#but in this shot they are still sparkling
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ha-rinrin · 2 days ago
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Echos of Laughter
Summary: You and Jinx are joking around when an annoyed Isha appears, demanding some peace so she can sleep.
Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader
Wordcount: 963
Authors note: Hey guys. This was a request, but I accidentally lost it 😭. It was basically what I summarized here. If you're the person who requested it, I'm so sorry I lost your request 😔. I really hope you like how it turned out! đŸ€žđŸ»
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The hideout was as chaotic as ever. Scattered piles of old crates, mismatched furniture, and bits of scrap metal filled the space, yet it felt oddly cozy. The flickering light from a few scattered lamps cast shadows across the room, the air thick with a mix of dust and the faint smell of burnt gunpowder from Jinx's latest "project."
You and Jinx were stretched out on a large, slightly lumpy couch, the kind of couch that had probably seen better days but was still perfectly comfortable in the midst of all the madness. Jinx, curled up next to you, was having trouble settling down — her fingers tapping restlessly on your arm, her usual buzz of energy refusing to let her fall asleep.
Jinx shifted closer, her fingers tapping a playful rhythm on your arm. You felt her gaze on you, even before her hand sneaked up to poke your cheek.
“Poke,” she whispered with a grin, leaning in so close her breath tickled your skin.
“Jinx,” you groaned softly, swatting her hand away, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re all serious now,” she teased, tilting her head dramatically. “You’re just as much fun as me. Admit it.”
“Fun?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Who got stuck upside down in the ventilation shaft last week because she thought it was a ‘shortcut’?”
“That was a calculated risk!” Jinx shot back, feigning offense, though her lips twitched with amusement. “Besides, I got out, didn’t I?”
“Not without my help,” you quipped, smirking as you remembered the chaos.
Jinx pouted for all of two seconds before she launched her next attack—tickling your sides. You let out a yelp, twisting away from her as you tried to escape her hands.
“Jinx! Stop!” you gasped between laughter, your attempts to push her off only encouraging her more.
“Nope!” she declared triumphantly, straddling your legs to keep you pinned. “This is revenge for all those times you didn’t laugh at my jokes.”
“I always laugh at your jokes!” you argued, still squirming as she grinned down at you, victorious.
“Hmm, debatable,”
Your laughter filled the hideout, echoing off the metal walls and mismatched furniture. Jinx’s grin widened as she leaned closer, her fingers still poised for another tickling attack.
“Shh!” she hissed, though she was laughing herself. “You’re gonna wake up Isha!”
Before you could respond, Jinx's hand shot out, covering your mouth with her palm, silencing you instantly. You tried to push her hand away, but the laughter still bubbled up from your chest, making it impossible to stay quiet.
“Jinx, stop!” you mumbled, unable to fully protest with her hand over your lips.
She grinned mischievously, her eyes sparkling with playful victory. “Not my fault you’re so loud when you laugh,” she teased, still not letting go.
“Then stop tickling me!” you managed between gasps, trying and failing to push her off.
Jinx froze dramatically, her hands hovering mid-air as she raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now it’s my fault? You’re the one with the loudest laugh ever.”
“You’re the one who started this!” you shot back, breathless but smiling.
She smirked, tapping a finger to her chin as if deep in thought. “Hmm, fair point. But
” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m not done yet!”
“Don’t you dare—”
But before you could finish, she pounced again, her hands finding their way back to your sides, and you dissolved into another fit of uncontrollable laughter.
You froze mid-laugh, your gaze catching movement from the corner of your eye. There, standing just outside her little tent, was Isha. She was clad in her adorable mismatched pajamas, complete with tiny rocket ships and moons, her arms firmly crossed over her chest. Her expression, however, was anything but cute. With narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, she stared you both down, her entire posture screaming, Let me sleep.
Jinx followed your gaze and immediately burst into a wide grin. “Oh no,” she whispered theatrically, nudging you. “We’ve been caught by the sleep police.”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again as Isha’s glare intensified. Despite her silence, the message was clear. She tapped her wrist dramatically, as if pointing to an invisible watch, then raised a brow at Jinx.
“What?” Jinx said innocently, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “It’s not even that late!”
Isha tilted her head, her expression unimpressed, before dramatically pointing at her tent and then miming covering her ears. You could almost hear her saying, You’re loud, and I can’t sleep.
You stifled a giggle, whispering, “We should probably let her rest.”
Jinx, never one to back down, leaned closer to you and whispered back, “But she’s just so cute when she’s mad. Look at her little pajamas!”
You nudged Jinx in the ribs, trying to hold back your own laughter. “Jinx, stop.”
Isha, catching Jinx’s teasing expression, rolled her eyes in exaggerated frustration before throwing her hands up and stomping back into her tent. The little door flap swayed dramatically behind her as she disappeared inside.
Jinx let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “oof. Someone’s got an attitude tonight.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” you muttered, shooting her a pointed look.
Jinx grinned sheepishly before flopping back onto the couch beside you. “Okay, okay, no more tickling. For now.”
You sighed, settling back into the cushions as the hideout fell quiet again. “Good. Let’s try to get some sleep before Isha really loses it.”
Jinx snorted softly, curling up next to you. “She loves us. She can’t stay mad forever.”
You glanced at the tent flap, still swaying slightly, and shook your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” she shot back, her grin audible in her voice as she snuggled closer.
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v6quewrlds · 19 hours ago
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Can we get a fic where reader and Joe have like five boys and there all mini joes. Bonus reader is pregnant and its a girl💕💕💕💕💕💕
‎you stirred out of your sleep, the rumble of joe's snoring shaking you awake. with a gentle nudge, you coaxed joe awake. he groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he mumbled incoherently, not yet willing to face the morning chaos.
your fingers softly brushed his floppy hair out of his eyes, and joe managed a sleepy hum, his blue eyes hidden behind his shut eyes.
"joey," you spoke softly, "time to get up, baby."
he groaned again, rolling over to shove his face into the pillow, the sheets tangling around his broad shoulders.
"come on, you know the drill." you laughed, poking him in the side.
with a dramatic sigh, joe threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet searching for the cold floor. "alright, alright," he mumbled, stumbling towards the bathroom.
the peace lasted for all of five minutes before the sound of little feet pattered down the hallway, jaden and trey eager to start their day. you threw back the covers and waddled out of bed, your fourth pregnancy making your movements a tad more difficult.
"mommy, is it time for breakfast?" jaden, the oldest at nine, asked, his voice still thick with sleep. trey, the middle child at six, copied his brother's question, his eyes wide and hopeful. you couldn't help but laugh at their synchronized inquiries.
the boys were both mirror images of joe with their curly blonde hair sticking up in all directions, matching their father's famous bedhead.
"yes, but let's get you two ready for school first," you said, your voice filled with a mix of amusement and firmness.
the morning routine was a well-oiled machine. joe wrestled with the older boys to get them dressed and ready for school while you tended to two-year-old miles, changing his diaper and helping him into his favorite thomas the tank engine shirt. the air was filled with the sound of zippers zipping, shoes being tied, and the occasional giggle from miles when he made a break for the stairs, joe chasing after him to scoop him up at the last minute.
joe was on school duty, dropping the boys off with a mix of pride and sadness, knowing that soon, the house would be quieter, with only the echoes of their laughter to keep him company. by the time he returned, you had managed to clean up the breakfast mess and were busy playing with miles, who had discovered the joys of dumping his toy basket and watching everything spill out.
"ready to confirm we're having another boy?" you teased, watching joe's expression as you drove to the obstetrician's office, miles strapped in his car seat, chattering away in toddler gibberish.
"you know i'd be happy with whatever, but i really do hope it's a girl," he said, a hint of hope in his voice. 
"we've had three boys in a row," you said, your voice carrying the weight of three previous pregnancies. "what makes you think this one's going to be a girl?"
joe shrugged. "just a feeling. fourth time's the charm?" he grinned at you, his eyes sparkling with amusement. you could only laugh, shaking your head.
the obstetrician's office was bustling with expectant mothers and their partners, the air thick with excitement and nerves. when you were called into the exam room, you took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves as joe followed behind, holding onto miles' hand after he refused to be held.
the doctor's smile grew wider, and she said, "well, you two, it looks like you might have to revise your football team to make room for a couple of cheerleaders."
your jaw dropped.
"cheerleaders?" you echoed. "plural?"
joe's eyes shot to the screen, his grip on your hand loosening as he leaned in to see what the doctor was referring to. "you're kidding," he murmured, his voice a mix of shock and excitement.
the doctor chuckled, nodding her head. "yes, cheerleaders plural. two baby girls." she pointed out two tiny figures on the screen, their hearts beating in unison.
you felt the world spin around you.
"twins?" you squeaked out. the doctor nodded, her gaze shifting between the two of you, gauging your reaction.
"joseph burrow, i swear to god," you began, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief as you stared at the ultrasound screen. joe's eyes left the screen, squeezing your hand as he waited for you to finish your sentence.
"you're never touching me ever again."
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pinkofatom · 10 hours ago
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Phantasma's stage - Colin's change
Colin listened to the boasts of the hypnotist. His eyes lingered on her tight corset, those fishnet covered svelte legs. But he had to snort at her idiocy. As if she could make anyone act like a girl. All of this was obviously a scam. She had definitely some people placed in the audience to play along. That's why he raised his hand when she called for volunteers. She would never pick a guy like himself. A proud man.
But her emerald gaze locked with his. Glistening red lips curled up. "Oh yes," she cooed, "you will do nicely." With an outstretched gloved finger she beckoned him on stage.
He followed. Her perfume invaded his senses as he climbed on the stage. Something flowery and exotic.
She leaned in. Long lashes batted at his gaze and she whispered into his ears. Hot air caressed his skin. "Now, now," the words tickled down his spine, "don't be so nervous." She chuckled and Colin had goosebumps.
With her high-heeled boots clicking ominously, the great Phantasma walked back to the middle of the stage. "As you can see, my dear audience, our volunteer needs a little dose of calm." She ended the sentence with a little laugh. One echoed by the people. "And I shall grant him just that." Polite applause and louder cajoling interrupted her. "Thank you. Thank you. But we have not even started. Now, my dear volunteer, what is your name?" The question directed at him.
His throat was so parched. His lips stuck to his dried gums. "Uhhh..." he managed, "it's Colin."
Her high heels clicked again. The woman swayed her hips, the fishnets caught his eye as the fabric tensed. Her skirt seemed so very tight. "Colin, I am so delighted to have you as a visitor. Would you be a dear and tell me, why you chose to raise your hand. Don't worry, I won't hold any reason against you."
"I think this whole act is a sham," he replied, louder this time, and to his surprise the audience burst into laughter.
"Ohh, a sceptic." Phantasma's plump lips stretched into a mischievous smirk. "People like you, Colin, make my show really fun. Let me guess, dear. You think all those others were plants. Nothing I did was real. And then, when I challenged your masculinity you thought: ha I prove her wrong!" Her coy green orbs sparkled under the limelight. "How close am I, dear?" Her hand extended and she placed it on Colin's cheek.
Colin's skin prickled and heat shot up to the place she touched. "I am still convinced you're fake."
The crowd burst once more into laughter.
She grinned widely at his answer. Her gaze locked with Colin's again and she licked over those lush lips. "Well, well," her words were as soft as her touch had been. "Then let me disprove your scepticism, Colin. Let us begin." Out of her other hand fell a dangling crystal. "For you, my dear, I will go with the classics. Be a dear and look at the shining crystal." She waved her hand. Colin's eye followed the crystal and the sudden shine that emerged from it.
"Oh, very good. You follow it's movement even without prompt. That's part of the trick, my dear. People have such ingrained ideas in modern times. Knowledge of tropes and cliches, they can't help themselves. So when a hypnotist, like myself, dangles a crystal in front of your eyes. You simply follow it's swing. Back and forth. Left to right. It's absolutely normal. Nothing to worry about. Just enjoy the motion. The alluring shine. Back and forth." She lowered her voice, whispering close to Colin's ear.
A pleasant buzz began to form inside Colin's mind. "There you are Colin. Perfect. Don't be worried." Phantasma continued, "relax. Be calm. Take a deep breath in. Let the pendulum swing back. And exhale. The crystal moves forth. Inhale. And back. Exhale. And forth. In. Left. Out. Right. It's so easy to breathe in tune with the shining crystal. So easy. You don't need to think about it. You only act. Simple. Relaxing. Isn't it?" Her soft voice so close, it was as if her lips brushed over his ear.
"Yes," Colin mumbled. The buzz inside his mind grew with every breath, a warmth enveloped his head, a feeling like his brain had been reduced to a mass of soft dough. It wasn't unpleasant. "It feels good." His tongue was sluggish and he mumbled, the crystal twirled.
"Of course it does. Our modern lives are so filled with stress and hurry. But not here. Here calm and relaxation are the norm. The only thing you have to do is follow the crystal."
He hummed a content sound. As the crystal moved left and right, it seemed like the scenery around him was blurred, obscured. But the crystal — that shiny thing — stayed so sharp and distinct. It was hard for his doughy brain to describe the state of things. So his attention went to what was understandable, what was so crystal-clear: the pendulum.
"Very good, dear. Follow the shine. Gaze deeper into the twinkling light. It fills your mind. No more pesky thoughts. Let all those worries, drop." The last letter sounded like a loud pop. "Drop-" another pop "-drop deeper. Deeper and deeper. More relaxed with every swing. More of the shine inside your mind. Isn't this so delightful?" Again there was her voice in his right ear, like the touch of silk. "Your body, your mind, you are all in a state of deep and tranquil peace. It is the only place you wish to be."
His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, so heavy, as were his limbs. A small docile: "Yes," slipped through his lips. Slurred and mumbled.
"Very good, dear. All that's left is the shine, the motion. It has taken over your mind. It controls you, shapes you. And I control the swing, I shape its motion. So, I control you and shape your self. Can you feel how I control and shape you?" The words caressed him, wormed their way through his muddled head.
He had no control. All he could do was nod in affirmation of her control.
"Excellent, I command your body and mind with a mere gesture. I control your very existence, Colin." Phantasma's voice filled his brain. "And there is a simple truth, my dear. You aren't a man — not even a boy, dear. Oh, no. You are a simple girl. Say it."
The swing, her voice, the words; Colin's mouth had already begun to move before she uttered her command. "I'm a simple girl." His words came slurred and without a doubt. There was a certain feeling to the word girl, a pleasant fuzzy sensation that he hadn't expected.
"Good girl," the hypnotist whispered in Colin's ear, "you learn so well. Now, girls are naturally very calm, relaxed beings." She paused for a second and took the pendulum out of Colin's field of view, only the voice remained, that smooth guide to the world, "a woman does not worry or hurry, a lady always takes her sweet time to act. They are demure and elegant. This inner calm is reflected by their beauty. A woman always looks out for her beauty. She makes sure to always look pretty and elegant. No lady wears pants after all, no woman wears short or tight trousers that would hide their femininity. Skirts are what women prefer, long dresses that show the elegant shape of the legs, a sleek and feminine design. Such a female outfit shows the inner truth. Hair and face styled into perfection. Beautiful hair, long eyelashes, a plump pair of lips that have to shine in all colours possible, this is the standard a true girl has to hold to. This is the form of beauty you have to become." The crystal reappeared and swayed back and forth. "You have always been that girl, Colin. Can you feel it?"
His gaze locked onto the crystal and his eyes moved back and forth. He was completely lost inside that pendulum's shine, the voice of that wonderful lady. He nodded slowly. The words in her voice made so much sense. And as the ideas and suggestions entered his muddled head.
"Then," she led him to a vanity, "let her out." And pushed him gently into the seat. A large mirror covered most of the wall above the desk. In the reflection, Colin could make out his own dull face. That ordinary face of his had been staring back at him from mirrors forever. He stared in disgust. How ugly.
Phantasma leaned down to him and her breasts pushed against Colin's back. She laid her hand over Colin's and guided his arm towards a drawer, his hand grasped a handle and she pulled, opened the drawer, which was full with various make-up tools.
"Every good girl knows how to do proper make-up." Her breath brushed his left ear, her soft lips caressed his lobe, Colin's entire body shuddered at the intimate contact. He had no time to let the pleasure linger as Phantasma's skilled hand guided him through the tools. She snatched a delicate brush, its bristles tickled his fingers. "This will be your foundation, use a liberal amount, but remember less is more." Phantasma's soft fingers glided along his palm and he grasped it firmly, "your foundation is the base upon which the art of a girl comes alive." And so it was. She guided his hand with soft yet determined motions, he applied a rich layer onto his face, rubbing in the white and creamy substance.
Her next instruction was a different brush. "You need a bit of powder." Again she guided him and Colin pressed and dabbed and wiped, a tingling feeling remained after each application. A dusting of rose blush and some strokes with the highlighter, Phantasma seemed to know exactly what kind of shape his cheekbones needed; how to highlight their contours. Stroke after stroke his face changed. Mascara rolled over his eyelashes. Long curves made his eyes pop. A pinkish eyeshadow made their colour shine.
He grew enamoured of that person staring back in the mirror.
"A girl needs full, beautiful lips to show their smile to the world." And with this instruction Phantasma laid his fingers around a delicate red lipstick.
Under Phantasma's soft but skilled hands, Colin's lips became plump and red. Curled into a demure form they spoke of his elegance. Phantasma's final instruction involved his eyebrows and they were now shaped perfectly to his eyes and enhanced their colour. He was a beauty.
A soft moan came over his lips, a girly coo of delight, and his cheeks blushed red. The person staring back at him wasn't even male. The shape of the face was now clearly feminine.
"And until your hair has grown to perfection, this will complete you." Phantasma placed a wig over his scalp. Long pink locks cascaded down his neck. It fitted the face in the mirror like a dream.
"You are such a beauty now." The voice of Phantasma whispered into his ear.
"Yes." Colin nodded slowly. He couldn't take his gaze away from the gorgeous girl that looked at him from the other side of the looking-glass. A gentle sigh parted his red, plump and luscious lips.
"It feels so right — to be a girl, doesn't it, dear," the soft touch of the hypnotist ghosted along the side of his face. So gentle. Her gloved fingers sent tingling shudders all over his spine.
He leaned into her soft touch. "Yes," he said without thinking.
Phantasma leaned closer and her long lashes fluttered before his eyes, then her lips were suddenly upon his. So warm and wet. As the contact lasted longer and he couldn't help but reciprocate her movements, she pushed with her plump lips more and more.
He felt himself give way and open his mouth for her and as he gasped a little bit, Phantasma took the opportunity and her tongue darted inside his mouth and took a quick, yet passionate swipe around. Then, her lips separated from his and a thin, silvery string of drool hung between the both of them.
"Good girl." She took his hands. Practiced she twirled him in front of the audience. Glazed eyes watched over glazed eyes. "Now, I'm certain everyone will agree that my hypnosis is real." Phantasma clapped her hands. A jolt traveled through Colin and the people. Like a spell each person blinked awake. Colin shook his head.
"Look, Colin, what you are wearing now. Such masculine clothes. I thought a girl like yourself wouldn't wear them," Phantasma cooed into his ear, the people from the audience chuckled.
Colin looked down his body and felt suddenly very wrong, a blush spread on his face. "These clothes. I wouldn't," his tongue betrayed him and the muddled brain wouldn't allow for any protest.
"Then why are you wearing them, dear?" Phantasma smirked at the audience. Colin gulped. The people stared in anticipation at the two of them standing on stage.
"Because you hypnotized me," he mumbled. A blush crept on his face.
"No need to be embarrassed, dear. Others had fallen under my sway, isn't that right people!" The last part she addressed towards the audience. And they responded in affirmative shouts. Colin shook in anticipation, something tingling had started to creep along his spine. "So there's no need to worry." Her gaze locked with him and those beautiful green eyes glittered mischievously, her soft voice whispered. "Don't worry, dear, I've kept your elegant dress and may I be so bold, rather risque underwear safe."
Colin blinked at her, then his gaze went to the stage where the drawer lay, his clothes hung neatly next to the mirror. He hadn't noticed that. How could she have done all these things without him noticing, or even protesting. A tingle crept down his neck and spine.
"Now, don't you want to change again, dear? Those boy clothes I put you in must feel so wrong," the last word rolled from her lips with emphasis.
Colin shivered and his face contorted into a grimace. "Yes, yes, I can't stand being forced to wear such un-elegant, ugly things. They do nothing for my body. Hide my femininity." Colin grumbled, yet his voice appropriately soft and melodious. A pout pulled on his lips.
"That they do. Go my dear. I will entertain the masses while you are gone." She turned again to the audience. "Please, a roaring applause for Colin and her bravery to be put in such rough clothes," and Phantasma snickered as did the crowd.
Colin held her chin high. Her hips swayed more with every step, a feminine strut. And she left the stage filled with the a sense of adventure. Even if she still didn't like these inelegant style.
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Who knows what could have happened? 💖
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capquinn · 3 days ago
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Dad!Quinn takes his daughter out for the day to spend some time together while mom is taking care of the newborn. Maybe he takes her to get the new doll she’s been wanting or something as a present for being such a great big sister and helping out while he was on the road right after their son was born. They go out to lunch and she gets excited when he says she can order anything on the menu, including ice cream for dessert! Just a wholesome daddy and daughter day! â˜ș
The day started early, Quinn slipping out of the house with his daughter’s tiny hand clasped in his own, her giggles trailing behind them as they whispered their goodbyes so they wouldn’t wake her baby brother. She was bundled up in her favourite coat, her glittery sneakers flashing with each excited bounce as they headed toward the car.
“Where are we going, daddy?” she asked, her wide eyes peeking up at him, already brimming with excitement.
“It’s a surprise,” Quinn replied, grinning as he buckled her into her car seat. “But I think you’re gonna like it.”
He had planned this day for weeks, wanting to carve out something just for her — a moment where it could be the two of them again after the whirlwind arrival of her baby brother and the chaos of balancing work and family. She’d been a trooper through it all, her small hands helping in ways that tugged at his heart, her patience and sweetness never faltering. She was already the doting big sister, cradling her brother’s tiny hand whenever she had the chance with a tenderness that made his chest ache. Today wasn’t about spoiling her; it was about showing her just how much he saw her.
Their first stop was the toy store, and the moment they stepped inside, Bug’s face lit up with pure, unfiltered excitement. Her eyes darted across the towering shelves overflowing with brightly coloured boxes, a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Still, she didn’t hesitate — she knew exactly where she wanted to go, her tiny feet carrying her with purpose toward the aisle she had dreamed about for weeks.
“The dolls, daddy, quick!” she squealed, tugging his hand toward the aisle she’d clearly memorised from their previous visits.
Quinn followed close behind, a smile tugging at his lips as Bug made a beeline for the shelf. Her little hands reached out with determination, grasping the doll she’d been talking about for weeks — a princess with shimmering hair and a dress that sparkled like starlight. She turned to him, holding it up as though presenting a treasure, her grin so wide it nearly outshone the doll.
“Look!” she said, her voice brimming with pride.
He crouched down to her level, tilting his head and pretending to inspect the doll seriously.
 “Hmm,” he said, his tone teasing. “You sure this is the one? She’s got nice shoes, but
 doesn’t she need a crown?”
Bug’s little gasp was immediate, her brow furrowing in a mix of offence and uncertainty as she turned the box around, double-checking as if she needed to be absolutely sure. 
“Daddy, she does have a crown!” she said, her voice carrying the faintest hint of indignation as her finger shot up to point. “Look, right there!”
He feigned surprise, his hand coming up to rub his chin thoughtfully. “Ohhh, you’re right. Silly me,” he said, nodding. “Alright, Bug. She’s yours.”
Her triumphant grin could have lit up the entire store as she hugged the box tightly to her chest, the princess doll already her new best friend. He followed her as she practically skipped toward the register, her sneakers lighting up with each step, his heart full as he watched her delight unfold.
But then, as they passed another aisle, she slowed. Her gaze snagged on a shelf filled with stuffed animals, and she let out a tiny, audible gasp. He didn’t even have to look to know what had caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide and fixed on a soft, floppy bunny with long ears and a pink bow tied snugly around its neck.
“Daddy
” Her voice was quieter now, a hesitant sweetness lacing the word as she turned to face him. Her expression — those big, hopeful eyes and the slight tilt of her head — was enough to make his chest ache.
He sighed internally, knowing exactly where this was going.
“Bug
” he began, trying to sound firm but already failing as she hugged the doll a little tighter, like an ace up her sleeve.
“But it’s so cute,” she said softly, her voice full of innocence and wonder, as though the bunny were the most magical thing in the world. “She could have tea parties with the princess.”
Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between her and the bunny, his resolve crumbling faster than he cared to admit. He crouched down to her level, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. 
“You know you’re really good at this, right?” he said, his voice tinged with mock exasperation, though the warmth in his tone betrayed him.
She blinked at him, her grin starting to grow as she realised she had him.
“Please, daddy?” she whispered, leaning just the tiniest bit closer, her glittery sneakers rocking on the balls of her feet.
With a quiet laugh, Quinn reached for the bunny and placed it in her small hands. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head as she squealed with delight. “But no more surprises, okay?”
“Okay!” she chirped, clutching the bunny to her chest alongside the doll. Her face was so bright, so full of joy, that Quinn couldn’t help but smile as he stood back up.
“You know you’ve got me wrapped around your finger, don’t you?” he muttered as he led her to the register.
She giggled, skipping alongside him as her treasures jostled in her arms. Quinn shook his head fondly. 
Yeah, she knew. She absolutely knew.
The rest of the day unfolded like a collection of small, perfect moments — the kind only a three-year-old could conjure. Lunch at her favourite diner was the sort of outing Quinn knew she’d talk about for days, recounting every detail in her sing-song voice to whoever would listen. The diner itself was a cheerful little spot with checkered floors and booths that squeaked when you slid into them, the scent of syrup and fresh coffee hanging in the air.
Bug scrambled onto the booth seat, her glittery sneakers thumping against the vinyl as she tried to settle in. She grabbed the laminated menu with both hands, holding it up like she was deciphering a treasure map. Quinn watched, amused, as her brows furrowed in concentration.
“Do you know what you want?” Quinn asked, sliding into the seat across from her, the menu already in his hands.
She shook her head quickly, her little frown exaggerated and serious, though the sparkle in her eyes made her excitement shine.
“I don’t know the words,” she said, placing the menu flat on the table with an air of finality, as if it was his responsibility to figure it out.
“Okay,” he replied with a grin, leaning forward and pretending to study the menu with great care. “Let’s see
 There’s waffles, chicken fingers, grilled cheese, a burger, or
” He paused for effect, letting his eyes peek over the top of the menu to meet hers, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “
pancakes.”
Her whole face lit up, a gasp escaping her lips. “Pancakes!” she declared, her voice loud enough to make a nearby diner chuckle. “With sprinkles! And whipped cream!”
Quinn smirked, lowering the menu and raising an eyebrow. “You don’t want ice cream today?”
Her grin widened, her head bobbing in enthusiastic agreement, as if the very idea of adding ice cream was the most exciting thing she’d ever heard. “Ice cream, too!” she said, her hands clapping together in delight.
“Pancakes, whipped cream, sprinkles, and ice cream,” he repeated with mock seriousness, leaning back in his seat. “You’re going all out today, huh?”
After lunch, the two of them ended up at the park — a quiet one with wide, open fields and a small playground tucked into the corner. The sun warmed the crisp afternoon air, and Bug immediately kicked off her sneakers, running barefoot through the grass with her doll in tow. Quinn followed at a slower pace, his hands in his pockets as he watched her dart back and forth, her giggles carrying on the breeze.
When she finally tired out, she ran back to him, her arms outstretched. 
“Up, Daddy!” she called, and he crouched to scoop her up, settling her easily on his hip. Her cheeks were rosy from the running, her curls sticking to her forehead, but her smile was as bright as ever.
As they strolled back to a nearby bench, she rested her head on his shoulder, her tiny fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt.
“Daddy?” she murmured.
“Yeah, Bug?”
She sat up a little, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think Cub likes me?”
Quinn blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in her tone. He adjusted his grip on her and sat down, settling her on his lap. 
“Likes you?” he repeated, the words catching slightly as he processed her question. The simplicity of it tugged at something deep in his chest, a raw tenderness he hadn’t quite expected. Bug, his brave, funny, curious little girl, with so much love to give, was already wondering if she was enough. The thought made his grip on her tighten slightly, protectively.
How could she not know? He had seen it in the way her tiny hands cradled her brother’s even tinier ones, the way she whispered to him in that soft, singsong voice she used only for him. She adored her baby brother, and he knew without a doubt that love would only grow.
“Bug, he loves you,” Quinn said, his voice steady but full of warmth. “You’re his big sister.”
“But he’s so little,” she said, frowning slightly. “He just cries and sleeps. What if he doesn’t know I’m his big sister?”
Quinn smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from her face. Her thoughtfulness always caught him off guard, the way she tried to make sense of things so much bigger than her tiny frame.
“Oh, he knows,” he said softly, his voice steady with reassurance. “Every time you hold his hand, or sit next to him, or tell him all those stories — you’re showing him. He might not be able to say it yet, but he knows. And when he gets bigger, you’ll be his favourite person in the whole wide world.”
Her eyes brightened at that, her lips curving into the beginnings of a smile. 
“Really?” she asked, her voice full of cautious hope.
“Really,” Quinn said, his tone warm but firm. “You’re already the best big sister. Mom and I see how much you love him, and he will too.”
She stared at him for a moment, her smile growing as she processed his words. Then, in the way only she could, she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. 
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice soft but full of the kind of unwavering trust that only a little girl could place in her dad.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sun was just beginning to set, casting the house in a warm, golden glow. Quinn turned off the engine, letting out a quiet sigh as he glanced in the rearview mirror. In the backseat, Bug clutched her new doll tightly to her chest, her head resting against the car seat, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy from the excitement of the day. Her hair was slightly mussed, her glittery sneakers dangling lazily, and the sight made Quinn’s chest tighten with affection.
“You okay, Bug?” he asked softly, twisting in his seat to look at her.
She blinked slowly, her lips curving into a small, tired smile. 
“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice softer than it had been all day.
He got out and circled the car, opening her door and carefully unbuckling her from the seat. She leaned into him immediately, her small arms wrapping loosely around his neck as he lifted her up. The doll was squished between them, and he had to stifle a laugh at how seriously she protected it, even in her sleepiness.
“Did you have fun today?” he asked as he carried her inside, her weight resting heavily against his chest.
She nodded, her face pressed to his shoulder. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You’re the best daddy ever.”
Quinn’s breath hitched slightly, her words hitting him square in the chest. He paused in the hallway, his arms tightening around her just a little.
“I think you’re pretty great too, Bug,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her sleepy eyes sparkling. 
“You’re my best friend,” she said quietly, her tiny hand lifting to rest against his cheek, her touch so gentle yet filled with a sincerity that made something in his chest tighten and ache. Then, with a softness only she could manage, she leaned in, wrapping her little arms around his neck, her head tucking against his shoulder as if it were where she belonged.
And for Quinn, that was exactly where she belonged — safe in his arms, her tiny frame pressed close, her trust and love so freely given. In moments like this, the weight of the world seemed to fall away, leaving only her — the one who had redefined everything for him, who had made him realise just how much love a heart could hold.
He stood there in the quiet hallway, holding her as the moment stretched out, his arms tightening just slightly around her tiny frame. She smelled faintly of syrup and sunshine, and the warmth of her small frame against his filled him with a peace so profound it seemed to settle into every corner of his being. His little girl, his Bug. She had no idea just how much she meant to him.
“You’re mine too,” he murmured finally, his voice soft but carrying a weight that matched the depth of the moment. 
She’d said it a million times before, but now, in her quietest, most unguarded state, he could feel the truth of her words settle into his chest.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering for just a moment before he pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were heavy with sleep now, her grip on him loosening slightly, but the tiny smile on her face said everything.
“Come on, best friend,” he whispered with a soft smile, shifting her gently in his arms. “Let’s get you to bed.”
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dayabelle · 2 days ago
Text
December
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Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Fem Reader
This is part 1!, Part 2
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December 1st
The city was blanketed in soft, silent snow, the kind that fell thick and steady, turning every surface into a winter wonderland. The streets were lined with holiday decorations—bright lights twinkling on every corner, and faint holiday music drifting through the air from nearby stores. The crisp, cold air stung his face as Izuku Midoriya walked briskly down the street, his breath visible in the frosty morning air. He had always loved this time of year, the world feeling a little more magical as winter took over.
As he reached the nondescript building tucked away in a quieter part of town, he paused for a moment to adjust the scarf around his neck. It was the first of December, a month that had become a tradition for him—coming to see Y/n, his long-time friend, to check in and make sure everything was going smoothly with her work.
Opening the door with a gentle creak, Izuku stepped inside, and the familiar warmth of the room hit him. The small workshop was filled with the scent of machine oil and metal, the hum of a workbench in constant motion. The dim lighting gave the room a cozy glow, though it was obvious that Y/n had been working late into the night. Snow clung to the windows, and the soft winter light filtered in, casting a chill around the room.
On the floor, with her back to the door, Y/n was sprawled out in her usual work attire—a dark, grease-stained jumpsuit that hugged her frame, a mix of tools scattered around her. Her hair was messily pulled up into a bun, strands falling loose around her face as she worked with intense focus. She didn’t notice Izuku’s arrival. She was too busy, crouched over a complicated piece of hero gear, her hands moving deftly as she adjusted a malfunctioning component, her brow furrowed in concentration.
The floor around her was littered with parts—screws, wires, small metallic components—and yet Y/n appeared completely at ease, like this was the most natural environment for her. Her face was smeared with grease, a little messy, but it only seemed to highlight her unwavering dedication to her work. Izuku couldn’t help but smile softly, a quiet admiration filling his chest. He had known Y/n for years, and even now, seeing her like this, so immersed in her craft, still left him in awe.
She was always like this. Completely consumed by her genius mind, her ability to solve problems before they even fully manifested. Her eyes sparkled with innovation, and her ability to fix even the most complicated issues with hero gear was nothing short of extraordinary. It had been years since he first met her, and he could still remember how impressed he had been by her ability to notice every little detail, every weakness in design. She had a mind for this that was incomparable.
Izuku stood quietly by the door, watching her work, before clearing his throat softly to get her attention. "Y/n?" he called gently, not wanting to startle her.
Her head shot up, eyes widening in surprise. She wiped her hands on a nearby rag, then reached up to pull a stray hair from her face. “Izuku?” she asked, blinking as if she hadn’t fully processed his presence just yet. “You’re early. It’s not even the 5th yet.”
Izuku grinned sheepishly, stepping closer. "I know, I couldn’t wait. Besides, you never stop working, so I figured I'd just pop by."
Y/n smirked, rolling her eyes, but her lips twitched into a small smile. “Always in a hurry. Come on, get in here before the cold air freezes you into a popsicle.”
Izuku chuckled and took a few steps further into the room, letting the door shut behind him. As he moved toward the counter, he couldn’t help but glance back at her—always so immersed in her passion, always so... Y/n.
“Busy as usual, huh?” he asked, his voice warm with familiarity.
“Same as always,” she replied, already turning back to her work, though her tone was light. “Can’t afford to waste time when there’s always something that needs fixing.”
The snow outside continued to fall gently, the sounds of the holidays filtering in through the workshop windows. And while the world outside was preparing for the season of joy, in her little corner of it, Y/n was already deep into the heart of her December routine—working tirelessly to make sure every piece of hero gear, every design, was as perfect as it could be.
And Izuku, as he always had, would be there by her side.
Y/n’s voice pulled him back into the moment as she looked up at him with a faintly curious expression. She wiped her hands on a rag again before pushing herself up from the floor, her movements fluid despite the grease and dirt she’d accumulated. "How’s Aizawa?" she asked, her tone casual but with a glimmer of genuine concern.
Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the question. He had been so focused on seeing Y/n again that he hadn’t thought to ask about her projects or her thoughts on his mentor. The last time he’d seen Aizawa, he had been dealing with the usual burdens of his job, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Still, he appreciated the way she always remembered the smaller details. Y/n had met Aizawa only a handful of times, but their brief interactions had left an impression. And the time she’d spent working on his prosthetic leg was something Izuku would never forget.
“Oh, he’s doing well,” Izuku replied, pushing the original question from his mind as he thought back to the last time he saw his teacher. “He’s been tough as always, but the new leg is working great. He’s been able to move much more fluidly in combatïżœïżœïżœhe says it’s helped him more than he expected. And you really made it fit his needs perfectly.”
Y/n smiled faintly at his praise. “I’m glad it’s working out for him,” she said, her gaze softening. “Aizawa’s the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for help unless he really needs it, and when he did, it was important to get the design right. The prosthetic had to support his weight and still allow him the mobility he needs—especially with the way he fights. It’s a fine balance.”
Izuku nodded, recalling the first time he’d introduced Y/n to Aizawa. The two had been skeptical at first, Aizawa with his usual guarded demeanor and Y/n with her pragmatic, no-nonsense attitude. But Y/n had quickly understood the complexity of Aizawa’s needs. She’d spent hours analyzing his movements, taking meticulous measurements, and fine-tuning the leg to ensure it wasn’t just functional but tailored to his fighting style. It had been one of her more challenging projects, but seeing the result in action—watching Aizawa move with more ease—had been incredibly rewarding.
“You were the only one who could do it,” Izuku added with a smile, grateful for the way Y/n always approached challenges. “Aizawa doesn’t trust just anyone with something like that. But with you, he didn’t hesitate.”
Y/n shrugged, as if it were nothing special, but the slight blush creeping onto her cheeks betrayed her. “I just did what I could. You know how I am when it comes to gear—it’s about precision, making sure it works in the most demanding situations. I’m glad he liked it.”
Izuku felt a quiet sense of pride in her work, not just as a friend but as someone who had witnessed her skill firsthand for so many years. He leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, smiling at her. "He actually said it’s helped him get a few extra moves in when things get heated during missions. You’ve really made a difference, Y/n."
She chuckled softly, the sound genuine but tempered with modesty. "Well, I’m just happy he’s able to use it the way he needs to. Aizawa doesn’t ask for much, so if something I made helps him, that’s enough for me.”
There was a pause, and Izuku took a breath, noticing that Y/n’s eyes were still focused on the tools scattered around the room, though her thoughts seemed far away. He knew she didn’t always share her emotions openly, but moments like these—where her quiet satisfaction in her work showed through—were when Izuku felt the deepest appreciation for her.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but paused, unsure if he should push his initial question. The subject of her projects always brought Y/n out of her shell, and for a moment, he just wanted to let her have this space. He could always ask about her plans later. For now, it was enough to see her in her element, the snowy world outside a silent witness to their long-standing friendship.
Izuku’s smile faltered slightly as he leaned back against the workbench, his eyes drifting toward the snowy window. His mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had a few weeks ago, one that still felt a little uneasy to him. He had been talking to Bakugo about hero gear, as he often did. The topic had come up because Bakugo was complaining—again—about his mechanic, Hatsune, becoming more and more difficult to work with.
“She’s becoming way too crazy for me,” Bakugo had growled, arms crossed over his chest. “Can’t get anything right. I need someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t slow me down.”
Izuku had mentioned Y/n then—how she specialized in high-tech gear for top-tier heroes, how she had worked on everything from mobility suits to combat weapons. He’d never seen someone so passionate and skilled in her field. Her genius with design was unmatched, and he knew Bakugo needed someone like her.
"I can ask Y/n," Izuku had said, feeling a little apprehensive even then. "She works with some of the top heroes, and she's great with custom gear. I think she'd be perfect for you."
Bakugo’s eyes had narrowed, his face skeptical at first. But then he’d grunted, “Fine, do it. Get her to take a look at my gear. I need someone I can trust, not some idiot who can’t get it right.”
Izuku had left the conversation feeling a strange mix of guilt and responsibility, unsure how to approach Y/n with the idea. He’d been coming to her for years with requests—whether it was advice, help with his own gear, or the occasional favor—and each time, she’d told him that she didn’t mind. But this time, this felt different. Bakugo was... well, Bakugo. His strong personality, his need for control, and his lack of patience for anything that didn’t fit his vision made Izuku nervous.
He had always admired how Y/n managed her work with grace and precision, but introducing her to Bakugo seemed like a different kind of challenge. Would she even want to deal with him? Would Bakugo be able to respect her process, or would his brash attitude drive her away?
Izuku cleared his throat, drawing Y/n’s attention back to him. “Actually,” he began, his voice a little more hesitant than he intended, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Y/n raised an eyebrow, noticing the shift in his demeanor. “What’s up?”
Izuku hesitated for a moment longer before pushing the thought forward. “So, I mentioned you to Bakugo a while ago
 about your work with high-tech gear, and... well, he needs a new mechanic.”
Y/n’s eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the tension in his voice. “Bakugo Katsuki?” she asked, already piecing things together.
“Yeah...” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves making him feel awkward despite his usual confidence. “He’s been having trouble with his current mechanic. Hatsune’s just... not cutting it for him anymore. So, he asked me to find someone better, and I thought of you.”
Y/n let out a long, thoughtful sigh, leaning back against the workbench with her arms crossed. “So, you want me to work with him?” Her tone wasn’t cold, but there was a certain wariness to it.
Izuku nodded slowly. “I know you don’t usually take on a lot of requests from other heroes, but Bakugo
 he’s not like other people. He’s... intense. But he respects people who can get the job done. And you could really help him, Y/n."
Y/n paused, her eyes distant for a moment as she thought it over. She’d worked with plenty of demanding heroes in the past—each with their own quirks and preferences—but Bakugo was a different breed entirely. His overwhelming pride and stubbornness were legendary, and his ability to alienate those around him was almost as impressive as his power.
"I’m not sure..." she said quietly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I know you trust him, Izuku, but Bakugo’s not exactly known for being... easy to work with."
Izuku chuckled nervously, scratching his head. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. He’s a bit of a handful, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Once he knows someone can deliver, he’ll actually start listening. It’s just... the first impression can be a lot.”
Y/n glanced at him, a mixture of hesitation and curiosity in her eyes. “And you really think I’m the right fit for him?”
“I think you’re the only one who could keep up with him,” Izuku said, trying to sound convincing. “He needs someone who can handle his... unique personality and still give him the gear he needs. You’re the best at what you do, and I know he’s looking for someone who can be as precise as you are.”
There was a silence as Y/n thought it over, her gaze flickering between Izuku and the scattered tools in front of her. Finally, she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But if I do this, it’s going to be on my terms. No exceptions. I don’t want to hear complaints about my methods.”
Izuku smiled, relieved. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Thanks, Y/n. I know Bakugo’s not the easiest guy to deal with, but... he really needs this.”
Y/n gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “If it’ll help him, I’ll make it work. But if he starts pushing my buttons too much, I’m not afraid to put him in his place.”
Izuku chuckled, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him. “I know you can handle it. I’ll tell him you’ll take him on, and then... I guess we’ll see how it goes.”
As he spoke, the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in soft white silence. Izuku couldn’t help but feel a little lighter knowing that Y/n had agreed, even if it was with some reservations. Bakugo’s need for a new mechanic would finally be addressed, and, maybe, just maybe, this December would bring a new kind of challenge—not just for Bakugo, but for the complicated dynamic that was starting to form between Y/n and the explosive hero.
Izuku noticed the slight skepticism in Y/n’s expression as she thought about Bakugo. She’d never met him before, only hearing about him through Izuku’s long, often exaggerated stories about his explosive friend. Of course, she had seen Bakugo on TV plenty of times—his rise through the hero ranks, his explosive battles, his notorious temper—it had always seemed like a whirlwind to her. From her perspective, Bakugo’s entire existence sometimes seemed like a bit of a silly spectacle.
But then again, she knew how much Bakugo meant to Izuku. His loyalty to Bakugo was unwavering, and Y/n had always admired that. Despite how different they were, Izuku’s stories about Bakugo painted a picture of someone who was fiercely determined, though often misunderstood. Y/n didn’t mind hearing Izuku go on and on about him. It was a bit of a routine between them. She would continue working on whatever project she had at the time, her hands moving with practiced precision, while Izuku sat nearby, spilling out his thoughts on anything and everything.
Most of the time, their conversations flowed like this: Izuku would tell stories about his days at U.A., how Aizawa was doing with his prosthetic leg, how Eri was adjusting to life with the other students. But it was Bakugo who often dominated their talks.
Izuku would talk about their childhood—about how they had grown up together, how their rivalry had been something that shaped both of them. He would talk about how Bakugo had always been stubborn, but deep down, he had a heart that cared more than he let on. Y/n would only half-listen at times, her focus mostly on the tasks in front of her—whether it was tuning up some gear or designing a new piece for a client. The rhythm of the work was comforting. It allowed her mind to wander, to let Izuku’s words fill the space between each stroke of her tool.
But now, the conversation had shifted. Izuku, clearly sensing that Y/n was not quite sure about the whole Bakugo situation, had backed off for the moment. He didn’t want to push too hard, especially after seeing the thoughtful look in her eyes. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel pressured or uncomfortable with the idea of working with someone she had never met in person.
"Anyway," Izuku said, his voice a bit lighter now, "what’s new with your projects? Anything I can help with?"
Y/n blinked, the shift in focus pulling her back into the present. She looked at Izuku, her brow furrowing slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You always want to help with something," she teased lightly, but there was no real malice behind it. She paused for a moment, thinking of the different projects on her plate. "I’ve been designing some new mobility gear for some of the higher-tier heroes. They’re looking for something lighter but still able to take a hit. It’s been a bit tricky, but I think I’ve got something coming along."
Izuku nodded enthusiastically, his interest piqued. "Sounds interesting! What kind of specs are you going for? Are they focusing on speed or protection, or both?"
Y/n leaned back, stretching slightly before sitting down on the stool nearby. "Both, actually. But the challenge is making it flexible enough for agility while still being tough enough to handle combat situations. I think I’ve figured out how to balance both with the right kind of material, but it’s still a work in progress."
Izuku’s eyes sparkled with admiration. "That’s exactly why you’re the best at what you do, Y/n. You think of every detail. Most people would just focus on one or the other, but you always find a way to make it work."
Y/n’s cheeks flushed a little at the compliment, though she quickly deflected it with a shrug. "It’s just about understanding the needs of the person using the gear. Everyone fights differently, and every hero has different requirements. It’s all about finding that balance."
Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I’ve learned that the hard way with my own gear."
Y/n laughed softly. "I remember that. You always came to me with a million things wrong with your suits. You really do like to push things to the limit."
"Well, that’s what being a hero is about, right? Pushing your limits?" Izuku replied with his usual enthusiasm, though there was a hint of self-awareness in his tone.
Y/n smiled, shaking her head. "True, true. I just have to make sure you don’t push my limits too much. You’re lucky I like working on your gear."
"I know, I know," Izuku said with a grin. "I’m very lucky."
As their conversation continued, the earlier tension surrounding Bakugo seemed to dissipate, at least for the moment. Izuku let the topic drift for now, content to focus on the things that truly mattered in this moment—their shared love for hero gear, their long-standing friendship, and the mutual respect they had for each other's abilities.
The sounds of the holiday music outside continued to float in through the windows, mingling with the soft hum of the workbench, as the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that only came from years of understanding each other. The snow outside continued to fall, blanketing the world in soft, peaceful quiet, as the day drifted on.
Izuku leaned back slightly, watching as Y/n continued working, her hands moving with purpose, but her eyes still sharp as she worked through each task. After a moment of thought, he asked, “You ever think about moving to a bigger workshop? I mean, with the amount of high-ranking heroes you’ve worked for, you’ve got enough money to pretty much be considered rich. And you always get paid well for your work. I bet you could have a bigger, fancier place somewhere else. Maybe somewhere with better facilities.”
Y/n paused for a moment, her tools held still as she glanced up at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t immediately answer, instead looking out the window as the soft hum of the shop and the occasional sounds of children playing outside filled the space between them.
“I’ve thought about it,” she said finally, her voice calm. “But no, I don’t want to move.”
Izuku blinked in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “Really? I would’ve thought the idea of working in a bigger place would appeal to you. I mean, you’re practically a legend with how much work you get. You could have everything—state-of-the-art tools, a giant workshop with a team of people to assist you.”
She shook her head lightly, her expression thoughtful. “I like it here. This place, the people around me—it’s... peaceful. I get to watch the kids outside my window, running around in the snow with their toys. I see the plant beds outside, covered in snow, and the way the neighbors always drop by with little treats or just to say hello. They’re always kind to me, and that matters. It keeps me grounded. This place is... part of why I work well.”
Izuku’s gaze softened as he listened, understanding what she meant. Y/n had always been someone who didn’t need the glitz and glamour of fame or fortune. Her work spoke for itself, but she found satisfaction in the smaller things. She didn’t crave luxury or recognition—she simply wanted to create, to help, and to be a part of her community in a way that made her feel at home.
“Sometimes I think I could place myself anywhere, and it wouldn’t be the same,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now, as if sharing a quiet truth. “I need this environment, these people, these sounds. They help me stay focused. If I went to a fancier place, I’d lose that.”
Izuku couldn’t help but smile at her grounded perspective. He had always admired how self-aware Y/n was, how she never let external expectations sway her from her own path. She wasn’t driven by fame or money. She was driven by her own passion for her work, her connection to the world around her.
He thought back to when he was 19, when he first met Y/n. Back then, he had been struggling with his own sense of self, unsure about his future as a hero, unsure of his place in the world. Meeting Y/n had been a turning point for him. She had shown him that it was okay to be rooted, to take time and build something meaningful. He was grateful—grateful that he had met her when he did.
“I’m glad you don’t feel the need to change,” Izuku said softly, the sincerity in his words clear. “You’re happy here, and that’s what matters most. And besides, I don’t think you’d be you if you went somewhere else.”
Y/n’s eyes softened at his words, a small smile appearing on her lips as she met his gaze. “I guess that’s true. I like who I am here, surrounded by the things that make me happy. But enough about me. What about you? You’ve been traveling all over the place lately, huh? Any exciting stories from your hero work?”
Izuku chuckled, grateful for the change in topic. "Well, actually... there’s been a lot happening in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been working on a new suit, and—"
As he continued, Y/n listened with that same patient attention she always gave him, her focus divided between the work in front of her and the conversation they shared. The snowfall outside continued, gently covering the world in white, while inside, the warmth of their friendship filled the room.
Izuku smiled quietly to himself as he spoke, thinking back on everything that had brought them to this moment. He couldn’t have asked for a better friend, and he knew, deep down, that meeting Y/n had been one of the best things that had ever happened to him. And though their paths had been different, and their worlds often felt far apart, moments like this—when they could simply sit together, talking about life—reminded him of how much they both needed this. The peace, the balance, the understanding. It was the foundation of their friendship, and he would never take it for granted.
As the conversation between Izuku and Y/n continued, the atmosphere in the workshop remained warm and easy. They were deep into discussing the latest projects Y/n had been working on, the gentle hum of the machines in the background blending with the soft holiday music floating in from outside. The snow had continued falling in thick flurries, and the quiet of the outside world mirrored the calm between the two of them.
But just as the conversation reached a lull, Izuku’s phone buzzed on the workbench with an urgent ring, cutting through the peaceful atmosphere. He glanced down at the screen, his expression immediately shifting into one of concern. It was a call from the agency.
"Sorry, I need to take this," he said, standing up quickly, his usual calm demeanor slipping into one of focus as he answered the call. "Midoriya speaking."
Y/n watched him, her gaze flicking to his tense posture as he moved a little further away, listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. She could hear the snippets of conversation as Izuku responded, his voice low but urgent, his brow furrowing as he processed the information.
"Right, I’ll be there ASAP," he said, ending the call with a quick click of his tongue. He turned back to her, his expression more serious now.
"I’m really sorry, Y/n," he apologized, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and quickly slipping it on. "Something’s come up, I have to go. A situation with one of the heroes—there’s a report of a villain attack. They need me to go on standby, so I’ll have to cut this visit short."
Y/n nodded, understanding without needing any further explanation. "Go ahead. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine here."
Izuku hesitated for a moment, clearly not wanting to leave her alone in the workshop, but he knew there was no time to waste. "Thanks for understanding. I’ll make it up to you next time."
Y/n gave him a small, reassuring smile. "No problem, Izuku. I’m used to working alone anyway." She gestured to the room around her, already resettling herself by the workbench as if the absence of his company wouldn’t disrupt her rhythm.
Izuku smiled back, albeit with a tinge of guilt. "Take care, Y/n. I’ll be in touch later. Let me know if you need anything."
With one last glance in her direction, Izuku hurried out of the workshop, leaving Y/n alone amidst the clutter of tools, sketches, and unfinished projects. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and for a moment, the quiet of the workshop seemed to grow a little heavier. The sound of the snow outside was muffled by the thick windows, and the holiday music faintly filtered through the glass from the street below.
Y/n’s eyes briefly lingered on the door for a second longer, before she shook her head, returning her focus to the task at hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d been left to her work in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, as much as she valued her solitude, a part of her felt the absence of Izuku’s calming presence. She could feel the small void left behind, but it was a feeling she quickly dismissed as she got back to work.
With practiced hands, she began to sort through her designs, pulling out blueprints for the current project. The hum of the machines, the occasional scrape of metal against metal, and the soft, rhythmic clicks of her tools returned to fill the space, grounding her once again in the quiet of her work.
The day outside continued to darken, the snow falling heavier now, but inside the workshop, it felt timeless.
Y/n’s workshop was a perfect reflection of her: functional, organized, and filled with small details that gave it a unique, personal touch. The main area of the workshop had high ceilings and large windows that allowed plenty of natural light to flood the space during the day, illuminating the various workstations and scattered tools. Despite the organized chaos of the room—papers strewn about, designs pinned to the wall, and parts of unfinished hero gear—it all somehow felt purposeful, each piece contributing to the greater whole of her work.
The walls were lined with shelves that held materials of every kind—metal sheets, wires, and tech parts, all sorted and labeled meticulously. The large central workbench dominated the space, covered with blueprints, half-finished projects, and tools that were always within arm’s reach. Next to the workbench was a smaller table where she would assemble smaller components, usually scattered with tiny screws, wires, and the occasional tool she would use in intricate designs.
On the far wall, a section of the space was dedicated to machines and testing equipment—some for stress testing the gear she designed, others for fine-tuning prototypes. There was a section for 3D printers, a soldering station, and an area where she would run diagnostics on newly built gadgets. A few monitors were set up here as well, displaying various projects and progress on her latest designs.
Beyond the main room, there were three rooms that led off into the back.
The bathroom was tucked away on the far left. It was simple but well-kept, with just enough space for essentials and a tiny window that let in natural light, though it was mostly used as a quick retreat when Y/n needed a break from her work.
Next to it was the storage room for tools that didn’t fit in the main area. Large, sturdy cabinets were filled with drills, screwdrivers, hammers, and other equipment that she didn’t use as frequently. There were shelves above that held spare parts for gadgets and the odd prototype or two that she wasn’t yet ready to put in the main area.
The long-term project room was located at the back of the workshop, where Y/n would store the larger, more complex projects she wasn’t actively working on. Some of the space was taken up by prototype suits in various stages of completion—half-finished designs that required careful planning and long hours to perfect. The room was meticulously organized, as Y/n hated clutter, but it had a more clinical feel to it, compared to the organized chaos of the main area.
At the back of the room, a narrow staircase led upward, the steps creaking faintly beneath her feet. The upper floor was an area that offered more privacy and quiet, a stark contrast to the lively hum of the workshop below. The bedroom was at the top of the stairs, small but cozy, with a large bed by the window and shelves filled with books, sketchpads, and old journals. There was a sense of calm here that made it the perfect place for her to recharge after long hours of work. The walls were adorned with various technical blueprints and framed photos of heroes she admired, and on the nightstand next to the bed was a small plant that added a touch of life to the room.
Beside the bedroom, however, there was a second room that she had yet to figure out what to do with. It was a small, undecorated space—nothing more than bare walls, empty shelves, and the occasional discarded item. It had been empty for a while, and Y/n hadn’t found a purpose for it yet. Perhaps it would one day hold more work materials, or maybe it would become a small personal space for herself outside of her work. For now, though, it remained unused, just another blank canvas in the sea of activity that was her life.
The entire workshop felt like a sanctuary to her—each room designed with purpose, each space contributing to the calm efficiency of her work. It wasn’t just a place for tools and projects; it was her home, her heart, and a tangible reflection of her dedication to her craft. As the day outside grew darker and the snow continued to fall, Y/n returned to the main room, feeling at peace among the clutter, her hands instinctively reaching for the next task.
As the hours passed, the workshop became a warm sanctuary amidst the growing chill outside. The light inside was soft and comforting, the candles she had lit casting a gentle glow that danced against the cluttered walls. She had been so focused on her work that she didn’t even notice the change in the light, the sky slowly darkening outside as the night settled in. The workshop was still full of life—her tools, half-finished designs, and the various pieces of gear she had scattered across the workbench—but her attention was entirely absorbed by the task in front of her: creating a new piece of hero gear for Red Riot, Eijiro Kirishima.
She had been at it for hours, tweaking the design and fine-tuning every detail of the new suit, adjusting the fit, the layers, the protective tech, and the durability for his quirk. She had always admired Kirishima's unwavering sense of bravery and his dedication to his hero work. His gear had to be as strong and dependable as he was. She’d spent countless hours designing and perfecting the reinforced armor plates, the texture, and the mobility—making sure that the suit would enhance his natural durability while not impeding his explosive, close-quarters fighting style.
By the time she finished the last stitch, her hair had come undone from its messy bun and hung loosely around her face, which was smudged with grease from hours of constant work. Her clothes were wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and her hands were covered in a mix of oil, ink, and the remnants of materials she had been handling. Though she was a mess in appearance, it suited her in a way. It was a reflection of the intensity and dedication she poured into every project, every piece of gear she created. She didn’t mind it. In fact, it was comforting. It meant she had been focused—fully immersed in the work she loved. She couldn't care less that her hair was a little wild and her face was smeared with the evidence of her labor.
The candles on her workbench flickered softly, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air. The small lights she’d strung across the ceiling cast a cozy glow that added to the ambiance, giving the room a festive, almost magical feel. Outside, the world had fully transitioned into evening. The streetlights gleamed brightly, each one wrapped with red and green fairy lights, lighting up the street like little stars. Her shop’s window was aglow, and the soft light spilled out onto the sidewalk, making the whole street feel like it was dressed for the season. Her little bell, which jingled every time someone entered her workshop, was adorned with a small red bow, adding a final touch of holiday cheer.
Through the window, she could see the street bustling with people, each bundled in thick scarves and coats as they roamed the festive streets. The crowd had grown in size over the past few hours, many of them exchanging treats, shopping at local vendors, or simply strolling with loved ones. A group of children had gathered near the center of the block, their laughter filling the air as they watched the massive Christmas tree being decorated with ornaments and twinkling lights. The whole scene had a sense of magic and togetherness that warmed her heart as she watched, her gaze softening as she let herself get lost in the festive atmosphere.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had paused long enough to enjoy something so simple—the sight of people gathered around, smiling and enjoying each other’s company. It reminded her of how important these moments of peace and joy were, even in a world so filled with chaos. Her eyes lingered on the scene, taking in the bright lights of the tree, the colorful displays in the windows of neighboring shops, and the way the snow shimmered in the distance as it continued to fall softly against the street.
Her thoughts drifted as she finished wrapping up Kirishima’s new gear, the final piece carefully placed in the box. She pulled out her phone, her fingers sliding over the screen to type out a message to him. The thought of his big, enthusiastic grin when he picked up the suit made her smile a little to herself.
“Hey Kirishima, your gear’s ready for pickup whenever you are. Just let me know when you’re free! —Y/n”
She typed out the message, but before hitting send, she paused. She had always felt a bit awkward when it came to communicating with her clients outside of work, though Kirishima was different. He was always kind and appreciative, and she had enjoyed working with him over the years. Still, she lingered over the message for a moment longer than necessary, contemplating whether to add a little something extra. Something more personal. Maybe a quick note about the weather, or the Christmas tree in the square?
She sighed softly, No. Just send it. She quickly hit “send,” feeling a rush of relief once it was done.
The quiet of the evening settled back into the workshop, and the faint sounds of the street outside returned to her ears. She turned back to the room, taking a final glance around at the organized chaos she had created. The clutter, the half-finished designs, the smell of wax and grease—it was all part of the environment that made her feel at home.
As she moved to put away the tools scattered across the bench, she caught one last glimpse of the scene outside—children running beneath the lights, families exchanging gifts, and the huge tree casting its glow over the neighborhood. For a moment, everything felt in place, and she allowed herself to relax into the peace of the moment, knowing she had done good work, and the holidays were here to remind her of life beyond the grind.
December was always a whirlwind for Y/n. It was the one month of the year when everything seemed to shift into high gear. The streets outside her shop would become busier, the sound of footsteps and excited chatter filling the air as the holiday season descended upon the city. But for Y/n, December was not just about the holidays—it was the month when the majority of heroes in Japan scrambled to fit themselves into her already-packed schedule.
The end of the year was always the busiest time for most pro heroes. They had to complete their last missions before taking time off for the holidays, and many of them needed adjustments, repairs, or entirely new gear for the new year. It was a crucial time when their equipment had to be fine-tuned or revamped, and no one was more in demand than Y/n. Her reputation had spread far and wide, and no one was better at designing high-tech, battle-ready gear than her.
Every year, it seemed, more heroes came to her, and every year, she had to scramble to keep up with the influx of requests. The inbox on her phone would fill up with urgent messages, often from heroes in desperate need of gear before a mission. Pro heroes like Red Riot, Ingenium, Froppy, and even Gran Torino had been known to slide into her DMs, trying to carve out a time to meet. Each request was important to her, and she made it her mission to fulfill them all—no matter how hectic her days became.
It wasn’t just the high-ranking pros either. Sometimes young up-and-comers would reach out too, seeking advice or help with building their own custom gear. But the pros were always the priority. She’d never turn down a request, and while the workload could sometimes feel suffocating, she always found herself excited to tackle the challenge. Every new design pushed her to think harder, be more creative, and solve problems in ways no one else could. It was exhausting but exhilarating, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
It had been this way for years, ever since she started her career as a gear designer. In fact, December was the only time of year she ever visited Mustafu, and every time she did, the city seemed to draw her in a little more. While the snow-covered streets, the festive decorations, and the bustling crowds were all part of the charm, it was the heroes themselves that kept her tethered to this place. She’d built a life here—a life that was always filled with problem-solving, challenges, and the satisfaction of creating something that helped keep the people of Japan safe.
As she worked long hours during the month of December, the little details of the holiday season often became the background to her chaotic schedule. The occasional carol or the soft jingle of the bell on her door when a customer entered would remind her that, while she was surrounded by the rush of work, there was also something more joyful, more serene, happening just outside. It was a delicate balance between the frantic pace of creating new gear and the sense of calm that came with watching the world outside transform into something beautiful for the holidays.
She didn’t mind the busyness, though. In fact, she thrived in it. It felt good to be needed, to know that her work was essential to the safety and success of those fighting for the greater good. December, with all its chaos, was also the time when she felt most alive. But it also reminded her of how quickly time passed—the days became a blur of designs, measurements, and last-minute requests, and before she knew it, the year would end.
But for now, Y/n focused on the task at hand. As the snow continued to fall outside and the Christmas lights twinkled on the streets, she settled back into her routine, fully immersed in her work. She knew there were many more requests coming her way, and many more late nights ahead of her—but that was just part of her life during December, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
~~~
Bakugo sat in his dimly lit apartment, staring out the window at the snow falling outside. The muffled sounds of the city echoed faintly from below, but he wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, revolving around one thing—Y/n L/n.
His phone sat in his hand, and he clenched it tightly, barely containing his impatience. He had been thinking about this for weeks, wondering if it was even worth bothering her. He hadn’t seen her in person yet, but after hearing Midoriya talk about her for so long, there was no denying the intrigue. She was the best at what she did, and that’s exactly what he needed—the best. His old mechanic, Hatsune, had been getting more erratic with each passing year. And Bakugo didn’t have time for a screw-up; he needed his new gear for the upcoming missions and the adjustments to his current tech. No more messing around.
The phone in his hand buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked at the screen—Midoriya—and pressed the green button without hesitation.
“What is it, Deku?” Bakugo growled, his voice as sharp as ever. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“Hey, Bakugo,” Izuku replied on the other end of the line, his voice warm as always, even though he knew Bakugo’s impatience was palpable. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Y/n. I’ve set everything up for you—she’s agreed to meet with you. You just have to contact her to set a time.”
Bakugo grunted in response, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. “I don’t need you to babysit me, Midoriya. I can set the damn thing up myself.”
Izuku chuckled lightly, the sound more of a sigh than anything. “I know you can. I just thought it might be easier to get things started since you’ve been hesitant to reach out directly.”
“‘Hesitant’?” Bakugo snorted, his voice rising with the familiar frustration he felt whenever anyone pointed out his reluctance. “I’m not hesitant. I just—” he cut himself off, shaking his head in annoyance. It wasn’t like him to admit to being unsure about something, especially when it came to reaching out for help. He always took care of things on his own. He didn’t need anyone’s help, not even from someone as damn good as Y/n.
Midoriya could practically hear the internal struggle in Bakugo’s voice. He didn’t press it, though. He knew his friend wasn’t the type to admit when he was in over his head. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation back. “She’s amazing, Bakugo. Trust me, you’re in good hands. She works on gear for top pros all the time. You’ve heard me talk about her before, right?”
Bakugo grumbled under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’ve heard you go on and on about her. Genius this, genius that. She’s the best at fixing everything, blah blah blah.” He mimicked Izuku’s voice as he spoke, his tone dripping with sarcastic humor. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
“Yeah, but... you are going to meet her, right? I mean, you can’t exactly keep putting it off forever. You’ve been saying you need new gear for a while now, and she’s the one who can help. If you want a solid suit, you should meet with her soon.”
Bakugo paused, considering this. He knew it wasn’t just the suit that was holding him back. It was more than that. This wasn’t like his usual, straightforward upgrades. This was someone new. Someone who, despite being a genius in her field, wasn’t someone he had a history with, wasn’t someone who he could just bark orders at and get things done. Y/n was a different kind of person—one who demanded respect, not just because of her skills, but because of the way she carried herself.
“I know. I know,” Bakugo muttered finally, rubbing his neck with his free hand, his frustration turning inward. “I just... I don’t like asking for help, okay?"
Izuku’s voice softened. “I get it, Bakugo. But Y/n isn’t like Hatsune. She’s the kind of person who makes things happen. You won’t regret it. She works with some of the highest-ranked heroes, and she’s one of the best at what she does. You’ll be in good hands.”
Bakugo let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll call her... but you better not tell anyone I needed your help setting it up.”
“Of course,” Izuku agreed with a laugh. “I promise. It’s between us.”
“Good. Now, get outta here, nerd.” Bakugo hung up before Izuku could say another word, tossing the phone down onto the couch beside him. His brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling around the upcoming meeting.
He wasn’t sure what he expected from Y/n. All he knew was that she had the skills to make him unstoppable, and for someone like Bakugo, that was everything. But meeting her... well, that was something else. Would she be as cold as her reputation suggested, or would she just get down to business, no-nonsense like him? He didn’t know. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let himself back out of it. Not when he needed her.
“I’m not asking for a favor,” he muttered to himself, his usual scowl twisting his features. “I’m just making a damn appointment.”
Bakugo scowled as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest. He wasn’t a patient person. He didn’t have time for slow-moving relationships or delicate negotiations. And that’s exactly what this felt like. The last thing he wanted was to screw it up like he did with Hatsume. She had been good—okay good—at making his gear, but she was erratic, unpredictable, and the constant chaos she brought with her was something Bakugo just couldn’t deal with anymore. The final straw had been when she had tried to alter his gauntlets to make them "more experimental," without consulting him. It was a disaster. He had spent weeks fixing the mess she'd made, and it had thrown off his entire schedule.
No, Y/n was different. From what Izuku told him, she was highly sought after by pro heroes and specialized in creating high-tech, custom gear—precisely the kind of gear he needed. And from what Izuku had said, she was serious about her work, no-nonsense. She didn’t tolerate wasting time, and that was exactly the kind of person Bakugo respected. He didn’t want a frilly, touchy-feely process with her. He didn’t want to make small talk or find some "special bond" like Izuku seemed to have with her. He didn’t need a friend—he needed a professional. He wanted the best, and that was Y/n.
But that’s what made it so hard. He didn’t know how to do this. He couldn’t approach her like he did with the others—bark out his request and get on with it. She wasn’t someone who’d respond well to his usual “tough guy” routine. She wasn’t Hatsume. From what he knew, she was calm, calculated, and all business. If he wanted to get her to take him seriously and make him the gear he needed, he would have to not screw it up. He’d have to be careful... and that thought made his stomach twist.
The thing that made it harder was that Y/n was also Izuku’s friend, and Bakugo couldn’t help but feel a little... weird about that. Midoriya was the one person who seemed to get along with everyone. The guy had this natural ability to make connections, to nurture relationships, something Bakugo never had the patience for. He didn’t know how to "bond" with people. To him, the whole process was a waste of time. But with Y/n? That was different. He couldn’t afford to just barge in, demanding what he needed and then walking away. That kind of attitude might’ve worked with other people, but it wouldn’t work with her. He had to tread carefully.
And that pissed him off.
“So what?” Bakugo muttered under his breath, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “I’m supposed to... be nice? Talk to her about her stupid gear until we’re best buddies? I don’t have time for that crap.”
But deep down, he knew that if he didn’t play this right, he wouldn’t get anywhere. If he came at her like he did with Hatsume, all brash and rude, there was a chance she’d just turn him away. And then he’d be stuck, trying to fix things on his own—just like before.
Taking a deep breath, Bakugo reached for his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before dialing Y/n’s number. His fingers hovered over the screen, his thoughts racing. He hated this. He hated that he had to make another appointment, another meeting, another careful exchange of words just to make sure he didn’t sound like a total jackass.
He could feel his pulse quicken as the phone rang. “Get it together, you idiot,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.
The phone continued to ring. He wasn’t sure what he was even going to say when she picked up. Something simple, probably. Something like, Hey, I need you to fix my gear. But even that felt too much like the usual Bakugo approach—too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t sure how to make the request sound more... respectful. More professional. If he was going to do this right, he couldn’t go in all guns blazing.
“C’mon, pick up...” Bakugo’s frustration mounted as the ringing continued. His mind kept circling back to the same question: What the hell am I supposed to say to her?
Finally, the phone clicked.
"Hello, this is Y/n."
Her voice was calm, collected. The kind of voice Bakugo hadn’t expected to hear. No snarky attitude, no annoyance—it was just business.
"Yeah," Bakugo started, trying to keep his voice steady, but his natural abrasiveness still slipped through. "I’m Bakugo Katsuki. Midoriya told you I’d be calling. I need my gear fixed... and I want it done right."
He could hear the pause on the other end of the line. Y/n didn’t immediately respond, which only made Bakugo’s nerves flare up. Was she annoyed? Was she going to turn him down?
"Alright," she said finally, her tone even, measured. "What’s the issue?"
It was simple, no-nonsense. And that was exactly what Bakugo needed. He took a breath and launched into the details of his gear—what needed tweaking, what had malfunctioned, and what he needed for the upcoming season. His words came more easily now that the initial awkwardness had passed. As he spoke, he realized he was relieved. Y/n wasn’t the type to deal with his temper. She was someone who got straight to the point, which meant he didn’t have to pretend to be anything else. He could just be himself—short, blunt, and direct.
And that, strangely enough, was exactly what he needed.
The phone call hung in the air between them, a slight tension threading through the silence as Bakugo gathered his thoughts. Y/n’s voice on the other end of the line was calm and professional, and it gave Bakugo an odd sense of reassurance. For once, he didn’t have to worry about unnecessary pleasantries. This wasn’t some small-time mechanic; this was Y/n L/n, one of the best in the business, and he didn’t have time for any mess-ups.
“Alright,” Y/n said, her voice smooth but firm. “What seems to be the problem?”
Bakugo exhaled sharply, not hesitating. "I need my gear adjusted. The gauntlets are fine, but they're starting to wear down. The propulsion system’s malfunctioning, too. Can't get the proper boost anymore."
Her response was instant. "That sounds like a problem with the wiring. Could be the energy core too. Anything else?"
Bakugo ground his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check. She wasn’t sounding like she was judging him—just asking the right questions. It was professional, straightforward, and it caught him off guard. He expected more... resistance or maybe even a little sarcasm. But instead, it felt like a business transaction, and for once, he appreciated it.
"The gauntlet's shield mode is also starting to glitch. It's not holding up under pressure. I’ve had some issues with that before, but now it’s worse," he added, his tone more clipped now as he went down the list. "And I need something a bit more... advanced for my upcoming missions. I’m thinking something to enhance the explosion output."
"Got it," she replied, her voice never wavering, no hint of surprise at his demands. "I'll need to take a look at the damage in person. Could you bring everything by the shop tomorrow around noon?"
Bakugo paused at the mention of "shop." He had heard a lot about her workshop from Izuku, but now that he was here—actually talking to her—he didn’t know what to expect. Would it be some quiet little place, cluttered with tools and parts? Or would it be more... organized than he imagined?
He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay focused. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring the gauntlets. I want everything checked—don’t leave anything out.”
“Understood,” she said without hesitation. “I’ll have time to go over it then. Anything else you want me to know about your gear before I start?"
Bakugo thought for a second. She wasn’t rushing him. She wasn’t acting like he was wasting her time, and that alone made him feel slightly less on edge.
"Uh, I guess..." he trailed off for a moment, frowning. "It’s gotta be stronger. Faster. I don’t need a ton of useless gimmicks or flashy upgrades. Just solid performance. Something to handle my attacks without failing halfway through."
Y/n’s voice came through again, steady and sure. "I understand. I’ll make sure everything is tailored to your fighting style. No frills, just raw power."
For the first time during their conversation, Bakugo allowed himself to feel a bit of relief. That was exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t here for anything fancy—just the best of the best, no fluff. The thought of someone understanding that so quickly was almost comforting, which irritated him slightly. He wasn’t used to this calm, methodical approach. But it was working.
"Alright," Bakugo grunted, getting back to business. "I’ll see you tomorrow at noon, then. Don’t waste my time."
"Won’t be a problem," she replied smoothly. "See you then, Bakugo."
And with that, the line went quiet as Bakugo hung up. His fingers were still tight around the phone, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration—it was because he had, against all his instincts, actually felt like he could trust her. And maybe that was the hardest part of all.
For someone like Bakugo, trust wasn’t easily earned. But from the way she handled their conversation—calm, to the point, no unnecessary chatter—Y/n was the kind of person who got things done. That was what he needed.
He just hoped that tomorrow would go smoothly.
Bakugo stood in his apartment, staring down at his phone for a few long moments after hanging up. He had thought briefly about texting Midoriya, asking if he could offer any advice on how to not screw up his first in-person meeting with Y/n. But he quickly dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t give Deku the satisfaction of being right about their whole “bonding” nonsense. He didn’t need anyone telling him how to handle this. He’d figure it out on his own—like he always did.
With a frustrated grunt, Bakugo shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and stormed out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him. The cold air hit him immediately as he stepped out onto the snowy street. It was still early evening, and the last traces of daylight were fading from the sky, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights and the distant sparkle of holiday decorations.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and set off in the direction of her workshop. He didn’t want to walk in or do anything crazy, just wanted to scope the place out. Get a feel for it before he actually showed up tomorrow.
The streets were busy with people, most of them huddled together as they went about their evening shopping or gathering in groups, preparing for the upcoming holidays. The air smelled of fresh snow, candy, and food from the nearby vendors. People were exchanging holiday treats, laughing as they shared stories with one another. It was almost peaceful, and Bakugo hated how easy it was to feel... out of place.
But he didn’t care about that. He had a job to do. A mission to accomplish. And Y/n’s workshop was part of that. He needed to know what kind of person he was dealing with.
As he turned down the street, he spotted it. A small shop, tucked between two larger buildings, with a humble wooden sign hanging above the door that read Y/n L/n Hero Gear Design. The exterior was simple but inviting. Green leaves of mistletoe were carefully draped across the windows, and a few strands of fairy lights wrapped around the lamppost outside. A small red bow adorned the bell that hung above the door—probably the same bell he’d hear when he walked in tomorrow.
Bakugo lingered on the corner, his eyes scanning the scene. The shop was warm and cozy looking, its window fogged with the heat of the inside and glowing softly from the lights within. He could see the faint outline of a workbench through the window—tools scattered across it, some parts in mid-construction, half-finished prototypes lying around. The soft glow of candles illuminated the interior, giving it a comfortable, lived-in feel.
His eyes narrowed as he examined the details. The window was too fogged up to make out much more, but the simplicity of the shop was striking. It wasn’t some flashy place with expensive decorations or excessive tech gadgets. It looked like a place that was used for one thing: work. This was where people came to get serious gear designed, not to be coddled or pampered.
That, in itself, made Bakugo feel a bit more at ease. He didn’t need some fancy shop with a bunch of unnecessary perks. This was more like it—straightforward, no frills. He could respect that.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clenched tightly in his pockets. He had no intention of walking in tonight. No need for that. He wasn’t here to make an impression or start small talk. He just needed to get a better look at the place.
He stood there for a while, watching through the window, noting the way the candles flickered in the dimming light and the faint hum of holiday music that seemed to float out into the street. The place felt... warm. Cozy. It felt like a space where someone worked tirelessly, and that was the vibe he needed.
After a few more minutes, Bakugo pulled his gaze away and turned around, heading back down the street. He didn’t need to see anything else. He had his answer. The next step was tomorrow—show up, drop off the gear, get it fixed. No need to complicate it.
But as he walked, his mind started to churn again. What was she like, really? Was she as no-nonsense as she sounded? Would she put up with his direct approach or shut him down the moment he said something too blunt? He didn’t have the answers yet, but by tomorrow, he’d find out.
For now, though, he was content with knowing exactly where he needed to be. The rest could wait.
~~~
The sound of the bell above her door echoed faintly through the quiet workshop, cutting through the ambient hum of the small candles that flickered on her workbench. Y/n's heart skipped for a moment as she quickly grabbed the towel tighter around her body, eyes darting towards the entrance. She had been so focused on finishing up her work on Red Riot’s gear that she had completely forgotten to lock the door.
With a quick glance to her window, she saw the faint snowfall continuing, blanketing the streets outside. The soft crunch of boots against the snow echoed through the building as the door creaked open, and Y/n tensed, ready to bolt upstairs to her bedroom. She didn’t need any unannounced visitors walking in while she was half-dressed.
But then she heard a familiar voice, followed by a giggle.
“Y/n! You’re in a towel again!” Eri’s voice rang through the space as the younger girl stepped inside, brushing snow off her shoulders as she entered. She was laughing softly, her breath misting in the cold air.
Y/n exhaled in relief and let out a frustrated sigh, letting her shoulders sag. “Eri! What did I tell you about knocking first?” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked toward the stairs.
Eri giggled and skipped over to the workbench, her boots leaving small, wet marks on the polished wood floor. “I knocked! But the door was open already!” she said with a smile that was both playful and mischievous. Her snow-dusted scarf hung loosely around her neck, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and her wide, curious eyes were filled with that familiar energy that made Y/n smile despite herself.
“Give me a second to change, okay?” Y/n grumbled, wrapping the towel tighter around her as she quickly ascended the stairs. She didn’t wait for a response as she disappeared into her room, quickly tossing on some old clothes that were comfortable enough to wear around the workshop but not too formal.
A few minutes later, Y/n emerged from upstairs, now in a white/tan tanktop and loose grey sweatpants that sat low on her waist. Her hair was still wet, tied back loosely in a messy ponytail, strands falling around her face as she made her way back down the stairs. Eri was still at the workbench, leaning over the table as she poked curiously at some of the small, scattered pieces of Red Riot’s gear.
"Is this Red Riot’s?" Eri asked, picking up a half-finished piece of the gauntlet and turning it over in her hands, examining it with interest. Y/n nodded as she approached, rubbing the back of her neck as she crossed the floor.
“Yeah, it is. He wanted a few adjustments, so I’ve been working on it all day. Almost done now,” Y/n replied, wiping her hands on the sides of her swestpants before coming over to help her put the piece down gently. "Careful with that, Eri. It’s delicate."
Eri grinned sheepishly and placed the part back on the workbench with a soft thud. "Sorry, I was just curious! It looks really cool though! I wanna be as good at making things as you someday," she said, her eyes full of admiration.
Y/n chuckled softly, leaning back against the counter as she watched Eri. “You’ll get there. I’m sure you’ll be better than me one day. But you’ve got to be patient. Don’t rush it,” Y/n advised. There was an edge to her voice, not harsh but firm. She had seen so many aspiring mechanics rush into things without thinking carefully first. Eri was smart, though—she had the talent, just needed some guidance.
Eri huffed and crossed her arms, pouting. “I’m 15 now! I’ve been begging Aizawa forever to let me come here by myself! He’s so protective, it’s dumb.” She dropped her gaze and kicked a small tool off the table with her foot. “But I’m older now, so he finally let me!”
Y/n raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the workbench. “Aizawa finally gave in, huh? About time.” She smirked at the thought of Aizawa’s typical overprotective nature. He had always been like that with Eri. She knew he cared, but Y/n also knew Eri was capable of more than Aizawa often gave her credit for.
“He’s so annoying sometimes,” Eri groaned, shaking her head. “Like, I’m not a baby. I can come here without him hovering. I know how to handle myself.”
“Of course you do,” Y/n said with a smile, ruffling Eri’s hair as she leaned over the workbench. “But I bet he just worries, that’s all.”
Eri rolled her eyes dramatically, then returned to inspecting the various tools scattered around the workshop. “Still, it’s lame. But at least I finally get to see what you do up close. It’s awesome,” she said with another smile.
Y/n chuckled softly, enjoying the ease of their conversation. Despite the busy atmosphere of the workshop, Eri’s presence was a welcome distraction. Y/n wasn’t used to many people coming by—except for clients, of course—but Eri always brought a certain lightness with her. Maybe it was the way she always saw the world with wonder or how she found joy in the little things. It reminded Y/n that it wasn’t just the work that mattered, but the people you shared it with.
“Alright, alright,” Y/n said, pushing off from the counter and standing up straighter. “But I better not catch you touching any more parts without asking.” She smiled at Eri’s guilty expression, watching the younger girl nod dramatically.
“I promise! I’ll just watch you finish your work,” Eri said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just happy you’re letting me hang out here.”
Y/n smiled fondly, walking over to the workbench where the nearly finished gauntlet sat. "Well, I guess you’ve earned it. Just don’t go telling Aizawa I’m spoiling you, alright?" she said with a wink.
Eri giggled in response, her voice soft and content. “I won’t, I promise. Thanks, Y/n."
With that, the two fell into an easy silence, with only the sound of Y/n's tools clinking and the faint hum of candles filling the space between them. The snow continued to fall gently outside, its quiet beauty slipping unnoticed through the windows as the night deepened.
Y/n carefully affixed the last piece of Red Riot’s gear, attaching a sleek, polished plate to the side before finishing it off with a small red star right on top. It was a small touch, but it made the entire thing feel like a gift, something that would bring warmth to the hero, especially with the holidays just around the corner. The star shimmered against the light of the candles on her workbench, a tiny beacon of celebration amidst the mechanics and technical parts.
Eri had been watching her work the entire time, her eyes wide with fascination, her hands absentmindedly fidgeting with one of the tools on the table. She had always been captivated by Y/n’s skill, the way she seemed to move through the process with such ease and precision, as if she knew exactly what each part needed without hesitation.
“Everything you do is so cool, Y/n,” Eri finally said, breaking the quiet hum of the workshop. Y/n smiled at the younger girl’s admiration, knowing it came from a place of genuine curiosity and respect. Eri wasn’t quite a little kid anymore, though. She was 15 now—growing up and gaining more independence, even if it meant finding ways to get past the overprotective Aizawa.
Eri hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting around the room before landing back on Y/n. “Hey, could you maybe ask Shota if I could sleep over? He’s always said no! I’m 15 now, and plus, you're responsible. Just maybe if I could prove to him I could do it, maybe he’d let me sleep over with my friends for once. Please, Y/n?”
Y/n glanced at her, a soft laugh escaping her lips at the sheer pleading in Eri’s voice. She already knew how Aizawa could be. The man was about as stubborn as they came, especially when it came to Eri. But there was no denying how much the young girl had grown, and how much she wanted to experience things beyond the restrictions he constantly put on her.
Y/n sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. She didn't want to get involved in something like this—it wasn't her business, after all. But she also knew the ways to approach Aizawa, the right words to say that might make him reconsider his rigid stance.
“Alright, alright. Fine,” Y/n said, her voice soft but firm. “But don’t get your hopes up too high. Aizawa’s not exactly the kind of guy to bend easily.”
Eri’s eyes lit up at the promise, and Y/n could practically see the excitement bubbling up inside her. She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Really? Oh my gosh, you’re the best, Y/n! I swear, I’ll make it worth your while!”
Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. “Go next door and get us some treats while I call him. A simple text won’t do the trick, and you know it. I’ll talk to him, but you’ve gotta be patient.”
Eri didn’t even need a second to think about it before she darted out the door, her footsteps light and quick as she rushed down the street. Y/n watched her go, a soft smile lingering on her lips. It was nice to see Eri so happy, so full of life. Even though she still had a lot to learn, it was clear that she had a good head on her shoulders, and a strong sense of determination.
Once Eri was out of earshot, Y/n turned back to her workbench and pulled out her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Shota’s name and tapped it.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed out a simple, but direct message:
“Hey Shota, I know you’re probably going to say no, but Eri’s been asking about a sleepover with her friends. She’s 15 now, and I think she’s old enough to handle it. You should really let her have some freedom. Just think about it, okay?”
After a brief moment of thought, she hit send. She wasn’t sure what kind of response she’d get, but she had a good feeling that Aizawa would at least give it some thought. He had a soft spot for Eri, even if he didn’t like to show it.
Y/n set her phone down and leaned back, her fingers brushing the edge of the workbench. The peaceful ambiance of the workshop seemed to wrap around her, the soft light of the candles flickering as she gazed out the window, watching the snow fall gently outside.
She had never been one to get involved in personal matters like this, but when it came to Eri, it was hard not to want to help. Y/n understood the importance of finding balance in life, of having fun and making memories. And if Eri could prove to Aizawa that she was responsible, well, maybe this time he’d allow it.
Y/n only hoped that, for once, Eri could have the simple pleasures of a normal teenager, even if just for a night.
Y/n’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, but then she quickly put the phone down and decided it was better to call him directly. She pressed the dial button and waited, tapping her fingers lightly against the workbench as she listened to the dial tone. She knew Aizawa well enough to know that he wouldn’t be thrilled with the interruption, especially considering how exhausted he always seemed, but she hoped he would listen.
After a few rings, he picked up, his voice groggy and a bit strained. "What is it?"
Y/n immediately felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was probably busy grading papers or dealing with his never-ending pile of work. "Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably up to your neck in work, but there’s something Eri’s been asking about."
He sighed on the other end, and she could almost hear the fatigue in his breath. "What is it?"
Y/n took a deep breath before speaking, choosing her words carefully. "So, Eri’s here with me right now. And she’s asking if she can sleep over. She’s 15, and I’ll be watching her the whole time. I know you’re very strict about this, but she’s a good kid, Aizawa. She really is. And eventually, she’s going to want to push those boundaries, and it might be worse if you don’t give her a little bit of trust. I know I did when I was 15."
She paused for a moment, allowing her words to settle in, but not letting the silence drag on for too long. "She was so excited when I said I’d ask you. What do you say? Just this once? I’ll keep an eye on her."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Y/n could practically hear Aizawa thinking it over. He was the type of man who didn’t make decisions lightly, especially when it came to Eri. He was fiercely protective, and even though Y/n had no doubt he trusted her, she also knew he didn’t easily give in to requests like this.
After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice still a bit worn, but with an underlying warmth that only Y/n would pick up on. "You’re right," he muttered. "She’s 15 now. And you’re not wrong. But don’t let her get any ideas. If this is going to work, you have to make sure she stays responsible, and nothing goes wrong."
Y/n smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "I’ve got it covered. Thanks, Aizawa. I promise, I’ll keep her out of trouble."
"Fine. Just don’t make me regret it," Aizawa replied, his voice softening just a little.
"I won’t," Y/n assured him, already hearing the faint click of him hanging up.
She held the phone in her hand for a moment longer, just letting the quiet settle around her. She exhaled deeply, glancing at the workbench where Red Riot’s gear sat neatly finished. After a brief moment of reflection, Y/n stood up, stretching her arms above her head. That was one problem solved—now, she could relax a bit, knowing Eri would get to enjoy a sleepover for once.
As she heard the door creak open, she turned to see Eri standing in the doorway with a bag of treats in her hands, her face lighting up when she saw Y/n.
"Guess what?" Eri grinned, holding up the bag. "I got us everything we need! And, you’ll never believe it
 he actually said yes, he said i could sleep over here tommorow night!"
Y/n couldn't help but laugh, nodding toward the bag of sweets in Eri’s hand. "I know. I just got off the phone with him."
Eri squealed in excitement, rushing over to sit next to Y/n. "I can’t believe it! I’m gonna text my friends right now! This is the best day ever! If my sleepover with you goes well tomorrow, then he has to let me eventually sleep over with my friends."
Y/n smiled, watching Eri's face light up. She had made a promise, and now it was time to let Eri enjoy a bit of freedom, something that she hadn’t gotten to experience much of. The small, quiet moments of joy were what made all the hard work worth it.
The soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the cozy corners of the shop, casting long shadows as the night wore on. Eri was still buzzing with excitement, chatting non-stop about her plans for tomorrow, her sleepover, and the treats they’d just eaten together. But Y/n could see the exhaustion creeping into her eyes as the clock ticked closer to 9 p.m. She was used to these late-night chats, but she also knew it was getting dangerously close to the time Aizawa had set for Eri to be home.
Y/n stretched her arms out, the weight of the long day finally catching up to her. She knew how protective Aizawa was—he’d probably be pacing at home by now, waiting for Eri to get back before the clock struck a certain hour. No matter how much Eri was pushing for a little more freedom, Y/n knew Aizawa had a point about keeping her safe and sticking to boundaries.
"Alright, kiddo," Y/n said softly, pulling herself out of her chair and stretching once more. "It’s getting late. You know how Aizawa is about the time, and I think we should get you home before he starts worrying."
Eri pouted, clearly not ready to leave just yet. "But I wanna stay longer! We were just talking about everything!"
"I know," Y/n chuckled, giving her a gentle smile, "but tomorrow’s your big day. You’ve got your sleepover to look forward to, and I’m sure Shota wouldn’t be happy if you were out too late tonight."
Eri huffed, but there was no real anger in it. She was already pulling on her boots, grabbing her coat with a sigh. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. He’d probably give me the lecture of the century."
Y/n laughed softly, nodding. "You know him well. But he’s just looking out for you."
The two of them walked toward the door, Eri still bouncing on her feet with excitement about the sleepover the next day. The snow outside had slowed to a gentle fall, the cold crisp in the air as they stepped out of the warmth of the shop. Eri dusted the snow off her shoulders before giving Y/n one last, hopeful glance.
"Thanks for everything tonight, Y/n. You’re the best," Eri said, her smile as bright as ever despite the cold.
Y/n smiled warmly, feeling the soft sting of emotion as she glanced at the girl she’d helped raise. "You’re welcome, Eri. I’m happy you had fun."
"See you tomorrow!" Eri waved as she walked down the street, the sound of her boots crunching in the snow the last thing Y/n heard before she stepped back inside.
She closed the door quietly behind her and locked it, glancing at the time once more. It was getting late, and with Eri now safely on her way home, Y/n could finally take a breath. She glanced at the workbench, the faint outline of Red Riot’s gear still resting there, finished and ready. Tomorrow would be another busy day.
But for tonight, all she wanted was to relax and unwind. She pulled off her shoes and settled on the couch, the quiet of the night wrapping around her as she thought back to everything that had happened. Eri’s smile, Aizawa’s reluctant approval, and the snow-covered streets all combined in a warm, peaceful atmosphere.
Tomorrow was going to be a good day.
After closing up for the night, Y/n moves through her apartment, turning off the workshop lights and heading upstairs to her bedroom. The house feels quieter now, with the snow falling gently outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. She changes into comfortable pajamas, the warm fabrics a welcome end to a long day of work. Her thoughts drift back to the conversation with Eri—how happy the girl was about the sleepover, and how much she'd grown since she first came into Y/n’s life.
Y/n pulls back the covers on her bed and settles in, grabbing her phone to check for any messages before turning in. She notices a few texts from Izuku, but they’re all just casual updates, like how Aizawa is holding up or how his students are doing. She smiles, knowing how easy it is for him to worry about his friends and teammates.
As Y/n relaxes into her bed, her phone rings once again. It's Izuku’s name lighting up the screen, and she answers it without hesitation, still feeling the afterglow of a quiet evening.
"Hey, Izuku," Y/n says, settling deeper into the covers. "What’s up?"
Izuku's voice is slightly muffled, as if he’s pacing around or maybe trying to gather his thoughts. "Hey, Y/n! I just wanted to give you a quick heads-up about tomorrow. So, Bakugo and Kirishima are planning to stop by together. They’re best friends, after all, and
 well, I guess it makes sense for them to come as a pair. So, it’ll be the two of them—hope that’s okay with you!"
Y/n pauses for a moment, trying to picture the scene. Bakugo, unpredictable and intense, alongside Kirishima, the more easy-going and friendly of the two. She could already sense the clash of personalities that might occur, but she had agreed to help Bakugo, and she wouldn’t back out now.
"I mean, I figured it would be one or the other," Y/n says, her voice teasing but calm. "But two? That’ll be interesting."
Izuku laughs nervously on the other end of the line. "Yeah, it’s probably going to be a bit chaotic. Bakugo can be
 well, Bakugo, but Kirishima’s pretty good at keeping things balanced. I hope you don’t mind. They’re both really excited about the gear! Well Kirishima is, i dont know about Bakugo"
Y/n smirks to herself, leaning back on the pillow. "I’m sure they are. As long as I get my work done, I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to get caught in the middle of a shouting match."
Izuku chuckles, though there’s a nervous undertone. "Oh, trust me, I don’t think that’ll happen. Kirishima’s really good at keeping Bakugo in check. And if anything gets too out of hand, I’ll make sure I step in."
Y/n’s smile widens as she imagines the dynamic between the two. She could already picture Kirishima’s upbeat energy and Bakugo’s explosive attitude. It would definitely be an interesting interaction. "Alright then, it’s a date. I’ll see them tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll make it work."
"Thanks, Y/n! I really appreciate you taking this on," Izuku says, relief washing over his voice. "I’m sure they’ll be in good hands. I’ll see you tomorrow, then!"
After hanging up, Y/n lays back in bed, thoughts swirling around the upcoming encounter. Bakugo and Kirishima together in her workshop—now that was going to be something. She quickly glances over through her window, admiring the outside.
With a soft sigh, Y/n snuggles deeper into the blankets. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. She only hoped she could keep her cool when Bakugo showed up, especially with Kirishima there to keep things balanced.
---
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cloverstellar · 15 hours ago
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these shots, especially the one with just Viktors eye, make me so sick (I’ve been thinking about that shot of viktor’s eye every single day since act 3 dropped).
in that first frame, Jayce had to look a good amount up to meet viktor’s gaze. coupled with how they made Viktor look and sound so large in that next frame, their distance seems so unmeasurably far. Miles apart, only aggravated by viktor’s remorse and unwillingness to let Jayce forgive him. but then the camera cuts after Jayce mentions his promise, and they’re suddenly eye to eye. jayce pulls him in for a hug. and in that brief hug you realize Viktor was still just unmistakably human, like he was being physically grounded and brought back down to level by Jayce’s touch. he’s still Viktor behind that mask, despite everything he’d done. he’s still Jayce’s partner. and the hug, so natural on Jayce’s part, reflects that wonderfully.
and the way you can interpret so many different emotions in a single second of his eye widening behind the mask as well is soo HHRRRGGGH, like the light sparkling and his iris shaking just hit me so heavily. how Jayce’s body collided with viktor’s, his arms wrapping around slumped shoulders to showing viktors eye widen with grief and surprise at the contact. you can see so many different emotions flit across the sliver of his face we can see, which is such a massively impressive animation that just guts me deep with how beautiful it is. it’s so hard to capture something so emotional in such a quick moment, but it was done masterfully well in this scene.
idk just the way this was done was SOOOOO perfectly it makes me want to tear out my hair in appreciation of its beauty yk
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jasmineandcedar · 2 days ago
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Thy lips, a bloom in rosy, soft delight | Azriel the Bard, part 1
An Elriel one shot (Azriel’s POV)
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So
 this might be a slightly strange piece of writing that I have been working on nearly every day for the past two months. In line with my wish to provide some joy and laughter in these troubled times, here's the first instalment of my new series – Azriel the Bard – in which I attempt to combine Elriel, poetry, romance and comedy and, to the best of my ability, only use words that have been used in Shakespeare’s work (because why not?). In the first instalment, I reimagine how Azriel and Elain stayed up together until dawn that one fateful Solstice night. With both a slightly naughty and a slightly (perchance exaggeratedly) Shakespearean twist.
Summary: A Shakespeare coded Azriel has developed a nervous habit of composing sonnets in his mind whenever Elain is around. But fair Elain Archeron keeps making dirty jokes, which has the shadowsinger very flustered and confused, urging himself to contain thyself, thou fool!—for most unruly is the part of his wayward body that hath, eager and unbidden, risen to the occasion beneath his breeches!
Warning: Ealin's subtle dirty jokes, but nothing explicit.
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Azriel, dreaded Spymaster and shadowsinger of the Court of Night, could scarce believe his fortune—to find himself alone with fair Elain Archeron upon the longest night of the year. Yet fortune, the shadowsinger knew, had little to do with this blessed circumstance, for he had by underhand means laboured to align the stars to his wishes. Excuse upon excuse he had devised, each more feeble than the last, just to linger but a moment longer near Elain throughout the Solstice night. In sooth, he had been but a hair’s breadth from thrusting the High Lady Feyre Archeron headlong into the very abysm with scarce regard, so fierce was his yearning to be the first to bid Elain a merry Solstice.
Yet who could fault the shadowsinger, when fair Elain Archeron summoned him with an unseen force—one he had not the strength of will resist?
The sitting room lay steeped in the amber glow of the hearth's gentle flame, the fire casting shadows that danced and leapt upon the walls. Cassian had but just staggered off to his bedchamber, quaffing the last dregs of his liquor as he went, resembling a surly knight bereft of his lady's favour. And perchance, it was so, for Nesta had cast a parting glare of fury upon him ere she took her leave. Mor, too, had departed soon after Cassian, raising a weary sigh, as though the night itself were but a burden upon her frame.
‘Twas well past three in the morn when Azriel caught the gaze of High Lady Feyre. Her eyes sparkled with delight and a coy smile graced her lips, as though she were some scheming matchmaker, meddling with the threads of fate itself. In silence, she slipped into the night, hand in hand with the High Lord Rhysand. Their steps faded into the shadows, leaving naught but silence and the dancing flames in their wake.
And so it was that the shadowsinger found himself alone with fair Elain Archeron. He could scarce contain the grin that tugged at his lips, for he felt in that moment like the most fortunate knave in all of Prythian.
The room had settled at last into a restful stillness—the kind that, in Azriel's experience, only graced the Inner Circle's residence when all save himself had drifted off into the honey-heavy dew of slumber. ‘Twas a welcome retirement, a sequestration that gentled the very night, weaving a quiet tenderness into it.
Elain sat beside him upon the sofa, her notebook spread across her lap. She spoke most sweetly of her designs for the gardens, of new blossoms yet to unfold, eyes sparkling with visions she sketched with delicate strokes of her pencil.
Of a sudden, she halted, the pencil lingering upon her nether lip.
Azriel's head tilted, as though fair Elain had bewitched him with some silent and unheard spell. His gaze lingered, enthralled, upon the pencil that rested betwixt Elain’s rosy lips, held there in idle thought. The very vision stole his breath away, like a thief in the night. His lips parted of their own accord as a wicked smile curved his lips.
O, to be but a humble pencil graced by the kiss of fair Elain Archeron’s lips. The thoughts danced through his mind like the shadows twirling upon his shoulders.
The shadowsinger need not resort to poetry—yet what else could capture the beauty of fair Elain Archeron? Alas, he could pen a hundred sonnets to the perfection of fair Elain. He had not the strength to withstand the pull of those beauteous lips.
A glimpse of thee, as riseth fairest dawn, Thy lips, a bloom in rosy, soft delight. Thou whisper’st secrets dear, my lovely fawn, Each gentle word doth set my soul alight.
Azriel sealed his lips shut with a snap, as though he feared the sonnet might otherwise escape them. He blinked swiftly, to shake the unbidden verse loose from his straying thoughts and muster his wits anew. Contain thyself, thou fool! he scolded himself inwardly, pressing his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to gather his wits together.
But nay, it seemed his unyielding will faltered in the radiant presence of fair Elain Archeron. For no sooner had he opened his eyes than his head tilted anew of its own accord, like some puppet tugged by unseen strings. His gaze was ensnared once more by the pencil that slid with ease betwixt Elain's tender lips.
What else, Azriel mused with a wicked curve of his lips, might slip so pleasantly betwixt those sweet lips?
But then, on the sudden, the pencil slipped from her lips, rousing Azriel startingly from his wanton fantasies. He sat up straight, as though caught in some guilty act. Elain lowered the pencil to her notebook, pointing to one of her sketches.
"I do seek to erect a paling fence betwixt the flower beds and the—"
Azriel near choked upon his own breath, falling into a cough as he struggled to mask his reaction. Erect? By all that is holy, why must she say it like that? So blithely? So
 eagerly? Of all the words she could have bid her lips to speak, fair Elain chose this one, uttering it with the innocence of a maiden, yet the sly wit of a jester.
Azriel shifted upon his seat, astonished that such saucy words should spring—so unbidden, so unbridled—from fair Elain’s sweet lips.
Heat flushed his cheeks, rising swiftly, and hastily did he seize a pillow to set it square upon his lap, like a shield of modesty. Silently, he sent a prayer to any deity who might deign to have mercy on his poor soul this most perilous of nights.
He closed his eyes but for a fleeting moment, summoning his strength. Contain thyself, thou fool! he chided anew within the unruly chambers of his mind. Each breath he drew was slow and measured, as though he might quell the stirrings of his wayward body through sheer strength of will. But alas, what hope had his wretched soul against the unrelenting fancies of his sinful desire?
It appeared his fancies led him astray in fair Elain’s presence.
For a most unruly part of him had, eager and unbidden, risen to the occasion beneath his breeches. It seemed the shadowsinger could not withstand the siege of his own desires.
“—Yet the one that hath caught mine eye doth appear of such large proportion, methinks it may be too large to fit,” quoth Elain.
Azriel nearly gasped aloud, as though betrayed by the very air. He fought to keep his countenance as unmoved as a marble bust, but—Mother above!—was fair Elain Archeron jesting with him so merrily on this fine night? Could she mean to do this with purpose? Azriel knit his brow in suspicion, and perused her visage as a wary courtier might study the face of a cunning deceiver.
But nay—fair Elain Archeron’s face was as calm as moonlight upon still waters, the very portrait of innocence. ‘Twas as though she had been taking secret lessons in the art of aloof restraint and stony countenance—nay, marble bust visage—from none but the Spymaster himself.
If only, he ruminated dryly, and the sinful stirrings of his unruly flesh rose once more beneath his breeches.
It seemed, indeed, the shadowsinger, had not the strength to withstand the siege of his own desires.
“What think'st thou?” Elain asked, gazing upon him with those wide chestnut eyes—so large, so innocent—they might well have belonged to a doe in a sunlit glade.
“Methinks...” Azriel's began, his voice emerging hoarse. He loosed a discreet cough, and tried anew, “Methinks thou shalt thrive—with proper preparation.”
“Dost thou think so?" quoth Elain, her eyes alight with keen curiosity, leaning ever so nigh.
Azriel swallowed hard, a crimson blush creeping up his neck. “Ay,” he whispered, the word forced forth with valiant strain, his voice trembling as though on the brink of faltering entirely. He clutched the pillow still poised upon his lap and, as befit a true warrior, fought a gallant battle against the untoward urge to adjust himself upon his perch.  
For the mischief brewing beneath his breeches left him most sweetly vexed, caught betwixt desire and the chains of his restraint.
“Perchance thou mightst grant me thy help?” Elain entreated, her alluring brown eyes—so wide, so earnest—they seemed as though they might well charm the very stars from their nightly vigil.
Azriel's gaze strayed downward to her lips, then swiftly back to her eyes. Nay, gaze not upon her lips! he silently chided himself inwardly.
“I—I am certain I could
” he muttered at length, breathless and faint, his voice scarcely louder than the fire’s soft crackle, “
 lend thee my hand?”
The words stumbled forth in the manner of a question, for it seemed courteous to phrase them so when she had so utterly bereft him of his wits. Was she still speaking of her garden, or did fair Elain’s jest conceal a coy courtship? Gone was the shadowsinger’s stony countenance—nay, his marble bust visage—shattered beneath her gaze as easily as glass beneath the strike of an axe.
“Hast thou any... skill in such matters?” quoth Elain, her tone sweetly innocent.
For mercy's sake, fair lady, bite not thy lip! Azriel pleaded inwardly.
Yet, as though she were a witch privy to his very thoughts, Elain's teeth caught her nether lip.
Azriel swallowed hard at the sight. For but a fleeting moment, he raised a piteous sigh, his brow knitting together as, unwittingly and in like manner, he bit his own lip—until he caught himself, and swiftly forced his disposition back into the unmoving mask of a marble bust.
“Thou couldst say so, ay,” he uttered at long last, though the quiver in his voice betrayed the tempest of his growing confusion. He knew not what they spoke of any longer; all he knew was that his gaze did cling, shameless and unbidden, to the beauteous lips of fair Elain Archeron.
And that his wayward body did make but feeble attempts to remain still beneath his breeches, granting him little reprieve. His grip tightened upon the pillow, as though it were the sole shield betwixt him and the reach of the abysm.
“Marry...” Elain ruminated, her voice soft and innocent as a dove's coo. Yet anon, the pencil slipped with alluring charm betwixt her lips, and a twinkle kindled in her eye—a glimmer of something Azriel could not name. “Just as I had thought,” she mused.
What intent does she harbour, with such coy words and sly smiles? The shadowsinger marvelled. Azriel's train of thought had, most assuredly, lost its course, like a ship adrift at sea. He could scarce discern whether they still spoke of gardening, or if they had drifted into far more wanton waters. Had they wandered into realms of mischief? Had they veered beyond the paths of innocence?
To compound his woe, his mind settled back upon its new, most untimely folly: the endless writing of sonnets to fair Elain Archeron, whenever she drew near.
Thy laughter danceth, drawing me so nigh; With daring twinkles in thy chestnut eyes. Thy lips of crimson do grace smiles so shy, In every glance, a charge of pure surprise.
The words assailed his tortured mind unbidden, a skittish habit he seemed unable to abandon. Worse still, the heat did begin to rise, creeping up his neck as were he naught but a fever-weakened youth caught in the grip of his first love, bereft of all reason.
Azriel tugged at the collar of his tunic, as though the very fabric had betrayed him this fatal night. Mother above, he thought, overcome by alarm, shall I become naught but a puddle at fair Elain Archeron’s feet before Solstice night is through?
Contain thyself, thou fool!
“Art thou well?” asked Elain, her voice laced with gentle concern. “Thou dost appear flushed and warm, art thou taken with fever?”
Azriel made a strangled sound—a disordered stream of words that spilled forth with no coherence of any sort.‘Twas naught but prattle, but he could summon no finer reply in his present state.
Before he could recover his wits, Elain's fair hand reached forth. She drew ever nearer and put her hand flat over his brow.
The moment her sweet, flowery scent embraced him, Azriel fought fiercely against the desire to allow his eyes to close. ‘Twas as though the heavens themselves had opened and the gods, in their mercy, had graced his wretched soul—blessed by the mere presence of fair Elain Archeron. A tremble shot through his fever-weakened limbs, fraught with a burning ache of boundless longing, and much to his dismay, his traitorous mouth did near groan aloud with both relief and need.
He gazed into Elain’s eyes, his resolve undone, as though her charm had bewitched him wholly.
“Thou art hot beyond measure,” Elain breathed, gazing upon the shadowsinger with her wide, innocent eyes, her fair hand still cool against his burning brow.
“I thank thee,” the shadowsinger croaked, before his enthralled wits could resume control of his unruly tongue.
“How now?” said Elain, her brows lifting in gentle confusion.
Scarce in breath, Azriel loosed that strangled sound anew—half a cough, half a plea for the ground to gape and swallow him alive, or perchance for the heavens to bear him hence before they shut their gates once more. Nothing seemed able to quench the burning of his cheeks. “Forgive my folly,” he managed, voice ragged and hoarse.
Confusion, fleeting and faint, swept across Elain’s beauteous visage, yet yielded to a coy smile. With graceful repose, she sat back upon her seat, a twinkle of sweet mischief dancing in her eye.
Might it be that gardening hath ever held such
 allure? The shadowsinger mused. Have mine eyes been shrouded, bereft of so vital a truth? Perchance I have chosen the wrong path in life. Pray, is five hundred years of age too late a time to forsake my trade and seek a new profession?
Or could it be, perchance, that fair Elain Archeron, sought to woo the shadowsinger?
Azriel sharpened his gaze, tilting his head as though he were observing some rare and curious creature. To his quiet delight, Elain mirrored him sweetly, though her lip curled in charming jest—a honey-sweetened challenge.
Ah, reckoned the shadowsinger, a twinkle kindling his gaze like a spark of knowing. I dare presume the fair lady doth seek to woo me.
Charming little darling.
In spite of himself, Azriel’s mouth, too, did curl with a subtle mischief, unfolding as slowly as the first light of dawn, to spread at last into a full, unbridled grin. And Elain’s visage—so coy, so sweet— radiant and inviting as a blossoming flower in spring, broke forth into boundless mirth and delight. She was as gentle as the petal of a rose, yet within her dwelled a secret boldness, humble but unyielding, that stirred his yearning heart to listen.
Fair Elain, thou art exquisite beyond earthly bounds, whispered the silent voice of the shadowsinger’s aching heart.
“Must I make my intentions plainer still?” Elain whispered through delicate laughter, as melodious as bird’s song at dawn. Her words danced with coy mischief, yet Azriel’s enthralled eyes took silent heed of the blush that rose in her fair cheeks. “I have sought to woo thee all Solstice long, shadowsinger,” she whispered on a soft breath.
Her eyes lowered, drawn downward as though by the weight of her own confession. With a demure smile lingering upon her lips, here gaze fell to her notebook. Only then did Azriel notice it was filled with naught but scattered scribbles.
A fresh flush of heat rose upon Azriel’s cheeks, and his heart burned with a desperate desire. The enticing paradox of Elain’s sweet, innocent countenance, mingled with that wicked tongue, ignited him hotter than a blacksmith's forge. For the first time in centuries, the shadowsinger found himself utterly undone—felled by a single, beguiling smile from fair Elain Archeron. How fiercely he yearned to claim her hand, cradle her in his arms, and whisper in her ear the secrets of his heart—the truths he could no longer endure to keep hidden.
“Thy smiles become thee well,” Elain whispered, her voice soft as a summer's breeze. That demure smile still played upon her lips, and her fingers twirled the pencil as were it a wand holding the shadowsinger spellbound.
And the sonnet to Elain Archeron’s lips kept weaving itself into verse within Azriel’s mind—a poet's curse he could not flee:
Thy blooming lips, in every smile and part, Through Solstice night, the longest of the year. Perchance will heed my fervent, yearning heart, And weave sweet words that only I shall hear.
“I could say the same of thee, Elain, but it would not suffice,” quoth the shadowsinger at long last, voice raw with emotion. “No words could ever do thee justice.”
Her steadfast gaze ensnared his, as though daring him to turn away. Azriel, for all his strength, could no more turn away than pluck the moon from its perch upon the night sky for his heart were held captive by her gaze. Softly did Elain’s gentle fingers trace the back of his hand, which lay still unmoving upon the pillow in his lap. From her touch flowed a warmth, sweet yet consuming, as though it had awakened a slumbering need in the shadowsinger.
“Good night, Azriel,” quoth Elain at length.
His name upon her tongue struck him into trembling silence, bereft of words to speak. With celestial grace, Elain rose from her perch, drifting past him as silently as the shadow of a shadow. Wordless, but for the echo of his name carried on her lips, she made her way towards the stairs.
Azriel turned in his seat. “Elain?”
She halted at the threshold, though she turned not to face him.
“I did speak in earnest,” quoth the shadowsinger, his voice low and tremulous, “as to the offer of mine hand
”
He swallowed hard, and a blush rose anew to his cheeks. “Shoudst thou desire it, my hand is thine to claim.”
Slowly, Elain turned, her eyes finding his with a gentleness that stilled his troubled mind. A rosy blush bepainted her cheeks, and upon her lips there bloomed a smile—so tender, so true—it was as though sunlight had pierced Azriel’s despair with its golden light, warming the depths of his wretched soul. Wordlessly, and with that smile still blooming upon her beauteous visage, Elain clasped her notebook closer to her bosom, and hurried away.
Azriel loosed a long, measured breath, turning once more to the quiet of the room. His gaze settled upon the little jar of headache powder Elain had given him, which sat upon the table like a silent token of her care. A smile did play upon his lips, followed soon by a soft chuckle. Slowly, he melted into the sofa’s embrace, his head resting upon its back, as a sense of peace washed over his weary soul—so rare, so unknown—it was as though he had stumbled upon some sacred treasure, precious and pure, found after centuries lost.
O, to be but a humble pencil graced by the kiss of fair Elain Archeron’s lips.
And with that, the sonnet composing itself within his mind came to a gentle close:
O, how thy perfect lips inspire verse, A story penned in every whispered word.
----
Click here to read Azriel’s Solstice sonnet in full (I have hidden quite a few canon moments in it!).
This is the first instalment of Azriel the Bard. In this instalment, I focused on comedy and wit, but future instalments might lean more into the romance.
My ACOTAR canon inspiration was Elain in ACOFAS laughing at Rhys suggesting he should model lingerie for them and Elain telling dirty jokes to Azriel in his BC (showing she has a bit of a naughty side to her
), and Azriel’s claim to not needing to resort to poetry, despite repeatedly doing so for Elain.
I don’t claim of this to be of any literary quality and my goal has simply been to create something that might bring some joy and laughter (I hope it did!). Because I am a big fan of Shakespeare and his unmatched wit, my idea was to create something a little unusual by (nearly) only using words and expressions that have been used in Shakespeare’s work. I stuck to that plan as much as possible and have been living inside the pages of Shakespeare’s work for the past two months. If you’re a fan of Shakespeare, you might recognize some expressions of his I’ve adapted and incorporated in this story.
If anyone is interested, Folger Shakespeare Library has an excellent feature where you can search through all Shakespeare’s works. I used it relentlessly to study how Shakespeare use certain words and expressions.
Thank you for reading!
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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 1 day ago
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Vegas celebration
Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this George one-shot inspired by him winning the last race in Las Vegas !!
If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.
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The Las Vegas night was alive with energy, the city's glittering lights casting a glow that seemed to echo the joy in the hearts of the Mercedes team. George Russell and Lewis Hamilton had just claimed a double podium at the Grand Prix, and the team decided there was no better place to celebrate than a swanky nightclub right off the Strip.
Toto Wolff, your father, had been uncharacteristically relaxed, his usual stern demeanor replaced with a rare smile as he toasted with the team. You, however, were more interested in the people who made these moments possible. Particularly George, who stood near the bar, his face alight with laughter as he recounted the highlights of the race to a group of engineers.
"Go say hi, Y/N," Lewis teased when he caught you glancing over. His grin was mischievous, and though you rolled your eyes, the encouragement was enough to nudge you forward.
As you approached, George spotted you and broke into a warm smile. "Y/N! I didn’t know you were joining the celebrations."
"I wouldn’t miss it," you said, raising your glass slightly. "Congratulations on the win. You were incredible out there."
George’s cheeks flushed faintly, a mix of the club’s lighting and your words. "Thank you. It’s all a team effort, though."
"You’re too modest," you replied, stepping closer to be heard over the thrum of the music. "You were brilliant, George. Truly."
For a moment, the noise and chaos of the nightclub seemed to fade as he looked at you, his gaze soft and appreciative. "That means a lot, Y/N. Really."
A new, upbeat song began playing, and George glanced toward the dance floor, where some of the team members were already swaying. He extended a hand toward you with a sheepish grin. "Would you like to dance?"
You hesitated briefly but then placed your hand in his. "Why not?"
He led you to the dance floor, his movements confident yet relaxed. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm, laughing as you matched each other’s steps. The club’s lights flickered above, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over his bright smile and the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed.
"I didn’t know you could dance," you teased, spinning under his arm.
"Well, I have a few hidden talents," he shot back, his tone playful.
The song shifted to something slower, more intimate, and George hesitated for a second before placing a hand lightly on your waist. You moved closer, and the world around you seemed to shrink.
"You really did deserve this," you said quietly, looking up at him. "More than just the cup, George. You deserve every bit of happiness tonight."
He gazed at you, his expression softening into something that made your heart race. "That’s kind of you to say, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without the team—without people like you."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music was a distant hum, and the only thing you could focus on was the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person in the room.
"Come with me," you whispered, taking his hand and leading him outside.
The cool night air was a stark contrast to the heat of the club. Las Vegas stretched out before you, its lights shimmering against the dark sky. George stood beside you, his hand still loosely holding yours.
"George," you said, turning to face him fully, "you’re an amazing driver, but beyond that, you’re a good person. And sometimes, I feel like you don’t let yourself believe that."
His eyes searched yours, his usual composed demeanor cracking slightly. "I don’t always feel like I’m enough. But...hearing that from you, Y/N—it means the world."
You stepped closer, heart pounding. "You are enough. More than enough."
Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in and kissed him, your hand resting lightly on his cheek. He froze for a moment, then kissed you back, his hands finding their place on your waist as he pulled you closer.
When you finally pulled away, the world seemed to pause. George’s lips curved into a small, stunned smile. "Wow," he said softly, his voice tinged with awe.
You laughed nervously, stepping back slightly. "Sorry, I—"
"Don’t apologize," he interrupted, his hand gently catching yours. "I...I’ve been wanting to do that all night. Maybe longer."
Your cheeks warmed, and you couldn’t help but smile. "Well, I’m glad one of us finally did."
The two of you stood there for a moment, the buzz of the Strip blending into the background as you lost yourselves in each other’s presence.
"Do you think your dad’s going to kill me?" George asked suddenly, though his tone was lighthearted.
You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Only if you don’t take me on a proper date after this."
"Deal," he said, grinning as he intertwined his fingers with yours.
As you both headed back inside, the night felt different. Brighter. The podium celebration may have been the highlight for the team, but for you and George, it was just the beginning of something much more.
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lila-lou · 1 day ago
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✹High School Sweetheart - Pt 4✹
Summary: You come face-to-face with a ghost from your past—Dean Winchester. Five years after he vanished from your life without a word, and now he®s here. But neither you nor he are teenagers anymore.
-Listen to "Chance with you"-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language, Fluff, John being a dick
Word Count: 6498
A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙
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Dean’s eyes sparkled with that familiar mischievous glint, but there was a gentleness beneath it that you hadn’t seen before, a warmth that seemed to speak of all the unspoken things between you. He leaned in a little closer, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked down at you.
“Still making me work for it, huh?”, he teased, his tone playful but filled with an affection that felt deeply personal. “I swear, you haven’t changed a bit”.
He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary, the tender gesture sending a wave of warmth through you. “But maybe that’s just part of your charm”, he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, so soft it felt like it was meant only for you. “You always knew how to keep me on my damn toes”.
His gaze never wavered, locked on yours with an intensity that seemed to cut through the noise of the world around you. There was a vulnerability there, a hint of something deeper that he was offering without saying a word. The teasing smirk softened, his eyes reflecting the weight of everything he was trying to convey, all the words he hadn’t said back then and the feelings that had lingered, just waiting for this moment.
“Think you might give me another chance to make a few new memories?”, he asked softly, the question hanging in the air, equal parts hopeful and sincere.
You felt a spark of excitement mingling with a sudden wave of nerves, the mixture leaving you a bit breathless. Dean’s presence, his soft teasing, his gaze that seemed to reach right through you—it was overwhelming in the best way, but the memory of yesterday lingered. You took a shaky breath, letting your fingers brush against his hand before you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, a little smile tugging at your lips despite your nerves.
“What about that whole goodbye yesterday?”, you asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping the question might mask just how giddy you felt inside. “I thought you were out of here, off to some other town by now”.
Before Dean could answer, Sam, who was still deeply engrossed in his book, piped up with a deadpan comment, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the page. “Oh, we’re sticking around for a few more days”, he mumbled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Dean’s a little too
 distracted to focus on the case right now”.
Dean shot Sam a glare, though he couldn’t hide the faint blush that crept up his neck. “Thanks, Sammy. Real subtle”.
Sam still didn’t even look up, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he flipped another page. “Hey, someone’s gotta point out the obvious”, he said, shrugging casually. “Otherwise, we’ll be here forever while you pretend it’s all about ‘research’”.
Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. “Real funny, Sam. I’m just trying to
 handle things”, he said. But Sam wasn’t done.
“Yeah, ‘handle things’. That what we’re calling it now?”, Sam finally looked up, his grin unrepentant. “Pretty sure this case could’ve been wrapped up yesterday if someone hadn’t been, you know..”.
Dean looked ready to retort, but you cut in, suppressing a laugh. “Well, I’m glad he’s sticking around for the ‘case’”, you teased, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “Though, maybe Sam’s right. Wouldn’t want you to get too
 distracted”.
Sam’s laughter bubbled up as he leaned back in the armchair, clearly enjoying every moment of Dean’s embarrassment. “See, she gets it”, he said, winking at you. “Guess I’ll just take the lead on the case. Let you two ‘handle things’ in the meantime”.
Dean gave an exasperated sigh, but there was no hiding the smile that played on his lips as he shot his brother a look. “Fine. You get point on the case”, he grumbled, “but I swear, one more comment out of you and you’re sleeping in the car”.
“Worth it”, Sam replied, unfazed, his grin wide.
Then, Sam stood up, holding up a book he’d clearly deemed useful, and looked at you with a casual, “How much?”. But before he could reach for his wallet, you shook your head gently, a small smile on your lips as you looked between the two brothers.
“It’s on the house”, you murmured, “if your brother agrees to get those milkshakes with me”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, surprised but clearly pleased, his smirk quickly replacing his stunned expression. “Well, that sounds like a deal to me”, he replied, shooting Sam a triumphant look. “Milkshakes it is”.
Sam rolled his eyes with a good-natured sigh, tossing Dean a look that said, I knew this was coming. “I’ll wait in the car”, he said, clearly amused by the whole situation. He held the book up in a half-hearted salute, then headed toward the door, the bell above jingling as he stepped outside.
Dean watched his brother leave, rolling his eyes but smiling to himself. As the door closed, he turned back to you, the teasing smirk gone, replaced by something softer, more genuine.
“So”, he said, his voice warm and almost hesitant, “guess we’re on for those milkshakes?”.
You felt your heart skip a beat, but you nodded, feeling a quiet excitement settle over you. “Guess so”, you replied, your smile mirroring his.
Dean shifted slightly, hands finding their way into his pockets, his gaze never wavering from yours as he spoke. “Well
 when do you close up here?”, he asked, his tone casual but his eyes carrying that unmistakable spark of anticipation. “Figure I can come back and pick you up”.
You glanced at the clock on the wall, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you looked back at him. “I’ll be done around six”, you replied, feeling a little thrill run through you at the thought of him coming back, of sharing a night out with him like old times.
Dean nodded, that familiar grin breaking through. “Alright, I’ll be here”, he said, his voice warm with certainty. He took a small step back, as if giving you space but still keeping close enough to make it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. “Guess I’ll see you at six, then”.
“Looking forward to it”, you replied, your voice softer than you intended, but you couldn’t help it. The easy charm in his smile, the way he looked at you—it all made it impossible to hide your excitement.
He hesitated for a moment, then gave you a final, lingering look before heading toward the door. “See you soon”, he said, the words carrying a promise. With one last grin, he stepped out, leaving the door to chime softly in his wake.
Back in the car, Sam was already nose-deep in the book he’d picked up from your shop, eyes scanning the pages as he began to mutter. “Alright, I think I might have a lead here. Looks like there’s something about local lore—could be tied to a spirit or curse”. He continued to flip through the pages, his voice growing more animated as he pieced together the clues. But a few moments later, he glanced up, quickly realizing that Dean’s focus was nowhere near the case.
Dean was leaning back in the driver’s seat, staring out the windshield with a faint smile on his face, his gaze distant and his expression soft. Sam raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes as he closed the book slightly to get his brother’s attention.
“Earth to Dean”, Sam said, nudging his shoulder. “I’m over here talking about the case, and you’re clearly somewhere else”.
Dean blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, but the smirk on his face didn’t fade. “Huh? Oh, yeah, the case. Ghosts and
 stuff”. He shrugged, clearly trying to play it off, though he wasn’t fooling Sam in the slightest.
Sam rolled his eyes, leaning back with an exasperated sigh. “You’re seriously gone, aren’t you?”, he teased, crossing his arms as he watched Dean with a knowing grin. “Don’t think I’ve seen you this distracted since—well, probably since the last time you saw her”.
Dean tried to hide his grin, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “Can you blame me?”, he muttered, glancing out the window as if trying to avoid Sam’s teasing look. “I mean
 she’s different. Always was”.
Sam’s expression softened slightly, his teasing tone fading as he nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I know”, he said quietly, giving Dean a small, supportive smile. “Guess it’s about time you got a second chance, huh? Without
 dad being a dick about it”.
Dean looked toward Sam, his expression shifting as a flicker of something unspoken passed between them. He knew Sam was right—this was a second chance, a rare one in their lives. The memory surfaced then, unbidden, of the last time he’d felt this strongly, back when he’d snuck into the motel after that first night with you, only to find his father waiting, disapproval practically radiating off him.
-Flashback-
The motel was silent as Dean carefully turned the doorknob, hoping to sneak back in unnoticed. He was exhausted, still floating in the quiet afterglow of the night he’d spent with you, and all he wanted was a few hours of sleep before facing another day of the usual grind. But as he stepped inside, he froze. John was sitting at the small table by the window, a cup of coffee in hand, his eyes dark and cold as he stared at his son.
Dean swallowed, knowing immediately that he wasn’t getting off easy. He barely managed to shut the door before John spoke, his voice low and laced with that familiar edge of disappointment.
"Where the hell have you been, Dean?", John’s tone wasn’t just accusatory—it was dismissive, as if he already knew the answer and couldn’t bring himself to care about anything other than his own frustration. "Out wasting time, doing God-knows-what? Thought you were better than some lovesick idiot chasing after a girl".
Dean clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body tense. "Just needed some air", he muttered, trying to downplay it, hoping that would be enough. But John wasn’t having it.
"Air, huh?", John scoffed, standing up and moving closer, his presence filling the small room. "You're supposed to be focused, Dean. Not out there making a fool of yourself over some girl". The way he spat out the word "girl" made it clear how little he thought of you—or anyone outside their world.
Dean felt his fists clench, a sharp pang of anger shooting through him. "I know my priorities, Dad", he replied, his voice controlled but barely hiding the frustration he felt.
"Doesn’t look like it", John shot back, his voice growing louder. "You’ve got responsibilities. You think any girl out there is gonna understand that? Gonna put up with our life?". He shook his head, a harsh laugh escaping him. "No, Dean, you’re fooling yourself. And you’re wasting your damn time. Love is for idiots who can afford it".
The noise stirred Sam, who was asleep in the bed. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, clearly disoriented. "What’s going on?".
"Nothing", John snapped, shooting a glare at Sam. "Just your brother learning the hard way that our family doesn’t get to have normal lives. We don’t get to waste time on pointless things". He turned his gaze back to Dean, his expression hard and unyielding. "You’re gonna end up just like me, Dean. Chained to this life because it’s all you’ll ever have".
The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut, and for a second, he felt every bit the "lovesick kid" his father accused him of being. He wanted to argue, to push back, to tell John he was wrong. But the weight of his father’s expectations, of the life they’d been handed, pressed down on him, leaving him feeling trapped and small.
As John finally walked away, heading to the bathroom without another word, Sam looked at Dean, his eyes wide with sympathy and quiet understanding.
“Dean
”, Sam began, his voice tentative, but Dean shook his head, silencing his brother. He didn’t want Sam’s sympathy. He didn’t want to admit that John’s words had gotten to him, that they’d dug deep into his insecurities.
“Go back to sleep, Sammy”, Dean mumbled, his voice thick, trying to bury everything he felt.
-End of the Flashback-
Dean let out a quiet sigh, his gaze distant as he thought about that night, about how he’d felt torn between his father’s expectations and his own desire for something real, something normal. Sitting here now, next to Sam, he realized just how different things could be now, with John gone and the two of them forging their own path.
“Guess I don’t have to worry about Dad breathing down my neck this time”, Dean said softly, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah, well, Dad’s not here to tell you what you can’t do”, Sam replied quietly, his tone both gentle and encouraging. “So maybe
 it’s time to focus on what you actually want”.
Dean let Sam’s words sink in. For years, every choice he’d made, every relationship he’d considered, had always been shaped by his father’s voice in the back of his mind. But now? There was no rulebook.
“Maybe”, Dean murmured, looking out the window as if he could already see a new path forming before him. He gave a wry smile, finally meeting Sam’s gaze. “Didn’t think you’d be my life coach, Sammy, but
 thanks”.
Sam shrugged, that familiar teasing smirk returning. “Don’t mention it. Just try not to screw this up, alright?”, he joked, though there was real warmth behind the words.
Dean laughed, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement settle in his chest. He knew what he wanted—to be with you, at least for now, without worrying about where it might lead or how it might end. It was a freedom he hadn’t felt in a long time, and it filled him with a renewed sense of purpose.
A few hours later, Dean found himself in tiny bathroom of the motel, carefully trimming his beard with a level of precision he usually reserved for his Impala’s engine. The air was thick with his familiar cologne, the rich, woodsy scent mixing with the stale air of the cramped bathroom. He traced his jawline with his fingertips, checking the results in the mirror.
Just then, Sam appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, a wide, amused grin spreading across his face.
Dean caught sight of Sam’s reflection in the mirror and groaned, already anticipating the ribbing he was about to get. He turned off the trimmer, setting it down.
“Well, I’d say you look a little too good for just ‘milkshakes’, don’t you think?”, Sam teased, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. His gaze dropped pointedly to Dean’s chest, which was notably smoother than usual.
Dean shot him a mock glare, though a slight blush crept up his neck. “Give it a rest, Sammy”, he muttered, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head a little too quickly, as if that might cover up both the grooming and his embarrassment. “Nothing wrong with looking decent once in a while”.
“Decent? Dean, you shaved your damn chest. Just admit it—you’re trying to impress her”.
Dean rolled his eyes, looking down at the red flannel in his hands with a hint of frustration. He didn’t have anything particularly nice to wear—nothing that screamed “date night” instead of “hunter”. Besides his usual gear, the only remotely formal outfit he owned was the standard FBI getup he kept stashed for cases. The thought crossed his mind that it would’ve been nice to have something a little different, something that didn’t reek of constant travel, hunts, and long hours on the road.
With a resigned sigh, he slipped into the flannel over his black T-shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. It wasn’t flashy, but at least it was him. He caught his reflection in the mirror, his expression softening, and he mumbled almost to himself, “Just don’t want her to think
 bad of me, you know?”.
Sam’s smirk softened into a small, understanding smile. “Dean”, he murmured, his voice carrying that brotherly reassurance, “She’s known you since high school. You looked the same back then”.
Dean scoffed lightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, I was hoping I’d improved a little since then”, he replied, though the tension in his voice had softened. “It’s been a while, Sammy”.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Trust me, she’s not interested in the clothes or the cologne, Dean. She’s interested in you”. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “And honestly, I think she’s already pretty into you, flannel and all”.
Dean ran a hand over his face, the trace of a blush still visible. “Guess it’s not like I’ve got a whole lot of options anyway”, he muttered, but Sam could hear the hint of nerves in his tone—the rare, genuine excitement that Dean hadn’t shown in a long time.
Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a small smile. “You’re gonna be fine. Just
 be yourself”.
Dean groaned, rolling his eyes as he ran a hand through his hair, feeling like he was 18 all over again, back in those early days when he’d first met you. “Be myself”, he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s what I’m worried about”.
Sam chuckled, leaning back with a knowing look. “Yeah, but it worked back then, didn’t it? Flannel, leather jacket, that same cocky smile
 trust me, Dean, it’s part of the package”.
Dean let out a reluctant laugh, but there was a hint of warmth there, too. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”.
“I try”, Sam replied, grinning. “Now, go on—don’t keep her waiting”.
Dean took a steadying breath, letting himself absorb the moment, that nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. “Fine, fine”, he muttered, grabbing his jacket and tossing Sam a smirk as he headed toward the door. “Just don’t get too cozy in the motel room without me, alright?”.
Sam’s laugh echoed behind him as Dean stepped outside, each step bringing him closer to that familiar flutter of excitement and nerves he hadn’t felt in ages. He couldn’t believe it—he was actually nervous.
Dean drove through town toward your bookstore, his fingers tapping the wheel rhythmically as he tried to calm his nerves. It wasn’t like him to feel this jittery over a simple outing, but with you, it felt like so much more than just milkshakes.
When he finally pulled up outside your shop, you greeted him with a warm smile as you slid into the passenger seat. He could feel his heart pick up as you buckled in, your presence somehow amplifying his nerves and excitement all at once.
After a few minutes, you glanced at him, biting your lip as you hesitated before asking, “Hey, would you mind making a quick stop at my apartment? I just want to freshen up a bit”.
Dean glanced over, caught off guard by the question. His instinct was to say there was no need—he thought you looked perfect already, but he wasn’t quite sure how to say that without sounding too forward. Instead, he fumbled slightly, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, uh, sure. I mean, you
 you don’t have to or anything. You look great”. His words tumbled out in an awkward rush, and he added, “But yeah, if you want, of course. No problem”.
You smiled, clearly amused by his flustered response, and gave him the directions. The short drive to your apartment was filled with light conversation, but he could sense the undercurrent of anticipation between you both. As he parked outside, he cleared his throat, giving you a little grin as you got out. “I’ll be here”, he said, trying to keep his tone casual.
“Come on, Dean, you can wait upstairs”, you teased. “No more parents around”. You gave him a wink, which had him chuckling awkwardly, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
He cleared his throat, feigning nonchalance as he stepped out of the car to follow you up, but his mind was already wandering back to those sneaking-around days and you both had been a little less lucky

-Flashback-
It was early morning, the sunlight streaming through the window brighter than either of you had planned for. Dean blinked himself awake, his arm draped over you, only to realize with a jolt that you’d both overslept. “Crap”, he muttered under his breath, easing himself out of bed as quietly as he could manage.
You were still drowsy, wrapped up in a blanket, a sleepy smile on your face as you watched him stumble around, pulling on his jeans and grabbing his boots. You knew the drill by now—Dean’s early exits were routine, sneaking out before your parents could suspect anything. But today, you both miscalculated.
Dean had just tied one boot and was reaching for the other when the door creaked open. He froze, his eyes wide, and you quickly pulled the blanket tighter around you, but it was too late.
Your mom stood there, taking in the scene with an expression that was both shocked and
 slightly amused.
Your mom crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look, and then turned her gaze to you, arching a brow. “Good morning. I didn’t realize we had
 company”.
You bit your lip, scrambling for something, anything, to say, but the words just wouldn’t come. She raised an eyebrow, glancing down at her watch with a slightly exasperated smile. “Shouldn’t you have been out of the window, say
 two hours ago?”.
Your eyes went wide, and you glanced at Dean, whose face mirrored your expression of pure disbelief. Neither of you had expected this; for all the times he’d snuck in and out, you’d never imagined she’d known about it.
“Wait”, Dean stammered, looking between you and your mom, “you
 you knew?”.
Your mom gave a half-sigh, half-smile, crossing her arms with a look that was almost amused. “A mother knows when her daughter’s sneaking someone in”. she said matter-of-factly. “I let it slide because
 well, I had my suspicions that it was just you two being young and
 figuring things out”. She glanced pointedly at Dean’s boots on the floor, then back at you. “But you’d better hope your dad never catches you, because he’s nowhere near as
 understanding”.
Your cheeks burned, and you could barely look up at Dean, who was still frozen in place. But, as mortifying as it was, there was a warmth to her tone, an unspoken acknowledgment that somehow, she understood. It softened the edge of the embarrassment, though only slightly.
Dean managed a small smile, one that held a hint of sheepishness. “I, uh
 appreciate the heads-up, ma’am”.
She gave him a look that was both stern and kind. “Just be smart”, she replied, giving you both one last glance before she turned to leave, muttering, “And next time
 maybe set an alarm”.
The door closed, and the two of you sat in stunned silence for a moment before you both burst into nervous laughter, the shared shock and relief pulling you closer.
-End of the Flashback-
Standing in your apartment now, you looked back at Dean, the memory filling the space between you. Dean chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Guess we weren’t as sneaky as we thought”, he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that made your heart skip.
You chuckled, feeling the warmth rise in your cheeks again. “Yeah, guess we were a little obvious, huh?”, you said, shaking your head as the memory settled between you both. It felt strangely comforting, this shared history that only the two of you truly understood.
Dean’s grin softened, his gaze lingering on you with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “Well, at least we’re a little older now”, he teased, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the doorframe. “No more sneaking out windows or dodging your mom”.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “Right. Now it’s just dodging Sam’s smart comments”, you joked, but there was an undeniable sweetness beneath your words.
Dean’s gaze drifted around your apartment, taking in the small details that made it feel so distinctly you—the cozy throw draped over the couch, the collection of books stacked in one corner, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air. He paused in front of a framed family picture on a nearby shelf, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips as he looked at it.
“How’s your mom?”, he asked softly, his tone gentle, as if the question held a dozen other questions he hadn’t quite figured out how to ask yet.
You stepped beside him, following his gaze to the photo. It was a snapshot from a family picnic years ago, your mom’s arm around you, both of you laughing at some long-forgotten joke. A rush of warmth and nostalgia filled you, mingling with the lingering nervous excitement of having Dean here, in your space, sharing these memories with you.
“She’s good”, you replied, a fond smile slipping onto your face. “Still looking out for me, always asking if I’ve ‘met any nice boys’ lately”. You gave him a playful nudge, rolling your eyes at the memory. “Not sure what she’d say if she knew I was spending time with
 well, you again”.
Dean chuckled, but his expression softened, a hint of warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Guess I didn’t leave the best impression back then, huh?”. There was a flicker of something like regret in his eyes, but he brushed it off quickly, his gaze settling back on you. “Even though I liked her
 a lot”, he murmured, almost to himself, like he was processing the weight of his own memories. His gaze dropped for a moment, a flicker of nostalgia and maybe even a touch of regret lingering there.
You raised an eyebrow, looking up at him with an incredulous smile. “You’re kidding, right?”, you chuckled, nudging him lightly. “Dean, she loved you. At least every two months, she’s sitting with me and Dad at dinner, looking all thoughtful and sighing, ‘I bet you and Dean would’ve given me a grandchild by now’”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropping open slightly before he let out a surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly caught off guard. “Seriously? She said that?”. He grinned, a little self-conscious, but you could see the hint of pride in his expression, like he hadn’t expected to have left that kind of impression on her.
“Every time”, you affirmed, laughing as you thought back to the countless times your mom had brought him up. “It’s like, no matter how much time passes, she just can’t let go of the idea that you and I were supposed to
 I don’t know, end up together or something”.
You looked up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “You won her over on Halloween”, you murmured, remembering that night vividly.
-Flashback-
Halloween night had settled in with the chill of autumn, pumpkins lit on doorsteps and a hint of wood smoke in the air. Your dad was out of town, as he often was, leaving just you and your mom to keep up the Halloween traditions. You’d promised her a cozy movie night, just the two of you with popcorn, cookies, and your favorite horror flicks.
When Dean asked if you’d wanted to see a movie with him, the thought of slipping away for a bit had been tempting. But you hesitated, mumbling, “I promised my mom I’d stay in tonight. She’s got this whole thing planned—snacks, homemade cookies. I just
 I don’t want to leave her alone, you know?”.
Dean’s face softened in understanding, a warmth in his tone that took you by surprise. “Yeah, I get it”, he said, nodding as if he genuinely respected that. He’d never quite been used to this kind of affection or tradition, but he could see how much it meant to you.
You bit your lip, feeling a bit shy as you added, “And
 Actually
 She sort of asked if you were planning on sneaking in again tonight or
 if you’d want to come by a little earlier. Through the front door this time”. You glanced up at him, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “She said she wouldn’t mind getting to know you
 you know, officially”.
Dean blinked, taken aback for a moment, a faint blush creeping up his neck. But then a small smile broke through, soft and genuine. “Yeah?”, he murmured, surprised but clearly pleased. “Well, I could do that. I mean
 if you’re sure she’s okay with it?”.
You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “She’s more than okay with it. She was
 well, I think she’s actually a little curious about the guy I keep sneaking around with”.
Dean chuckled, the sound warm and a bit bashful. “Alright, then. I guess I’ll bring my best manners”. There was a glimmer of humor in his eyes, but you could tell that underneath it, he was touched by the invitation.
A couple of hours later, Dean stood on your front porch, fidgeting slightly as he smoothed down his jacket, looking more nervous than ever. When you opened the door, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him standing there, his usual bravado softened into something more real, more earnest.
As you led him into the cozy warmth of your home, the aroma of freshly baked cookies greeted him. Your mom appeared in the kitchen doorway, a warm smile lighting up her face as she wiped her hands on a towel. “So, Dean was it, right?”, she said, her tone welcoming but curious. She extended her hand, and he shook it, his smile both charming and a little shy.
“Yes, ma’am”, he replied, his voice respectful, clearly wanting to make a good impression.
Your mom chuckled softly as she looked him over, her eyes bright with curiosity and a hint of approval. “ma'am? Uhh, I like him”, she mused aloud, turning to you with a playful smile before looking back at Dean. “I like you, Dean! You’ve got good manners”. She winked, clearly enjoying herself, making Dean shift a bit under the unexpected praise, but his grin didn’t falter.
“Thank you, ma’am”, Dean replied, his voice genuinely grateful.
Your mom led you both toward the kitchen, where the smell of warm cider filled the air. She grabbed three mugs, filling them with the steaming drink before setting them on the table. “I made this batch a little special”, she said with a conspiratorial grin. “Added a touch of something stronger—don’t worry, Dean, in Europe you’re well within the drinking age”, she winked. “Helps with the Halloween chill”.
Dean chuckled, his eyes lighting up as he took the warm mug from her hands. “Well, can’t say no to that”, he said, looking at you with a playful smirk before taking a sip. The taste was warm, spiced, and a little sharper than he expected, but he took it in stride, enjoying the drink and the friendly welcome.
The three of you settled around the kitchen table, and your mom wasted no time in asking Dean questions about his life, his family, and his interests. She listened with genuine interest, her gaze flicking between you and Dean with a subtle smile. You could tell she was pleased, maybe even relieved, to see the two of you together like this, as if her instincts about him had been right all along.
As the evening went on, Dean’s natural charm and respectful demeanor had your mom fully captivated. Even though he had to be careful about what he shared, steering away from the supernatural realities of his life, he answered her questions with an easy politeness that felt genuine. He spoke about his love of cars, a few of his favorite bands, and, without meaning to, started talking about you.
Every time he mentioned your name, there was a softness in his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by your mom. He described the way you’d sneak out for late-night talks, how you could make him laugh no matter what was going on, and his voice took on a rare tenderness when he looked your way. It was clear he was speaking from a place of true admiration and respect, and he had your mom completely wrapped around his finger, though he didn’t seem aware of it.
Your mom beamed, clearly enjoying every bit of his stories. “Well”, she said with a warm smile, looking between you and Dean, “it sounds like you two have been getting along just fine. And you know, Dean, I’m glad she has a friend like you around. She’s always been independent, but it’s good to know there’s someone watching out for her”.
Dean glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment, as if he was still taking in the fact that he was here, being welcomed like this. “She’s something special”, he said, almost to himself, his voice carrying a sincerity that made your heart skip a beat.
Your mom smiled, nodding. “I can see that”, she replied, looking at you with a proud, knowing expression before shifting her gaze back to Dean. “And you’re welcome here anytime, Dean”.
-End of the Flashback-
Dean took a deep breath, grounding himself back in the present as the warm memory faded, leaving behind a bittersweet ache. He looked around your apartment, taking in the familiar comfort of your space, and he felt that same warmth from years ago, the kind that made him feel at home in a way he rarely did.
You caught him staring at the family photo again, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you noticed the look of nostalgia in his eyes. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Having these memories”.
Dean nodded, his gaze meeting yours, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah”, he murmured. “It is”.
The silence between you felt heavy but comforting, filled with words left unsaid and memories that spoke for themselves. There was something in Dean’s eyes that made you feel like he was seeing you as that teenager all over again—the girl he’d climbed through windows for.
“Didn’t think of them for a while tho”, Dean mumbled, his gaze still fixed on the family photo, though his mind was miles away. His voice held a quiet vulnerability, as if he were opening a door he’d kept closed for years, trying to keep those memories and all they meant at arm’s length.
You moved a little closer, your presence grounding him as he stood there, shoulders slightly slouched, a small, soft smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “It’s strange, but
 it feels like it hasn’t been that long since—well, since all of this”.
You felt the weight of his words, sensing that he wasn’t just talking about your apartment or even the past itself but something deeper, something that still connected the two of you. There was a warmth in his eyes, a lingering reminder of that young man he’d been, and the version of yourself that had found something so real in him, even when everything else was uncertain.
“Maybe some things are worth remembering”, you said softly, meeting his gaze and letting the words hang in the air.
Dean nodded, his eyes holding yours, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Yeah”. he replied, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a sincerity that made your heart flutter. “Some things definitely are”.
The quiet, unspoken understanding between you felt like a fragile bridge, connecting who you were then with who you were now.
Before the moment could deepen, you took a small step back, feeling the intensity of the conversation settle over you like a warm but slightly overwhelming blanket. “I’m just
 gonna head to the bathroom real quick”, you murmured, offering a shy smile. “Make yourself at home”.
Dean gave you a quick nod, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Will do”, he replied, watching as you slipped away. He took a deep breath, looking around your apartment once more with a sense of reverence, noticing all the small details that made it so distinctly yours.
As you closed the bathroom door, you leaned against it for a moment, catching your breath. The quiet excitement of having him here, of feeling the past rush back with such clarity, filled you with a thrill that was both comforting and new. You could still feel the warmth of his gaze, the sense that no matter how many years had passed, there was still something alive between you, something that neither time nor distance had managed to erase.
Meanwhile, Dean took in the space around him, glancing at your bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines of well-loved novels, and finding little reminders of who you’d grown into. He smiled to himself, feeling at home in a way he hadn’t in a long time, as if this space held all the things that had been missing from his life on the road.
———————————
A/N: Please let me know what you think.đŸ„°Â 
-
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reizoudesu · 2 days ago
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imagine this: (a little steamy, be warned!)
barely two seconds in and you found yourself trembling under your lover's gaze of scrutiny. you never felt so vulnerable under one's eyes before – you were not in love that day, the thought of falling for someone is a little scary.
you know how much your husband wants to have you all to himself, but he didn't want to hinder you from keeping the order and control inside the bedroom. even though he is the domineering force between the pair, he still gives you the free will.
this moment feels like a scene from a movie, but people disregard the true meaning of intimacy. where everything happens in a moment of passion and maybe a little too much of lust. every scene tells the same exact story, the same moment of excitement, until it all leads down to the deepest of eroticism. but you wanted to experience what it really feels like.
the truth.
most of your time is spent with you spread on the soft white mattress of your shared bed, laid bare with your silky complexion gleaming under the moonlit rays, as if the moon itself was bathing you in ethereal glory of the nocturnal. while the predator carefully swoops in and takes a nip of his prey, not before he covers up the marks on your neck with a kiss or a lave of his tongue, cleasing it, soothing it. the colors of the bites range from soft baby pinks to deep scarlets and purples.
just as it happens, a small connection was established, and you were too distracted to even stop it from happening. it made you wince, your body trembling even more as your grip on him tightens on cue.
"shh, i'm here... don't worry about moving. just stay right here while i handle the rest."
you gasp as he made the move, your hands finding his shoulders, a silent gaze begging to continue. it hurts, but the pain only fuels your longing to stick with him. each noise you utter as the two of you collide, each aching plea you call upon the ceiling, and each cry you heave upon your soft quivering lips matters to him just as you value the way his eyee sparkle with tenderness as he keeps you in place.
for the first time, you felt so safe into his arms, even when you're doing something scandalous.
no, your relastionship was never a scandal. you were truly in love. that's why you married him.
"allow me to ease your pain. you don't have to be strong all the time."
you are too overwhelmed to speak, tears of bliss start to make its way down your rosy cheeks like an endless waterfall. he wants to share the pain, and be one of the same. by then, your heart starts to bleed... bleeding out of pain and love, all because of him.
if ever you fall down, will he catch you, when your past love never did?
finally, he answers, planting a kiss to your aching lips, and you were free. your nails scrape at his shoulders as you collided like magnets of opposite polarities.
you prayed for him to end your suffering...
"please, make it end... set me free... love me, love me, love me–"
...and he did.
your divine, oh-so-reverent temple has been tainted, all because of his undying love pouring within you, painting the very interior until it reaches the very middle. but ecstasy's pinnacle sent you both straight into heaven, even the feeling burns like inferno itself.
what scandalous sight: jealousy wails as it sights on your perfect relationship.
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genshin men, hsr men, bsd men + your faves~
this, my friends... is how i normally write steamy drabbles: keeping it implict is the best way, at least in my opinion.
also, this is the first time i've ever written a full "slight smut" one-shot in this blog...
(sorry in advance to those who are confused TwT)
©reizoudesu
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maximura · 3 months ago
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evelili · 1 year ago
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happily ever after :)
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mo-ok · 4 months ago
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Mad Gallant
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mercisnm · 1 year ago
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"Mages like us
"
A portrait that turned into a pair of portraits that turned into a triptych. Individual pieces for better resolution:
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theoppositeofprofound · 7 months ago
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the problem with lothlorien is that 180 days of the year you have to go gently wipe down your house o’ silver wood high in the treetops and it looks like this all over
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confetti-critter · 10 months ago
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This might be a bad idea, but I'm going to eat those greasy little appetizer things for dinnar. I'm gunna watch the blob too :^)
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