#finally someone to share with. someone to care for

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 6

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The library is almost empty.

Outside the glass study room, someone coughs. A printer whirs. But inside, it’s quiet — except for the soft clack of keys, the hum of the AC, and Ellie reading beside you.

“You pushed her on the wall,” she murmurs, brows drawing together. “Firm but not harsh, crashing your lips to her aching ones.”

You watched her mouth move as she read it — her lips tugging slightly as she focused, lashes low, the slope of her nose catching light — and something in your chest twisted. Not just from nerves. You hated the way her voice sounded reading your words. Hated that it made your pulse trip up. Hated that it made you want her to keep going.

“She pulled you into her lap as she sat on a large sealed paint bucket… her breath was—”

Ellie paused, frowning at the screen.

Then she turned to you with that look — the you’re insufferable and I regret partnering with you look.

“What is this?” she asked flatly, like the words on the doc personally offended her.

You leaned back in your chair, raising your eyebrows. “That’s the scene for chapter eight.”

“No, it’s not.” She shook her head and closed your laptop halfway like she was trying to censor it. “We’re not doing this. Again.”

You blinked at her, mock-offended. “Why the fuck not?” Your voice came out low — quieter than you meant, like you were actually trying to convince her.

Ellie sighed through her nose, dragging her laptop toward her and reopening your shared doc. Her fingers started typing with a little too much force. “Because we have an outline. You know — the thing we agreed on? The story structure? Remember that? We agreed to that.”

“Ellie.” You said her name before you could stop yourself. It landed softer than you intended — breathy, almost pleading.

“We don’t always have to follow the outline,” you continued, recovering fast. “This is just a little detour. A fun one.”

“They’ve been dancing around each other for pages. It’s driving me insane. This scene gives them something to feel while they keep holding back. That tension? It makes everything after hit harder.”

Ellie stopped typing. Her jaw moved slightly.

“It’s not time for them to hook up yet.”

She said it like a command. Like you were out of line for even thinking about it.

“They’re not hooking up. They’re making mistakes. That’s the point. It’s human.”

Ellie turned her head, meeting your eyes. Something in her expression sharpened — not anger exactly, but frustration. Or maybe panic, if you knew her better.

“No,” she said again, quieter this time. “We have a clear structure. Adding this here would change everything.”

You exhaled slowly, trying not to snap.

“Can’t we bend the structure, just a little? I know sometimes I add and suggest ridiculous shit, but I meant this one. I actually took my time writing that part. It’s ten pages, Ellie. Ten. And that’s not even the only scene — there’s more after.”

Ellie’s fingers froze on the keyboard. She turned slightly, not looking at you.

“Exactly,” she muttered. “More scenes. More changes. We didn’t agree to that.”

Ellie just shook her head like she was already done with the conversation before it even finished.

You opened your mouth to argue again, but her voice came in before you could.

“We’re not writing that scene.”

You stared at her, irritated. And something else you didn’t want to name.

She was so closed off, so composed, so good at not looking at you — like she could will herself into not caring.

“I’m serious about this, you know,” you said, voice quieter this time. “For real.”

Ellie finally up. “Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “So am I.”

She leaned back slightly, hands folding over her laptop like she was about to launch into a TED Talk.

“And if you actually looked at Ms. Alvarez’s notes, you’d see that the next three chapters are supposed to lay the groundwork for the second act. If we drop in a random paint-bucket hookup scene now, it kills the emotional pacing. It shifts the arc. It makes the tension collapse too early.”

You rolled your eyes like you were done and you’d already tuned her out. You crossed your arms and sank deeper into your chair, leaning back with the kind of defiance that wasn’t loud, but said we’re done here.

“I’m not working with you right now.”

“You’re being childish,” she muttered, eyes still locked on her screen.

“And you’re being a killjoy,” you shot back. “Not everything has to be some perfect, structured literary masterpiece, Ellie. Sometimes stories need chaos.”

You huffed, sitting up straighter now. “And for Ms. Alvarez’s notes? You know we could work something around that. It’s not impossible.” Your voice dropped, flat and clipped. “Just say you think my idea’s dumb and be done with it.”

She shook her head once, actually confirming it now. Yeah. Your idea was dumb. Dumb enough to mess with her masterpiece.

“You just want them to make out in a janitor’s closet.”

“Maybe I do.” You weren’t even sure if you were talking about your characters anymore. “Maybe it’s the only thing keeping me from screaming right now.”

Ellie finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed, scanning your face — trying to figure out how serious you were. That maybe.. maybe something had slipped out that shouldn’t have.

But then her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a smirk that died halfway — crooked and careless.

“Jesus. Did you get your period or something?”

She said it offhand, careless. The kind of thing she wouldn’t even register as a real insult — but you did.

You stared at her. Your chest tightened, something sharp pulling inside.

“Wow,” you muttered. “Misogyny in 2025. Groundbreaking.”

Ellie bit her cheek, clearly holding back a laugh.

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t.” Your voice dropped, dead flat.

She tried not to smile. You saw it anyway — the twitch of her mouth, like your anger was somehow amusing.

You wanted to slap it off her face.

“You’re overreacting,” she said under her breath.

“Overreacting my ass,” you snapped. “I took my whole weekend writing that scene, Ellie.”

She shrugged, turning back to her laptop. She was casual and dismissive. It kinda hurt you a little bit, almost.

“You could’ve told me first before you wrote it.”

“You’d have disagreed.”

“Exactly. But at least I could’ve stopped you from wasting your time.”

That one landed. You flinched. It showed in your hands — the way they clenched as you stood and yanked your bag up from the floor.

“You know what?” You laughed, bitter and breathless. “Fine. I don’t fucking care.”

You shoved your laptop into your bag, fast, messy.

“And yeah — I actually just wasted my time. Sorry for not reaching the standards, boss.”

You zipped the bag halfway, then gave up on aligning it at all.

“I don’t wanna work with you right now. I wanna go home — so I will.”

Ellie sighed quietly and shook her head, still typing.

You moved around the table and paused beside her, waiting for something. A glance. A smart-ass comment. Maybe even a shitty little “sorry.” Nothing.

She didn’t even look at you.

God.

You exhaled hard. “Okay. Great talk,” you muttered. “Text me if you decide to not be a dick. Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t care.”

You turned your back — done, or at least pretending to be — but something inside you snapped before you could walk away. You spun back around, heat burning in your chest.

“And you know what? I take back everything I said about you being easy to work with. You’re not. You don’t actually consider my ideas. You just read them long enough to decide they’re ridiculous. You don’t take anything I say seriously.”

You could feel it now — the frustration rising, twisted up with something closer to hurt.

“And for you to act like I’m being childish just because I care about my dumb ideas? Just because I want them to actually mean something in this project? That sucks.”

Your voice cracked, just a little.

“You always do this. I don’t even know if you hate me or what, but I didn’t let it bother me before because at least I tried. I figured, hey, you’re smarter than me, so maybe it’s fine to let you have your way every time.”

“But you know what?” Your tone dropped. “You’re the insufferable one. Not me.”

You scoffed, low and bitter. “And honestly? You’re boring, Ellie. I hope you know that.”

You didn’t wait for a reaction. You turned and walked out — before the weight in your chest turned into something you couldn’t swallow down.

You lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers. Your room was dim, quiet — too quiet. And your body felt weirdly tense, like your nerves still hadn’t caught up with the fact that you’d actually walked out.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that deep anymore. That it was just a disagreement. A scene. A stupid writing scene.

But it was a big deal.

Because she didn’t even finish reading it. She didn’t even try.

“Didn’t even get past the second paragraph,” you muttered to yourself.

Your chest tightened again. God, she was so infuriating. So smug and so obsessed with structure and outlines and being right. She cared more about hitting all the correct beats than actually making something good. Than letting anything feel real.

It wasn’t just the scene. It was the way she looked at you. Making you look like you were being dramatic, overemotional and less than. And that stupid flat tone she used, like you were wasting her time.

What pissed you off the most was that you knew she wasn’t going to apologize. That she’d rather die than admit she was wrong.

She’d already proven that. Her last message was the same cold, stiff crap that looked like she’d emailed it from a fucking office cubicle.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your last words came back like a slap. “You’re boring, Ellie. I hope you know that.”

It was true. She was boring. And for actually thinking — feeling — you liked her one bit? No. You don’t.

You just kept mistaking her for someone else.

That was the real issue, wasn’t it?

She reminded you of E.

They had pieces of each other — enough to confuse your brain into hoping.

But E.. made you feel something. E wanted you. E actually read your writing and saw you.

You sat up abruptly, pulled your laptop out of your bag, flipped it open, and stared at the screen. Chapter Eight. Ten pages. Every line you’d poured into that moment — erased by a shrug.

Without giving yourself a second to think, you highlighted the entire document, dragged it to the trash, and hit delete.

You slammed the lid closed. If she didn’t care, then neither did you.

Right?

Your phone buzzed beside you. You ignored it at first — or tried to.

But your fingers reached for it anyway, almost unconsciously.

E:

hey

just got home

The message sat on your lock screen, simple and soft. You stared at it, and somehow, just seeing her name — her tone — made the tension in your chest pop like a soap bubble.

Your shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Of course she texted.

You let out a slow breath, eyes still on the screen. Then your gaze shifted upward, just a fraction — to the tiny digital date above the message preview.

You blinked.

“Great,” you muttered.

That explained the mood.

Well. Part of it.

You sat up a little, unlocked your phone and opened the thread.

you:

how was your day?

It didn’t take long.

E:

mm

had to deal w a little drama but it was fine

nothing major

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

A little drama.

You stared at that line longer than you meant to.

You’d just lived through your own little drama — and it had everything to do with Ellie.

you:

ugh same

i hate my partner for this pair project rn

she’s mean

E:

mean??

to you???

you:

yeah :(

E:

who the fuck does she think she is

what did she do

you:

she won’t let me add this scene i wrote 😒

and i kinda walked out on her awhile ago

There was a pause, just a beat too long.

E:

ok so she’s insane

and blind

and ungrateful

she must’ve really gotten under your skin today huh

You sighed.

you:

yeah

hate her for it

but it’s mostly acting tbh

i’m gonna get my period real soon

so yeah

but still

i was valid right?

i mean it’s OUR project

You waited, thumbs hovering. There was a weird mix of comfort and tension in your chest — the comfort of talking to E again, even if the day had been a mess.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

of course you were

you’re always valid

she’s the one who fucked it up, not you

if it were me

i’d literally write anything you wanted

You stared at the message, eyes narrowing slightly.

E:

she’s probably sorry now

even if she’ll never say it

like

who wouldn’t be sorry if they crossed you?

You scoffed. Quiet, under your breath.

Classic. Always knowing what to say to make you feel seen — even when the feeling in your chest didn’t fully match the smile on your face.

Still. The phrasing stuck with you.

She’s sorry.

Like it wasn’t just a guess.

Like it was coming from somewhere closer than it should’ve.

You rolled onto your side, staring at the screen a second longer than you needed to. You started typing again — something light. Something that wouldn’t give too much away.

you:

u sound like u know her

You sent it as a joke, the corners of your mouth twitching. But part of you still watched the screen like you were waiting for something to break.

E:

nahh

You sighed, dropping your phone onto the bed for a second. Ellie’s face popped into your mind anyway.

Uninvited.

Unavoidable.

The thought that she could be E hadn’t really left your mind since that day — the day you worked with her at her house. You didn’t want to dwell on it, not after what happened today. But it lingered anyway — quiet and annoying, like a song stuck on a loop in the back of your head.

Ellie was too blunt. Too practical. Too stiff in her tone, too composed in the way she held herself. She’d never lower herself to something as reckless or vulnerable as anonymous flirting.

She would never.

She could never be the same girl you like.

The one who texted you at night with just a “hey.” The one who read every scene you wrote and said you were brilliant. The one who told you she missed you — who listened when you ranted, remembered the things you said at 2 a.m., and wanted to ruin you slowly, sweetly, like she actually meant it.

Pushing the thought aside, you smirked to yourself and picked your phone back up.

you:

u know what u sound?

jealous

E:

good

i am

i would be jealous of anyone who gets to be with you

who gets to see you

talk to you

hear your laugh

sit next to you

touch you

breathe the same air as you

fuck

You blinked, a quiet little laugh slipping out. Really huh.

Smirking, you texted back.

you:

u are talking to me

and u can see me

You opened your camera, adjusted slightly where you lay — hair a little messy against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, nose scrunched just enough to look like you weren’t trying.

One click.

Sent.

A beat later:

E:

jesus christ

look at you

you:

u like it?

E:

i love it

i hate how much i love it

i have a whole album of you on my phone

no shame

You blinked and snorted.

you:

ohh

even the ones (yk) are included? 👀

E:

guess

you:

i think u do ;)

what do you even do with them?

E:

stare

obsess

sigh like a loser

bite my fist

replay every second

you’re unreal

i wanna bite you

You chewed your lip, smirking to yourself.

you:

ohh

E:

why?

You stared at the blinking cursor a second, then typed, amused.

you:

i was expecting you to say you get off at it

You chuckled under your breath, half expecting her to dodge it, half expecting something worse.

But then, casually, you added. Typing slower this time.

you:

u don’t have to be jealous of anyone who’s close to me

they aren’t you anyway

tf i care about them

There was a longer pause before you added again.

you:

and actually..

we can like

call or something

if u want

You watched the three dots blinking on the screen, heart beating a little faster than usual. It caught you off guard. You’d never really asked her for anything before, not like this. And now here you were, holding your breath over three blinking dots.

E:

nah

you wouldn’t be able to handle me yet

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

you:

oh

really

doubt that

E:

don’t

trust me

not when i want you like this

you:

be serious

You shook your head a little, grinning quietly. Couldn’t handle her? Please.

You kept your phone in your hand, waiting for her to say something else. One more line. Something. But the screen stayed still, and after a while, nothing else came through.

You sighed and lay back against your pillow, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The room had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet where you could hear your own thoughts too clearly.

She really was impossible. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about her all over again.

You checked your phone again. Still no message from E. The screen stayed quiet and you felt like your nerves started crawling out of your skin again.

With a frustrated sigh, you exited the thread and opened your other messages.

A few dry group chats, a half-hearted “wyd” from someone you didn’t care about, and buried in between — Ellie.

You rolled your eyes as you reread your past conversations — God, she texts like a fucking customer service rep. So proper. So stiff. Like she’s allergic to being real. Such a nerd and a loser. Acting like she knows everything. Like she’s above the drama when she is the drama. All that brainpower and she still couldn’t even consider your ideas.

For a second, you typed something.

you:

aren’t you even gonna say sorry��

You stared at it. Then deleted the entire thing and tossed your phone onto your bed. You weren’t doing this. Not tonight.

You tried watching something. You tried opening TikTok. But nothing stuck. You kept checking your phone like maybe E would say something. Anything.

And at 12:07 AM, she finally did.

E:

can’t sleep

u up?

Your fingers didn’t hesitate.

you:

unfortunately

thanks for asking 2 hours late

E:

wow

okay

i deserved that

but i’m here now

so... miss me?

you:

maybe

still kinda annoyed though

E:

…at me?

You hesitated but smirked anyway.

you:

no

just the world

and my uterus

everything is annoying

okay but like

you wanna know something real?

E:

literally always

say it

ruin me

you:

i get…

really fucking needy

right before my period hits

There was a pause. Your legs shifted. You tried to play it off. But your skin was buzzing.

Your heart did that thing again.

That tight, fluttery, fuck-it kind of beat.

E:

how needy

You bit your lip.

you:

like

literally can’t focus

everything feels ten times worse

and better

and i just want someone to touch me

Three dots.

Then nothing.

Then three dots again.

E:

jesus

i’m losing my mind already

what do you want me to do about it

you:

idk

say dirty things

ruin my night

make me forget i hate everyone rn

E:

fuck

you know i’d do anything for you, right

literally anything

You grinned, flushed and smug all at once.

E:

just tell me what you need

please

say it

Your fingers hovered.

God.

You were still mad at Ellie.

Still confused. Still annoyed that she didn’t even try today.

But this?

This was all softness and heat. This was control. This was what you wanted.

Ellie made you furious. Maybe Ellie won't say sorry about it. Maybe she wouldn't even care.

But E did.

And that was enough for tonight.

E always knew how to fix it.

You stared at the screen a second longer, thumb hovering before you started typing again—slower this time, your breathing a little uneven.

you:

i don’t really know what i want

but thinking of you watching me rn

while i touch myself

makes me so wet

can u do that?

The dots showed up instantly.

E:

fuckfuckfuck

yes

please

i need to see you

right now

i’m losing it

You tried not to sigh as you stared at the two math test papers laid out in front of you. You failed them both.

The red ink looked brighter in the library light. One circled with a question mark beside your boxed final answer, maybe your teacher was genuinely concerned for your cognitive development.

Across from you, Ellie was typing in silence. Her brows furrowed slightly, screen glowing against her face.

You were back in the library again.

You didn’t even want to come today. Not after what you said. Not after what she didn’t say.

But Ms. Alvarez made it clear. You needed to reach at least Chapter 15 before the week ended. So here you were. Sitting across from her. Pretending it was just another day.

You hadn’t talked since last period. You just sat beside her in English, silently taking notes and never looked at her once.

Ellie didn’t say anything either.

But now, here, she glanced up at you — once, — then back at her laptop. Her eyes flicked again, more deliberate this time. She wanted to say something. Or maybe just nudge you into working again.

“What are you looking at?” she asked finally, nodding toward the papers in front of you.

You straightened. “Nothing,” you said, your voice low, trying not to sound mean.

She stared a beat longer, then returned to typing. “We need to finish Chapter 15 this week.”

“I know, okay?” you snapped, sharper than you meant.

Ellie leaned forward and — without warning — snatched the test papers from your side of the table.

You frowned. “What are you—?”

She raised her eyebrows as she scanned the scores, not saying anything.

You raised yours back, daring her to say something about it.

You snatched them back and shoved them into your bag without folding them. “I’m dumb at math, okay?” you muttered. “Don’t look so shocked.”

You huffed. “Not like it matters anyway. I’ll probably not go to college.”

You rolled your eyes and continued. “Maybe my mom’s gonna marry me off to some wealthy Christian man. We’ll live in a beige house and I’ll act like the perfect wife. But he’ll eventually cheat with his assistant because we don’t actually love each other. We’ll divorce, and I’ll be left with two bitch kids who hate me because I’m a shitty mom.”

You paused and glanced at her — realizing she’d been listening the whole time. “So yeah. It’s fine. I’ve accepted it.”

Ellie didn’t respond right away. She blinke at you, leaning back a little in her chair.

“…You do know not going to college doesn’t automatically land you in a beige house with a cheating husband, right?”

You gave her a look.

Ellie shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’d probably burn the house down before he even made it to the affair.”

You snorted under your breath, unwilling but amused.

She nudged her laptop slightly toward you, eyes flicking to the side. “Also it’s fine... to be dumb at math,” she said, almost like it was meant to be reassuring.

You turned to her fully now, one brow raised. “Are we now okay for you to say shit like that?”

Ellie just shrugged again. “I mean… you said it first.”

You blinked at her, deadpan. “Well, thanks for making me feel even dumber,” you said, voice flat with sarcasm.

You were glaring at her. Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting to your bag, then back to you.

“I could… tutor you or something.”

You rolled your eyes, head tilting with offense. “If this is your way of saying sorry, sorry — but I won’t accept it.”

“My way of—?” Ellie blinked. “I’m not saying sorry.”

You turned toward her fully, frowning. “Why the hell not?”

She hesitated, jaw tightening. “Because I already—” She stopped herself, eyes flicking away like looking at you might give something away. “Because you also insulted me yesterday,” she added, sighing.

“Insulted?” you echoed. “It was true.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched — a flash of something angry in her eyes — before her face settled into something tighter. Irritated.

“Yeah? Well, you’re a bitch.”

You blinked at her, stunned into silence for half a second.

Before you could shoot something back, Ellie added dryly, “And at least I didn’t storm out yesterday because my most-wanted sex scene wasn’t included in our book. Are you that deprived, or just that dramatic?”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I have a very active sex life, Ellie.”

She leaned back, lips curving — smug. “Yeah? Care to share then?”

Your mouth opened.

Your brain went blank for a beat too long — and unfortunately, in that beat, E came to your mind. The memory of last night flickered through you like heat lightning.

Your blush hit like a slap — sharp, hot, and way too obvious.

You tried to play it off, waving a hand. “No way. Sorry, Ellie, but I don’t want you to feel bad just because you don’t have any of that in your life.”

Ellie tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with the same smirk on her lips. “You don’t know that.”

You frowned, raising your eyebrows after. “Okay then. When was the last time it happened?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just stared at you for a moment — too long, almost — before her fingers returned to the keyboard, typing again. She shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Last night.”

tag list:

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[sixeyesonathiel]

an apple a day (won’t keep you away)

being married to a doctor means learning to share him—with his patients, his charts, his endless emergencies. and tonight? tonight, you're not feeling particularly generous. thankfully, there's a bowl of apples, a well-timed grudge, and just enough spite to make a point.

(aka: in which you attempt to keep gojo satoru away using apples, mild emotional warfare, and maybe a little love.)

wc — 3.7k ✦ tags -> modern au, domestic fluff, established relationship, married life, petty!reader, soft satoru gojo, satoru deserves to suffer a little, affectionate banter, cuddling & snuggling

they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but apparently it takes seventeen apples to keep one particularly annoying white-haired doctor from hovering around your kitchen island like a lovesick ghost.

you’re on apple number four when satoru finally works up the courage to speak. he’s been lingering by the doorway for the past twenty minutes, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose—the ones with the slightly bent left arm from when he fell asleep reading case files on the couch last month. you’d been the one to gently extract them from his face that night, folding them carefully on the coffee table while he mumbled your name in his sleep. now they’re fogged from his nervous breathing, and you can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, case files forgotten in his hands as he watches you methodically demolish your way through the fruit bowl with the dedication of someone preparing for war.

“sweetheart,” he starts, voice pitched in that careful, testing-the-waters tone he uses when he knows he’s stepped in it. his fingers tighten around the manila folders, and you catch the slight tremor in his hands. good. let him shake. let him remember what it feels like to be uncertain.

“nope.” you bite into apple number five with perhaps more aggression than necessary, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way he flinches at the sound. the juice runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand—a gesture that would normally have him reaching for a napkin, fussing over you like you’re made of spun glass. instead, he just stands there, watching you with those impossible eyes that remind you of winter mornings and the way light hits hospital corridors at dawn. “i’m busy.”

“busy... eating apples?” his hair catches the overhead light, and you hate how it makes him look ethereal, like something stepped out of a dream. he’s always been too beautiful for his own good, all sharp angles and soft edges in places that don’t make sense. the way his collarbones peek out from his partially unbuttoned shirt, the slight stubble along his jaw that speaks of a man who’s been too tired to shave properly.

“busy keeping doctors away.” you don’t look at him directly, but you can feel the way he deflates a little, shoulders sagging like a marionette with cut strings. it’s a small cruelty, but you’ve earned it. you’ve earned the right to watch him squirm.

what he’s done, technically speaking, isn’t even that terrible. he’d simply gotten so absorbed in a particularly challenging case that he’d forgotten—completely forgotten—about your dinner reservation. the reservation you’d made three weeks ago, circled on the calendar in red ink, mentioned casually over morning coffee no fewer than six times. the reservation at that tiny italian place you’d been dying to try, the one with the hand-painted tiles and the owner who looked like he’d stepped out of a cooking show. the reservation you’d gotten dressed up for, sitting pretty in the living room in your blue dress—the one with the pearl buttons that he’d fastened for you that morning, his fingers gentle against your spine as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you’d waited an hour. sixty full minutes of checking your phone, adjusting your jewelry, watching the clock tick past eight, then eight-thirty, then nine. the restaurant had called twice to confirm, their polite concern making your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment.

it’s not the missed dinner that has you eating apples like they’ve personally offended your entire bloodline. it’s the way he’d walked through the door at midnight, takeout bag in hand, hospital scrubs wrinkled and hair mussed, and asked if you wanted to share his hospital cafeteria sandwich. as if you were some kind of raccoon who’d be satisfied with his medical facility scraps. as if you hadn’t spent forty minutes perfecting your eyeliner only to wash it off with angry tears.

apple number six meets its demise, and you can feel the way your jaw is starting to ache from the aggressive chewing. there’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the part of you that wants to throw things and scream and make him understand exactly how small he’d made you feel.

“honey,” satoru tries again, and this time he actually steps into the kitchen, his sock-clad feet silent against the tiles. his reading glasses are slightly fogged, probably from the nervous breathing he’s been doing for the past half hour. normally, you’d reach over and clean them for him without thinking, a small gesture so automatic it’s practically muscle memory. you’d learned early in your marriage that he never remembers to do it himself, too focused on whatever medical journal or patient file has captured his attention.

today, you let them stay foggy. let him see the world through the blurry lens of his own poor life choices. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt—right above the pocket where he keeps his favorite pen, the one you bought him for your first anniversary. he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there, too caught up in his own guilt to notice the small details that usually anchor him.

“you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who once ate convenience store ramen for six days straight during his residency. you remember that week, how you’d found him passed out over a stack of textbooks, chopsticks still clutched in his hand and his hair falling into his eyes like spilled moonlight.

“i’m building immunity,” you inform him primly, selecting apple number seven with the care of someone choosing a weapon. the fruit is cold against your palm, still slightly damp from when you’d washed the entire bowl earlier in a fit of productive rage. “very important for married life, apparently.”

the married life comment hits him right in the chest, and you can see the way his breath catches. he does that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit that’s become more pronounced over the years—and looks like a kicked puppy. a very tall, very gorgeous kicked puppy with eyes the color of shallow ocean water and a mouth that’s currently doing something complicated with guilt and longing.

you hate how much you love him. you hate how even when you’re furious, part of you wants to smooth down his ridiculous hair and kiss the worried crease between his eyebrows. you hate how he’s standing there in his wrinkled button-down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, and your traitorous heart still does little flips. there’s a small scar on his left hand from when he’d tried to fix the garbage disposal last spring, and you can see him flexing his fingers—another nervous tell that he’s probably not even aware of.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. there’s something raw in his expression, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten despite your best efforts to stay angry. “i’m really, really sorry. i got caught up in this case and—”

“and forgot you had a wife.” apple number eight doesn’t stand a chance, and you can taste the tartness on your tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “happens to the best of us, i’m sure.”

“that’s not—” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in twelve different directions. it’s gotten longer recently, curling slightly at the ends in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. you’d been planning to trim it for him this weekend, the way you always do, sitting him down in the bathroom while he closes his eyes and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “you’re the most important thing in my life. you know that.”

“do i?” you finally look at him properly, and oh, that’s a mistake. because he looks absolutely miserable, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. his glasses are sliding down his nose again, and you can see the small indentations they leave on the bridge—a mark of the long hours he spends hunched over medical charts. you’re not quite ready to stop being mad yet, but looking at him makes your resolve waver like a candle in the wind. “because your patient charts seem to think otherwise.”

“that’s not fair.” his voice is barely above a whisper, and you can see the way his hands are trembling slightly. there’s something broken in his posture, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly.

“neither is sitting in a restaurant alone for an hour, but here we are.” you gesture vaguely with apple number nine, and you can feel the sticky residue of juice on your fingers. the kitchen smells like fruit and frustration, and you can see your reflection in the window—hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with unshed tears and righteous anger. “at least these apples showed up when expected.”

satoru’s face crumples a little more, and you can see him struggling with something. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that makes the pale column of his throat look almost translucent. he’s always been expressive, wearing his emotions like weather patterns across his features, but this is different. this is the look of a man who’s realized he’s broken something precious.

“i dreamed about you last night,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft you almost miss it. the words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and devastating in their quiet honesty. “even when i was sleeping at the hospital. i dreamed we were at that restaurant, and you were wearing that blue dress—the one with the little buttons—and you were laughing at something i said. and when i woke up, i realized i’d never actually seen you laugh in that dress because i’m an idiot who can’t manage his own calendar.”

you’re still holding apple number nine, but you’ve stopped eating. your fingers are sticky with juice, and you can feel the way your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. this is new territory—satoru’s usually more of a grand gesture guy, all expensive flowers and dramatic declarations. this quiet honesty is almost worse because it’s sliding right past your defenses like water through a sieve.

“you noticed the dress,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds, how the anger is already starting to leak out of it like air from a punctured balloon.

“i always notice.” he takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. his feet are bare, and you can see the way his toes curl slightly against the cold tiles. “i notice everything about you. how you tap your fingers when you’re thinking.” his eyes drop to your hands, and you realize you’re doing it now—drumming against the counter in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. “how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.” you can feel yourself doing it, the unconscious gesture that he’s catalogued like a scientist studying his favorite specimen. “how you always, always clean my glasses for me even when i don’t ask.”

you glance at his fogged lenses and feel your resolve wavering like a house of cards in a strong wind. this is emotional warfare, and he’s not even trying. he’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been carrying his whole life.

“i brought you something,” he says, and pulls a small container from his pocket. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “from that italian place. i went there this morning and explained to the owner what happened. told him my wife was too good for me and i needed to grovel properly.”

despite yourself, you’re curious. there’s something about the way he’s holding the container, like it’s made of glass and dreams. “what did you get?”

“their tiramisu.” he sets it on the counter between you like a peace offering, and you can see the way his hands shake slightly as he releases it. “the owner said his wife threw a shoe at him once for missing their anniversary, and that dessert was the only thing that saved him.”

you stare at the container, and you can feel the way your anger is transforming into something else, something softer and more dangerous. it’s a small thing, really—just takeout tiramisu from a restaurant you’ll probably never get to eat at properly. but it’s something. an acknowledgment. an effort. you can imagine him standing in that little restaurant, probably still in his scrubs, explaining to a stranger how he’d failed you. the mental image makes your throat tight.

“i’m still mad,” you tell him, but you’re already reaching for a spoon, and you can see the way hope flickers across his features like sunlight through leaves.

“i know.” he watches you take a bite, and his whole face lights up when you make a small sound of appreciation. it’s embarrassing how good it is, how the rich sweetness seems to melt some of the hardness you’ve been carrying in your chest. “is it good?”

“it’s...” you take another bite, considering. you can feel the way he’s watching you, cataloguing every micro-expression like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. “it’s pretty good.”

“good enough to maybe consider reducing the apple consumption? i’m starting to worry about the local orchard supply.” there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. it’s the same smile he’d given you on your first date, nervous and hopeful and completely devastating.

that startles a laugh out of you, which you immediately try to cover with a cough. but satoru’s too perceptive, has always been able to read you like his favorite book, and his eyes crinkle with hope.

“was that almost a smile?” he asks, taking another careful step closer. you can smell his cologne now—something clean and expensive that you bought him last christmas. there’s something else too, something that’s purely him. coffee and antiseptic and the faint scent of the lavender detergent you use on his scrubs.

“no,” you lie, but you’re fighting a losing battle now. the tiramisu is really good, and he’s standing there looking rumpled and sorry, and you’re remembering why you married this disaster of a man in the first place. how he’d proposed to you in this very kitchen, getting down on one knee next to the refrigerator because he couldn’t wait another second. how he’d cried when you said yes, happy tears that made his eyes look like sea glass.

“i have an idea,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s pulling his phone out. his fingers are moving quickly across the screen, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that’s become endearing over the years. “new rule. from now on, all my important dates go in a shared calendar. you get alerts. i get alerts. my secretary gets alerts. hell, we’ll alert the entire hospital if we have to.”

“satoru—” you start, but he’s already warming to his theme, the way he does when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

“and,” he continues, his voice gaining strength, “i’m taking next weekend off. completely off. no hospital, no emergencies, no nothing. just me and you and whatever restaurant you want to try.”

you want to stay mad. you really do. but he’s looking at you with those stupid eyes that remind you of winter sky and promises, and his glasses are still fogged, and you’re only human. there’s something about the way he’s standing there, all nervous energy and desperate hope, that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“your glasses are dirty,” you say finally, and you can hear the surrender in your own voice.

his whole face transforms, hope blooming across his features like flowers in spring. “are they?”

“very dirty. you probably can’t see anything.” you’re already reaching for them, and you can feel the way he’s trying not to grin and failing spectacularly.

“now that you mention it, everything is quite blurry.” he’s practically vibrating with joy as you carefully clean his lenses with the hem of your shirt, the same ritual you’ve performed a thousand times before. “if only someone could help me with that.”

“i suppose i could assist. just this once.” your fingers are gentle as you clean the glass, and you can feel the way he’s watching you, like you’re performing some kind of miracle.

“just this once,” he agrees solemnly, but he’s practically bouncing on his toes as you slide them back onto his face. 

when the glasses settle into place, his eyes are bright and clear and so full of love it makes your chest tight. you can see yourself reflected in the lenses, and there’s something intimate about it, like you’re the only thing in his field of vision that matters.

“better?” you ask, and your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“much better.” his hands find your waist, tentative and careful, like he’s afraid you might bolt. “hi.”

“hi yourself.” you glance at the counter, where approximately ten apples remain, and then back at his hopeful face. he’s already bracing himself, probably preparing for apple-induced martyrdom, and there’s something so endearing about his willingness to suffer for you that it makes your heart do that fluttery thing again.

“i think i’ve punished you enough for one night,” you say finally, and you can feel the way the words change everything between you.

satoru, already bracing for apple number ten, blinks in surprise. “really? i mean, i’m prepared to die by fruit if that’s what it takes, but—”

“come here.” you open your arms, and it’s like watching a dam break.

his whole face crumples in the softest way, and then he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, practically folding himself into your chest like a tired puppy. his reading glasses bump against your collarbone as he burrows closer, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders like a physical thing. he’s warm and solid and slightly trembling, and you can feel the way he’s trying to get as close as possible, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

you both sink onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and forgiveness. he drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues, his long frame somehow managing to curl around you completely. his head finds its way to your chest, and you can feel the way his breathing starts to even out as you run your fingers through his hair.

“you smell like apples,” he mumbles against your throat, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “and spite.”

“you deserve both.” your fingers find the spots he likes best, the places that make him melt like ice cream in summer.

“i do.” his voice is muffled, but you can hear the contentment in it, the way he’s finally starting to relax.

you end up tangled under a throw blanket, legs intertwined like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match. his cold nose is tucked into your neck, and you can feel the way he’s breathing you in like you’re his favorite scent. your fingers card through his hair absently, and you can feel the way he shivers slightly at the touch.

“i missed you,” he whispers against your throat, and his voice is so small it makes your heart ache.

“i know. me too.” the admission feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.

he kisses your collarbone, a soft press of lips that makes your skin tingle. then your jaw, your temple, the tip of your ear. each kiss is different, some apologetic, some grateful, some tinged with the promise of more. it’s like he’s apologizing in a language only your skin understands, each press of his lips a small plea for forgiveness.

you murmur something about the tiramisu still sitting on the counter, and he groans dramatically, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“it can wait. i’m too full of regret and love.” his arm tightens around you, and you can feel the way he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“you’re so dramatic.” but there’s fondness in your voice, the kind that comes from years of loving someone’s quirks.

“you married me.” he pulls back slightly to look at you, and his hair is sticking up in odd directions from your fingers. his glasses are slightly askew, and there’s a soft smile playing at his lips.

“unfortunately.” you reach up to fix his glasses, and he leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“you adore me.” it’s not a question, and the confidence in his voice makes you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

you do. painfully, irrevocably, in ways that terrify and exhilarate you. so you pull the blanket tighter around both of you and let him cling like a vine, whispering stupid nothings into your hair about how he’s going to buy you a whole italian restaurant if that’s what it takes, how he’s going to quit medicine and become a professional dinner-rememberer, how you’re too good for him and he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

his voice is getting sleepier, the words slurring together as exhaustion finally catches up with him. you can feel the way his breathing is starting to even out, how his grip on you is loosening just slightly. there’s something peaceful about it, the way he trusts you enough to let his guard down completely.

because satoru gojo may miss dinner reservations, but he always comes back to you like gravity, like tide to shore, like everything inevitable and right in the world. and tonight, wrapped in his ridiculous apologies and the lingering taste of tiramisu, that’s enough.

[vxnillabxn]

May I request hcs of all five LIs with a partner who is very into fiber arts(like sewing/crochet/knitting etc.) and occasionaly makes them little things or even clothing? (๑>◡<๑)

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffy as a cloud! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚omg, this was such a sweet request! 𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯 i hope you like it, and thanks so much for requesting! ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

oh boy. 

he wears the things you make for him even to sleep.

you once made him an apple amigurumi with a pilot hat.

he loves it. he uses it as a keychain.

you also made him the cutest ugly sweater for christmas, and when he found out you made a matching one for yourself, he was ecstatic.

it could quite literally be the hottest day out there, and he'd still be inside, wearing said sweater, and pleading for you to wear yours.

he proudly displays everything you make, too.

from gorgeous masterpieces to your very first attempts.

not only back at your shared place.

no.

his private aircraft is filled with handmade pillowcases, some blankets, embroidered cushions for his pilot seat, cute little coasters…

everything screams “you.”

he loves it.

he'll shamelessly ask you to craft different things for him, too.

summer is coming? come on, pips. make him a cute hat!

what about fall? maybe you could make a cozy scarf for your boyfriend, hm?

is winter around the corner? hehe, some snug mittens sound so good right now.

and for spring… perhaps a knitted basket so he can collect flowers for you?

yeah, you better get to work, pipsqueak!

he won't rush you, though.

but he'll stare lovingly as you work on his requests!

and he'll also make sure you're moving your hands with love and care for him —he'll kiss them after. endlessly.

he gets excited with every single project you finish, no matter how small.

and he absolutely adores it when you proudly show him the final piece —as long as it's to sell, for you, or for him.

if it's a gift for someone else…?

that won't do.

he'll also jokingly ask if you could replace his fleet uniform with a homemade one for when it gets too windy and chilly.

it is a bit ambitious.

but he's already savoring the “ah, this? yeah. my sweet baby made it for me,” that would escape his lips whenever someone asked.

and no one would ever get to have something similar, not even if you sold your work and someone asked for it.

and you had to pinky promise you would keep some things under the “caleb's-specials” category!

or he'll simply take all of your things away and lock them up until you seriously, seriously promise to only craft with either him or you in mind.

…or well, until you kiss him.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

he's obsessed with your work.

he could stare at you for hours as you move your hands so effortlessly, staying so focused while doing something else at the same time, such as listening to music or watching a video.

the day you asked if he wanted you to craft him something…

his heart began thumping in his chest.

he literally sketched tons of designs —in less than an hour— for you to choose and recreate.

he wears your creations proudly, especially when he gives interviews or goes to exclusive galas.

“oh! who's my designer? my precious pearl, obviously!”

—nobody asked him, though. he just needed to say it.—

he is absolutely delighted when you create things from scraps, and if you let him use them in his paintings for texture purposes.

he also loves buying things for you whenever he goes shopping for supplies.

what was that thing you used? yarn? thread? ah, who knows! he'll just buy tons of different things as long as he sees pretty colors and good quality.

your shared house is quite a mess and it looks like an arts and crafts store because of all the things he brings… but that is what art is all about.

he truly enjoys those quiet days where you two are apart, yet together. he would be painting, you would be working on the sofa… it would be silent, but you two were still close to each other, and that was all that mattered.

he is also very supportive!

he posts everything you do. from small, first-attempt projects to the things you take days, weeks, even months to finish.

and the fact that your longest project ever was a hammock for both of you to lie down together by the sea…

fills him with so much joy —cockiness— and love.

if you ask him to, he'll add your pieces to his art collection, too.

hell, he would name the whole art collection after you, and make sure you're the main focus.

even if you only craft cutesy things, clothes, or practical and useful items, he'll share your art with the whole world.

or, better yet, he'll work alongside you, taking inspiration from the things you craft to create masterpieces himself.

you're his biggest source of inspiration, and he considers your art just as breathtaking and meaningful as his.

if not more.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

his base never looked better.

the twins wear the coziest matching, handcrafted clothes, and even crocheted flowers attached to the horns on their hoods.

mephisto has the cutest little hats and proudly shows them off, too.

the gorgeous dining table has the prettiest coasters, and… truly, every room has your essence, for that matter.

soon enough, the base not only looks pretty, but it becomes a workshop if you decide to teach luke and kieran how to craft, too.

sylus loves it.

in fact, he encourages it.

he'll praise you. he'll even watch attentively as you work, before bringing your hands to his lips —always reverently.

those hands of yours work wonders, and he's mesmerized even by the simplest of projects.

of course, he loves it when you craft things for him…

and when you make things for yourself, especially if it's something only for his eyes to see.

he'll get you the best quality materials and tools.

truly, just say the word, and you'll have everything you wish for.

he also loves it when you quietly work on one of your projects during a social event.

moving your hands so quickly, creating gorgeous things without even trying, hidding from the rest of people.

skilled as a spider, playing with yarn like a mischievous cat.

you're like his little sneaky spider-kitten.

or kitten-spider.

also, he found out you made a cover for his motorbike helmet.

he doesn't really use his helmet; he's quite literally unharmable.

…but when he saw you putting the cover over the helmet, then handing it to him with a huge smile, he suddenly cared about his safety.

he wears it now, every single time he rides.

obviously, no one dares say a word about it, —nor does he care if they do— but seeing the leader of onychinus himself wearing a crocheted helmet cover with horns is… quite the sight.

on that note, he'll definitely ask you to make him fingerless gloves.

and if you're skilled at making clothes, he'll ask you to be his personal designer (he'll always ask months in advance, don't worry!)

he'd definitely want the two of you to match… but since he knows how long it takes to handcraft something —especially clothes for this huge man— he'll probably try to help you out.

spoiler alert: it doesn't work out.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

he makes you sit between his legs when you work.

he holds whatever you ask him to, and quietly untangles the yarn, too.

you don't even need to ask; he's already doing it so you don't have to stop mid-work.

it keeps him busy, and he loves feeling useful.

he also finds it incredibly relaxing to watch your hands move so effortlessly.

he gets those asmr-like tingles in his sleepy head, and the best part?

he gets the full experience.

your scent, the soft sound of the hooks clicking against each other, your peaceful breathing…

oh! he's dozing off again.

he absolutely loses his mind when you start making cute things for him to wear.

a bunny hat? comfy sweaters?

a quilt!

a big, cozy quilt, followed by so many blankets for his naps!

he'll wear them all…

at once.

he doesn't care if he starts sweating or nearly suffocates under the warm cocoon he wrapped himself in.

he'll leave this world in peace, surrounded in your awesome work.

he waits for winter to come; both because it means “cuddle time,” and because it means you'll stay in, working on new projects.

which probably means you'll craft things for him, hehe.

also, if you ever need a life-sized mannequin for anything, he'll stand still just for you.

need to take pictures of your crafts?

he'll stay still, let you dress him up, or put things on his hands for him to hold for you.

he will definitely get jealous if you start crafting for the tiny animals that wander onto the balcony.

yeah, he's basically a princess and animals gather around him —but can't they find their own crafty human?

geez, greedy little things.

and don't you dare make something by hand for anyone else!

he'll give you money to buy a gift if it's for a friend's birthday, he doesn't want you gifting something as special as a craft of yours.

but if you ever do... if you ever gift your works of art to someone who isn't him…

he'll sulk and disappear —or rather, he'll hide under the covers until you come find him.

can't you see how much he loves your work?

he'll make more space for your gifts, he promises!

he'll even wear everything you've made in one outfit, pretty please —just craft for him!

because he knows how much love and effort you pour into everything you do.

and he wants to keep all of that to himself.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

he is a quiet supporter.

both of you work silently together. he loves it when you come to his office and quietly craft.

he also loves when you sit next to him —or plop yourself right on his lap.

it feels like having a little hardworking birdie choosing to build a nest on him, and he loves thinking of you that way.

he especially loves when you craft things with his style in mind.

sure, if you make something colorful and fun, he'll wear it proudly or carry it around.

but when you make cool-toned or neutral-colored scarves, gloves, or even embroidered sweaters…

those, he always wears.

on your dates, at the hospital, when he has to travel.

everywhere.

he even sprays them with your perfume, so he can feel the lingering tenderness of your hands when crafting on the pieces —and your familiar scent.

he takes such careful care of everything you make for him.

by now, he's gotten used to waiting for you to rush in and throw your finished crafts onto his lap.

you see a cool idea online? you rush to tell him.

you come up with your own pattern? you rush to show him.

and he loves seeing you that excited.

if you try to get him into crafting, he'll indulge you —especially with embroidery.

he's got expertise with needles, after all.

it might be a bit tricky at first, but he'll absolutely get the hang of it, especially when it means spending quiet days by your side.

the two of you curled up like two gentle grandpas, crafting together…

he can already see that future. and it's bright.

if you embroider tiny snowflakes on his clothes, he'll embroider little jasmines on yours.

he'd even stitch a hidden “i love you” inside your sleeve, so you can trace it with your fingers whenever you miss him.

and if he messes up a project, he'll either quietly throw it away… or wait for you to notice and gently help.

he also worries about your hands.

he'll massage your fingers, your palms, your joints, making sure they're not too sore.

and he'll always check that your hooks and needles are ergonomic, so they don't hurt you.

he doesn't want his favorite thing to hold in the entire universe to feel discomfort in any way.

[syrecjh]

Hi! I'm not sure if you have requests open, but if you do, I had a slightly angst idea. Basically, the reader had a training session or a fight with a villain where they end up getting hurt and are left with a scar or a mark in a place that's not too noticeable. Later on, when they're alone, Bakugou notices the mark/wound and gets really upset - like the classic "Who did this to you?" And you can really see his anger start to build, like a murderous fury. But she's the only one who can calm him down, and in the end, it turns into something fluffy. That's the general idea, but feel free to use it however you'd like :D Thank you so much!

──★ ˙❤️‍🩹 ̟ !! WHO DID THIS TO YOU??!

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The scar isn’t large. It curves just below your ribs—an ugly crescent tucked away beneath your shirt, stitched clean but still angry in color. You hadn’t meant to hide it. You just didn’t want to explain it. Not to anyone. Especially not to him.

The mission had been sudden. Quick but messy. The villain had been cornered, desperate, and you’d been fast—but not fast enough. You took the hit, landed the blow, and smiled through the sting. You didn’t tell Katsuki. Just said it was "nothing serious," the way heroes always do when they bleed behind closed doors.

But now, back in the still of your shared apartment, when the adrenaline’s long worn off and the sky outside is bruising with dusk, he notices.

You’re in the bedroom, changing shirts thinking he’s in the kitchen. You don’t hear him until he’s behind you, his voice sharp with something that isn’t quite anger and isn’t quite fear.

“…The fuck is that?”

You freeze. His voice is low, taut like a pulled wire.

You turn, the hem of your shirt caught in your hands. “It’s just a scratch, Kats—”

“Bullshit.” His eyes are locked on the mark—red, raw, puckered slightly at the edges. His jaw tightens so hard it ticks. “Who did this to you?”

You watch him unravel. Slowly. Quietly. His palms clench at his sides, knuckles white like he’s trying not to ignite. Like the fire’s already at his throat and he’s holding it back for your sake. His anger isn't loud—it simmers. Dangerous. Controlled only by the thin line of your breath.

You step forward, gently catching his wrist. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“They touched you.” His voice is gravel, broken open. “They fucking hurt you.”

“And they’re gone now. The wound is healing. You know how this works.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“Katsuki—”

He finally looks at you, and God, it’s all there: the guilt, the rage, the quiet desperation of someone who wants to burn the whole world for even thinking of scarring you.

“You think I care about your scars?” he snaps, but it isn’t cruel. It’s cracked. “I care that someone got close enough to put one there. That they laid a hand on you and I wasn’t there to rip their damn spine out for it.”

You step into his space, pressing a hand to his chest, grounding him. “You don’t need to be everywhere, Katsuki. You don’t need to carry all my bruises too.”

But he’s already cupping your side with trembling fingers, careful and reverent like he’s touching the last petal of a burning flower. His thumb brushes the scar. He curses softly under his breath. And then he does something rare—he presses his forehead to yours, exhales like you’re the only air that matters.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I’ll protect you. Always. Even if you don’t need it, I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t say I love you. He never says it like that.

Instead, he bandages it himself the next day. Buys that fancy scar cream even though you laugh at the price. Kisses the spot every night like he’s apologizing to it. Tells you he’d set the world on fire for one scratch on your skin.

And you believe him—because when it comes to you, Bakugou doesn’t bluff.

He burns. Only for you.

[bratzforchris]

YOU'LL GET SICK ୨ৎ matthew sturniolo

in which. . .you're matt's favorite medicine➜inspired by the we had covid :( vlog!

warnings: smut, sub!matt, brat!matt, p in v, cowgirl, sex while sick (guys this is fiction), fluff!!

wc: 1.6k

*originally posted on bratzforchris in spring 2024*

you sighed as you stirred the pot of chicken noodle soup that was currently simmering on the stove. both matt and nick were home sick with COVID, and by extension, so were you and chris. despite knowing that you should be making matt quarantine, you hadn’t done very well with being apart from your boyfriend. not only did your heart long to care for him, but matt was a bit…whiny when he was sick. you found it rather endearing, the way he would whine and grab for things, and the way he would absolutely beg you to lay with him and cuddle him until he felt better. he claimed that the snuggles and you scratching his scalp softly with your nails was better than any amount of dayquil.

just because matt was your boyfriend wouldn’t stop you from caring for the other two triplets, though. you quickly turned off the stove and divided the soup into three bowls, placing them on a tray and starting the trek throughout the house to deliver the food like the boy's personal door-dasher. your first stop was chris’ room in the basement. you felt rather bad for the youngest triplet; he had never liked sleeping or even being alone, and now he was basically holed up in his room all by himself for days. 

“knock knock!” you said cheerfully, announcing your arrival at his bedroom door. 

chris opened his door a few moments later, looking bleary-eyed with messy hair. “hello?”

“i brought soup!” you explained happily. 

“i’m not the sick one,” chris grumbled. “but thank you.”

you and Chris continued to chat for a few moments, with you making sure you kept your distance since you had been around matt, before you spoke. “well, i guess i should go finish playing doordash and make sure the toddler is alright.”

“the toddler?”

“someone's whiny when he’s sick.” you snorted. 

chris laughed as well, knowing exactly who you were referencing. after bidding the youngest triplet goodbye, you picked up your tray and headed to nick’s room. seeing as how the oldest was still contagious, you shot him a quick text to let him know that his food was outside. finally, you made your way to your and matt’s shared room with one bowl of soup left. pushing open the door, you were met with a sight that you were not expecting at all. matt was on the ground doing push ups, still in pajamas and vlogging the whole thing. 

“matt!” you exclaimed, setting his bowl down on his desk. “what are you doing? you’re supposed to be resting.”

“i’m bored,” your boy whined, sitting up and leaning against the wall. “and i need physical activity.”

“baby, you’re sick. you need to be resting.” you said, rolling your eyes playfully and offering him your hand to stand up. 

“i took less than 100 steps yesterday. that’s sickening–” matt groaned, being cut off by a barking cough as you helped him lay down once more. 

you pulled your boyfriend into your chest as you laid down beside him, running your nails through his fluffy, brown hair. matt let out a content little sigh, curling into your chest and sniffling. he was still feverish, but he was already doing loads better than he had been yesterday. at this point, he was mostly just bored and eager to do something other than watch movies, play fortnite, and sleep, despite his pounding headache. 

you looked down at the boy resting on your chest as matt snuck his hand between your thighs. “what are you doing?” you asked, raising a brow. 

“nothing,” matt said with faux innocence, blinking his glassy, blue eyes at you. “jus’ getting comfy.”

“you need your hand between my thighs to be comfortable?”

“mhm.” 

you rolled your eyes, pressing a kiss to the brunette’s head. “you know you’re not a good liar, sweetheart.”

matt groaned softly, scooting his hips closer to your own as he began to rub soft circles over the fabric that covered your pussy. “‘m bored and i need that physical activity i mentioned earlier.” 

“you’re also sick. when was the last time you brushed your teeth and showered?”

matt huffed cutely, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed. “you’re being mean.”

before he could speak again, you turned and pressed a kiss to matt’s plump, pink lips. the boy moaned softly into the kiss, allowing you to slip your tongue into his mouth, making out with him as you moved yourself to straddle his waist. 

“you’re gonna get sick.” matt whined softly, making no move to push you off. 

“i don’t care.” you replied in a cliché manner, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled back to look at him. 

matt let out a soft grunt, rutting his hips up to meet your own. “i need you,” he whimpered, already arching his back against the pillows even though you hadn’t really done anything. “gonna make me feel better.”

“you’re so whiny when you’re sick.” you tsked, running your hands along the soft skin of his abdomen to pull his white pajama shirt up and over his head.

“i am not.” he sniffled, voice gravelly from the congestion. 

“are so.” you hummed back teasingly, leaving soft kisses on his warm tummy. 

you could feel matt’s cock hardening beneath you, making him blush and whine as he tugged at your leggings. you pressed soft kisses to his chest and stomach as you tugged his pajama bottoms off, smirking at the way he was already hard for you, pink tip glistening with precum. matt moaned softly as he blushed harder, letting out little coughs and sniffles as he futilely attempted to cover himself. 

“ah ah,” you purred, batting his hands away. “what happened to all that ‘i need physical activity’ from earlier?” you said, pulling off your shirt and bra. 

“you’re a bully.” matt grumbled, hissing from the combination of the way you began to stroke his cock and the sight of your now-bare tits bouncing in his face as you got yourself worked up on his thigh.  

you broke the connection for a moment to slide off your leggings and already soaked panties. you continued to palm your boyfriend's cock, leaving him whimpering and moaning as you reached into the nightstand and retrieved a condom. 

“are you sure you feel okay? we don’t have to.” you assured matt, brushing some of the messy hair off of his forehead as he sneezed.

“i want to. it’ll make me feel better.” matt pouted, thrusting his dick into your hand, desperate to chase his orgasm. 

“so needy.” you shook your head with a laugh, ripping open the condom and replacing your hand with the rubber on his throbbing cock. 

your boyfriend hissed as you slid onto him, the feeling of your cunt clenching against him making him whimper. you began to ride Matt slowly, allowing his aching, feverish joints to get used to the feeling of you being on top. it was clear that illness or not, he was beyond needy. matt loved the feeling of you being in charge, telling him what to do and calling him a pretty boy. he was, by definition, your pillow prince, and he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“i thought this was supposed to be physical activity for you.” you panted with a small giggle as you began to speed up your rhythm. 

matt had a lazy, sleepy smile on his face as you rode him, every now and then letting out little whimpers and moans. “my heart rate elevates every time i look at you.” he smiled cheesily and then hissed when you hit a particularly good angle, brown, feathery curls fanning out against the silken pillow cases as he arched his back. 

your lower stomach began to clench with the need to orgasm at your boyfriend's sensual noises. the added gravel to his voice from the sickness was just turning you on more, making you grip matt’s shoulders shakily. 

“i’m…gonna cum.” you groaned, your pussy clenching as matt whimpered again. 

matt nodded, letting out loud, sexual noises as you rode him harder than you had previously. “want you to cum with me.” he pouted, looking up at you through his lashes. 

you two really didn’t have a chance to say anything else as both of your climaxes overtook you. in spite of his incredibly sore throat, Matt was practically screaming your name as your orgasm clenched against his dick, making him fill the condom quickly. by the time you had regained your senses, your boyfriend had softened inside of you. you slid off of matt easily, helping him pull the condom off and dispose of it in the trash can beside the bed. 

“was that enough physical activity for you?” you asked with a sly chuckle, kissing his cheek softly. 

matt nodded sleepily, coughing into his arm roughly. “i feel so much better now.” he said with a watery grin.

“do you?” you asked skeptically. 

“...well no, but now i’m content and no longer bored.” the brunette informed you matter-of-factly, his bratty, subby side still showing despite the fact that you were no longer fucking. 

“so you aren’t going to complain about sleeping and taking medicine, right?” you murmured, grabbing a pack of baby wipes off the nightstand and wiping both yourself and matt down. 

“medicine tastes like ass and i’ve slept so much in the past two days.”

you hummed in acknowledgement, pulling the comforter over the both of you until you shot up, just now remembering the bowl on matt’s desk. “fuck. your soup’s gone cold.”

“you bought me soup?” matt cocked his head and blew his nose, unaware that you had ‘left’ the house. 

“i made it. i made you homemade chicken noodle soup and forgot about it because you jumped my bones.” you joked. 

“you didn’t stop me,” matt pointed out, another chesty cough escaping his mouth. “but if the soup’s already cold…round two?”

“matthew.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

© bratzforchris

lilah yaps ⋆. 𐙚 ˚: hey hey hey! reposting this because i'm sick and lowkey dying and craving chicken noodle soup rn :( if you have an old fic of mine that you want me to repost, inbox me!!

tags: @sturns-mermaid @courta13 @heartsonlyforchris @mattsdiamonds @iconiccolo

[octraiin]

── .✦ Sunday in Smallville - [Clark Kent]

FT: Clark Kent x reader

SUMMARY: Your boyfriend, Clark Kent, brings you home to Smallville to meet his parents.

CW: none. fluff

Relaxing in your apartment and watching tv after work had become a comforting routine while you waited for your boyfriend, Clark, to get home.

The soft hum of the Metropolis news channel played in the background going on about Superman did this...Boravia has that, a familiar white noise. Suddenly, the jingle of keys at the door pulled you from your trance. A moment later, Clark’s heavy footsteps crossed through the door.

But instead of his usual warm 'Honey, I’m home!' or the sound of your name, you heard his voice, quiet and affectionate, speaking on the phone.

“Yes Ma, I know. Tell Pa I’ll come help him take care of it soon.”

You paused, listening in.

“Okay, Ma, I’m home now. I’ll call you tomorrow… Yes… Okay… Mhm… I’ll let her know… Okay love you Ma. Bye!”

Assuming he was off the phone, you called out. “Clark?”

He peeked his head around the corner while kicking his shoes off, spotting you on the couch. “Hey hun. How was work?”

“It was okay, same as usual” You paused. “Was that your mom?” You asked, gesturing toward his phone.

“Yeah” He replied while slipping off his suit jacket as he walked into the living room. “She was asking when I could come home and help out with a few things around the farm.” He tossed his jacket over the back of the chair before settling into the seat across from you, pulling at his collar and undoing the first few buttons on the white button-up he typically wore to work.

You hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly. “I want to meet her and your dad.”

Since you've been with Clark he always spoke so fondly about his parents and the memories he had growing up on the farm. You loved Clark, and you wanted to see the place, and the people, that shaped him into the man he is today.

Clark raised a brow slightly in surprise and slipped his glasses off, but his smile was immediate. “Really? Well… maybe we could drive up to Smallville this weekend. I can show you the farm.”

“Yes, that’d be amazing Clark!” You said with a happy smile spreading across your face.

“Okay, I’ll let Ma know we’re coming. We can head out in the morning."

He stood up and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before walking toward your shared bedroom.

On his way into the bedroom, Clark paused in the doorway and looked back at you.

“Y'know, every time she calls, she asks about you” he said with a soft smile. “They’re going to be so happy to finally meet you!”

With that, he disappeared into the dim light of the room, heading for a shower before bed. Shortly after, you follow him and slipped into your shared bed both nervous and excited for what tomorrow will bring.

---------------------------

You and Clark wake up bright and early the next day. He pulls on his signature farm boy flannel and a pair of worn jeans, looking like he was back doing work on the farm.

You, on the other hand, stand in front of the closet feeling unsure. You're meeting his parents for the first time but, you're also going to a farm.

“Clark! Come look. Is this okay?” You call out from the bedroom, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the sizzling coming from the kitchen.

Just a moment later, Clark walks in while wiping his hands on a dish towel. His eyes travel from your face to your feet and back up again. He exhales, a soft smile forming on his lips.

“Y/n, I promise it doesn’t matter what you wear. They’re gonna love you either way. You look beautiful.”

He steps forward, placing a gentle hand on your waist, then leans down to press a soft kiss on your lips. For someone so strong, he’s always been so gentle with you.

Pulling back, he teases, “Finish getting ready so we can eat and hit the road. Breakfast is almost done.”

He places one more kiss on your forehead before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving you standing in front of the mirror with your heart fluttering.

You take one last look at your outfit, deciding it’s fine, and step out to find your favourite breakfast and your favourite person waiting at the table. Clark looks up smiling and waves you over.

You sit down, and the two of you eat together, Clark chatting about Smallville, the farm, and the things he can’t wait to show you.

----------------------------

Clark packs up the car, and soon the two of you are on your way to Smallville. The drive is peaceful, the city slowly disappearing and turning into open fields, hills, and country roads. You gaze out the window, watching small towns and farmland pass by like pictures from a postcard.

Clark drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting gently on your thigh, a quiet, comforting presence.

After a while, a large sign comes into view, visibly weathering but nonetheless still welcoming:

"Welcome to Smallville- The Meteor Capital of the World!"

You read it out loud with a small laugh.

Clark grins. “Yep, we’ll be there soon!” He says, giving your leg a soft squeeze with the hand that never left you.

Shortly after, Clark begins to slow down, turning into a long dirt driveway. You spot a red mailbox at the entrance with 'Kent Farm' written in gold lettering. A sudden wave of nervousness settles in your stomach.

Clark parks beside an old truck, which you assume belongs to his dad. Before he can even take the keys out of the ignition, the front door bursts open.

Mrs. Kent rushes out onto the porch, apron fluttering behind her, with Mr. Kent close behind.

Clark glances over at you with a reassuring smile before opening his door and stepping out. You follow his lead.

“Clark! Oh, we missed you so much!” Mrs. Kent throws her arms around him in a tight embrace.

“We sure did, son.” Mr. Kent adds, staying back while waiting for his turn to hug his son.

After one last squeeze, Mrs. Kent releases Clark and turns to you, eyes bright and warm.

“Oh, Y/N, we’re so happy to finally meet you!” She says, pulling you into a hug just as tight and loving.

You smile into her shoulder, touched by the instant affection. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Kent.”

"Please just call me Ma, dear."

Clark watches, chuckling softly at the scene in front of him.

“Come, come inside. I want to show you the house!” Ma says eagerly, already ushering you toward the front door radiating excitement.

As the two of you disappear inside, Pa pats a hand on Clark’s shoulder.

“Good job son” he says with a proud smile, then adds, “Now let’s get to work. I need help in the barn.”

--------------------------

Inside the house, Ma takes you on a tour. It’s hard to miss all the baby pictures of Clark lining the walls. Each one capturing a different moment of his childhood. Missing teeth, birthday cakes, wide smiles.

“And this is Clark’s room!" She says warmly, opening a door near the end of the hallway.

You step inside, eyes scanning the space. Posters of The Mighty Crabjoys and the Metropolis Meteors hang proudly on the walls. There are framed photos of him with his friends from Smallville High, a shelf full of trophies, and his favourite books stacked neatly on the nightstand. It’s all so personal. So unmistakably Clark Kent. You feel a surprising wave of emotion rise in your chest, touched by the glimpse into the boy he used to be.

Just then, a soft bark snaps you out of your thoughts.

Your eyes land on the bed, where a white dog is lying calmly, staring right back at you with curious eyes.

“And who’s this?” You ask playfully, glancing back at Ma.

“Oh, that’s Krypto!” She says with a smile. “He’s Clark’s dog. He’s been staying with us for a while. At least until you and Clark find a bigger apartment.”

You nod smiling, and walk over to the bed. You hold out your hand, letting Krypto sniff it. Instantly, he perks up, tail wagging as he begins licking your hand and jumping on you in excitement.

You giggle, crouching down to play with him just as a familiar voice speaks from behind.

“I see you’ve met Krypto” Clark says amused.

Krypto turns around and immediately jumps on him, barking happily.

“Hey buddy” Clark laughs, petting the excited dog.

Krypto, still in a playful mood, bites the edge of Clark’s shoe and starts tugging.

“Whoa what the hey dude!” Clark kneels down, now face to face with the dog and whispers, “Please, you can’t embarrass me in front of her.”

Krypto stops and Clark walks over to sit on the edge of the bed beside you.

You turn to Clark with a teasing smirk. “The Mighty CrabJoys? Really?” You say, nodding toward the old poster on his wall.

Clark throws his hands up defensively, a playful grin forming on his lips. “Hey, hey, hey! They’ve got good music. If you gave them a chance, I think you’d actually like them.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay” you laugh, shaking your head as you stand up to continue to explore the room. Your eyes land on a framed photo sitting on his shelf; A teenage Clark standing between a smiling blonde girl and a boy with an arm slung around his shoulder.

“Hey Clark? Who are they?” You ask, picking up the photo and bringing it over to him.

He takes a moment, a gentle expression on his face. “That’s Chloe, and that’s Pete. Haven’t heard from them in a while, but they were my best friends growing up.”

You nod, smiling, and carefully place the picture back where you found it. Then you sit down beside him on the bed.

“I’m really glad you brought me here, Clark.”

Clark smiles, a proud look in his eyes. “Yeah? Ma and Pa really like you.”

He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, clearing the view of your face. His eyes linger for a moment before he leans in and places a familiar, soft kiss on your lips.

You close your eyes, your hand rising instinctively to cup his cheek.

Then suddenly, the smell of something delicious drifts into the room, making your stomach growl.

“Clark! Y/N! Dinner’s ready!” Ma calls from the kitchen.

You both pull back from the kiss with a small, shared laugh. Standing up, you walk side by side out of Clark’s room, heading to the kitchen.

-------------------------------

When you and Clark arrive at the table, Pa is already seated at the head, while Ma is pulling something fragrant from the oven. The table is covered in a spread of fresh, homemade food; Roasted vegetables, warm bread, mashed potatoes, and what looks like the crispiest fried chicken you’ve ever seen.

“Come on, have a seat” Pa says, gesturing to the empty chairs.

Clark slides into what you assume is his usual spot, and you take the seat directly across from him. Ma places the final dish on the table, then removes her apron, folding it neatly and setting it down on the counter before joining you all at the table.

“Go on, dig in! I hope you enjoy Y/n.” She says with a warm smile, motioning toward your empty plate.

“Thank you! It looks delicious.” You reply, smiling back as you pick up a fork from one of the platters and begin adding food to your plate.

You glance up and giggle, spotting Clark’s plate, already full to the brim. He’s sitting patiently, with a fork in hand, clearly waiting for everyone else before diving in.

“Someones hungry” You tease.

Clark grins. “What can I say? It’s been way too long since I’ve had Ma’s cooking.”

Laughter fills the room as the meal begins.

Ma and Pa trade stories over dinner, sharing fond memories of Clark as a child. Clark groans through it all, cheeks flushed, while everyone else laughs and enjoys the meal.

The comfortable hum of conversation is suddenly broken when Ma blurts out, “So, when are my grandbabies comin?” She wiggles her brows mischievously.

Clark nearly chokes on his food while Pa lets out a low chuckle. You can’t help but smile.

“Ma, please” Clark mutters, shaking his head as he shovels another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“I was just askin” Ma says innocently, then leans in and very quietly whispers, “When are you gonna get her a ring?”

Clark lifts his head, pretending he didn't hear what she said as if he doesn't have superhuman hearing. “...What was that, Ma?”

“Oh, nothin” She says sweetly, smiling as she returns to her meal.

You glance at Clark, both of you trying to suppress shy smiles, a light blush colouring your cheeks.

When dinner is finished, Clark and Pa clear the table while you settle into the living room with Ma, cozy in front of the fireplace, flipping through old photo albums.

“Oh look! Here’s Clark on his sixth birthday!” She exclaims, pointing to a photo of little Clark with cake smeared all over his face and shirt.

You laugh, “Aww, he’s so cute.”

From the kitchen, Clark calls out, “Ma, stop showing her photos please!”

But she doesn’t stop.

“Here he is learnin how to ride a bike... Oh! And this one, his first-”

“Ma…” Clark walks into the room cutting her off and plops down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“It’s okay Clark. You were adorable” You tease, grinning up at him.

“Were? Past tense?” He asks, pretending to be wounded.

“...You still are Clark” You say, rolling your eyes playfully.

Ma laughs. “Alright, I’ll let you two be. I’ll go help Pa with the dishes.”

She rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone.

Clark stands and offers his hand. “Come on I wanna show you around outside.”

You slip on your shoes and grab a sweater, fingers intertwined with his as he leads you out into the cool evening air. The sun is just beginning to set behind distant hills, casting everything in an orange glow.

Clark walks slowly, matching your pace. The gravel crunches softly beneath your feet.

“To the right’s the garden” He says, gesturing toward a patch of land fenced with worn wood. Rows of vegetables growing in neat lines, swaying gently in the breeze. “Ma still grows everything from scratch. She says food tastes better when you know where it comes from.”

You nod, smiling, as he leads you past an old wooden gate toward the chicken coop. A few hens cluck, pecking at the ground, while one particularly bold one stares at you.

Clark chuckles, giving the hen a knowing nod. “Don’t mess with her.”

You laugh, enjoying the way Clark slips right back into his roots here. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax and he moves more at ease.

As you walk around the side of the barn, Clark points out an old rusting red tractor.

“That thing only starts when Pa talks to it” He says with a grin. “I swear I’ve seen him have full conversations with it.”

The barn stands ahead, large, its wood weathered from the years. Fireflies begin to flicker in the grass as the sun sets further.

“I used to hang out up here all the time” Clark says, leading you to a set of worn stairs just inside the barn.

You follow him up to the loft, the boards creaking under your steps. The space is simple, but it’s filled with character. An old couch, a stack of comic books on a crate, and in the corner by the window, a telescope aimed at the sky.

“I didn’t know you liked looking at the stars” You say, approaching the telescope.

“Yeah” Clark says quietly, stepping beside you. “I used to come up here at night and just stare at the sky. As a kid I always hoped I’d find more pieces of where I came from. I guess I just found it comforting knowing that I used to be up there with the rest of the stars.”

You look at him, a tender feeling in your chest.

“Well” You say softly. “I’m really glad you ended up here.”

Clark meets your gaze, and for a long moment, neither of you say a word. In the middle of that quiet barn loft, surrounded by memories, he reaches for your hand and squeezes it gently.

“Here I wanna show you something cool.” Clark says suddenly, letting go of your hand as he reaches up toward the ceiling of the loft.

You watch as he pulls down a wooden ladder and pushes open a hatch that creaks in the night air. A gentle breeze rushes in.

“Follow me. It’s okay.” He says with a soft smile before climbing up the ladder with ease.

You hesitate just a second, then follow, carefully climbing the ladder. When you reach the top, your head pokes through the hatch and your breath catches.

You're on the roof of the barn.

Clark is already standing there, lit by the stars, as he turns to offer you his hand.

You take it, and with one gentle pull, he helps you up beside him.

“So” He says, with a certain spark in his eyes, “what do you think?”

You turn slowly, taking in the view. From here, you can see the entire Kent Farm. The glowing windows of the house in the distance, the fields stretching out, and the silhouette of the barn casting long shadows against the grass.

“It’s beautiful” You whisper.

Clark squeezes your hand and gently leads you to lie back on the roof beside him. You settle into the cool metal, shoulder to shoulder, gazing up at the sky.

“Clark” You say softly, turning your head to look at him. “I’m just really happy to be here. I feel like I’ve learned a whole new side of you.”

He turns to meet your gaze, a thoughtful smile on his lips.

“Yeah” He murmurs. “Everything I am started right here. I'm glad I could share it with you Y/n”

You and Clark lay there, side by side, your fingers intertwined beneath a sky full of stars, surrounded by the place that shaped the man you love.

WC: 3.1k

[kenzdolls]

A COLLECTION OF MOMENTS .

⌗ synopsis: today’s izuku birthday, and you’re his lovely spouse. so, you surprise your husband izuku on his birthday after his teaching day at ua with a heartfelt gift which shows the memories of you and him.

⌗ pairing: (MHA/BNHA) {timeskip} izuku midoriya x spouse! reader

⌗ a/n: sry for like the sudden thing, but seriously happy birthday izuku!! legit has been one of my favorite characters to EVER stumble upon in my life (cause he’s totally relatable?) ILYSM IZUKUUU 🫶🫶

the late afternoon sun streamed through the windows of class 1-a, casting long golden shadows across the empty desks. izuku stood at the front of the classroom, erasing the last of the day's lesson from the whiteboard, his green curls catching the light as he moved. the soft scratching of the eraser against the board was the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

"great work today, everyone," he had told his students just moments before as they filed out, their excited chatter about weekend plans fading down the hallway. teaching at ua had been a dream come true, watching the next generation of heroes grow and develop their quirks under his guidance. but now, in the peaceful silence that followed, izuku felt the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his shoulders.

he was just gathering his papers when he heard the soft knock on the classroom door.

"come in," he called, not looking up from his desk.

"i hope i'm not interrupting anything important, sensei midoriya."

izuku's head snapped up at the familiar, teasing voice, and his face immediately broke into the brightest smile as he saw you leaning against the doorframe. even after all these years together, his heart still did that little skip whenever you appeared unexpectedly.

"you're never interrupting," he said, practically bouncing over to you. "i thought you were working late tonight?"

"i might have told a little white lie to my boss about feeling under the weather," you admitted with a gentle smile, reaching up to smooth down one of his unruly curls. "someone i care about has a birthday today, and i couldn't let him spend it alone grading papers."

izuku's cheeks flushed pink, and he ducked his head slightly. "you didn't have to do that. i know how important that project is—"

"izuku." you placed a gentle hand on his cheek, making him look at you. "nothing is more important than celebrating you."

his eyes immediately began to well up with tears, and he leaned into your touch. "i love you so much," he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

"i love you too, birthday boy," you whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "now, are you done here? i have something for you."

izuku nodded eagerly, quickly shoving the last of his papers into his bag. "what is it? you didn't have to get me anything, really. just being here with you is enough—"

"izuku," you interrupted gently, taking his hand. "let me spoil you a little bit, okay? it's your special day."

the walk to your shared apartment was filled with izuku's animated recounting of his day, his free hand gesturing excitedly as he told you about his students' progress and a particularly impressive quirk development he'd witnessed. you listened with fond attention, occasionally squeezing his hand when he got especially enthusiastic.

"oh! and yamamoto finally managed to maintain her ice constructs for a full minute without them melting," he continued as you unlocked the front door. "she's been working so hard on her temperature control, and i think she's really starting to understand the breathing technique i showed her. it's the same one todoroki used to use, actually, and—"

he stopped mid-sentence as you led him into the living room, where you'd set up a small celebration. soft fairy lights twinkled around the room, and his favorite dinner sat waiting on the coffee table along with a small cake decorated with green frosting and a single candle.

"you did all this?" izuku's voice was barely a whisper, and you could see the tears starting to form in his eyes again.

"i wanted to make tonight special," you said softly, guiding him to sit on the couch. "i know you've been working so hard lately, and i thought you deserved something just for you."

izuku was quiet for a moment, just taking in the scene before him. then, without warning, he turned and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as his shoulders began to shake with quiet sobs.

"hey, what's wrong?" you asked gently, running your fingers through his hair.

"nothing's wrong," he managed between tears. "i'm just... i'm so happy. i can't believe i get to have this, to have you. sometimes i still can't believe this is real."

you held him close, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head. "it's real, izuku. you deserve all the happiness in the world."

after a few minutes, he pulled back and wiped his eyes, giving you a watery smile. "sorry, i'm such a crybaby."

"you're my crybaby," you said fondly, thumbing away a remaining tear. "and i love every part of you, tears and all."

you spent the next hour eating dinner together, izuku's eyes lighting up at every bite of his favorite katsudon. he told you more stories from his day, and you shared funny moments from your own work. the conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you two, comfortable and warm like a favorite blanket.

when the cake came out, izuku's face practically glowed in the candlelight as he made his wish. you had a feeling you knew what he'd wished for – the same thing he always did. more time, more moments like this one, more life to share with you.

"so," you said after you'd both finished your cake, "i have one more thing for you."

izuku perked up immediately, his eyes widening. "another surprise? really, you've already done so much—"

"trust me," you said, reaching behind the couch where you'd hidden his gift. "i think you'll like this one."

you pulled out a carefully wrapped package, not too big but substantial enough to hold weight. izuku took it with reverent hands, as if it were made of the most precious material in the world.

"can i open it?" he asked, and you nodded.

his careful fingers peeled away the wrapping paper, revealing a beautiful leather-bound photo album. the cover was a deep forest green – his favorite color – with golden lettering that read "our story" embossed on the front.

"oh," izuku breathed, his fingers tracing the letters. "it's beautiful, but—"

"open it," you encouraged softly.

with trembling hands, izuku opened the album to the first page. his breath caught in his throat as he saw the first photo – a picture of the two of you from your second year at ua, both of you grinning widely after a particularly challenging training session. your faces were dirt-streaked and exhausted, but the joy in your eyes was unmistakable.

"this is..." he started, but his voice failed him.

"keep going," you whispered, settling closer to him so you could look at the photos together.

page by page, izuku turned through the album, each photo carefully chosen and placed to tell the story of your relationship. there were pictures from your ua days – study sessions in the library, festival preparations, quiet moments in the dorms. photos from graduation, both of you in your caps and gowns, izuku's face streaked with happy tears even then.

"i remember this," he said softly, pointing to a photo of you two at your first apartment, surrounded by boxes and looking overwhelmed but happy. "you insisted we unpack the kitchen first because you said home wasn't home without the ability to make tea."

"and you cried when you found the mug i'd gotten you with 'world's best hero' written on it," you added with a gentle laugh.

"i still use that mug every morning," izuku said, turning the page.

more photos followed – your first anniversary, holidays spent together, lazy sunday mornings, and quiet evenings. there were pictures from izuku's first day as a pro hero, his face beaming with pride and nervousness. photos from your own career milestones, izuku always right there cheering you on.

"this is our engagement," izuku whispered, his finger hovering over a photo of him down on one knee in the park where you'd had your first date, his face red and tear-streaked but determined. "i was so nervous i almost forgot the speech i'd practiced."

"you were perfect," you assured him, remembering how your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest. "i would have said yes if you'd just asked without any words at all."

the photos continued through your wedding day – both of you radiant with joy, surrounded by friends and family. izuku had cried through the entire ceremony, and there were tissues visible in nearly every photo. your favorite was one of you wiping away his tears as he said his vows, both of you lost in your own little world.

"and here's our honeymoon," izuku said, voice growing thick again as he looked at photos of you both on a quiet beach, completely relaxed and happy. "that was the best week of my life."

"just that week?" you teased gently.

"well, every week with you is the best week of my life," he amended, making you laugh.

the album continued through your married life – moving into your current apartment, adopting your cat (who had somehow managed to get into several photos), quiet domestic moments, and celebrations with friends. there were photos from izuku's first day teaching at ua, his nervous excitement palpable even in the still image.

as you reached the more recent photos, izuku's tears were flowing freely again. there were pictures from just last month – you two cooking dinner together, izuku grading papers while you worked on your laptop nearby, a selfie you'd taken during a rare day off spent in the park.

"how did you get all of these?" izuku asked, his voice wonder-filled.

"i've been collecting them for months," you admitted. "every time i saw a photo of us, i saved it. i wanted to show you how beautiful our life together has been, how many wonderful moments we've shared."

"we have shared so many moments," izuku agreed, carefully turning to the last page.

the final photo was from just last week – izuku had fallen asleep grading papers, and you'd found him curled up at the kitchen table, his reading glasses askew and his hair mussed. you'd covered him with a blanket and snapped a quick photo, not because he looked silly, but because he looked so peaceful, so content. it was a perfect representation of your quiet, domestic happiness.

but it was the message you'd written on the last page that broke him completely.

"to my izuku, on your birthday – these photos represent just a fraction of the moments we've shared, but each one is a treasure. from that first day you nervously asked me to study with you in second year, to this very moment as you read this, you have been the greatest gift life has ever given me. thank you for sharing your dreams with me, for letting me be part of your story, and for making every ordinary day feel extraordinary. i love you more than words could ever express, and i can't wait to fill a hundred more albums with our adventures. happy birthday, my hero. here's to forever. all my love, forever and always."

izuku completely broke down then, clutching the album to his chest as he sobbed. these weren't just tears of happiness – they were tears of overwhelming gratitude, of disbelief that he could be so lucky, of pure, unconditional love.

"i can't— this is too much," he managed between sobs. "i don't deserve this, i don't deserve you—"

"stop," you said firmly but gently, pulling him into your arms. "you deserve every good thing in this world, izuku midoriya. you deserve love and happiness and someone who sees how incredible you are."

"but i'm just me," he whispered into your shoulder. "i'm not special, i'm not—"

"you're everything," you interrupted, holding him tighter. "you're the kindest person i know, the most dedicated, the most loving. you inspire everyone around you to be better, including me. you are so, so special, izuku."

you held him as he cried, running your fingers through his hair and whispering soft reassurances. it was several minutes before he calmed down enough to pull back and look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but shining with love.

"i love you," he said, voice hoarse from crying. "i love you so much it hurts sometimes, in the best way possible."

"i love you too," you replied, cupping his face in your hands. "more than you'll ever know."

izuku leaned forward and kissed you then, soft and sweet and full of emotion. when you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

"this is the best birthday i've ever had," he whispered.

"it's not over yet," you pointed out with a smile. "we still have the rest of the evening."

"what else could there possibly be? you've already given me everything."

"well," you said, settling back into his arms, "i was thinking we could look through the album again, and you could tell me your favorite memories from each photo. and then maybe we could watch that hero documentary you've been wanting to see. and tomorrow, we could start working on new memories to add to the next album."

izuku's smile was radiant as he nodded eagerly. "i would love that. all of it."

as you settled together on the couch, the photo album open between you, izuku couldn't help but think about how different his life had turned out from what he'd imagined as a young boy. he'd dreamed of being a hero, of saving people and making a difference. and while he'd achieved those dreams, what he hadn't expected was this – the quiet, domestic happiness of being loved completely and unconditionally.

"thank you," he said softly as you turned back to the first page of the album. "for all of this, for everything. for choosing me."

"thank you for letting me choose you," you replied, pressing a kiss to his temple. "and for choosing me back, every single day."

as the evening wore on, you went through the album photo by photo, izuku sharing memories and stories, laughing and crying in equal measure. the fairy lights twinkled around you, the remnants of birthday cake still on the coffee table, and your cat curled up on the armchair nearby.

it was a perfect moment – not because it was grand or dramatic, but because it was real. it was your life, your love, your collection of shared moments that had built into something beautiful and lasting.

and as izuku looked at the photos of your life together, he knew that his birthday wish had already come true. he had more time, more moments, more life to share with you. he had everything he'd ever wanted, wrapped up in the gentle smile of the person who'd chosen to love him.

"happy birthday to me," he whispered, so quietly you almost didn't hear it.

"happy birthday, my love," you whispered back, and in that moment, everything was perfect.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites @bakugouswaif [OPEN]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki @par4disee [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[berryispunk]

Your Hands On Me

Had this idea just before drifting off, so I take no responsibility for whatever my half-asleep brain came up with. Sweet dreams, darlings 🌙

word count: ~ 600

You’ve only been on a few dates with Frankie so far—a casual dinner, a night out at that dive bar where the jukebox played your favorite song like it knew, a shared popcorn cinema evening where your hands touched once, barely, and you both pretended not to notice.

Tonight, though, he’s in your space.

Insisted on cooking at your place, saying, “You just sit there and look pretty, I got this,” and you obliged, happy to let someone else deal with your sad excuse for a kitchen. He moves through it like he belongs, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he plates dessert with surprising care. A rich, chocolate mousse he claims is an old family recipe. “But don’t tell my Tía Rosa I forgot the orange zest.”

You laugh, and he watches the sound bloom on your lips like it’s his favorite part of the meal.

You both sit on the couch after, full and warm and a little buzzed from the wine. Your knees brush, then linger. Chocolate still lingers faintly on your tongue. Frankie leans in slowly, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing the moment before he kisses you.

It starts sweet. Sticky and soft. You both still taste dessert on your lips. But it deepens quickly, like it always wanted to.

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin. You’re not even sure when you shift onto his lap, just that it feels right, necessary, like gravity demanded it. His hands steady you instinctively—one at your waist, the other sliding up your back. The kiss turns breathless, open-mouthed, sinful. You’re both still fully clothed, but everything about the way he touches you makes you feel on fire with want.

And then his hand dips lower. Trails around the waistband of your leggings, waiting. You don’t stop him.

He watches your face carefully as his fingers slip beneath, slow, deliberate. You’re still seated in his lap, lips parting around a gasp as he finds exactly where you need him most. Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, nails grazing skin as you whimper softly, hips shifting to seek out more of the friction he’s giving you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged. “Just like that.”

His touch is firm, sure, but never rushed. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for anything in return. He just gives and bathes in the way your body responds, the way your breath hitches, the way you fall apart right there in his lap—still clothed, still clutching his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

You come undone with a quiet cry, half-buried in the crook of his neck, lips grazing his jaw. When you finally go still, muscles trembling with aftershocks, a flush rises hot in your cheeks. Embarrassment prickles up your spine but Frankie doesn’t let it settle.

“Hey,” he says, coaxing your face back to his with a hand at your chin, eyes dark but so tender. “That was hot as hell, baby.”

You open your mouth, about to deflect or joke, but he doesn’t let you. Just leans in and kisses you again, slower this time. Reverent.

“If that’s how you sound when it’s just my hand,” he rasps, mouth brushing your ear, “I can’t fuckin’ wait to hear you when I’m inside you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs tightening around him instinctively.

And still he doesn’t push. Just holds you there in his lap, rubbing gentle, grounding circles into your hip, letting your heartbeat calm down while his own pulses hard under your thighs.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @sxnnimoon @harriedandharassed @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @thesassyteacher91 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @carmillahepburn @copperhalfcent @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @letsjustgowiththeflow @kirsteng42 @eroticallywritten @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @misstokyo7love @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28 @perodjarin @enchantedreader @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @zooty-and-fruity @hannah9921

[lightbeamtarot]

Choose a box and get a figure and a message!

Hi loves! Hope you are well! I’ve been loving blind boxes recently and thought I would bring my love for blind boxes to the blog! When you choose one of these boxes you will get a little figure and a message for you just now! I hope you guys like this reading and if you have any suggestions for more pick a cards I would love to hear from you all!As this is a collective reading just take what resonates and leave what doesn't. I hope you enjoy your reading loves. 💖

Let me know if you like this blind box style reading and if you have any blind box recommendations!

If you have trouble choosing a pile you can check out this post! How to choose a card

Pile 1

You got Poppy receptionist!!!

Hi loves! I’m feeling like at the moment you are like little flower buds waiting to bloom but you have to let yourself spread out and flourish! You are ready to spread your wings a little. I feel like this flourishing could be in particular in a creative project such as painting or seeing specifically for some of you singing! I really feel like someone reading this is an amazing singer and it’s time to share that ! I’m also feeling like you need to reconnect with your inner child. Specifically outdoors. You need to be taking nature walks with a child like curiosity with everything you see. This will soothe your soul. Finally I’m feeling that you will be making new and beautiful friendships soon! Hope you liked your reading pile 1! Have a lovely day or night loves 💗

Pile 2

You got Frankie Barista!!!

Hi loves, this is very similar to pile 1! I feel like in this pile reconnecting with nature and going outside is going to be very key for you to feel happier and more fulfilled. I feel like going for a walk with no headphones on and just listening to the birds is going to be very healing for you. Also being more playful is important just now! Connecting with your inner child and laughing and having fun is important. For some of you maybe you had a lot academic stress ( or just a period of stress) and you are still trying to get over this perhaps and I think laughing and hanging out with friends will help. I’m also seeing for some of you if you have trouble with your friends to let off some steam and to laugh is to watch comedy specials! Hope you enjoyed your reading pile 2!💗

Pile 3

You got Gigi Cat walker !!!

Hi loves! For this pile I feel like a lot of you are really tired like physically and mentally. And think rest is really important for you and taking care of yourself is really important at the moment. for example getting good sleep and eating good nutritious food. I feel like this period of rest and healing should be accompanied by manifestation! I think it’s important that you kind of figure out what you want and what would make you happy. This is really important as I think this is a powerful time for you to manifest. I think after this you will be very abundant and very happy! Hope you enjoyed your reading pile 3!💗

[rickybobbydan]

Behind Closed Doors

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Oscar's developed quite the reputation for being emotionless. But underneath it all, there's someone who does see that Oscar's just a private person. He's not a robot, he has a heart, and his heart has your name written all over it.

Themes: Fluff

Going into summer break had been long overdue. For most drivers, it was a necessary pause, a moment to step away from the relentless rhythm of the calendar, the back-to-back races, the constant travel, the ever-present pressure. It was a time to cool off, to breathe, to remember who they were outside of the cockpit. Oscar could have flown home to Melbourne to see his family, grounding himself in the quiet familiarity of where it all began. He could have stayed tucked away in Monaco, buried in solitude and silence, pretending that the season hadn’t seeped into every crevice of his mind. Instead, he had come here, to the Amalfi Coast, because you asked him to. You told him he needed a change of scenery, that the sun and sea would do him good, and because it was you, he didn’t argue.

The world knew Oscar Piastri as composed beyond his years. In the paddock, they spoke of his quiet confidence, his unshakable calm. On social media, he was dubbed the robot in McLaren orange, the driver who never cracked under pressure (we don't talk about Alpine or Silverstone), whose pulse supposedly stayed flat even during last-lap battles at 300 kilometers per hour. They made jokes about his emotionless interviews, his stoic podium appearances, the way he barely flinched during chaos. But the version of Oscar that the world saw was only a fraction of who he really was.

It wasn’t the Oscar you had come to know years ago, tucked away behind schoolbooks and shy glances at a campus neither of you quite fit into. It wasn’t the boy who stayed up too late helping you study, who passed you scribbled notes in class, or shared quiet silences with you during lunch because words were never necessary to feel close to him. It most certainly wasn’t the man now lying beside you on a sun-warmed terrace, salt still clinging to his skin, hair messy from the sea, eyes softer than the world had ever known him to be.

The world never saw Oscar when his guard was down. They didn’t know the sound of his laugh, sharp and rare, but always genuine when it broke through the quiet. They didn’t know how much he cared, how deeply he felt things even when he didn’t always have the words to express them. They didn’t know the weight he carried when the results didn’t go his way or how long he sat with disappointment, even when he masked it behind carefully chosen words. But you did. You had always known and maybe that was the difference.

When the noise of the season faded, when the cameras were gone and the team radios silent, what remained was the boy who had let you in long before the rest of the world knew his name. And here, beneath a golden sun that made everything seem softer, quieter, more real, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, McLaren driver and championship leader. He was just Oscar. He was yours.

Under a sun covering everything in gold over the Amalfi Coast, where Oscar’s curls were still damp and full of salt, the world couldn’t see the Oscar you knew, padding barefoot across the villa he had rented out, humming and singing quietly to a playlist he had chosen for “background noise”, so he said. The world would never know Oscar like you did, especially when he looked at you the way he was right now, like he was finally taking a breath after months of holding it in.

“Found you,” Oscar said as he stepped out onto the sun-drenched terrace, the hem of his swim trunks still damp and a striped towel slung lazily around his neck. The golden light clung to him, softening the sharp edges the world usually saw.

You looked up from your book, blinking at him through the glare. Your sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of your nose, revealing the relaxed curve of your expression. “I wasn’t hiding,” you said, though your tone made it sound more like a challenge than a defense.

He grinned and dropped onto the lounge chair beside you with the kind of ease that only showed itself when he was far away from pit walls and strategy meetings. “No, but you always find your way out here when you need space from me.”

You snorted, dog-earing your page. “I just needed space from the snoring. Honestly, you’re worse than a jet engine.”

Oscar gasped, dramatically clutching his chest as he leaned back, as though the insult had pierced him. “That’s slander,” he said. “You can’t speak about national treasures like that.”

You tilted your head and pretended to consider it, lips tugging into a smile. “You mean the snoring, or you?”

“Both,” he replied without missing a beat, his eyes glinting with mischief.

And just like that, you were laughing, real, full-bodied laughter that spilled into the salty air and made your chest ache in the best way. Oscar watched you with the kind of smile he reserved only for you. The one that softened the seriousness of his face and made him look simply like your boyfriend. The one who burned the toast that morning because he got distracted watching you dance around the kitchen. The one who had valiantly tried to teach you how to paddle board earlier that afternoon and had ended up in the water more times than you did. The one who kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

He reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “You’re relaxed,” he murmured, the words warm and quiet like the breeze that swept in from the coast. “That’s rare.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot, playful and fond. “Says the guy who sleeps with one eye open during race weekends.”

He chuckled, gaze softening as it settled on you. “It’s nice though, isn’t it? Not having a schedule. Not being pulled in ten different directions. Just…this. Just you and me.”

You nodded, the weight of his words settling over you like a second sun. “It is. It’s like you’re really you here. Away from the cameras and the crowd and the car.”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He just reached for your hand, fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt both familiar and impossibly new.

“I wish people could see this side of you,” you said, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “The way you are when no one’s watching.”

His thumb moved slowly over the back of your hand, tracing soft circles into your skin. “They don’t need to,” he said, and though he spoke gently, his voice was steady with conviction. “You do. That’s enough for me.”

Something in your chest fluttered at that, and it wasn’t fleeting, it stayed. He wasn’t just in love with you. He was safe with you. Honest. Unfiltered.

He leaned in then, not with urgency, but with certainty, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. Each one felt like sunlight, slow, warm, lingering. “I love you,” he whispered, and it wasn’t dramatic or performative. It was simple. Like breathing. Like truth.

You smiled against his skin. “I love you more.”

“Impossible,” he replied, already settling back into the cushions with you pressed into his side. “I’ve got a championship-level heart, remember?”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there were no team briefings, no tire strategies, no qualifying simulations echoing in the back of his mind. There were no headlines to chase or podiums to stand on.

There was just this: two people tangled in love, the hum of summer all around them, and a boy named Oscar who finally allowed himself to be seen, not as a driver, not as a prodigy, but as a person.

Off the record. Exactly where he wanted to be.

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream , @cryingtoteenwolf , @roderickstrong , @likeformula1 , @maddyw-223

[maria021015]

Academic Rivals

Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader

Fred Weasley was somehow your greatest academic rival, and you had no idea how. How - when all he does is slack off - is it that he keeps matching your grades? You’re determined to get to the bottom of whatever his (undoubtedly nefarious) secret is.

———————————————————————

The air in the Transfiguration classroom was stifling, even in late autumn. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall mullioned windows in golden strips, casting long shadows across the rows of desks and dust particles that floated like glitter in the light. Quills scratched. Parchment rustled. Somewhere near the back, someone sneezed.

And still, the only sound she could hear was the frantic thrum of her heart pounding in her ears. She hunched over her desk, the nib of her quill racing across parchment like a broomstick in a storm. Her fingers ached from the grip. The muscles in her hand screamed. But there was no time to ease up. Not when McGonagall’s countdown to the end of the timed essay hovered around two minutes.

She dipped her quill swiftly in ink and began the conclusion: In sum, Animagus transfiguration, while complex and regulated, functions as an exemplary case of intent-driven magical theory, particularly in contrast to involuntary or accidental transformations—

A faint laugh from across the aisle. She didn’t even need to look up. She didn’t need to see him to recognise it was him.

Fred Weasley was leaning back in his chair on two legs, arms crossed behind his head, looking as though he hadn’t a care in the world. His essay - if it could be called that - was folded into an origami dragon, already finished, resting on his desk smugly. He was smiling to himself, one leg swinging casually under the table, as if Transfiguration Theory and Application was merely a light suggestion in his day rather than a critical O.W.L.-level subject.

Her eye twitched.

“I will not let him tie with me again,” she hissed under her breath, attacking her parchment with renewed fervor.

It had become routine, the two of them. Every class where they shared a syllabus, she ended up sharing the highest mark too. Always a tie. Always announced with a faint, vaguely amused smile from the professor. And always followed by a smug glance from Fred Weasley, who somehow achieved her level of success despite doodling on his parchment and spending most of his class time whispering jokes to Lee Jordan or trying to make paper birds attack George.

And he had the audacity - the gall - to look relaxed while she was fighting for her academic life.

“Time’s up!” Professor McGonagall announced.

Quills dropped. Parchments flew to the front in a neat enchanted shuffle, stacking themselves on the desk beside her. She finally let her fingers relax, flexing the ache out of her knuckles as her breath came out in a slow, deliberate exhale. She didn’t even dare look across the aisle yet. But Fred spoke first.

“Well, that was invigorating,” he said, stretching like a cat, arms over his head. His shirt tugged slightly up from his belt, and she forced herself not to look at the sliver of skin that flashed.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and muttered, “You didn’t even try.”

“I’ll have you know,” Fred said, swinging his legs out into the aisle and resting his elbows on his knees, “I used a very advanced studying technique.”

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “I dreamt the entire essay up last night. McGonagall was wearing a top hat and shouting theories at me while juggling ferrets.”

She blinked at him.

He nodded solemnly. “Very informative.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And yet, I’m a smart idiot,” he said with a wide grin. “Which makes me, technically, your equal.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” he said with a wink. “McGonagall does it for me when she announces our mutual top marks.”

That did it. Her jaw clenched. Her arms crossed. Her whole posture radiated thunderclouds.

Fred’s smirk faltered slightly. “Wait…are you actually mad?”

She glared. “You think this is a joke.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, raising a brow. “A fun little back-and-forth? Bit of friendly competition?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to know what I did last night while you were probably charming your shampoo to sing backup vocals or whatever idiotic things it is you get up to?”

He snorted. “That actually sounds brilliant.”

She plowed on. “I stayed up revising every single sub-category of Animagus law. I re-wrote my notes. Color-coded my citations. I practiced conjuring six different species of feather. Do you know how hard it is to get magpie plumage exactly right?”

Fred blinked. “I thought that was just…you being thorough.”

“No, Fred,” she hissed. “It’s me trying not to lose. To you of all people.”

He tilted his head, still not quite grasping it. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when you don’t even care. You just show up, half-awake and smug, draw little creatures in the margins, and still walk away with the same grade I do!”

“Look, I study—”

“When?” she snapped. “Between setting off peeves and blowing up fireworks in the stairwell?”

Fred grinned faintly. “I have excellent time management.”

She nearly combusted. “I hate you.”

His grin widened. “No, you don’t.”

She huffed and shoved her books into her satchel, the leather flap snapping with finality. Her cheeks were burning, a deep flush spreading across her skin. Part rage, part embarrassment, and maybe a little part of something else.

He was too damn calm. Too charming. Too…unbothered. It drove her insane.

The class emptied around them as students poured into the corridor, chattering about the weekend’s Quidditch match. She stepped quickly, not wanting to share the hallway with him. But of course, Fred easily matched her pace, hands in his pockets, long legs catching up in two strides.

“Say,” he said, as if their conversation hadn’t just ended in emotional arson, “since we’re obviously so academically compatible—”

“Don’t you dare say we should study together.”

“I was going to say duel for the affection of Hermione’s cat, but now that you mention it—”

“I will hex you.”

“I’d let you,” he said, grinning, “but only if you promise to bandage my wounds afterward.”

She stopped mid-step. Turned. Glared up at him. “You think this is all a game.”

Fred’s smile faded a little. “I think you’re brilliant. And it’s fun keeping up with you.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. Her heart stuttered. “I have to go,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

———————————————————————

It started with a smirk.

A small one. Barely a twitch of the lips, really. But on Fred Weasley, it was never just a smirk. It was a declaration. A flare in the sky. A banner that read: I know something you don’t, and I’m going to enjoy it.

She knew that smirk too well. She had seen it across the Great Hall when Marcus Flint got locked in the broom cupboard with a howler that screamed in French for ten minutes. She had seen it when Lee Jordan tried to tell a joke and Fred finished it louder and better. And she had definitely seen it every time a professor announced a tie for highest marks in a class.

“Quiet down, everyone,” Professor McGonagall said as she entered, robes sweeping behind her like a storm cloud. She waved her wand, and the stack of freshly graded essays floated into her hands. “I’ve marked your last assignments. Some of you showed significant improvement. Others—” her eyes flicked toward Lee, who visibly wilted, “—may need to reconsider their priorities.”

The classroom buzzed with low-level tension. Desks creaked. Students sat a little straighter. Fred leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he was in a hammock. She felt it then, that tight coil in her stomach, like something was coming.

McGonagall began handing out the essays one by one. Her name hadn’t been called yet. Neither had his. She swallowed hard.

She knew she did well. That was the best damn essay she’d probably ever written for this class. Her arguments were structured, she used sources from the restricted section, and she had even added a footnote on shifting transfiguration theories in ancient Egypt. She had revised until her candle burnt down to its waxy nub and left a scorch mark on her desk. There was no way Fred Weasley could have outdone that.

McGonagall stopped at her desk, offered a nod, and handed her the parchment.

She took it, flipped it over, and froze. 98. She blinked. Checked again. Still 98. That was…still an excellent mark. Outstanding. Almost flawless. And everyone knew McGonagall never gave out full marks, so it was almost as perfect as perfect could get for a Transfiguration grade.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said next, placing his paper on the desk with a flick of her wrist. “Congratulations. A well-earned 99.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Fred gasped, loud and theatrical. “OH NO. NO WAY.”

George cheered. “HE BEAT HER!”

Lee Jordan, from two rows back, clapped like they’d won the bloody Quidditch Cup. “It’s a Hogwarts miracle!”

Fred stood up, arms raised like a champion. “Ladies and gentlemen, it brings me great joy to announce: I am now the superior Transfiguration scholar in this room.”

McGonagall muttered something about decorum under her breath, but didn’t stop him. She stared at her parchment, numb.

He beat her. By one point. One. But still. He’d beat her.

Her quill snapped in her hand. A sharp crack that made the students around her flinch. Ink bled onto her palm like a burst vein.

Fred turned toward her, clearly trying not to laugh. “Come on, love, it’s only a point—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, standing so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the stone floor.

The classroom went awkwardly quiet.

Fred blinked. “Right. Okay.”

She snatched up her bag, stuffing her parchment inside with sharp, angry movements. Her chest felt too tight. Her skin was burning. She didn’t even wait for the end of class. She stormed out of the room, footsteps echoing in the corridor behind her.

She didn’t know how long she walked. Just that she needed distance. From that classroom. From those cheers. From him.

When she finally ducked into a narrow corridor behind a forgotten tapestry, the silence hit her like a weight. She leaned against the cold stone wall, clutching her broken quill in her hand, and tried to breathe.

It wasn’t just the grade. It was the injustice of it. The impossibility. The way it felt like all her effort meant nothing.

He hadn’t studied. She knew he hadn’t. She watched him spend that whole period doodling dragons and teasing her.

So how? How could he possibly have done better?

Unless…Unless he cheated.

The idea bloomed slowly, but once it took root, it was all she could think about.

Fred Weasley wasn’t completely stupid - no, far from it - but he wasn’t serious either. Not about school. Not about studying. What if he wasn’t doing it all himself?

Maybe he had a secret tutor. Someone feeding him notes. An older student who took the class last year. Maybe he’d charmed McGonagall’s desk to read her answer key. Maybe he was bribing the portrait of some retired transfiguration master who whispered answers to him after dark.

It would explain everything. The way he never seemed stressed. The fact that he never revised. How he joked his way through every lesson and still kept up.

Her stomach twisted with indignation. He was mocking her. All this time, he’d been mocking her. Letting her believe their marks were an even match. Letting her believe their rivalry was mutual. That he was somehow naturally on her level. When really, he had a trick.

And she was going to find it.

———————————————————————

That night, she sat in the corner of the library under a green-glass reading lamp, chewing on the end of her replacement quill and watching the hourglass tick down.

She was convinced Fred Weasley was cheating. She just had to prove it.

She scribbled a list into the margins of her notes:

Possibility #1: Private tutor. (Who? Where?)

Possibility #2: Gets essays from older students. (Bill? Percy (unwillingly given)? Charlie?)

Possibility #3: Magical cheating device?

Possibility #4: Bribery/blackmail. (Far-fetched. Still possible.)

Possibility #5: Polyjuice Potion?? (Okay, that’s extreme, but who knows with him.)

She underlined #1 three times. If he was sneaking off for secret study sessions…she needed to catch him.

She’d follow him. Discreetly, of course. She’d tail him after classes, find out where he went, who he spoke to. Maybe he had a classroom stashed away with enchanted textbooks that explained why he could quote magical theory in between fart jokes.

Whatever he was hiding, she was going to uncover it. And when she did, she was going to march right up to him, throw the evidence in his annoyingly handsome face, and reclaim her rightful position at the top of the class.

Fred Weasley had started this war. But she was determined to end it.

———————————————————————

The library was cloaked in the sort of silence that didn’t exist during the day. No whispering students. No flickering torches. Just the steady tick of the enchanted hourglass at the back of the room, and the warm golden glow of the single lamp still burning above her head.

She sat tucked behind a pillar, the last student still inside, clutching a freshly signed permission slip in her ink-smudged fingers.

Madam Pince had pursed her lips so tightly when she’d asked for the form, it looked like they might disappear entirely. “You’ll return to your dorm the moment the clock strikes eleven, or I will inform your Head of House,” she’d warned.

“I just need to revise,” she’d said innocently. “You know how behind I feel.”

Which wasn’t technically a lie. Because she had been doing something academic. It just happened to involve planning on stalking Fred Weasley like a hawk stalking a very loud, very smug mouse.

She gathered her bag and slipped out through the towering library doors just as they closed behind her with a hollow click.

The castle at night was a different place. Shadows stretched long and strange. Suits of armor seemed to lean a little too far into her path. The torches flickered lower, their flames subdued to a whisper. Her footsteps echoed far more than she liked.

She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and took the stairs down toward the corridor near the Ravenclaw tower.

But then, somewhere off to the left, she heard laughter. Two voices. Low. Mischievous. Snickering.

Her spine straightened. She knew those voices. Fred and George.

She ducked behind a pillar instinctively, heart racing. They were supposed to be back in Gryffindor Tower. Lights out had passed. And if they were out now, of all times…maybe this was it.

This was when he snuck off to see a tutor. Or receive some forbidden study notes. Or charm answers out of a locked away paper stashed in a teacher’s office. Whatever it was, she was going to find it.

She crouched low and crept down the hallway, keeping to the shadows. Her shoes made the faintest whisper against the stone floor, but the twins were laughing too loudly to hear her anyway.

“Honestly, I thought she was going to levitate her quill and stab me with it,” Fred was saying.

“That was your own fault,” George replied. “You couldn’t just beat her. You had to gloat.”

“You would’ve gloated.”

“Yes, but I have subtlety.”

“You threw a chocolate frog at McGonagall last week. That’s not subtle.”

“It was a gift.”

She rolled her eyes silently and followed as they turned down a lesser-used corridor. One she recognised vaguely as leading toward the fourth floor.

They moved quickly but not quietly, speaking in excited, low tones. Occasionally, one would cast a charm to illuminate the hall and she had to duck behind statues or alcoves to stay hidden.

Then they reached it. A tapestry. A hideous one, actually, of a unicorn wearing an ugly old hat. The unicorn winked as they approached.

“Got the fireproofing charm right this time?” George asked, brushing his fingers along the edge of the tapestry.

“We’ll find out,” Fred replied cheerfully.

They slipped behind it and disappeared. Her heart leapt into her throat. This was it. The lair. The headquarters. The secret crime scene.

She crept toward the tapestry, pulse pounding in her ears, and waited a beat before pulling it gently aside. Behind it was a dark stone passageway. Lit and long.

She swallowed and stepped through, keeping close to the wall as the warmth of torches bathed her face in orange light. The walls were lined with odd hooks and scratches, like this place had once been used for storage, or hiding things.

After about twenty feet, the hallway curved sharply. She squinted but kept her footsteps light, her pace even, until she heard voices and…bubbling?

Peeking around the corner, she froze. They weren’t studying. They weren’t meeting some secret tutor. They were…brewing? She mentally outlined theory number five in her head - Polyjuice potion seemed like the most likely suspect now.

The room opened into what looked like a secret lab. Cauldrons of all sizes lined the stone counters. Parchment blueprints hung from the walls, covered in inked diagrams and spell annotations. One section of the room held enchanted objects like trick wands and whispering mirrors. Fred was bent over a bubbling cauldron, carefully pouring a shimmering blue powder into the mixture while muttering a charm.

George was testing out a pair of sunglasses that kept rotating lenses over his eyes like a kaleidoscope. “Nope,” he muttered. “Still makes me look like a beetle.”

“Try changing the lens enchantment from ‘chromatic shift’ to ‘spectral flicker,’” Fred said absently.

George blinked. “When did you learn that?”

Fred shrugged. “Ran into Flitwick last week and asked about spectrum illusions. Said I could borrow an old thesis of his.”

She blinked. Flitwick had a thesis? Fred borrowed it? He read it?!

She was stunned. Her eyes drifted to the diagrams pinned around the room. These weren’t just prank ideas. They were complex magical formulas. Layered enchantments, rune stacks, modified potion-brew sequences. She spotted at least three sixth-year level transfigurations and a theoretical Arithmancy formula she’d only seen referenced in textbooks.

This wasn’t just playing around. This was work. Difficult, advanced, academic work.

Her foot accidentally knocked into a stack of boxes. They clattered to the floor with a noisy thud.

Fred and George both froze. Then Fred slowly turned and his eyes locked onto hers.

“Ah,” he said, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Obsessed-With-Me.”

Her face burned. “I—I am not obsessed with you!”

“You followed me through who knows how many floors, a unicorn tapestry, and a hidden tunnel system.” Fred pointed out, casually walking toward her. “What would you call it?”

“I was investigating,” she snapped, stepping fully into the room. “I thought you were up to something and I was right! I knew it! I knew you had some secret project, but I thought…I thought you were cheating! Not…this!”

Fred arched a brow. “You thought I was a cheat?”

“I am so…so…angry!” she fumed, stalking up to Fred. “You don’t even try. You sit in class tossing ink pots at people and you still beat me because you’re, what? Secretly a genius?”

“A genius? Fred?” George snickered. “Now who’s telling jokes?”

“I’m serious!” she fumed. “I’ve been working myself half to death all year, and somehow you, with your, you know, jokes and ink-spitting quills and origami during exams, still managed to beat me!”

Fred raised a brow. “You’ve been this upset the whole time?”

“Yes!”

“You’ve been genuinely mad at me?”

“For months!”

George took a polite step back. “And that’s my cue to test our Sneezing Sparkles outside the blast zone,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a vial and vanishing through the opening behind her.

Fred looked stunned for a second. Then he laughed. “I thought you knew this was just fun! A bit of friendly rivalry. Flirting, even!”

“Flirting?!” she shrieked.

“I mean…yeah?” he blinked. “All the snide remarks, eye rolls, dramatic declarations of academic superiority? Kind of textbook, really.”

She gaped at him, stunned. “I spend hours in the library. I revise, I annotate, I stay behind to ask questions, and you, with your bloody fireworks and ‘I dreamt the answers’ attitude, manage to keep up with me effortlessly. And you think that’s fun for me?”

Fred looked genuinely bewildered. “I thought this was, you know…mutual tension. The kind that ends with us eventually snogging in a broom cupboard.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re angry.”

She flushed - out of rage, she told herself. Definitely rage. She crossed her arms, refusing to cry in front of him. “I thought if I followed you, I’d catch you cheating. Instead, I find you doing high-level potion transmutations and spell enhancements. I work so hard,” she said, her voice rising. “I miss meals. I skip Hogsmeade trips. I’ve turned down actual friendships to keep up with coursework. And you, you breeze through classes, then disappear to make laughing lollipops!”

“They also induce involuntary levitation now,” Fred offered helpfully.

“I don’t care! It’s—” her voice broke slightly, “It’s not fair that you get to be brilliant and lazy.”

Fred was quiet for a moment. Then he said gently, “Do you want to see what we’re actually working on?”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s not lazy. And maybe if you really saw it, you’d stop thinking I don’t take things seriously.”

She hesitated, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her pulse pounded in her throat. “…Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

He walked her through the workspace like he was guiding her through an art gallery.

He explained how their Self-Writing Quill had three layered enchantments. One to mimic the user’s handwriting, one to interpret shorthand, and one to censor swear words if used during school hours. He showed her their latest product in development. A potion-infused chocolate that gave people a five-minute confidence boost using a highly calibrated variation of a cheering charm.

He showed her diagrams, trials, failures. And she was absolutely floored.

The twins weren’t just pranksters. They were inventors. Engineers. Creators. Their jokes were crafted from theory and testing and applied spellwork far beyond the average Hogwarts student. And Fred - who she had accused of coasting at the top - was at the heart of it all.

She watched as he expertly adjusted a stirring charm, his brows furrowed, lips pursed in thought. The flame glowed under the cauldron, turning blue as the potion shifted to the right shade.

He was focused. Intent. And, damn it all to hell, brilliant. When he turned and caught her staring, she looked away quickly.

“So?” he asked, sliding beside her, voice teasing but softer now. “Impressed?”

“…Maybe,” she muttered. He smiled and she sighed, arms folding again. “You do deserve your grades.”

Fred leaned in slightly. “Would you say…even more than you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s not push it.”

He chuckled. “So what now, my sweet nemesis?”

She hesitated. Her brain felt scrambled. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: the complexity of their work, or the fact that she…actually admired what they were accomplishing. A lot.

Fred Weasley. The class clown. The disaster-in-a-tie. The genius behind a joke shop. He was looking at her now, not smug, but hopeful.

So she cleared her throat and said, “You can call it a truce.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that. And I’ll raise you…a date.”

She blinked. “What?”

“A proper one,” he said, tilting his head. “You know, since our rivalry’s taken a romantic turn.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I beg to differ,” Fred said. “But tell you what: if you’re too intimidated by my intellectual prowess to say yes—”

“I’ll hang out with you,” she interrupted, flustered. “Only to apologise for calling you a cheat. That’s not a date.”

He lit up like a child who’d just stolen Christmas. “A not-date it is then. See you Saturday?”

———————————————————————

She wasn’t nervous. The butterflies in her stomach were definitely from some dodgy pudding she’d eaten the night before.

The sweater she was wearing - deep navy, soft at the sleeves - wasn’t chosen because it brought out her eyes. And she definitely hadn’t spent twenty minutes trying to flatten the flyaways in her hair. And if her heartbeat quickened a little every time she thought about seeing Fred Weasley outside of school uniform and prank-potion fumes…well, that was probably just lingering adrenaline.

It wasn’t a date. Just a hang out. A perfectly normal, completely platonic hangout with the boy who had driven her to the edge of academic insanity, casually beaten her by a single point, and then smiled like it was the most charming thing in the world.

She told herself, as she tightened the scarf around her neck and checked her hair for the third time in the hallway mirror, that this was absolutely not a date. Again.

Not a date. Not a date. Not a date.

So why did it feel like one?

Her hands were sweating.

By the time she reached the gates of Hogwarts, the November wind had whipped colour into her cheeks and turned her breath to mist. Students streamed toward Hogsmeade in chattering groups, scarves fluttering, boots crunching against the frosty path.

And there, standing slightly apart from the others, leaning against a low stone wall with his hands in his pockets, was Fred.

He looked irritatingly good. His tie was loose. His coat slightly wrinkled. Hair wind-tossed like he’d just rolled out of bed and it had somehow worked. He spotted her and straightened immediately, a crooked grin curling onto his face.

“You showed up,” he said, voice warm as ever.

“I said I would.”

He offered her his arm, mock-chivalrous. “Shall we?”

She raised a brow at the gesture. “Still not a date.”

Fred grinned wider, retracting his hand. “Right. Just two highly competitive classmates on a weekend stroll through a romantically quaint wizarding village.”

“Exactly.”

“Who may or may not end up snogging behind Honeydukes.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, cheeks flushing pink. “Fred!”

“Sorry. Too soon?”

“Try never.”

He clutched his side like she’d cursed him mortally. “You wound me.”

“And yet, I feel no guilt.”

They started with the shops. Zonko’s was their first stop, predictably. Fred tugged her inside by the wrist, eyes alight, launching into an animated explanation of which products inspired theirs (“Our Sneezing Sparkle? That right there is practically the prototype!”) and which they were currently trying to outdo (“Our line of Nose-Biting Teacups will obliterate these sad excuses for chaos”).

She tried not to be impressed and failed miserably at it. It was genuinely thrilling to watch him in his element - his eyes glowing, hands flying as he explained small enchantments, the way he lit up when something sparked his brain. There was something vital about him. Like he ran on joy and creativity and sheer nerve. And the more she watched…the more she liked it.

When he accidentally set off a joke wand that made her hair float five inches above her head, she nearly hexed him. Until he offered to fix it with a charm of his own creation, and cast it so gently that his fingers barely brushed her temple. Her stomach did a very unexpected flip.

Next was Honeydukes.

Fred declared it was their ‘refuelling station’. She pretended not to laugh at that.

They wandered between the shelves, sugar glittering in the air, chocolate frogs croaking from glass boxes. Fred bought one of everything they both reached for at the same time.

“Split custody,” he said, handing her half of a bag filled with Sour Scribblers and Peppermint Bark.

“You’re bribing me with sugar.”

“I’m investing in our future.”

“I’m going to hex you if you keep talking like that.”

“Kinky.”

She tried not to snort. Tried harder not to notice how good his laugh sounded bouncing off the candy jars.

They took their bags outside and walked slowly through the village, passing the tea shop with heart-shaped windows, past Derwish and Banges where Fred pointed out the exact spot Lee Jordan once got stuck in a levitating bathtub.

Her nose was pink from the cold, hands rubbing together to try and create friction. Fred noticed, then wordlessly offered her his gloves. She hesitated.

“Just take them,” he said. “My hands are particularly warm. Comes with the red hair.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

But she took the gloves and her fingers did feel much better. With all the walking, they ended up at the Shrieking Shack overlook.

The hill was empty, dusted with frost and silent but for the soft whistling wind. The shack loomed in the distance, crooked and weathered, framed by bare trees and the cloudy winter sky.

They stood side by side, shoulders brushing, looking out over the view in a rare moment of calm. For the first time, there was no teasing. No banter. Just quiet.

“I never asked,” he said softly, “what makes you so competitive.”

She didn’t look at him. “You didn’t have to. You just assumed it was flirting.”

“Fair,” he admitted. “But still. I’m asking now.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “My family.”

“Strict?”

“Not really. Just…accomplished. Everyone’s good at something. Exceptional, even. My sister was Head Girl. My brother played Quidditch for a national youth team. I… have achieved nothing.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Pressure?”

She shrugged. “I guess I thought if I could be the best, then I’d matter. Then I’d be noticed.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just said, “You matter anyway.”

Her head turned toward him and their eyes met. For once, she didn’t have anything clever to say. Her heart simply fluttered at his acknowledgment.

“…What about you?” she asked, voice softer now. “Why start a business instead of, I don’t know…just coasting through Hogwarts like everyone expects?”

Fred’s gaze returned to the horizon. “Because I want to prove them wrong,” he said. “Everyone thinks we’re just trouble. That we’ll joke our way into some dead-end job. But we’re building something. Something real. With the way the world is going, we’re going to need a little more joy. And if I can make people laugh, and still beat the smartest witch in the year,” he glanced sideways at her, “Well, that’s just a bonus.”

She was quiet for a long time until a broad smile broke free across her face. “Second smartest.”

Fred gave a scandalized gasp. “Who passed you?!”

She turned to him fully now. “You. By one point. Remember?”

He smirked. “Oh, right. That was glorious.”

She shoved him lightly. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that but I think I believe you a little less each time you do.” Fred leaned in slightly, not quite touching her, but close. So close.

For a moment, she wondered what it might be like to close the distance - what it might be like to kiss him. But then she shook the thought away.

They walked back to the castle slower than necessary. The sun dipped below the horizon as the first evening stars pricked the sky. Hogsmeade glittered behind them, lanterns glowing gold, smoke curling from chimneys. The cold air nipped at their cheeks, but neither of them seemed to notice.

Fred was still carrying her sweets bag. And she hadn’t given his gloves back.

When they reached the Ravenclaw common room entrance, they stopped under the archway, the castle quiet around them.

Fred rocked on his heels. “So. That was…”

“A truce,” she said quickly.

“A truce?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Academic rivals no more.”

“Right,” he said slowly, eyes twinkling. “Except, it wasn’t a date. And yet—”

“Don’t.”

“You still haven’t called this not-a-date a ‘not-a-date’ out loud.”

She crossed her arms. “It wasn’t a date.”

He leaned in. “But it was good, wasn’t it?”

She paused. “…It was.”

Fred smiled. “Good enough for a third date?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened. Then she tilted her head and smirked. “You mean a second date.”

His grin widened. “So you do admit this was the first.”

She stood on her toes, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then stepped back. “Ask me again tomorrow,” she whispered, eyes glittering.

And then she vanished behind the common room door, leaving Fred standing there stunned, touched cheek pinker than the other.

[superbpiratesandwich]

NOT TOGETHER JUST IN THE SAME BED pt.3 (FINAL)

john walker x fem!reader

tags: fluff, mention of smut, slight angst, cussing

3.3k words

a/n: I have like 20 different drafts, 19 of them are super angsty, but I'm HEAVY struggling with finding the plot, its in my noodle brain somewhere. Anywho, enjoy the final part to this mini series!

Movie night. 

(Mandatory) 

Bucky 

You sigh, looking at the text. You glance over at Walker, who is currently cleaning up the dishes he dirtied making you and him grilled cheeses. You always admired him like this, quiet, contemplative, soft— 

“What.”  

You snap out of the trance as he looks at you, shaking your head, “Nothing, just... tonight's movie night.” 

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Fuck’s sake, when is Barnes gonna realize we don't need mandatory team-bonding exercises? I feel like saving each other’s asses in the field is enough,” 

You smile at him, rolling your eyes, “Oh whatever, you leave halfway through, claiming you ‘need your beauty sleep’ and get off Scot free, while I'm left alone to deal with Alexi pausing the movie every five minutes to ask questions!” you place your phone on the bar as you complain to him.  

Walker turns away from you, but you can see a slight grin pulling at his mouth, “I don't always do that, and if I did, why do you care? You fall asleep ten minutes in,”  

You snort, nodding, “I do, don't I? I'm just saying I don't want to be alone,” you raise your eyebrows at him, he turns to look at you, placing his hands on the counter in front of you, and leaning towards you a bit, “Fine. I'll stay, but only if you promise to not fall asleep and leave me victim to Alexi’s questions. Someone has to explain to him that just because an actor has a British accent doesn't mean the character will.” 

A nod, “Aye aye Captain,” you mock salute to him before hopping off your stool and walking towards his fridge, “You got any good movie theater snacks?” 

The thing is, between you and Walker, what started out as a ‘last resort’ (sharing a bed in a shitty motel) has slowly morphed into something much deeper, much more emotionally charged than either of you are willing to admit. Nights spent in each other’s beds, talking quietly like the others might hear you from a floor or two away, or just lying next to each other. Rough operations where you two would instinctively reach for the other, just to find a hand outstretched already. Late nights spent holding each other as you whisper your darkest fears, like secret confessions to the other.  

Despite the lack of physical intimacy, there is definitely something there.  

You don't want to read too much into it, fearing that you may just be overexaggerating the few glances, brief touches, sleep deprived cuddles. Maybe you're just sensitive, too emotional, wouldn't be the first time it happened.  

But for Walker, the entire relationship is terrifying.  

Because he knows he doesn't deserve someone like you, he can feel the warmth radiating off you, the bright smile, the big doe eyes, the way you light up a room. He feels unworthy to even hold you like he gets to, so he doesn't dare ask for more, doesn't bring up how many times you two have almost kissed, trying to be content with quick looks, barely their touches, and the times you sleepily stumble onto his floor. He didn't think he’d ever feel like this, but he's glad you've chosen him out of everyone to be your strictly professional cuddle buddy.  

And move-night partner.  

He doesn't think he’d be able to handle all of it without you next to him. He’s the first down in the communal living room, your favorite fluffy blanket folded neatly next to him, a spot reserved for you on the cushion beside his. When Alexi comes down to join him, he glares at the large Russian as he goes for your blanket, “Alexi I swear, if you so much as breathe near this blanket, I will smother you in your sleep,” 

Walker isn't possessive of you, he knows you are your own person, you can protect yourself, but dammit if he doesn't feel the need to. On ops, making sure you always have someone on your ‘6’, making sure you're fed (he doesn't know when that habit started), or even taking extra time to put your favorite foods, or dishes in easy to reach spots, due to your shorter stature.  

He knows you could take him in a fight, you could no doubt demolish him when it came to smarts, yet another reason he felt so unworthy to hold you at night, to be the one you come to for comfort, to have these feelings about you— 

You enter the dark living room with a bowl of popcorn and MnM’s, insisting to Captain Can't Have Any Fun that, “The sweet and the salty are the perfect combination!” 

“Sounds like diabetes in a bowl,” 

“Asshole,” 

“Ahh but I'm a healthy asshole so—” 

You smacked him with a pillow, only to find a few moments later, his large hand grabbing some of the popcorn mixed with sweets. You rolled your eyes at him as the movie started to play. 

Back to the Future’s soundtrack fills the communal living area as Ava appears (quite literally) out of thin air, taking a seat on the floor near the opposite end of the couch to you and Walker. The super soldier had placed a large pillow between the two of you, offering that you could sleep on it rather than passing out on him.  

Walker didn't comment much on the movie, but you did. You spent the majority of the first half of the film discussing the actors, the set, how good the CGI was back then, and how it's gone to shit now, how hot Michael J. Fox used to be.  

You would never know how content he is to just listen to you. 

Your big doe eyes not leaving the screen as you lean over to him, whispering another useless fact as if he asked (he didn't).  

“Did you know that the original time travel machine was supposed to be a refrigerator?” 

“Thats great, honey.”  

It's not the nickname that catches you off guard, it's how close his mouth is to your ear, how his voice drops a few octaves, how his hand is starting to reach over the pillow between you two— 

“I need to piss! Lena! Pause movie!” 

Alexi starts to get up, blocking nearly half the screen, all of you simultaneously groan, waiting for the big man to up and leave.  

Walker has never been one to watch movies, claiming they're just a waste of time, and money, and that he could be more productive doing other things.  

But during this movie? Oh he's locked in, paying attention to every single detail, like how Marty McFly has a weird thing with his mom, how Doc looks like his uncle, how your eyes reflect the tv, the way your shampoo has a faint smell that is lingering in his nose, how your head seems to have a magnet in it, drawing you to lay on his thigh... shit. 

He knows he's in trouble when he can't think straight anymore. He uses the excuse of being on his phone to place it right above the half-visible boner in his sweatpants. It's not his fault, how is supposed to react when your soft cheek is smushed against his leg? 

All Walker knows to do during the rest of the movie is to breathe, and stay deathly still, not even breathing too hard. By the time the movie is over, he can't feel his legs, his bladder is about to burst, and he feels a migraine starting to manifest in his head. One by one, the team filters out of the room, until just the two of you and Ava are left. She sits up slowly standing up and looking at Walker, then you, then back to Walker, she just snorts and walks away, mumbling something about him being whipped.  

And maybe he is whipped, maybe, for the first time in a long time, Walker wants someone. Olivia was his first, his high school sweetheart, the girl he asked to prom, she's all he's ever known. But they're divorced, separated, no longer together, so why does he feel guilty for wanting you? Why does he feel that pit in his stomach that seems to swallow the butterflies whenever you laugh? Has he forgotten what it feels like to yearn after someone? To want something so bad you'd kill for it? You’d give up everything just to see them happy? Is that why he feels guilty? 

The realization has his heart in his throat, because, no, it's not that. It's not that he feels guilty for moving on, he feels guilty for loving you. Loving someone so seemingly pure and soft, someone who looks like they’d belong in an ancient painting found in the Sistine Chapel, or someone who was carved straight out of stone, soft curves adorning the cold clay. He couldn't do that to you, not when he's so... him.  

Sharp and calculated, eyes that could kill someone, moving with a purpose, goal driven, he is whatever you need him to be, but he's terrified he wouldn't be able to fill those shoes for you, wouldn't be able to conform to whatever box you want him in.  

If only he knew you'd take him as he is, no conforming necessary.  

What you will never know, is that Ava came back out to offer to wake you up. 

“She'd be a bitch to me, but at least you could go piss.” 

“I'm fine, A, go to bed,” 

“You sure? She seems like she's making your bloody legs fall asleep—” 

“Said I'm fine, now go, she's fine right here,” 

‘Here’ would be on his thigh, the fat of your cheek pressed against the soft material of his sweatpants. The warmth of your skin radiating through the fabric. 

You twitch a little before blinking a few times, trying to gain your bearings. You slowly look around, trying to see into the dark living room, the slight glow of the tv giving you a light. 

“G’mornin’ Ms. I Promise to Stay Awake,” 

You turn your head, eyes trailing up the leg you were just asleep on, until they land on the blue irises of Walker, his eyebrow raised. 

“How long has it been over?” 

“Three hours, give or take,” 

You blink more, opening your eyes further as you push yourself off him, much to his hidden chagrin. You spot his phone, nodding to it, “Least you had your phone,” 

“It died an hour ago,” 

“oh,” 

You look at him, then his phone, then his legs, his right pant leg now bearing a small patch of drool, “You could've woken me up,” 

He shrugs, “Didn't see the point,” 

“Maybe in going to bed? Getting a phone charger? Pissing?” 

“And have to deal with Her Royal Bitchiness? I don't think so,” 

“Asshole,” 

He smiles softly at you, watching your tired eyes land on his again, silently pleading for something. His hand rubs up your arm, “My floor?” 

You nod sheepishly, “Please?” 

Walker doesn't say another word, letting you sit up more as he grabs the blanket, folding it and tossing it onto the couch before standing up.  

Your world tilts as you’re lifted, you give a surprised yelp, looking up at him, feeling the familiar strong arms hooked under your knees and behind your back. “Why are you carrying me?” 

Walker gives an exhausted sigh, “Because it's easier than waiting around for your slow ass to stumble up four flights of stairs,” 

Can't argue with that logic. You lean into his shoulder, looking up at his side profile. He looks like something Michelangelo would create. His sharp jawline, partially hidden by his beard, but the coarse hair making him bear the look of a soldier. The crooked line of his nose, like he broke it when he was younger and the cartilage never quite healed right. The deep-set blue eyes that are adorned with unfairly good lashes. The soft plush of his lips that look so fucking kissable— 

“You’re staring, honey,” 

You blink at him, a small tinge of red covering your face, but you note the same shade coloring the tips of his ears,  

“You’re handsome,” 

Do you want his knees to give out? 

Walker nearly drops you, trying to cover the momentary loss of control over the situation with a cough and schooling his expression, “Yeah... I know,” 

You shake your head. Still half asleep, “No, I mean like— you look like you could be a statue,”  

Walker freezes as your index finger comes up to trace along his nose bridge, then the line of his lips, then his jaw.  

“You think?” God, he hates how insecure he sounds when he asks the question. But you're happy to oblige, “Yeah... Yeah I do.” 

Its silent the rest of the way to his floor, he doesn't drop you, doesn't act like it's a burden to carry you up four flights of stairs and down the hall to his room. He just quietly lays you down before shuffling to his bathroom.  

The door clicks shut behind him and he leans against it, trying to get his heart rate under control, dammit come on, don't be such a pussy, she's just a girl. Oh, who is he kidding? You’re a woman, a fine ass woman who just called him handsome, you look like a woman. All soft curves, plush thighs, the way they look in shorts is just divine something he could worship.  

He glances down at the problem in his sweatpants, fuck, now he's gotta deal with a semi and sleep next to you when you just called him handsome like it wasn't a big deal, like it wasn't the best compliment he's gotten since Olivia.  

After he uses the bathroom, he feels a little better, still pent up, still sporting a half-hard tent in his pants, but it's fine, he’ll just shove a pillow between you two. 

Except, when he walks out of the bathroom, he finds you, flat on your stomach, sprawled across his mattress like you own it. Your cute face squished against the pillow; your arms tucked under it.  

He shakes his head, grabbing your ankle and shoving it towards your other one, “My bed, honey, in case you forgot,” 

You don't properly respond, giving a half-hearted “Mmph,” before reaching blindly for him. He’d be lying if he said he couldn't imagine life without those soft hands finding his arm, then his chest, before your cheek is smushed against his pectoral, your lashes laying against your face. He stares at you, his free hand coming up to cup your face, “So pretty,” 

His breath fans across your face, you blink open your eyes, “Yeah?” 

He doesn't hesitate before nodding, “Yeah, honey, you're very pretty, beautiful even.” 

Even half asleep, you still feel butterflies in your stomach as his arm curls around you, splaying on your back to keep you pulled into his side. You lean up, your nose brushing against his, an inch away from this becoming more than just sleeping next to each other.  

“Honey...” 

It sounds like a warning, maybe to proceed with caution, maybe to not do this, to back away now. However he meant it is lost on you, your lips brushing against his as you close the last inch.  

And holy shit is the breach worth it. His lips are soft, plush even, tasting more salty than sweet. He’s so gentle with the way he kisses you, like you may break... like he may break. His thumb brushes across your cheek as you move towards him a little more, until you’re halfway on him, leg hitched over his abdomen.  

Walker pushes your face away, looking up at you, “Honey... we shouldn't, you shouldn't—” He pauses, almost holding his breath, before he continues, “I'm not what you need in your life, I can't be that.” 

You furrow your eyebrows, sitting up a little more, your hair falling into your face, he tucks the strand behind your ear, “How do you know?” 

“Because you need someone steady, someone not so fucked up, someone who deserves you.” 

His words are raw, insecurity seeping into them, inevitable as the sun will come up tomorrow. He searches your eyes, looking for an answer, 

“I don't want someone steady, I—I want this, Walker, I want someone easy to be around—” 

“I'm not easy to be around, honey, I'm an asshole—” 

“An asshole I can joke with, someone I can be myself around, you don't care that I'm sensitive or take things to heart, or that I talk during movies, or that I chew loudly, you don't give a shit about the times I've woken up screaming in your arms because I'm haunted by my past, because if you did, you would have turned me down by now, you would have locked your doors, or pushed me away, but you haven't, you haven't pushed me away yet. If you wanted me to want someone that isn't you, you should have pushed me away a long time ago.” 

He stares up at you, speechless, blue irises searching yours, looking for a lie, looking for the hatred he's so used to seeing. His reality is crumbling, he can't love you, he just can't, he's not supposed to get the girl, he's not supposed to be happy in the end. He’s supposed to suffer alone, pay for his deeds, for the shit he's done for the people he's hurt.  

But here you are, offering him love for free, no exchange, nothing in return, just your affection poured out onto him. He feels a sad grin pull at his lips, “I don’t want you to want someone else.”  

You smile back, eyes flitting down to his lips before they look back into his eyes, “Good. Because I don't want anyone other than you.” 

This time, his lips meet yours, the hand on your back sliding up into your hair. He slowly and gently rolls you onto your back, his other hand sliding up your shirt, not going further than your rib cage, simply resting his palm against your skin, like he needs to feel you.  

The kiss devolves, turning slightly messy as his tongue moves into your mouth, you can taste the salt in his saliva, the way his hand tightens a little in your hair. You let out a soft noise against his mouth that he swallows happily, showing you just how much he's wanted this.  

You can feel sleep tugging at your mind as you blink your eyes open, sunlight streaming through the windows of Walker’s room. You groan, stretching out under the dark comforter, the soft, familiar fabric of his shirt clinging to your torso. You shift a little more, feeling a dull ache between your legs.  

Memories of him holding you close while whispering praise in your ear as he fucked into you fill your head, making your cheeks heat up. In your sleepy haze, though, you don't mind the hickeys littering your neck and thighs, the way the ache seems to blossom as you sit up, almost like you can still feel him filling you.  

You pad out to his kitchen, eyes landing on the shirtless super soldier, hovering over a pan on the stove. You look over the scars and stretch marks littering his skin, the latter present due to the serum making his muscles grow too quick for his body to keep up. Without much thought, you walk up until you can press your lips onto the soft skin between his shoulder blades, freckled complexion adorned with red marks down it.  

“G’mornin’”  

You smile at the rough tone of his voice, barely used today, “Morning,” 

As he turns around you smile wider up at him, his hands sliding up the hem of your (his) shirt,  

“So... Safe to assume this isn't professional anymore?” 

“I don't think it ever was, Walker.”  

[booskwannie]

"gifts, a notebook and an admirer."

choi seungcheol x you. you have a secret admirer (seungcheol) who always leaves little gifts on your table/desk since he comes to school earlier than you do and when seungkwan wants to confess, he does it in his usual 'gift giving' way and this time gives reader a notebook and when reader looks through the blank pages there's one page that reveals it all. wc - 722 a/n: shoutout to a special someone who told me not to mention them for the banner! its cute and i love it so much, i love you too.

it started in early spring. you'd dragged yourself into school late one morning, head still foggy from too little sleep and too much stress. there, sitting on your desk like a quiet miracle, was a candy bar and a sticky note that simply read: "for a long day." no name. no explanation. just candy and a note. you thought it was a one-time thing. some classmate with extra sweets and a charitable impulse. but the next day, when you had returned from the toilet, there was a small flower laying upon your math notebook which you had left on your desk, wide open. after that, a tea bag labeled "calming blend." and another note - "hope it helps." little gifts that were never too bold, never to much. a pen in your favourite colour. a folded drawing of your favourite show character. an origami heart. sometimes the offerings were silly, sometimes surprisingly thoughtful. but always anonymous. you'd ask around. casually at first, then half-joking. "okay who's my little gift giver?" but no one confessed. if anything they teased you more about having a 'gift giver'. some guessed names. you laughed along but deep down it started to gnaw at you. because you started to look forward to it. to the gifts. to them. whoever they were. it became a kind of ritual, you could say. walk into the classroom, find the gift, smile to yourself, tuck it away, and wonder. "do they watch me when i see the gift?" "have i talked to them before?" "do i smile at them in the hallway?" weeks passed. spring gave way to early summer, and still, no answers. you thought that this person would just never tell you. maybe this was it. just a quiet affection. a story that ends before it begins. and that hurt in a way you didn't want to admit. you told yourself not to be disappointed. that this was already more than anyone owed you. but still, the hope remained, soft and damn stubborn in your chest. then came today. you walked into the classroom like you always did, bracing for the morning chatter, the usual notes, the soft thumps on chairs being dragged across the floor. and there it was. not a snack, not a flower. but a small, black notebook sitting perfectly centered on your desk. no note this time, no doodle. just a notebook with a red ribbon tied around it. your hands trembled slightly as you reached for it. and for some reason it felt final. somehow. you untied the ribbon, set it aside and opened the cover. the pages were blank. smooth, untouched. dozens of pages. except for the front page. a single sentence stared up at you in careful handwriting, slightly messy, but full of intention. "secret admirer reveal? haha. its me. seungcheol." your breath caught. seungcheol. the name repeated in your head like a heartbeat. choi seungcheol. the very boy who always offered his umbrella, even if it meant walking home in the rain. the boy who sat two rows behind you and never interrupted. the boy who noticed. the boy with kind eyes and quiet smiles and-... oh. it was him. this whole time. it's been him. and suddenly things made sense. the times you caught him glancing your way. the shared silences in group projects where he looked like he had something to say but never said it because you were speaking. the time he lent you his pencil and your fingers brushed and he looked away so fast with a red tint on his cheeks. he hadnt signed it, "from seungcheol." he hadnt even added a heart. just "its me." like he hoped, somewhere deep down, that it was enough. you wrote something on the same page, just below his message. you looked behind you, he was there sitting down casually but fidgeting, eyes flickering your way for only a second before looking back down at his hands. you stood up, held the notebook with one hand, walked right to him and placed it gently against his chest. "check." you smirked. he blinked, confused, but he couldnt say anything as you already heading back to your seat. he opened the cover and saw the front page. and there was your handwriting, right beneath his confession. "i was hoping it was you."

check out my other works? <33

[sereia4skz]

Hii!!!! I have another request for you could you please do a oni!Changbin x fem!reader, like finding him and bringing him into the Haven for the first time and him being afraid and nervous about being in a new environment.

And also congrats on hitting 2k!!!!

2k Followers Event | warm meals

pairing: changbin x reader

synopsis: bringing an oni into the sanctuary

warnings: comfort, oni!changbin,

event masterlist: #2kShootingStars

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AN: i have beef with everyone that thinks changbin is fat, i would cook so many meals for him

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The first time you see him, he’s crouched in the shade of a collapsed shrine, half-hidden by ivy and stone.

Sunlight filters through the canopy in fractured beams, catching on the red streaks of his skin, the curve of horn, the faint shimmer of sweat that clings to his temple. His chest rises and falls too quickly, panic. The heat that rolls off him is unnatural, not just body warmth, but the signature pulse of someone made of fire and ache and something far too ancient to belong in the world anymore.

You stop. Slowly crouch. Speak gently. “You’re hurt.”

The words seem to startle him more than your presence. His head snaps up, dark eyes wide, teeth slightly bared. You don’t flinch, though his growl is low and vibrating, like something trying to stay caged inside.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” you add. “I’m here to help.”

He doesn’t answer, just watches with suspicion sharp as flint. One massive hand grips the hilt of a blade strapped to his back. You notice how it shakes.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, not daring to move closer. “You don’t have to come with me. But you can. There’s a place nearby. You’ll be safe there.”

His brows furrow. The disbelief is written all over him.

He doesn’t speak a word on the way to the Sanctuary. Not when you coax him to his feet with a soft smile and outstretched hand. Not when he limps beside you, heavy-footed and tense, every crack of a twig sending a nervous twitch down his spine. Not when the trees part and reveal the shimmering border of the HAVEN, where wildflowers bloom brighter, and the air grows soft with magic long since faded from the outside world.

It’s only once he crosses the boundary that his voice comes, rough, raw, and full of weight.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?”

You turn to him. He’s standing awkwardly, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to hold himself in.

“They said I… I bring bad luck. I break things. I hurt people when I don’t mean to.”

Your heart cracks just a little. You step closer, slow, careful, not wanting to crowd him. He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve helped before. But it’s not the size that matters. It’s the way his eyes flicker down to yours, hopeful and afraid all at once.

“You’re not bad luck, Changbin.” You say his name like it’s the most natural thing in the world, even though he never gave it. You just knew.

He swallows hard. “I don’t want to hurt anyone here.”

“I don’t think you will,” you say softly. “And if you do… we’ll handle it. Together.”

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the sun.

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That night, you find him sitting near the koi pond just beyond the herb gardens, feet dangling over the water, still too afraid to go inside the shared quarters. He startles when you sit beside him, but doesn’t pull away.

You hand him a little bundle wrapped in cloth.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

He blinks. Opens it slowly. Roasted sweet potatoes. A warm bun. Something sweet tucked in the corner. His throat works around a lump.

“I haven’t had food like this in years…” he murmurs, quiet awe in his voice.

You smile. “There’s more where that came from.”

He doesn’t eat right away. Just holds the bundle, warmth sinking into his palms. And then, so soft you almost miss it:

“Thank you…”

You lean your shoulder against his. “You don’t scare me.”

And finally, Changbin smiles. It’s small. Shy. A little crooked from disuse, but it’s there.

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taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88 @sillyseob @rougegenshin @yaorzu-blog @babigriin @tricky-ritz

[wolffishgrin]

You Don't Have to Be Strong Right Now | TW01

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Reader

Warnings: none, just overwhelming tenderness

Prompt: You come home drained from a day of being everything for everyone. Toto sees right through the silence and holds you until you remember how to breathe again.

You don’t even remember how you got inside the apartment.

You must’ve unlocked the door. You must’ve said hello. But everything from the train home is just a blur of bright lights and your own looping thoughts. All you know is that the second you’re inside, your body starts to sag. Not in any visible way, maybe — but inside? You feel like a balloon with a slow leak.

And he sees it.

Toto doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks up from whatever spreadsheet he’s pretending to care about and watches you drop your bag a little too hard by the door.

“Liebling,” he says softly, and that’s all it takes.

You don’t even answer. You just walk straight toward him, slow and dazed, and stand between his knees like you’re waiting for the world to stop spinning.

He opens his arms without asking.

You go willingly — melt into his chest like you were always meant to land there. He doesn’t pull you too tight, doesn’t pepper you with questions. He just folds his arms around your back and presses a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s second nature.

Like holding you is the only thing that’s real right now.

“Rough day?” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod into his shirt. It smells like him — safe, clean, expensive. Warm.

“Too many people,” you whisper. “Too many expectations.”

He hums low in his throat. A sound of understanding. Of shared quiet. Of someone who knows exactly what it feels like to be pulled in a hundred directions until you forget what your own voice sounds like.

His fingers trace slow circles on your back.

“You don’t have to do anything for anyone right now,” he says. “You don’t have to be strong. Not with me.”

You blink hard against tears, because God — how does he know? How does he always know?

“Can I just… stay here?” you whisper.

“You can stay here as long as you need,” he says without hesitation. “You don’t even have to talk. I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

You let yourself sink into his embrace. Into the steadiness of someone who never once asked you to earn your place. Someone who makes it feel like coming home doesn’t require performance — just presence.

He holds you for a long time. No fixing. No advice. Just his hands moving in slow, reassuring rhythms along your spine. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s allowed to rest.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

“For what?” he asks, kissing your forehead.

“For letting me fall apart.”

He smiles, soft and proud and devastatingly tender.

“Du, meine Liebe… I’m not here to love the version of you that has it all together.” “I’m here for all of you. Even this. Especially this.”

And for the first time today — maybe the first time all week — you finally let go.

[akiisp]

"The sound you gave me" D.M || PT2

Draco x Deaf! Reader

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Summary: Part 2 of "The Signs of you". Here is PT 1 if you haven't seen it

Draco Malfoy never expected to fall for someone who couldn’t even hear his insults. When he learns that the reader is deaf, his usual bravado falters — replaced by unexpected curiosity. After being paired for a class project, he’s drawn in by her expressive signing and the vivid way she shows emotion without a single word. As feelings grow, Draco secretly learns sign language and surprises her with a heartfelt birthday gift: magical hearing aids and a shaky, sincere recording of himself singing her favorite song — giving back the music she once loved.

Warnings: Light emotional hurt/comfort, soft Draco, Fluff

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You and Draco had begun to sit together more often — not always talking, but always aware of each other. It wasn’t anything defined, but it was something. And Draco… he had never been the type to care about something quietly.

You and Draco weren’t exactly together, but the air between you felt different. Softer. Familiar. Like the silence you shared wasn’t empty anymore—it meant something.

You found him waiting near the library one afternoon, hands tucked in his pockets, chin lifted with that practiced aloofness. But his eyes—his eyes always gave him away.

You sat together, no books today. Just parchment, scribbled notes, and your fingers dancing with quiet words.

“You’re getting better at this,” you signed with a grin.

He smirked, fingers stumbling through the reply:

“I have a good teacher.”

He tapped his quill against the bench, clearly mulling something over.

Then, finally, he asked — slow, deliberate.

“Can I ask you something… personal?”

You blinked, surprised. Then nodded.

He met your eyes, and for once, there was no arrogance in his tone.

“When did you… y’know. Lose your hearing?”

You hesitated. Then, gently, you lifted your fingers.

“When I was eight.” “Fever. Rare curse complication. Nothing they could do.”

He stayed quiet, watching your hands. You continued.

“Before that… I loved music. All of it.” “I used to sing. Piano too. My parents thought I’d go to a music academy, not Hogwarts.”

A soft smile flickered across your face — sad but warm.

“Sometimes I still feel it. Vibrations. Rhythm. But I miss the rest.”

Draco’s eyes lingered on your expression. Something in his chest pulled tight.

“You really loved it, huh?”

You nodded.

Then your fingers slowed, more hesitant.

“I wanted to study magical soundscapes. Enchantments through music. But that dream kind of died.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just leaned back, lips pursed.

But you caught the look in his eyes — not pity. Thoughtfulness.

A spark of something.

A few days later, he approached your best friend during lunch.

“I need help,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to where you sat laughing across the courtyard.

Your friend arched a brow. “I'm sorry, What?”

“Her birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

The friend hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

Draco hesitated—then confessed. He wanted it to be something personal. Something she’d remember. Something hers. And something she couldn’t get for herself.

That’s how he found it.

Through hours of research and a few quiet letters sent home for gold, he bought a pair of magical-enhancement ear pieces—discreet, custom-made to help certain deaf wizards perceive amplified vibrations and tones. Not perfect hearing, but… enough to feel the music again. The kind she said she missed.

They were expensive. He didn’t care.

Over the next few days, Draco seemed unusually focused. You didn’t think much of it until your birthday approached, and he showed up outside the library, holding a slim velvet box like it might explode.

He didn’t say anything.

Just handed it to you and shrugged.

“For you.”

Inside were magical enhancement ear pieces — delicate, rune-etched, tuned for witches and wizards with hearing loss. Not perfect sound, but enough to feel music again. Enough to catch voices. Laughter. Life.

You looked up at him, stunned.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

“They’re… not cheap. I know. But I figured… maybe you shouldn’t have to miss the things you love just because the world’s too loud.”

You couldn’t speak—not because you couldn’t, but because you were stunned.

Then, you reached forward and signed slowly:

“Draco… I don’t know what to say.”

His voice was soft. “Try them.”

You did.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in years… you felt it. The quiet hum of birds, the faint wind against stone walls. A world you thought you’d lost was pressing softly against your skin.

And then—Draco pulled something from his coat.

A small enchanted device.

And pressed play.

It was his voice. Recorded magically. Tentative. A little off-key.

He was singing.

Your favorite song.

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, and then you laughed. Soundless but glowing.

Draco turned pink, then red; watching your reaction. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want.”

You tackled him in a hug.

Tight.

Your fingers signed against his back:

“You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked, arms wrapping around you gently.

“Yeah. But you kinda like that, don’t you?”

And maybe he was right.

Because that night, for the first time in years, you danced barefoot in your dorm with music pulsing in your chest — and Draco Malfoy’s voice humming in your ears.

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