortably in your lap, his tiny fingers fiddling with the edge of your sweater.

Noah, your little bundle of joy, was the perfect mix of all three of you. He had Claudia’s expressive, dark eyes, Patri’s soft, dimpled smile, and your nose. You couldn’t help but marvel at how such a tiny person could already hold your whole heart.

“Do you think he’ll say his first word soon?” Claudia asked, her voice hopeful as she reached over to stroke Noah’s soft hair.

Patri smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s been babbling a lot more this week. I think it’s close.”

You shifted Noah slightly in your lap, smiling at his wide, curious eyes. “As long as his first word isn’t ‘football,’ I’ll be happy,” you teased.

Claudia laughed, leaning into you. “What’s wrong with football? It would make me proud!”

Patri rolled her eyes affectionately. “Knowing you, you’ll probably try to teach him how to say ‘goal’ before ‘mama.’”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it,” Claudia admitted with a cheeky grin.

You shook your head, grinning at the pair of them. Your little family was chaos and love all rolled into one.

After the movie ended, it was time to start Noah’s bedtime routine. He was in his pajamas and freshly bathed, his soft baby smell intoxicating in the best way. You were getting ready to breastfeed him before putting him down for the night.

Claudia stood up, stretching dramatically before turning to Noah with a playful grin. “¿Estás listo para leche, pequeñito? Are you ready for some milk?”

Noah’s wide eyes met hers, and for a moment, it seemed like he was processing her words. Then, clear as day, he said, “¡Leche!”

Time froze.

You, Patri, and Claudia all stared at him in stunned silence. Then the room erupted.

“Noah, did you just—? ¡Dios mío!” Claudia exclaimed, dropping back onto the couch beside you and peppering Noah’s face with kisses. “¡Dijo leche! He said it! His first word!”

Patri’s face lit up with pride, and she leaned over to kiss Noah’s forehead. “That’s my boy,” she murmured, her voice filled with emotion.

You, on the other hand, were half laughing, half shaking your head. “Of course it’s in Spanish. I should’ve known.”

Claudia beamed, looking as smug as ever. “You see? He’s a natural. First word in Spanish. I win.”

“I didn’t know this was a competition,” you teased, though you couldn’t help but smile at the pure joy radiating from her.

Noah clapped his tiny hands, clearly delighted with himself. Patri chuckled, taking his hands in hers and kissing his little fingers. “You’re amazing, Noah. Do you know that?”

Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re a star, little one. Even if you are playing favorites with their language.”

Claudia gasped. “He’s just showing off his roots. And besides, leche is important!”

“I guess I’ll just have to start teaching him English first thing tomorrow,” you replied with mock seriousness.

“Good luck with that,” Patri said, laughing. “Between Claudia and me, you’re outnumbered.”

The rest of the night was filled with even more cuddles and laughter as you retold the moment and tried to get him to say it again which he successfully did twice. Claudia couldn’t stop bragging, while Patri kept reminding you that Noah was already ahead of the curve.

When it came time to feed Noah, you sat in the rocking chair in his nursery, Patri and Claudia on the loveseat next to you, Patri had just finished reading him a book. Noah latched on easily, his little hands gripping your shirt as he fed.

Claudia leaned against Patri, resting her head on her shoulder. “He’s perfect,” she whispered, her voice soft and full of love.

“He really is, and so are you for giving us such a perfect son” Patri added, looking up at you with those warm eyes that always made your heart skip a beat.

You smiled at them both, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. “We’re all perfect together,” you said quietly, running a hand over Noah’s soft curls.

After Noah was fed and sound asleep in his crib, the three of you retreated to your bedroom. Patri pulled you into her arms as you climbed into bed, while Claudia snuggled up on your other side.

“You know,” Claudia said, her voice muffled against your shoulder, “I think his next word will be ‘mamá.’”

“Which mamá?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Claudia grinned. “Obviously me.”

Patri laughed, her hand brushing over your hair. “We’ll see about that.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “As long as his next word isn’t ‘goal,’ I’m happy.”

Claudia pouted, but the playful look in her eyes gave her away. “You have no taste.”

Patri kissed your forehead, pulling you closer. “Goodnight, amor,” she murmured.

“Goodnight,” you replied, your voice heavy with contentment. “I love you both.”

Claudia kissed your shoulder. “We love you, too.”

[seitmai]

Since then, you and Steve have found other ways to carve out moments together amid the whirlwind of the campaign. Usually it’s quick conversations in the back of the campaign bus or on the plane. It's not ideal, but it's something, and you find yourself looking forward to these small pockets of time more than you'd care to admit.

I love that they make these little moments for each other 🥰

Some of the key staffers silently hate it because every minute of strategy time is invaluable, so you and Steve pledged to only steal up to thirty minutes, and Bucky and Sophia take it in stride as one of their new duties to help protect that time because if the Roger and Rogers happy couple campaign approach is the M.O. now, then they argue that the happy couple needs alone time to stay a happy couple.

Yes, Sophia and Bucky having their back 👏🏻

You enjoy the more serious conversations as much as you enjoy the more superficial topics because both ends of the spectrum allow you to simply engage and learn each others’ personalities and histories and opinions. Sitting in the back of the bus on your way to a rally, you’re exchanging takes on Star Wars (you had grown up watching them in very distinct trilogy stages where Steve had seen the first two trilogies in his initial pop culture catch up phase), when there’s a surge of noise and activity at the front of the bus.

Aw that's so cute 🥰

Another collective cheer goes up from the staff. You feel Steve's hand tighten slightly on your shoulder, and when you look up at him, you see a mix of emotions playing across his face - pride, excitement, and a touch of humility.

🥹🥹🥹

"Of course," you say, admiring his level-headedness even in this moment of triumph. "But we should take a moment to celebrate this moment."

He needs those reminders

You listen to his directives and reminders, but while you do so, you realize the kiss you just shared is the first lip lock between you and your husband since the wedding, and there’s a bit of warmth that pools in your chest. You resist the pull you feel to look at him.

🥰🥰🥰

He chuckles softly. "A little," he admits. "But it's a good pressure. Motivating." You nod in understanding. The weight of expectation has grown even heavier with Santos's support even though it’s only been a matter of hours, but you can see the determination in Steve's eyes. He's ready for this part of the challenge.

He sure is

Steve turns to you one last time, his eyes soft. He reaches out and squeezes your hand briefly, a gesture of solidarity and support that sends a flutter through your chest. You squeeze back, drawing strength from his touch.

I get a flutter in my chest just reading this 🥰

That’s the moment you and Steve step out onto the stage, hand in hand, and the deafening roar of the crowd drowns out your names entirely. The lights and the energy spike the excitement and adrenaline, and it’s another moment in this campaign - and the second one of the day - that you know you’ll remember for a lifetime.

Together they can do everything 🥰

“Are you coming for my job, Mr. Barnes?” Jake asks, taking a seat at the table as well. Bucky huffs a laugh, “No, sir. The last thing I would want is to be in charge of a circus like this.” Jake nods in agreement. "What I wouldn’t give to have seen Johnson’s reaction to the news,” he says, referring to the other campaign manager, the rival that the DNC pushed over him for this presidential campaign cycle.

Circus is an accurate description 😅

“You and Mrs. Rogers,” Jake tacks on. Steve raises his eyebrows, but looks to you. This is the second time you’ve been brought in as a specific element to move the campaign forward.

Like a secret weapon 🤭

You feel a flutter of nervousness at the mention of more intimate interviews, but you nod in agreement. "Of course, whatever helps the campaign." Jake continues, "We're thinking of setting up some joint interviews, maybe even a day-in-the-life style piece. Show the public the real future First Couple, beyond the campaign speeches and rallies." Steve reaches over and takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We can do that," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.

I would eat those interviews up!

Steve turns to you, a tired smile playing at his lips. "Just thinking about how surreal this all is," he says softly. "A few months ago, I was trying to lay low in this century, keep out of the spotlight. Now..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly. You nod, understanding. "Now you're vying to become the leader of the free world with every minute of your life under a microscope," you finish for him. "Yeah," he breathes out. "But at least it’s not every minute." You pause, key card in hand, considering his question. "It's... intense," you admit. "But I'm okay. Better than okay, actually. This whole experience, as crazy as it is, feels important. And I think we’re both getting stronger at this campaign thing every day." Steve's eyes soften as he looks at you, a mix of admiration and concern in his gaze. "You've been amazing through all of this," he says quietly. "Now it’s hard to imagine doing it without you."

🥰🥰🥰

"Listen," he says, his voice low. "I know we're both exhausted, but... do you want to come in for a bit? Just to talk, or... I don't know. It feels like we haven't had a real moment alone in-” “Ever?” you finish for him. Steve winces. “Yeah.” You shift slightly. “I don’t know, it’s so late.” Steve nods, understanding in his eyes. "You're right, it is late. We should both get some rest."

Nooo, this was going so well!

Red, White & True: Fort Wayne, Toledo, Detroit [4/?]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 4.2k Summary: A campaign day with stops in three cities in three states ends up being a game-changer you weren't expecting, and not only for the campaign.

Content/Warnings: marriage of political convenience, slow burn

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[SEPTEMBER 21 - MORNING - FORT WAYNE, INDIANA]

After your first and only attempt at a private, non-business breakfast between you and Steve in the dining area next to the hotel lobby the morning after dinner at the Santos house, your staff and the Secret Service detail on Steve forbade you from trying anything like that ever again. Six a.m. was early, but there were far too many early bird guests showing up for breakfast as well, only to find a presidential candidate and former Avenger amongst the self-serve breakfast buffet and excited chaos had ensued. Even if the personnel around you hadn’t forbidden it, it had been immediately clear the privacy you used to expect in in a public setting was gone.

Since then, you and Steve have found other ways to carve out moments together amid the whirlwind of the campaign. Usually it’s quick conversations in the back of the campaign bus or on the plane. It's not ideal, but it's something, and you find yourself looking forward to these small pockets of time more than you'd care to admit.

Some of the key staffers silently hate it because every minute of strategy time is invaluable, so you and Steve pledged to only steal up to thirty minutes, and Bucky and Sophia take it in stride as one of their new duties to help protect that time because if the Roger and Rogers happy couple campaign approach is the M.O. now, then they argue that the happy couple needs alone time to stay a happy couple. Sophia only thinks it’s tending to the needs you have as newlyweds embedded in the campaign circus to have normalcy as a couple. It’s only Bucky who knows the truth (and Sam).

A single day on the presidential campaign trail always felt like at least two days of a regular life, but it often feels more like three or four days, especially on multi-city days, which were starting to become more and more common as it got closer to the first Tuesday in November. But this highly saturated time flow makes it so that the time you and Steve have started intentionally spending time together is having a marked effect on your relationship.

You enjoy the more serious conversations as much as you enjoy the more superficial topics because both ends of the spectrum allow you to simply engage and learn each others’ personalities and histories and opinions. Sitting in the back of the bus on your way to a rally, you’re exchanging takes on Star Wars (you had grown up watching them in very distinct trilogy stages where Steve had seen the first two trilogies in his initial pop culture catch up phase), when there’s a surge of noise and activity at the front of the bus.

You and Steve both glance towards the front of the bus, where a commotion has erupted. The noise level rises as staffers huddle around someone's phone, their voices intense, but strangely you can’t tell if it’s leaning more towards excitement or concern. You strain to hear what's being said, catching snippets of "breaking news" and "can't believe it."

Bucky's voice cuts through the clamor, slightly louder than the rest. "It can wait," he insists firmly. "We're almost at the venue."

Your heart rate quickens, anxiety creeping in at the edges of your mind.

You start to rise, but Steve places a hand on your arm. "Let's give it a minute," he says softly. "If it's urgent, they'll tell us."

You nod, settling back into your seat, but you can see the tense energy now in Steve’s body. You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, trying to anticipate what the clamor could be about.

After another moment, you arch your eyebrow at Steve. “The anticipation is going to kill both of us back here,” you say earnestly. “If we’re nearly at the venue anyway, we can table this and get back to more Star Wars at lunch.”

Steve huffs a laugh and agrees, and you pop up out of your seat again, and Steve follows as you quickly make your way to the front.

“What’s happening?” you ask, drawing the attention of the staff to you and Steve.

“Santos endorsed Steve!” Elsa trills. You’ve never seen her this happy.

You feel a surge of excitement and pride. The Santos endorsement is huge - you know it is without question a game-changer for the campaign. You turn around to look at Steve, a massive smile beaming from your face, enthusiasm you see mirrored right back from him. You don’t know if you reach for him or he reaches for you because it’s so quick, but your lips crash together, your stomach flips, and the staff cheers around you. It ends as quickly as it began, and the two of you turn back to the others, eager for more details.

"When did this happen?" Steve asks, his voice steady but tinged with excitement.

Sam, who'd gone back to scrolling through his phone, looks up. "Just now. Santos made the announcement over his Instagram, and it's already dominating the news cycle."

"What exactly did he say?" Steve asks, placing a hand on your shoulder as he moves in closer behind you, leaning over to look at Sam's phone.

Sam clears his throat and begins to read: "After careful consideration and having had the opportunity to speak with Captain Rogers, I believe he is the right person to lead our nation forward. His integrity, vision, and commitment to public service are exactly what we need in these challenging times. I am proud to endorse Steve Rogers for President of the United States."

Another collective cheer goes up from the staff. You feel Steve's hand tighten slightly on your shoulder, and when you look up at him, you see a mix of emotions playing across his face - pride, excitement, and a touch of humility.

"This is huge," seasoned campaign mastermind Jake finally weighs in, his usual stoic demeanor cracking slightly to reveal a hint of a smile. "Santos's endorsement would carry a lot of weight for any candidate, especially with moderates and independents, but it not only brings your first major endorsement, it’s a resounding statement for a former president to break from his party to endorse an independent."

You nod in agreement, your mind already racing with the implications. The Santos administration is still widely respected, and their endorsement could sway a significant number of voters.

Steve nods, his expression a mix of gratitude and determination. "It is," he agrees. "But we can't let it go to our heads. We still have a lot of work to do."

"Of course," you say, admiring his level-headedness even in this moment of triumph. "But we should take a moment to celebrate this moment."

You imagine it was always on Jake’s mind that an endorsement would be the best case scenario from a private dinner at the Santos home, but Steve had been very vocal to everyone involved - from the campaign side to Santos and his people - that for him the opportunity was only to be able to spend time with a former president. You had certainly gone into it without any agenda, grateful, even, for one night where you weren’t politic-ing.

The bus slows to turn into the loading bay area of the venue, and Jake calls everyone to attention to get the staff focused back on the rally only minutes away. You listen to his directives and reminders, but while you do so, you realize the kiss you just shared is the first lip lock between you and your husband since the wedding, and there’s a bit of warmth that pools in your chest. You resist the pull you feel to look at him.

[SEPTEMBER 21 - AFTERNOON - TOLEDO, OHIO]

The energy in Toledo's Huntington Center is electric as you and Steve make your way through the bustling backstage area for the second major campaign event of the day. The arena, usually home to hockey games and concerts, has been transformed into a political rally venue, with red, white, and blue banners adorning every available surface. The air is thick with anticipation, and you can hear the growing roar of the crowd beyond the curtain.

Staffers rush past, clipboards in hand, headsets firmly in place. You catch snippets of conversations about crowd size, security measures, and last-minute speech adjustments. The Santos endorsement has injected a new level of excitement into an already charged atmosphere.

As you approach the holding area, you spot Bucky conferring with the head of security, his expression serious as he nods along to whatever information he's receiving. Sam is nearby, phone to his ear, likely coordinating with media outlets eager for comments on the endorsement.

You can hear the low rumble of the crowd, punctuated by occasional cheers and chants of "Rogers! Rogers!" The excitement is palpable, and you can feel your own adrenaline starting to surge.

Steve turns to you, his eyes bright with excitement but also a hint of nervousness. "Ready?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You take a deep breath, smoothing down your blazer. "Let’s do this," your reply and this simple exchange is becoming tradition every time the two of you are about to step out in public now. It’s nice starting to have things like this, things that are yours. "How about you? Feeling the pressure after that endorsement?"

He chuckles softly. "A little," he admits. "But it's a good pressure. Motivating."

You nod in understanding. The weight of expectation has grown even heavier with Santos's support even though it’s only been a matter of hours, but you can see the determination in Steve's eyes. He's ready for this part of the challenge.

Suddenly, Jake appears at your side, clipboard in hand. "Two minutes," he says briskly. "Steve, they've added a few lines to your speech to address the endorsement. The changes are on the monitor.”

Steve nods, quickly scanning the teleprompter nearby. You watch as his eyes move rapidly across the screen, absorbing the new information. His ability to process and adapt on the fly never ceases to amaze you.

"Got it," he says, turning back to Jake. "Anything else?"

"Hit the key points as you always do," Jake replies. "And maybe throw in a line about unity, given the cross-party nature of the endorsement."

As Jake steps away to confer with another staffer, you feel a gentle touch on your arm. You turn to see Sophia standing beside you, a reassuring smile on her face.

"You've got this," she says softly. "Both of you. Just be yourselves out there."

You return her smile, grateful for her steady presence. "Thanks, Sophia. We'll do our best."

The stage manager approaches. “Thirty seconds,” she announces.

This is it. Another pivotal moment in the campaign, perhaps even more significant than you'd initially realized. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself.

Steve turns to you one last time, his eyes soft. He reaches out and squeezes your hand briefly, a gesture of solidarity and support that sends a flutter through your chest. You squeeze back, drawing strength from his touch.

The stage manager starts counting down. "Ten seconds!"

You can hear the crowd's excitement building to a fever pitch. The announcer's voice booms through the arena, introducing you and Steve. Your heart races as the curtain begins to part.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your next President and First Lady…”

That’s the moment you and Steve step out onto the stage, hand in hand, and the deafening roar of the crowd drowns out your names entirely. The lights and the energy spike the excitement and adrenaline, and it’s another moment in this campaign - and the second one of the day - that you know you’ll remember for a lifetime.

[SEPTEMBER 21 - EVENING - DETROIT, MICHIGAN]

The clock on the wall of the dimly lit campaign office reads 11:47 PM, but the energy in the room belies the late hour. The makeshift headquarters, hastily set up in yet another hotel conference room, buzzes with activity. Staffers huddle around laptops, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of screens, while others engage in hushed conversations, gesticulating animatedly as they dissect the day's events.

You sink into a worn leather armchair, feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. The town hall here in Detroit had gone well - better than well, actually. The momentum from Santos's endorsement earlier in the day had carried through, infusing the crowd with an infectious enthusiasm. They had been engaged, asking thoughtful questions that Steve had handled with his characteristic blend of sincerity and statesmanship. But now, in the quiet aftermath, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness.

Despite the strain of a three-location-day catching up with you and everyone else, you can’t deny that there’s a different, very palpable sense of possibility hanging in the air. The campaign has always been optimistic, but there was a bit of a silent agreement in the air to ignore the fact that Steve Rogers - no political background and no political party - was a dark horse swimming upstream. The first nod from outside camp Rogers wasn’t a golden ticket to victory, but the news media was already discussing Steve in a different tone - giving more legitimacy in coverage rather than curiosity in coverage. With only six weeks left, it is not enough to win 270 electoral votes, and although that was the dream, it was never the realistic target. The target from the beginning was to get enough votes to keep either of the other two candidates from taking the majority and be a major player in that battle, making a case to be seriously considered if you could get the election turned over to the Congress to decide.

A Santos backing was the serious foot hold to take this scenario from a possibility to a probability.

Steve sits across from you, his brow furrowed as he reviews the daily notes Jake’s deputy campaign chairman has prepared and distributed.

You watch Steve as he reads, marveling at his ability to maintain focus after such a long and eventful day. His eyes move methodically across the page, occasionally pausing as he considers a particular point. Even in this state of concentration, there's an aura of quiet strength about him that never seems to fade.

"Anything notable?" you ask, your voice slightly rough from the day's speeches and conversations.

Steve looks up, a tight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just the usual - poll numbers, upcoming events, media coverage. But there's definitely been a shift since this morning."

You nod, understanding the implication. “The Santos effect.”

"Jake's team is already planning how to capitalize on the momentum."

You get the same notes as well but prefer to read them once you’re back in your room. Steve hands you the page he’s been pouring over, and you lean forward to take and then study it. A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the muffled sounds of the staffers working. The new trends and polling numbers aren’t just good, they’re great.

Bucky takes a seat next to Steve, clocking you both looking into the daily report. “This kind of shift is good,” he says, “but now we just need to see it carry over and build from here on out.”

“Are you coming for my job, Mr. Barnes?” Jake asks, taking a seat at the table as well.

Bucky huffs a laugh, “No, sir. The last thing I would want is to be in charge of a circus like this.”

Jake smiles, and Steve and Bucky aren’t looking at him anymore, but you see the deeper look on Jake’s face. You’ve seen it on him before, it’s the look when he’s considering an idea - hisown or one suggested by the team - that he sees serious potential in. Even if he protests, Jake clearly sees potential in Bucky.

You would have to admit that you agree. Bucky understands Steve, and as he's stood shoulder to shoulder with him through this campaign, he's proven to be an invaluable asset. His strategic mind, honed by years of military experience, often provides insights that complement Jake's political savvy.

"Speaking of circuses," Jake says, voice louder, "let’s bring it in, folks.”

The rest of the key staffers all grab seats or press in around the table, and then Jake begins the end-of-day meeting. “We need to discuss tomorrow's schedule. The media's going to be on us far more seriously, and we need to be prepared for that shift in the tone of questions."

Steve nods, his expression serious. "What's the plan?"

"Engaging and not dry, but policy, policy, policy. We've got three major network interviews lined up for tomorrow morning. Steve, you'll be doing those. We want to capitalize on this momentum, but we also need to be careful not to appear too cocky."

"Understood," Steve replies.

"We've also got a strategy session scheduled for noon," Jake continues. "We’ve been reassessing our messaging in light of the Santos endorsement, but we want to see what it looks like after the burst from day one. We should have options for you to decide on then.”

You nod, understanding the delicate balance Jake is trying to strike. "What about the afternoon?"

Jake flips through his notes. "We've got a rally scheduled in Lansing at 3 PM. After that, we're heading to Chicago for a fundraiser in the evening."

Steve leans forward, his elbows on the table. "And what about the other candidates? Any word on their reactions to the endorsement?"

Sam speaks up. "Both camps have been relatively quiet so far. They're likely scrambling to adjust their strategies. We can expect some pushback tomorrow, though."

“I imagine we’ll see the Dems will be particularly cagey. They won’t want to look like a party divided,” Elsa explains, “but the reality is that one of their favored sons did just speak out and split where their support was supposed to go. The GOP-leaning media outlets are already gleefully stirring up chaos on their end, but nothing from their campaign yet.”

Jake nods in agreement. "What I wouldn’t give to have seen Johnson’s reaction to the news,” he says, referring to the other campaign manager, the rival that the DNC pushed over him for this presidential campaign cycle.

“After this initial new surge with policy,” Elsa takes over, “we want to redirect the narrative to you, Steve. We know America votes for people as much as they vote for policy. In about three days, we’re going to push heavily down the middle of the country and then make a swing across the southern states leading into the next debate. With that, we’re thinking about a series of casual, intimate interviews, more insight into your character, showing you’re not just the figure from history books or Avengers action over the last dozen years, but enough of a regular guy that they could have a beer with you.”

Steve nods, “All right.”

“You and Mrs. Rogers,” Jake tacks on.

Steve raises his eyebrows, but looks to you. This is the second time you’ve been brought in as a specific element to move the campaign forward.

You feel a flutter of nervousness at the mention of more intimate interviews, but you nod in agreement. "Of course, whatever helps the campaign."

Jake continues, "We're thinking of setting up some joint interviews, maybe even a day-in-the-life style piece. Show the public the real future First Couple, beyond the campaign speeches and rallies."

Steve reaches over and takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We can do that," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.

Jake clears his throat. "Excellent. Now, let's talk about debate prep. The next one is coming up fast, and we need to be ready for the next level of scrutiny."

The meeting continues for another hour, with strategies being discussed and assignments doled out. By the time Jake calls it a night, it's just past 1 AM. As the staffers begin to file out, you feel the full weight of exhaustion finally hit you. Luckily your room is only a few floors and a short walk above you.

Steve stands up, stretching slightly. "Ready to call it a night?" he asks, walking around the table and offering you his hand.

You nod gratefully, allowing him to pull you to your feet. As you gather your things, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension about the days ahead.

As you and Steve make your way to the elevator, you can feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The day's events replay in your mind - the unexpected endorsement, the electrifying rallies, the late-night strategy session. It's all a blur of excitement and intensity.

The elevator doors close, leaving you and Steve alone for the first time since this morning. In the quiet confines of the small space, you lean against the wall, letting out a long breath.

As the elevator ascends, you find yourself studying Steve's face. Despite the long hours and constant pressure, he still looks composed, though you can see the fatigue in the slight slump of his shoulders and the faint lines around his eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask.

Steve turns to you, a tired smile playing at his lips. "Just thinking about how surreal this all is," he says softly. "A few months ago, I was trying to lay low in this century, keep out of the spotlight. Now..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly.

You nod, understanding. "Now you're vying to become the leader of the free world with every minute of your life under a microscope," you finish for him.

"Yeah," he breathes out. "But at least it’s not every minute."

The elevator dings, signaling your arrival at your floor. As you step out into the hallway, Steve places a gentle hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards your room. The touch, though light, sends a wave of warmth through you.

"How are you holding up?" he asks as you reach the door. "This can't be easy for you either."

You pause, key card in hand, considering his question. "It's... intense," you admit. "But I'm okay. Better than okay, actually. This whole experience, as crazy as it is, feels important. And I think we’re both getting stronger at this campaign thing every day."

Steve's eyes soften as he looks at you, a mix of admiration and concern in his gaze. "You've been amazing through all of this," he says quietly. "Now it’s hard to imagine doing it without you."

His words send a flutter through your chest. You're about to respond when you notice a slight shift in Steve's demeanor. He glances quickly down the hallway, then back at you, a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

"Listen," he says, his voice low. "I know we're both exhausted, but... do you want to come in for a bit? Just to talk, or... I don't know. It feels like we haven't had a real moment alone in-”

“Ever?” you finish for him.

Steve winces. “Yeah.”

You shift slightly. “I don’t know, it’s so late.”

Steve nods, understanding in his eyes. "You're right, it is late. We should both get some rest."

You feel a pang of regret at the slight disappointment you see flash across his face. "Maybe we can carve out some time tomorrow?" you suggest, not wanting to leave things on a down note.

"Definitely," Steve agrees with a soft smile. "We'll make it happen." But you see his expression is more closed off, and wonder if you’ve now taken two steps back.

There's a moment of awkward silence as you both stand there, neither quite ready to say goodnight.

Finally, Steve clears his throat. "Well, goodnight.”

"Goodnight," you reply.

As Steve turns to head to his own room, you slip your key card into the door and enter your suite. Once inside, you lean against the closed door, letting out a long sigh. The truth is, there is a big part of you that wanted nothing more than to spend more time with him, away from the prying eyes of staff and security. But you're also acutely aware of the need to maintain boundaries, especially given the unique nature of your arrangement.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to see there’s a message from Sophia with some questions she needs you to make decisions on for the morning. You send off your reply, then mindlessly fall into your nighttime routine, decompressing from the day, getting ready for bed, and tucking in with your tablet. You go over the daily debrief and ready notes for the campaign, and then move on to your Kindle app and fall asleep before finishing even two pages, alone.

next part: coming 11/22

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[samsalami66]

Tough decision, but "I will hang on (until I can't anymore)" with Dreamling? (Soccer au maybe? 🥺)

🤘five-and-dimes

Shooting for the Sky

Hey my lovely @five-and-dimes! Thank you for the prompt, I had a great time writing this! I hope you don't mind some humour sprinkled in between the usual angst and fluff, the idea suddenly grew wings and took flight and I had zero control over it.

Morpheus is regretting every single decision he has ever made in his tragically short life that led him up to this moment. If only he wasn't at fault for a hundred percent of them, from starting to kick a ball around with Olethros at age ten, to signing his first professional contract and later joining the Fiddlers. 

This blasted team of absolute nutters. 

Team building, Hob has said with a smile and a glint in his eyes that Morpheus hasn't quite been able to place. Now he knows it to be unbridled insanity mixed with a healthy dose of sadism, joy granted by witnessing his best friend's early demise due to the heart attack he would surely suffer in the next few moments. 

Morpheus has heard about team building exercises where a team went to play minigolf or drove around with go-carts or some other safe and ordinary and fun experience. But of course his band of suicidal idiots would go skydiving for such an event. And of course they have all done this before, since they have zero sense for self-preservation and do not care about their personal well-being at all. 

Those words out of his mouth have only caused the other men to burst into laughter when he said them. 

So now he is here. ‘Here’ being an aeroplane about a kilometre above sweet British grounds, strapped like a toddler to Hob Gadling's chest. Apparently you do not jump on your own the first time you skydive, which has never been a thing Morpheus gave much thought to, since he never expected to find himself in this situation. 

But he has done a lot of things he didn't expect himself to do since he has met Hob. Wonderful, amazing Hob, who is currently resting his chin on Morpheus’ shoulder so he can look out the window while Morpheus himself is trying his hardest not to hyperventilate. 

The team would never let him forget it if he had a panic attack over skydiving. Their serious support ends with the after-effects of abuse, everything else will become part of the Terrific Team Tales (what an awful name), which they recap at least once a year on pub night, specifically to torture the other members with embarrassing stories of the past. 

It is a horrifying tradition. Truly grotesque. 

Morpheus will not give them more material by panicking. 

So, instead, he concentrates on Hob. 

Hob, who stands pressed to his back, head to calf, lending to him the warmth Morpheus so rarely feels on his own. Hob, who's scent envelops Morpheus like a hug of comfort and safety, calming him like few other things could these days. And Hob, who's midsection is pressed directly to Morpheus’ backside. Will be pressed to his backside for the whole dive. Together, in the air, putting his life in Hob Gadling's hands. 

Oh dear.

Perhaps the panic attack is the better option after all. These thoughts will only lead him to a single outcome, and he's absolutely not going to face this conversation after falling a whole kilometre out of an aeroplane. Absolutely not. 

Just as Morpheus is about to force his thoughts back onto the ridiculous ideas of his teammates, the voice of the pilot sounds over their headsets.

“We reached the final height for the jump! The door will be opened as soon as we hit the agreed upon coordinates. Have a good way down, gentlemen!” 

Cheers ring out around Morpheus, and ten men, Hob included, jump up and down with barely concealed excitement. Hob's jumping jostles him where he stands, and Morpheus barely catches himself before he would have crashed backwards into Hob. 

“Someone's excited,” he comments with a wry smile, which only turns softer when he looks over his shoulder to see Hob's bright eyes, shining with joy.

“I get to share one of my favourite activities with my favourite person, of course I'm excited!” 

Morpheus softens even further at that answer, Hob’s affection as always so easy to grasp. 

“Ugh, find a private channel to flirt on with your man, Hobert!” Sounds Corin's voice over their headset, and Morpheus can't help but chuckle at how he and Hob stick their tongues out at each other. 

“Ten bucks that I’ll land first!” calls Abel into the round, which Cain immediately meets with “Twenty bucks that you’re full of shit!”

“Fifty that you’ll both be last,” Mervyn murmurs, and the rest of the team laughs at their bickering, as they always do. 

Cain and Abel, the other brothers in the team, have a sort of love-hate relationship going on. Half of the time Morpheus is a bit worried they might kill each other with their antics, but in the end they would never seriously hurt each other. Though if it does happen one day, Morpheus believes the murdered brother would come back to life just so that they might continue their bickering. Mervyn likes to pretend that he doesn't find it hilarious. 

Behind Cain and Abel the door of the aircraft suddenly opens, the wind suddenly overpowering every thought Morpheus might have had. He couldn't look outside, as there were about nine burly football players between Hob and him and the door. But even just the coldness of the air against his face, unnatural in comparison to the cold he has felt so far down on safe ground, wipes his mind clean of coherent thought. 

“Ready?” Hob says, so close to his ear that Morpheus feels his breath on his cheek, clearly to avoid speaking over the open channel. It makes him shiver, but the cold covers the real reason just fine. 

“Absolutely not,” he replies as loud as he dares, while making grabby hands towards Hob's arm to hold onto. The other man complies immediately, and Morpheus digs his fingers deep into Hob's biceps. “But I'll be fine as long as you're there.” 

“If you change your mind, say the word, yeah? We don't have to jump.” 

“Kollité, I would do a lot of things to see you happy. Including jumping out of a plane with only a piece of cloth strapped to my back, like some crazy person.” 

Hob looks increasingly fond the longer Morpheus talks, and eventually he smacks a loud kiss to his cheek, and then another to his forehead and his nose and wherever he can reach from behind Morpheus’ back. It's silly and adorable and so Morpheus laughs, free from the fear of judgement he once had. 

“I like my men a little crazy.” Hob murmurs into his ear then, and Morpheus thinks he might choke on the thin and cold air. 

“Let's go boys!” Corin then calls over their headsets, which suddenly brings movement into the aeroplane. One after another, the Fiddlers jump out of the open door, some head-first, others (Ken) do a flip into nothingness. And all too soon, Hob and Morpheus are the only ones left on the plane. 

“Run. Makes it easier to jump,” Hob calls over the noise. 

Screw it, what is there to lose (except his life, the part of his brain that is not yet totally beyond salvation provides) anyway?

Together, he and Hob run the ten steps towards the door of the aircraft and jump. 

Morpheus regrets it almost immediately. 

Upon falling, his stomach swoops and turns in the most uncomfortable manner possible and when he looks down he sees certain death rushing at him. His heart pounds in his ears and he's pretty sure he doesn't breathe for at least a full minute with how light headed he feels as he finally sucks in his first breath. 

But then broad arms snake around his chest, impossibly warm hands are splayed across his ribs, and Morpheus feels himself melt against Hob. He trusts this man, quite literally with his life, proven as of this moment. After all, Hob is the one that has the parachute strapped to his back and he is also the one who knows how to work it. Morpheus thinks (hopes) that in an emergency he would remember the instructions Hob gave him a few hours ago and pull the right flap, but he prays it won't come to that.

He would much rather enjoy Hob's warmth against his back, the arms that hold him and not open his eyes again until they're on the ground once more. 

“Just hold onto me, love.” Hob whispers into his ear and Morpheus can’t help but snort. 

“Oh I’ll hang on, alright? Don’t think I will let you go though, once we’re on the ground.”

A chuckle, right beside his ear, and Morpheus simply closes his eyes and concentrates on Hob’s warmth, the wind on his face and the adrenaline rushing through his body. After that first moment of falling, the tingling in his stomach almost turns into a pleasant sensation and he feels like every breath fills his lungs up way past the limit. He could run a marathon right now without breaking a sweat, the amount of energy coursing through his veins is just perfect. 

Slowly he starts to understand why the other men were so excited for this team-building activity. 

Adrenaline-junkies, the lot of them. 

Morpheus opens his eyes next when they are suddenly jolted into a slower fall. As he looks upwards he sees the bright green parachute with the Fiddlers’ club crest in the middle that Hob has shown him during their preparation for the jump. Since this is a team building exercise, naturally all gear is sponsored by the club and usually Morpheus would find this incredibly tacky. But looking upon the crest of the Fiddlers only fills him with a sense of pride, to be using or wearing anything sponsored by this team is simply amazing. 

He’s proud of who he works for, who he’s representing, and the thought is so sudden Morpheus feels tears sting in his eyes. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hob’s voice sounds next to his right ear and Morpheus has to blink a few times before he can see clearly what Hob is referring to. But once he does he lets out a small gasp of surprise. The sun is setting on the far horizon and a few clouds break her light just so that reds and purples and pinks colour the sky around them like the most stunning of watercolour paintings. 

“Oh,” he whispers as the tears suddenly spill over, his throat closed off with emotions he can't quite name. It really is beautiful. The sky, the view, the man behind him. His life, really. He's grateful for so many things in that moment, but he manages to voice one thing.

“Thank you, Hob. For taking me along. And being patient with me.” 

“Anytime, lovey. Anytime.”

[caitified]

Hey, can you write some more Kate stories please ? They are really good 😊

puppy love

kate martin x reader

warnings: none! more family series coming soon

kate’s been quiet since the loss. she’s not one to show it too much—always trying to be strong, for her teammates, for you—but you can see it in the way she moves around the apartment, slower than usual, her usual spark dimmed.

it’s been a tough adjustment, this first season in the league. vegas has been good to her, to both of you, but the end of the playoffs hit harder than either of you expected. you’ve been wracking your brain for days, trying to find a way to cheer her up.

and then it hits you—the idea you’ve been holding onto for years.

kate’s always wanted a dog. she talked about it all the time in college, her face lighting up as she’d scroll through adoption websites, dreaming of the day you’d finally have a place big enough, a schedule steady enough, to make it happen.

now feels like the perfect time.

you spend a few days researching, visiting shelters while she’s at practice, and finally, you find the one. a golden retriever mix with the sweetest brown eyes, one that practically melts into your hand the moment you meet him.

the adoption papers are signed that afternoon.

when kate comes home from her workout the next day, the apartment’s unusually quiet.

“babe?” she calls, setting her bag down by the door.

“in the living room!” you reply, barely containing your excitement.

she rounds the corner, her brows furrowing as she takes in the scene—you sitting on the couch, and the dog sitting at your feet, wagging his tail like he’s already claimed her as his favorite person.

“oh my god,” kate breathes, dropping her water bottle as her eyes widen.

“surprise,” you say softly, your smile growing as she just stands there, frozen.

“is this—?”

“he’s ours,” you confirm, patting your thigh to call the dog closer. he trots over to you, but his attention quickly shifts to kate, sniffing her cautiously before pressing his nose against her hand.

“you—” kate’s voice catches, and she sinks to her knees, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “you got me a dog?”

“i got us a dog,” you correct, watching as her eyes start to glisten. “i know how hard this season’s been for you. and i thought… maybe this would help.”

kate lets out a shaky laugh, wrapping her arms around the dog, who happily licks her cheek. “you’re amazing, you know that?”

“i try,” you tease, moving to sit beside her on the floor.

she looks over at you, her eyes still wet but filled with so much love it makes your chest ache. “seriously, i can’t believe you did this. he’s perfect.”

“you’re perfect,” you counter, leaning in to kiss her temple.

she laughs again, this time lighter, and rests her head on your shoulder. “what’s his name?”

“i was thinking you could pick,” you say, watching as the dog flops onto his back, clearly at home already.

kate grins, brushing a hand over the dog’s soft fur. “how about lucky? because that’s how i feel right now.”

you laugh softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “lucky it is.”

[dissapointu]

How Jinx Would Be Affectionate Toward Her Partner

1. Over-the-Top Compliments

Jinx is not shy about expressing how she feels about you. She’ll shower you with compliments every chance she gets, often in the most exaggerated and colorful ways. “You’re so cute, I could explode!” she’ll say with wide eyes, grinning from ear to ear. She’s completely unapologetic in telling you how much she adores you, and it’s almost always in a way that makes you laugh, but deep down, you know she means it.

2. Random Hugs

Jinx is the type to suddenly jump at you for a bear hug at any given moment. If she’s feeling particularly affectionate, she’ll practically tackle you with all her energy, squeezing you tight and sometimes twirling you around. Whether you’re sitting on the couch, standing in the kitchen, or walking down the street, she’ll find a way to physically express her affection without hesitation. “Hug time!” she might yell, just before launching herself at you.

3. Playful Teasing

Her affection often comes through in playful teasing. She’ll nudge you or give you a playful shove, laughing when you react. Sometimes she’ll call you silly names, like “cutie pie” or “love bug,” making sure to do it in the goofiest way possible. Even in moments of teasing, it’s clear she’s doing it because she loves to see you smile and laugh, and she enjoys making you feel special in her own, chaotic way.

4. Affectionate, Unexpected Kisses

Jinx is a spontaneous kisser. One minute she’s talking about something wildly random, and the next, she’s planting a quick, affectionate kiss on your cheek or forehead. She doesn’t always ask for permission; she just feels like showing you how much she cares. Sometimes they’re quick pecks, and other times, she’ll hold the kiss just a little longer, her hand cupping your face as she pulls you close. “I just really like you, okay?” she’ll say, her voice a mix of playful and sincere.

5. Holding Hands (When She’s Feeling Soft)

While Jinx’s affection can sometimes be loud and in-your-face, there are also quieter moments where she shows her love in subtle ways. One of her more tender gestures is when she holds your hand, either while you’re out walking, sitting on the couch, or during a calm moment in the chaos. She’ll entwine your fingers with hers, and for someone so chaotic, the simple act of holding hands means more than anything else.

6. Cuddling with All Her Energy

Jinx loves to cuddle, but it’s not always in the most conventional sense. She might not be the most still, calm person in bed, but when she’s in the mood to cuddle, it’s on her terms. She might crawl into bed, throwing her arm over you with no warning, her body pressing up against yours in a way that’s both comforting and overwhelming. She’ll sometimes end up sprawled across you, leaving you little room to move, but you won’t mind—her warm, chaotic presence is just what you need.

7. Whispering Sweet Nothings in Your Ear

If Jinx is feeling particularly affectionate, she’ll whisper the most random and adorable things in your ear. It could be anything from “You’re the best partner ever” to “You make my heart go boom-boom.” Her voice is soft, a stark contrast to her usual wild energy, and the vulnerability in her whispers shows how much she truly cares about you.

8. Gifts and Surprises (Her Quirky Way)

Jinx shows affection by surprising you with quirky gifts. These might not always be traditional tokens of love, but they’re always unique to her personality. She might show up with a hand-painted trinket, an odd gadget she thinks you’d like, or something completely random she picked up from her adventures. “It’s for you! I made it! Or… found it, but still, it’s cool, right?” Her thoughtfulness is less about being practical and more about showing you that she’s always thinking of you, even in the midst of her chaotic life.

9. Gently Resting Her Head on You

Despite her usually high-energy personality, Jinx has her moments of quiet affection. Sometimes, after a particularly rough day or in a moment of calm, she’ll rest her head on your shoulder, curling up against you. It’s a subtle, soft moment that shows how much she trusts you to be her safe space. Her weight against you is warm and comforting, and in these moments, she may not say much, but you can feel her affection radiating through her touch.

10. Playful Challenges (To Make You Laugh)

Jinx’s affection is also expressed through challenges and games. She’ll challenge you to do something silly or impossible, just to make you laugh. It could be something as simple as, “I bet I can make you laugh in less than 10 seconds,” and then she’ll try her hardest to do it, probably by acting ridiculously. Her desire to make you smile is endless, and it’s one of her favorite ways of showing affection—through fun and laughter.

11. Involving You in Her World

Jinx may not always have the most traditional way of showing affection, but she’ll definitely make you a part of her world. Whether it’s dragging you into one of her insane schemes, teaching you to make one of her quirky creations, or sharing a quiet moment of insanity together, Jinx’s affection often comes through in her willingness to involve you in her adventures. She wants to share her chaotic, unpredictable world with you because she trusts you—and she believes you’re just as special as the world she’s built in her own mind.

12. Constantly Checking In

Even if she’s off doing something crazy, Jinx is constantly checking in on you to make sure you’re okay. It could be a random message that reads, “Are you thinking of me right now? I bet you are.” Or it could be a simple, “I miss you! Be safe, okay?” She’s always thinking of you and making sure you know that she’s there—even when she’s off doing her own thing.

Jinx’s affection is a whirlwind of energy, chaos, and sweetness. It’s not always traditional, but it’s always genuine. Whether it’s her loud, over-the-top gestures or her quiet moments of connection, she loves you deeply and shows it in her uniquely wild way. When she’s with you, you’re her world, and she’ll do everything in her power to remind you of that.

[fanficmanic]

I have a confession to make.

I only started watching 911 a few months ago, after season 7 had ended. I was going through some rough time (health wise), and I needed something to take my mind off it.

I honestly wasn’t looking for anything serious. I just needed a show that doesn’t require me thinking about it too much.

I remember going over Netflix and Amazon Prime, and nothing had caught my attention. When I went on Disney+, I found that I had already watched the first 2 episodes of the show but, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember that I did or when I did.

I thought that if 2 episodes didn’t catch my attention, then it probably won’t, but I had reached a point where I didn’t care as long as it would numb my mind.

I didn’t realize how wrong I would be.

I gotta admit, season 1 wasn’t my favorite, but I powered through because I wanted to see where the show would go. Then I started with season 2, and boy oh boy was I hooked.

By the middle of season 3 I realized that yes, this show has taken my mind off my personal issues, but also, this show will be the one that makes me write again after not having written any fanfiction for over 7 years.

The last show I was obsessed with to this level was True Blood. I followed it religiously, wrote fanfiction, got into shipping wars. I even found a way to watch it same time as the US (those who don’t live there know what I mean) - which was 4 am in the morning where I lived at the time.

With the way True Blood ended (IYKYK), I promised myself that I would never get attached to another show that way again. I watched Game of Throne, which I loved and followed but not to that level of obsession. I watched some other shows and movies that I can’t even remember, which alone says what kind of impact they had on me.

Now, here I am, waiting for each episode like crazy, following the actor’s IG accounts and everything they post, following different accounts on Tumblr, IG, and TikTok for videos and edits, and filling most (all) of my free time reading amazing and wonderful fanfiction. I sometimes even have to take a moment to think about scenes if they happened in the show or if I read it in a story.

I’ve published 3 stories on AO3. I also have one story that I’ve written 4 chapters of so far, 5 stories that I’ve roughly outlined, and 1 that I just have an idea for.

The issue is, when I was obsessing over vampires and werewolves who lived in Bon Temps, HBO aired the show between June and August. Meaning, there was no break over the holidays, and the show didn’t go on hiatus.

This is the first time that I have to go through a fall hiatus, and I have so many mixed feelings about it.

On the one hand, I’m super excited about all the fanfiction that will come out between now and March 2025 – some will be speculation after the fall finale, some not so much, but regardless, it will all be great.

On the other hand, how am I supposed to wait 3 full months to see what will happen to my favorite characters?

Anyway... I apologize for the long post, but I just wanted to vent.

Here's a picture of our favorite fire fam BTS from this weeks’ episode to make up for it.