#he would not have a billboard!! but he’d fuck one up

[sparklingcid3r]

@redfielddoesthings this one’s for u babygorl bc i’ve had a dallypop roadtrip fic on my mind and i can’t write it yet bc finals are actually beating my ass atm so i’m putting my ideas in here until i can buckle down and finesse the writer’s block

- they’re headed to the bronx, where dally grew up. it’s approx 20 hours by car, so they drive to indianapolis first, break for the night, then drive 11 hours to the bronx w a bunch of pit stops in between

- first pit stop is at a gas station where soda takes the lead while dally tries to hide the fact that he’s never pumped gas before in his life

- he grew up in nyc that boy hasn’t even SEEN a real gas station until tulsa

- they get stuck in standstill traffic at some point so they get out and start praying to deities they don’t even believe in to get it moving again. they’re losing their minds. dally’s banging his head against the horn while soda’s going up to ppl’s windows and chatting with them. dally wants a gun

- they get back in the car and are hanging out, until soda notices something laying on the woods’ edge. since they aren’t going anywhere and the car is in the right lane, he gets out and runs over to it

- unfortunately traffic has started moving the second he’s out and dally has to scramble over to the driver side to start moving. in the side mirror dally sees soda sprinting along the shoulder holding a filthy stuffed bear that makes idle appearances for the rest of the fic. soda reaches the car before dally can hit 20 mph and he practically has to dive into the backseat

- soda vs the mississippi river

- once they reach indianapolis dally’s like “so we can either check into a motel or get fucking litttt”

- immediate cut to soda putting music on a jukebox and dally ordering them drinks

- dally gets plastered and insists on laying down in the truck bed on the drive to the motel. soda hits a speed bump as hard as he can and dally nearly gets launched out the back

- they’re on the road again but the poor truck’s been through it and it starts making some funky sounds until soda decides to pull over because he doesn’t like that noise. he’s no steve randle but he finds out they need to go to a repair shop and get a new part because the one they got now is literally gonna fall off

- so they’re stranded on the side of the highway

- soda decides to climb up on top of the truck because the weather’s real nice up there, and dally follows. he tries putting his thumb out but soda stops him, says he wants to sit and watch for a while. it’s pretty trippy, being so close to cars going 70 down the freeway. when a semi approaches, soda makes a right angle with his arm and pretends to pull a horn until the semi honks at them.

- that’s where a more heartfelt, raw conversation would happen amid the humor

- eventually they get their truck to a repair shop and get a new part! but not before they have like four hours to kill doing literally nothing but like mocking small children and playing i spy

- while they’re at it they also decide to call the house to check in on darry and pony and whoever else happens to be at the curtis residence at the moment

- and they’re back on the road!

- not thirty minutes later they hit a bird and have to pull over again because soda’s crying so hard he can’t drive

- they were playing music on the radio when that happened. the radio is off when dally pulls back onto the highway

- “it had a family.” “yeah, well.” “it had a name.” “alr i promise you it did not.”

- i haven’t thought about it yet but they pass at least one billboard that convinces them to stop and take a look at like the worlds largest rubber band ball or smth dumb like that

- dally hits a jersey slide so they don’t miss their exit and nearly kills a family of four in the process

- getting to see the new york skyline for the first time as they cross the bridge and it would be one of those emotional moments for dally who never thought he’d willingly go back. something about making new memories in the place where bad ones happened to take back your right to love that place again

- at the end soda surprises him with tickets to a yankee game

a lot of this works in my head because i’m imagining it like a sitcom lmfao who knows if i can translate it onto the page without rage quitting

[whaliiwatching]

one in a million admirers…

based on ofc this prompt

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST PT2 | FC43

part one

an: not even gonna leave an an, i always had a part two lol

wc: 5.2k

Franco found out she was dating Angelo via an Instagram story. A fucking Instagram story.

But that was almost three years ago now, and Franco tried to let it go, god did he try. He was getting married now, after all. He had to forget about what could have been.

The engagement ring on his finger felt heavier than it should. Not because he hadn’t once thought it was right—he had. Or maybe he just convinced himself it was right. They’d been together for four years, maybe more, he stopped counting. She was beautiful, poised, easy to love, easy to fit into his world. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.

But now, standing in the grand suite of the London hotel they’d rented for the weekend, Franco stared out the window at the city below, watching the lights flicker in the distance. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was missing. Not that he had any right to be questioning it. After all, he was about to get married, wasn’t he?

The last three years had been a blur of wins, podiums, and post-race parties. Formula 1 had been a dream realised, his face plastered across billboards in every country, every magazine with his name next to the headlines. He’d travelled the world, earned millions, lived a life many envied. But somewhere along the way, his heart had wandered.

And the truth was, despite the glamour, despite the fame, the money, he couldn’t shake the thought of her. The way she’d looked when she told him she loved him first. The way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears that night in Monza—before she left for good. The way she’d walked away, no longer the girl he took for granted. It was like he could still see her disappearing down the hallway of the hotel, leaving him behind, a shadow in her past.

What if I had chosen her?

He thought about that too often. But it was too late. She was gone. She’d moved on with Angelo, the guy who was everything Franco wasn’t—steady, grounded, someone who could give her a love that wasn’t tied to racing, fame, or endless, mind-numbing travel. And that fucking Instagram story—her laughing, the two of them in a café in Buenos Aires, arms around each other, looking so effortlessly happy—had been the final blow.

That was the last straw.

And now, three years later, here he was—about to get married, with the wrong person. He should have been thrilled, but something about it gnawed at him, like he was suffocating in a life that wasn’t his own. She was everything he thought he wanted. She’d followed him to every race, always the perfect girlfriend, the perfect partner. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he loved her anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever had.

She had been the easy option. She fit into the world he’d built for himself—the shiny, public life, the world of sponsorships and media appearances. She had the right background, the right education, the right looks. She was what was expected of him. What people saw when they looked at a successful F1 driver: the perfect match, the ideal woman.

But the reality was that whenever he closed his eyes, he saw someone else. He saw her. The girl from that small village in Argentina, the one who’d loved him first and probably would, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he hadn’t been able to see it for what it was.

He hadn’t thought about her for a while—not in the sense that would make him ache, not the way he used to. He’d buried that pain under the chaos of the last few years. But it was like a low hum in the back of his mind. Every time he saw Angelo’s name pop up, or when he’d hear a new story about her from people back home, he couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned out. Was she happy? Was she still with Angelo? Was she finally over him?

He could only imagine the life she’d built without him—the kind of life she deserved.

But now, standing on the edge of a new chapter of his life, Franco wondered if he’d ever be able to move on. Because, no matter how many laps he raced, no matter how many trophies he collected, it always came back to her. And now, with his wedding on the horizon, he couldn’t help but ask himself: What the hell had he been doing this whole time?

His phone buzzed on the table, snapping him back to the moment. His fiancée. A text: “Hey, I made reservations for dinner tonight!”

He sighed and stared at the screen of his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

He knew he shouldn’t, it was ridiculous. It was stupid. He had no right to send her an invitation, not after everything. He hadn’t heard from her in so long, hadn’t even thought about reaching out beyond those painful Instagram stories and the passing updates from mutual friends.

But, for some reason, there he was—typing out an invitation to his wedding.

It’s the right thing to do, he told himself. She was a part of his past. She had been the first person to love him unconditionally. They’d spent too many years growing up together not to extend an olive branch. Besides, she had a life now, a life without him. Maybe it was selfish to think she would even want to come, but maybe, just maybe, she deserved to know. She deserved to hear it from him, the way things had turned out.

He hit “send” before he could overthink it any more. The words felt hollow as they left his phone, but there was no going back now.

It was a quiet afternoon in Buenos Aires. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a soft, golden light through the windows of their apartment. She and Angelo had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta and wine—and now she was curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, one of the many cosy rituals they had settled into over the past couple of years.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, seeing a notification from her email app. The subject line made her pause.

Wedding Invitation: Franco Colapinto.

She blinked, feeling her chest tighten before she even opened it. It had been so long since she’d thought about him—since Monza, really. It was a chapter of her life that had closed the moment she walked away. But the sight of his name brought it all rushing back. The summers spent racing bikes down dirt roads, his smile so effortless, so wide. The way he’d looked at her before everything changed.

Slowly, she opened the email, feeling a strange mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.

I hope this message finds you well. It’s been a while since we last spoke, but I wanted to reach out and invite you to something important. I’m getting married in three months' time, and I wanted to personally invite you to be a part of the day. It wouldn’t feel right without including you.

I understand if you’re unable to come, but I thought it was important to extend the invitation.

I hope everything is going well in your life.

All the best,

Fran

She stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, the words swimming in her mind. There were so many things she could have said, but the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of her heart, beating a little faster than it should. A soft ache settled in her chest.

Three years had passed. She had moved on, found a life she was proud of—one that was stable and calm, filled with love from Angelo, whose steady hand had never wavered, who had been everything Franco couldn’t be. She had built a future, and it was more than she had ever expected for herself.

And yet, the invitation sat there, a reminder of what had been. Of the boy she had loved, the boy who had never truly seen her. Of the boy who she had walked away from.

She set the phone down for a moment, leaning back against the couch. Angelo’s gentle snoring filled the living room from the slightly ajar door, a quiet reminder of the life they had made together—together, with no ghosts of the past lingering between them. But even as she sat there, she could feel the sting of Franco’s message, the painful reminder of how much had been left unsaid.

She thought about the wedding. How strange it felt to be invited to something so intimate, something so final. It was a life she would never be a part of. A life that wasn’t hers to claim, never was. But part of her, deep down, still wondered what had happened. Was he happy? Was this really the life he wanted? Or was this just another easy option for him? Another decision made out of convenience?

Why am I even asking myself this?

She shook her head, her lips curling into a rueful smile. She knew she didn’t want to go. There was no reason to go back to that part of her life, not now. Not when everything she had built with Angelo was exactly where it needed to be.

The following morning, the soft clink of Angelo’s keys echoed through their small kitchen as he got his things ready for work. He was already dressed in his crisp suit, his tie neatly adjusted, preparing for another day at the law firm. She, on the other hand, was in her scrubs, packing her bag for her shift at the hospital.

She was tying her trainers when she saw him glance at her, his eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity. “You seem a little quiet this morning.”

She shrugged, setting her bag down on the counter. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

It was only a half-lie. She had hardly slept last night after receiving Franco’s invitation. The words had stuck with her, gnawing at her thoughts, replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape.

“What’s up?” Angelo asked, watching her intently, his brow furrowing slightly.

She hesitated, then sighed and reached for her phone, pulling up the email Franco had sent her. She handed it to him without a word.

Angelo read it in silence, his eyes scanning the screen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow, she already knew that he would have an opinion on it.

Finally, he set the phone down and looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He’s getting married, huh? I didn;’t believe it when I saw it on the news.” he said softly.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, as if the words themselves felt like an admission. “I guess he thought I should know.”

“You’re not planning on going, are you?” Angelo asked, his voice laced with concern.

She shook her head, biting her lip. “He’s my past now. It doesn’t matter. It’s… it’s not something I need to revisit.”

Angelo nodded, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. He knew how much Franco had meant to her—how he had once been the centre of her world. But that was years ago. And he had never once doubted that she was now his world.

“I haven’t seen Franco since we were sixteen,” Angelo said, his tone thoughtful. “I know things between you and him ended... well, the way they did. But maybe it might be good to go. For closure. For you, if nothing else.”

She met his eyes, her gaze wavering. “Closure?” she repeated, almost incredulously. “I don’t need closure, Angelo. I moved on a long time ago.”

“I know,” Angelo said, his voice gentle but firm. “But I think sometimes it’s easy to say we’ve moved on, that we’re over things. But there are pieces of our past that stick with us, no matter how much time passes. Maybe seeing him—seeing that life—will help you put the final chapter behind you. Don’t you think?”

She was quiet for a long moment, turning the idea over in her head. It made sense, in a way. The past had never quite been put to rest, even if she had buried it deep. Maybe it wasn’t about Franco anymore. Maybe it was about facing what had happened, about finding peace with it, once and for all.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I don’t want it to mess with what we have, Angelo. I don’t want to go and be reminded of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Angelo smiled softly, taking her hand in his. “It won’t. I promise. You’re the one I want, mi amor You’re the one who matters. Whatever happened back then, whatever Franco was, that’s not us. It’s not our life. But if this is something you think you need to do, then I’ll be there with you. I want you to have the closure you need.”

She felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. Angelo had always been like that—steady, understanding, and so patient with her. He never pushed her to forget, but he also didn’t hold her to the past. He was the one who made her feel safe, who built her the life she was proud of, and the thought of him beside her through whatever this was made her feel like she could take on anything.

With a slow, hesitant breath, she met his eyes. “You’re right. Maybe it would be good to go. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see him, but I think... I think I can handle it now.”

Angelo smiled, squeezing her hand. “Then we’ll go. Together.”

She nodded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. The decision was made, and it was time to let go of the last remnants of the past. Franco and his life—whatever that was now—could stay in the past, but she wouldn’t be running from it anymore.

“Thanks,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “For always being here.”

“Always,” Angelo replied, his voice warm. “Now go. You don’t want to be late for your shift.”

She smiled at him one last time before grabbing her bag and heading for the door. The wedding was still months away, but somehow, her world felt just a little bit more at peace now.

Three months later

The morning of the wedding, the soft rays of the sun filtered through the curtains of their hotel suite, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of her dress as Angelo adjusted his cufflinks in the reflection behind her. The air was filled with a quiet sense of anticipation. It had been a few months since she agreed to come to the wedding, and now, standing in this luxurious hotel in the heart of the Mediterranean, she could feel the surrealness of it all.

She was here. With him. With Angelo.

He caught her gaze in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice tender.

She smiled back, her heart swelling with a quiet joy. Angelo was always so calm, so steady, and he knew exactly how to make her feel loved without needing to say much. The simple moments like this were the ones that made her certain that their life together, their future, was the right one.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He was perfect in every way. “You look handsome, as usual,” she added with a smile.

He chuckled softly. “I try,” he teased, adjusting the hem of his suit jacket before stepping forward to take her hand. “Are you ready for this? I know it’s been a long time coming.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m ready. It’s just… it’s strange. You know? We’re not the same people we were three years ago. And I feel like I’m finally letting go of that past. I just need to do it, for me. And for us.”

“Whatever you need, you have it,” Angelo said, his voice unwavering, filled with a quiet strength.

She smiled at him, grateful for his support. They had come so far, and no matter what happened today, she knew she was in the right place.

“I’m going to step outside for a second,” she said, pulling away from him gently. “I’m going to grab a photo of the schedule. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Angelo replied, watching her with those warm, reassuring eyes.

She stepped into the corridor of the hotel, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She pulled out her phone, navigating to the event details to snap a photo of the ceremony’s schedule. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant chatter of guests below and the hum of preparations for the wedding in the distance. The excitement was palpable in the air, but in this moment, everything felt calm.

That was until she heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

She turned around, feeling her heart give a small, unexpected jolt when she saw him.

Franco.

He was standing there, half-dressed in a black tuxedo with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, his tie still loose around his neck. He looked just like he did three years ago—handsome, dishevelled in the way that made him seem effortlessly charming.

Her stomach tightened.

“You came,” he said, his voice soft with surprise. 

She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, before forcing a calm smile. “I said I would,” she replied evenly. Her heart beat just a little faster, but she kept her expression neutral.

He looked at her, his gaze a little more intense than she remembered, and she couldn’t quite place the mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. There was something unspoken there, something she hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t think you’d follow through,” he added, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

She didn’t know what to make of that. She shrugged. “I thought I’d at least be polite.”

A silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and thick with everything that had been left unsaid over the years. Franco’s gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment before he looked back up at her, his jaw tense, and his voice was almost pleading when he spoke.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his words hesitant.

She hesitated, feeling her pulse quicken. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to go back to the past—didn’t want to open that door again.

“I’d rather not,” she said, her tone firm, though her heart was beating harder than she cared to admit.

Franco’s expression softened. “It’s been three years. Three years overdue, don’t you think?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, the weight of everything hanging between them. She didn’t owe him anything, and yet, a part of her—perhaps the part that had loved him—knew there was still something lingering. Something that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

She finally gave a soft sigh, one that carried all the weariness of the years that had passed. “Fine,” she said quietly, her shoulders sagging slightly in resignation. “But just for a minute. I don’t have time to rehash everything.”

“Thank you,” Franco murmured, stepping forward as he gestured down the hallway. “My room’s just down here. I won’t keep you long.”

They walked down the corridor in silence, the weight of the moment sinking in. She wasn’t sure what she expected from this conversation, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Not for either of them. When they reached his room, Franco opened the door and stepped aside to let her in.

It was a modest suite, far removed from the lavish ceremony unfolding just downstairs. The quiet of the room seemed to accentuate the tension between them. He closed the door behind them, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, his voice distant as he turned to face her. “Water? A drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

There was a long pause. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. For the first time in a long while, he seemed uncertain.

“So…” Franco began, taking a breath, “I guess this is awkward, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice steady, but her insides were churning. “A little.”

Before she even had a chance to settle with what she was doing, he shot her straight to the heart with the words that came out of his mouth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. “I know I did, but that wasn’t ever my intention. You were always there for me, and I should’ve done better. I should’ve realised…”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that was all too familiar. He seemed to be gathering the courage to say something, but when he spoke, his words were not what she expected.

“I should’ve told you,” he started, voice low, almost regretful. “I should have told you that I loved you.”

She blinked, her chest tightening as she took in the weight of his words. “Don’t,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sharp, a defence mechanism against the rawness he was trying to expose. “You can’t do that. You can’t come here and say things like that after all this time. It’s... it’s mean.”

Franco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I should’ve told you,” he repeated, his voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps? Regret?

She shook her head, unable to stop herself from responding. “Why are you still with her, then?” Her voice trembled slightly, the question feeling more like a challenge than a simple inquiry. She thought of how excited she must be right now getting ready, while he was confessing his love to his childhood best friend. She wondered whether she knew.

He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his eyes flickered away, as though he was ashamed of the truth he was about to speak. “It’s easier to pretend to love her,” he admitted, his voice flat. “It’s easier than facing the truth.”

“Than what?” she asked, her words cutting through the air, her eyes locking onto his. “Than admitting you love me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Franco’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, a hesitation lingering between them. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he exhaled deeply, as if trying to gather the strength to continue.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. I still don’t.”

She looked at him, biting her lip, trying to keep herself from breaking. “You can’t do this,” she said, her voice cracking with frustration. “You don’t get to walk back into my life now and make me feel like I was some... some second choice. You don’t get to say things that undo everything we went through.”

Franco’s gaze darkened, but his next words were even more dangerous. “Say it, and I’ll leave her,” he said, his voice low and intense, as if he were testing her. “Say you want me the same way you wanted me three summers ago, and I’ll do it. I’ll walk away from her. I’ll choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttering in her chest. The temptation was there—familiar, painful, and so very dangerous. She could feel that old longing tug at her, the part of her that had loved him so fiercely, so deeply. But this wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t the girl who would wait around for him to realise what he’d lost.

“I can’t,” she whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t do that anymore. I’m happy now. I’m happy with Angelo.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue, and for a moment, it felt like she had to convince herself of them. But as she looked into Franco’s eyes—still searching, still wanting—she realised that she meant it. She really did.

Franco’s face fell, his expression a mixture of frustration and defeat. “You don’t understand,” he said again, the words sounding more like a plea. “I never stopped loving you.”

She took a step back, shaking her head, trying to clear the emotions that were spiralling inside of her. “No,” she said firmly, her voice resolute. “You don’t get to say that, Franco. Not now. Not when I’ve spent three years getting over all of this. You don’t get to come here and break my heart all over again.”

For a long moment, they stood there, the space between them filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. But it was over. It had to be.

“I can’t undo what happened,” she added softly, her gaze not leaving his. “But I’m not that girl anymore. And I’m not going to be someone’s second choice.”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. The weight of everything they’d been through hung heavy between them, and it was clear now that nothing could fix it. Not words. Not promises.

She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob, but before she could step out of the room, she paused, glancing over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m happy now, Fran,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything. “And you need to figure out what makes you happy too. But I can’t be part of that anymore.”

She opened the door and stepped out, not looking back, not giving him the chance to say anything more.

The wedding was beautiful.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the guests who had gathered for the wedding. The ceremony was set to take place on the terrace of the luxurious hotel overlooking the sea, the soft sound of waves lapping against the rocks below barely audible amidst the murmur of excited chatter.

She sat there, a few rows back from the front, Angelo by her side. The venue was beautiful—everything that was supposed to be perfect for a wedding. The guests were in their best attire, the flowers were arranged in pristine perfection, and the atmosphere felt like a dream. But something was off. A low hum of anxiety had been building ever since the music started, and she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Franco was supposed to be standing at the altar now. But he wasn’t.

She stole a glance at Angelo, who was sitting quietly beside her, a reassuring hand on her knee. He could sense her unease.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice almost drowned out by the gentle clinking of glasses and conversations around them.

She nodded, but her eyes drifted nervously toward the aisle. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something feels wrong.”

The minutes dragged on. The officiant glanced at his watch, confusion spreading across his face as he leaned over to whisper something to the bridesmaids. There was no sign of Franco, and the guests were beginning to exchange worried glances. The tension in the air became palpable, the excitement of the ceremony suddenly replaced by a growing sense of discomfort.

After a few more minutes, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She turned to Angelo, her voice barely above a whisper, but her anxiety was thick in her words. “Do you think he’s going to come?”

Angelo squeezed her hand gently, his gaze soft and understanding. “I don’t know, cariño. Maybe something’s happened. He’s probably just... running late.”

But as they exchanged those quiet words, it became clear that it wasn’t just a delay. The guests were shifting in their seats, some starting to murmur under their breath, the ceremony now holding a sense of surreal anticipation.

And then, just as the whispers reached a crescendo, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind. Everyone turned, their heads swivelling as they saw him—Franco. He was walking down the aisle, his face pale, his expression one of guilt and uncertainty. He wasn’t in a rush, though. It was as if he was taking his time, as though he had already made a decision.

The room fell silent as Franco reached the front. He looked out at the gathering of faces—his family, his friends, all of them waiting for the moment when he would say "I do." But he didn’t speak immediately.

He was struggling with the words, and she could feel the weight of the tension from across the room. Her heart raced, confusion and disbelief washing over her as she watched him take a deep breath, his eyes scanning the crowd before finally locking on the bride’s family sitting in the front row.

“Excuse me,” Franco’s voice broke through the silence, shaky but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” he continued, his eyes darting nervously between the bride and the guests. “I... I can’t do this. I can’t marry her.”

The air seemed to stop in that moment. His words hung like an echo, the shock rippling through the crowd. She couldn’t look away, her heart pounding in her chest as Freddie stood there, his face flushed with embarrassment, his hands trembling at his sides.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could,” he went on, his voice quiet but steady, “but I can’t marry her when I love someone else.” His gaze shifted to her, and for a split second, their eyes met. The pain, the regret, the history of everything they had been—it was all there in that single glance. But she didn’t feel anything but exhaustion. It was like watching someone else’s dream unravel.

The guests were murmuring, unsure of how to respond. His bride, stood by the doors he’d just walked in from, ready to walk down the aisle frozen and unmoving. Shelooked like she was about to collapse, her face pale as she took in the words that no one had expected.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Franco continued, his voice breaking, “I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m sorry. I—I just can’t.”

Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, stepping down from the altar, leaving the bride standing alone, abandoned in front of everyone.

The room was filled with stunned silence.

Angelo reached for her hand, squeezing it gently as the reality of what had just unfolded sank in. She didn’t know how to feel—didn’t know what to think. Her chest ached with a strange mixture of relief and guilt, but most of all, there was a numbness that began to set in.

And then, just as quickly as Franco had walked away, he was gone, disappearing behind the closed doors of the venue, leaving a trail of shock in his wake. The ceremony was over before it had even begun.

She couldn’t help herself.

The guilt she felt in her stomach was strong.

It was her fault.

the end.

an: actual an, im sorry guys! i was feeling sad so i wrote this muahhah

tags: @obxstiles @charlosvibesonly @zestytimbit @taygrls

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 8: Sex Toys

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Sex Toys (✨)

Summary: Matt wants to use one of your sex toys on you for the first time, but things don't quite go as planned.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), use of a vibrator, use of "good girl", slight degradation, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, breeding kink

Word Count: 2k

A/n: Jesus, this was supposed to be a Drabble. Matt took over toward the end though and added another thousand words, so now you get to have this filthy little (big) piece.

Read Me On AO3!

He’s towering over you. The billboard's lights paint a blue and purple mosaic on his bare skin. His eyes are closed as he listens to your every breath, and every beating of your heart. But there’s something else in the air tonight.

The steady buzzing of your vibrator glides up, up, up your thigh. You can’t remember when you’ve last been this on edge, this close to falling off the carousel without ever being pushed. 

Matt is calm—too calm. He’s taking his time pressing the current into your skin, soaking your little impatient noises up like a sponge. You’re so wet already, naked and spread out for him as his cock rests achingly hard against his stomach, but he’s nowhere near done with you. And he won’t let you touch him. You’ve tried; you’ve tried to reach out for him, but he slapped your hand away. 

“Not yet,” he’d said to you. “I want to try something first.”

When he pulled out the box with all your toys that you keep around for when you feel needy and alone without him, you knew that his hands wouldn’t be the only thing touching you tonight. It’s exciting, to try things you have never tried before. At first, you were scared to tell him about your occasional habit of pleasuring yourself when time won’t allow him to do it, but he was never opposed to it. Not that he has any right to be, anyway. 

You never expected this to happen though. 

You never expected Matt to pull out your bright pink vibrator and tell you how badly he wants to fuck you with it until you can’t help but scream his name.

Your skin tingles at the low temperature of the toy. You would ask him to warm it up for you, but you doubt you could get a word out even if you tried. You’re hot to your very core, but with the vibrator gradually sliding up to travel the valley between your breasts, you find yourself suddenly freezing. 

Matt must be able to tell. Goosebumps erupt on your skin everywhere he touches you without touching you. He reaches out to brush the tip of his calloused thumb over it, collecting the sweat that has started to pour from your pores and rubbing it in. You’re not cold, the action is supposed to say. And he’s right, you’re not cold, it just feels like you are. Every nerve in your body is on fire. It almost hurts how badly you want him to do something, anything. You need to come. You need to feel the vibrator against your cunt, or your clit, or perhaps both. You want him to kiss you and hold you as he thrusts the stupid toy into you, always angled toward that spot. Higher and higher and higher until finally, you come. 

Matt presses the tip against your nipple, and you cry out. You couldn’t focus, so he made you focus. White hot pleasure courses through your veins, infecting you like some kind of disease, but you wouldn’t mind if it killed you. So many different temperatures, so many different sensations. Now you know what it must feel like for him, at least a little bit. It’s so incredibly intense you forget how to breathe.

“Look at me,” he says.

Somehow, he always knows when you don’t. 

You open your eyes, your vision blurry as you take on the vision that is him. You could cry just from how beautiful he is.

“Good girl.” He draws a circle around your nipple then. “Just feel.”

You try to shut your legs for some kind of friction, but he pushes them apart again. Matt clicks his tongue. “I take it back.” Gently, he smacks the vibrator against your breast, but it’s enough to make you jolt. “Bad girl,” he says. 

Asshole.

“Language.”

Did you say that out loud? Fuck.

“Please,” you beg. “I’m sorry, Matty. Please, just…”

“What?” He circles the other breast, turning the toy up a notch. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Touch me,” your voice is barely above a pathetic whisper.

He shakes his head. “You can do better than that.”

You abandon the thought of cursing him out again. You want to be his good girl, you do. 

“Touch me,” you repeat. 

His hand comes to rest on your stomach, just below your heart. “Like this?”

You suck in a sharp breath. 

“Or like this?” He leans forward, pressing his lips against your skin, featherlight. You barely feel it. 

A whine slips past your lips. 

Matt slides the vibrator back down your body. You don’t notice; you’re too focused on the way his lips are moving along your sensitive abdomen, getting bolder with each inch he covers. His hand traces every crevice and every scar he can find. He knows you inside and out, yet he touches you as though it is the very first time. The very first night you got together. Like he can’t believe you’re his, and he needs to take his time worshiping—no, memorizing you. In case you slip through his fingers after this, and all he will have left is your memory.

You would never do that to him, but you know just how scared he gets. He needs to do this. He needs to feel you. And you are more than willing to give your body, mind, and soul to him. If you could, you would serve it on a silver platter, for you know that you are safest with him.

He hums at the hitch of your breath, the slight uptick in your heartbeat. His fingers splay over the left side of your chest. You’re alive. Your heart is beating for him, and that’s all that matters. 

“Or maybe like this?” he says, and the moan you let out borders on a scream when he pushes the vibrator directly against your pussy. 

The wave building within you is already tall enough to level a small town. 

Matt glides the tip over your swollen clit. “You’re so wet. Fuck. I barely touched you.”

You are grasping at the sheets, at the pillows, but the silk slips through your fingers. “Matt,” you choke out. 

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your sternum. “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

The wave threatens to crash into you. It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, it is. He’s made it possible. 

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging at the strands as he pushes the vibrator against your entrance. At the setting it is now, you can feel the electricity in your every bone. He pushes it in until you’re full of the silicone.

You’re moaning, thrashing, and clawing at him for something to hold onto. You are so close—so, so close. You don’t understand what’s happening to you.

His hand comes to cup your breast again. “Look at you,” he murmurs, raspy against your skin. His kisses have no aim, simply caressing your skin as he would worship at the shrine of the ever-loving Catholic God he believes in. Right now though, you are his God, and he would lay his life down for you. He would sacrifice his life just to listen to you fall apart, just to make sure you’re okay and he has done everything to give you what you need.

Because neither heaven nor hell would mean anything without you.

Your hips buck into the vibrations, into his touch, and you can feel your control fading. The wave is close enough for you to touch. Every crevice in your body wants to burst, every muscle straining to hold on, to hold you on the edge just a little longer, but it’s hard—so hard. 

Matt grunts, teeth digging into your flesh. His cock jumps at the sounds you’re making, the way you’re clenching around the toy and your scent so fucking thick in the air he will probably smell you for weeks to come. Pre-cum has long started leaking from his tip.

He thought this was a good idea, getting to explore you in an entirely new way, but Good Lord, he can’t stand the thought of a toy giving you this much pleasure when he is right there to fill you to the brim. 

He stops below your ear, only to whisper, “Safe word?”

Your eyes roll back into your head. “R-red,” you stammer. 

“Good girl. Remember that.”

But why ask?

Your question answers itself when he suddenly pulls the vibrator out of you, leaving you painfully empty and wet. You cry out again, though this time out of pure disdain. You were so close.

He ruined it.

He fucking ruined it. 

“No,” you whine. “Please…”

He shushes you with his lips, and then his cock thrusts into you. You don’t have time to process before he bottoms out. The stretch is familiar yet new, reigniting the fires he blew out mere seconds ago. He’s thick, bigger than average, and he fills you up so good. Your lips part, but nothing wants to come out. You can’t moan. You can’t scream. He’s inside of you, and all you can think is, ‘Fucking finally!’ 

Matt slides his tongue into your mouth to silence himself. You’re warm and tight, and if he weren’t so determined to make you come all over his cock before he gets to see the pearly gates, he would have already burst. 

Though neither of you is going to last very long.

Your legs wrap around his waist. That’s why he asked. He holds onto your thigh as you cling to him, nails running down his back until he’s red all over until he’s marked by you. 

Once he’s got his bearings, he’s not holding back. The pace he sets is brutal. He thrusts into you with abandon, angling your leg to get as deep as he possibly can, and he fucks you into the mattress like a man starved. It’s that way, too, that he kisses you.

The bed creaks with every snap of his hips against yours. You swear you can feel him in your stomach, the way he’s taking you apart with only his cock. You’re falling with nowhere to land, but he’s falling with you. Hard, and fast.

Matt bites your lip, tugging it back before crashing his mouth into yours again. You’re sure one of you must be bleeding. 

“I need you to come,” he pants, teeth dragging along your jaw. “Need you to…” He grunts.

The orgasm continues to build as the wave gains momentum.

“Come for me.” 

You cry out his name when you do, the wave crashing in and drowning you all at once. Your heart beats out of your chest and into his. One more thrust. Two. Even a third one, and then, he spills into you. 

For a short while, the world stops turning. You’re floating in a void detached from space and time. All that fills the room now is the sound of your labored breathing.

Minutes pass by. The lights of the Billboard continue to flicker, throwing a blanket of color over you. 

Matt is the first to break the silence. “Was that…” he trails off.

Your chest rumbles with a soft chuckle, holding his fragile body a little tighter to yours. “Oh yeah,” you say. “It was.”

He nuzzles his nose further into your chest. “Good. That’s… good.”

What he doesn’t tell you, at least not yet: there are a lot more toys in that little box of yours that he is eager to try out, and he will make sure to come inside you with every last one of them. To fill you up. To breed you so he can taste himself inside your pussy when he eats you out at the end of this—as he always does. 

He’s going to make you come so many times, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You won’t even be able to remember your own damn name. Only his. And it will only be his cock that will make you do so. As fun as toys are, there are some things he would rather do himself when he can. 

You don’t quite know it yet, but tonight is going to be a very long night for you. 

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @steve-chandler @lucienofthelakes @xnatyx @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @zomtart @ethereal-blaze

[r0ttenhearts]

wasted on you |||

idol scaramouche x reader

part Ii

“ohmygosh, have you heard 4nemo’s new single?

“it’s sooo good (y/n!) you have to listen to it.”

“who’s your favorite one? mine would have to be scaramouche.”

your smile would always falter at the mention of his name. not like your friends ever knew you were acquaintanced with the idol group. “i don’t really like idol stuff, it’s not my thing.” you would always brush them off, refusing to take one of their earbuds to listen to the songs they wanted to show you.

hearing scaramouche’s voice again wouldn’t help you, not when you’ve gotten this far. not when you’ve moved on from him.

with college exams over and the end of your final year coming to a close you found yourself with nothing but time. with time came too many thoughts that would tumble around in your mind. too many what if’s and what could have been’s had plagued your mind since leaving scaramouche there backstage.

leaving him was so difficult, but being without him felt harder. you couldn’t help but sigh, now sitting alone in your room as the memories came back to you.

memories of splitting popsicles with him, after rehearsal drinks with his friends, smoking in a field together one of the rare times he was free from his filled schedule.

sometimes you couldn’t help but miss it. but then came the.. not so pleasant memories. the tears, the sore throat after screaming at each other, the way he’d always leave after an argument.

“please, scara! i just want you here with me. just this once. it’s been three years. give me this at least, please. i haven’t seen you in so long.”

remembering your own pleads to him never failed to make your heart ache. it still felt as if there was something unresolved, even after giving him his engagement ring back.

“i don’t wanna fucking see you (y/n)! id rather spend time with my friends doing something i enjoy than wasting my time with you.”

here comes the waterworks. tears would prick in the corners of your eyes when you remembered his tone that day. that angry look on his face.. he never looked so bothered before. it scared you so much that you still remembered it now, two years later.

it was strange seeing him on billboards and ads all across town and even on your own phone. in contrast to the angry glare he held for you, but an indifferent look to the public. would he still look at you that way? or would he look at you the same way he would everyone else?

curiosity got the best of you as you tapped on your phone, looking up his profile on instagram. there he was, looking the same as ever. maybe a little thinner but he still looked as beautiful as the day you left him.

a small smile graced your lips for a moment before it fell, seeing how much fun he had been having with his friends. you still kept in contact with kazuha, but never bothered to ask about him. you both knew it wouldn’t be good for you, so it was an unspoken rule.

“at least he’s doing well..” you mumbled to yourself before shutting off your phone. groaning internally, you knew this was a problem you had to deal with. this constant turmoil inside your head.

you decided you’d put an end to this. once and for all. you thought up a plan before texting kazuha, telling him what you wanted to resolve. despite his gentle warnings you wouldn’t listen. you just had to get through to him! make him understand your reasoning.

eventually kazuha gave in, and now you were standing in the pit to one of their concerts. it made you feel queasy remembering the last time you attended one. with your head hung low you waited for the group to start, they were opening for another up and coming idol group. it almost made you smile seeing scaramouche walk on stage with that glittery white outfit. the same glare on his features as before. he didn’t change, did he?

that sentiment making anxiety well up inside of you. you didn’t know how he would take it. seeing you again after so long. but you didn’t want him to know you were there to begin with, so you hid away from view, angled at a way that you could still watch them perform.

watching them now reminded you of one of the first concerts you ever went to of theirs, thanks to scaramouche getting tickets for you. that feeling of bubbling excitement and anxiousness when they were still so early in their career. you used to genuinely hope that they would make it, and they did!

his singing was stronger than it used to be, voice full of emotions as his eyes were fixated on the mic. a part of you missed this. coming to his shows, watching him give his all to the crowd of people that came just to see him and his friends.

as the group left the stage you sent a text to kazuha, walking away from the crowd and to the meeting spot he had told you about. it wasn’t like you didn’t already know where they were going, they always went to the same bar after every performance.

pushing open the grimy doors to the bar, you could see his back as you walked in. scaramouche was sitting at a table with his friends, drink in hand already as you walked up to them. you pulled out a seat next to scaramouche, crossing your arms over your chest as the guys looked at you excitedly, scaramouche not sharing the same sentiment.

“hey guys, long time no see.” heizou laughed loudly, patting scaramouche on his shoulder as they left the table. now it was just you and scaramouche.

he held this look of shock on his face, like he’d seen a ghost. his mouth slightly opening and closing, almost like a fish.

“hey.” you said softly, putting your hand on his arm. “are you real?” he asked you, now looking directly at you rather than trying not to meeting your gaze.

“of course i am, what do you mean by that? have you been dreaming about me too?” you ask, half joking but half serious as he had been plaguing your dreams for the past few months.

“don’t say things like that (y/n)..” he spoke quietly, taking a sip of his beer. you nod silently, watching him take a sip of his drink.

“i know, this is kind of weird. especially since i’m the one that left you but, it’s been haunting me. and i just want to talk.” you admit to him, looking down at your hands. suddenly your nails seemed much more interesting than to look at him.

“yeah, i think we’re due for that.” he said before sliding his drink over, taking your hands in his without warning. “look, (y/n). i know that back then i wasn’t great to you, far from it actually. i’ve thought about what you said to me that night ever since. i’m not asking for your forgiveness, nor am i asking you to get back together with me. but i just want you to know that i’m sorry. i regret wasting us, wasting what we had. i do love being an idol, but it doesn’t give me the same satisfaction as i got when i was with you.”

you nodded silently at his words, looping your arms around his neck as you hugged him. the words you had longed to hear were now finally being said. “that’s all i wanted.” you spoke quietly in his ear, your voice cracking with tears. “i just wanted that from you scara.”

you wiped your tears away as you pulled back, taking one of his hands in both of yours. “i want to be in your life again, not as lovers, not yet. but as friends. i’ve missed you all this time.” scaramouche nodded, taking his free hand and placing it on top of yours. “i can work with that.”

what you both didn’t see were the rest of the boys from 4nemo watching the scene unfold from the bar window. heizou’s loud cheering being shushed by xiao as both of your heads whipped to the window, red covering your faces in embarrassment.

taglist: @lemons4u @foxkunwoof @s-h-i-r-o-8-1 @felixilations @kaxukaxu @angelofdarkness2 @trxshhsstufftatsumimiko @ycugtf @nervouseaglelover @whorerificstuff @samarill

[esggs]

tired manager!Nanami x kpop idol!reader

He’s sick, absolutely sick of you. In all his underpaid overworked years as an idol manager, he’s never seen one as impossible as you. 

You’re the centre, lead singer, and the most popular member of your girl group ‘R0ck-Chic’. The princess of K-Pop. Ranked Top10 on Billboard and Melon, brand ambassador for Chanel. Photocards for $1500 retail. Face straight out of a manhwa, bubblegum-sweetheart personality, born a musical genius too!

But that’s just on camera.  

“Prissy bitch.”

Nanami keeps his thoughts to himself. He’s doubling as a bodyguard-cum-manager for your M-Net Music Show, watching you yell at your hairstylist backstage. She accidentally burned a piece of your hair extensions off, but hey, it was a fucking accident! The poor lady is nearly in tears at your cruel words. No one really likes working with you, not your staff, not the other members of your group, because underneath the Estée Lauder Double Wear foundation is a secret none of your massive fanbase knows: You’re a cunt. 

“Nanami-san!” At least you’re still calling him with honorifics, even though he’s cringing thinking about what harsh command your majesty shall bark at him. “God, Nanami-san, where the fuck are you? When’s our show going to begin? Can’t get on stage in time, can’t get my makeup done on time-” You cast an evil look at the makeup-artist, who promptly bursts into tears too. “- I’m surrounded by useless trashcans!”

Miwa, the leader of R0ck-Chic, hesitantly tries to calm you down. “Ah, yn, it’s ok, they’re setting up the stage right now so–”

“– I believe it’s prudent to look at the other groups’ rehearsals and analyse the competition, miss.” Nanami steps in. He really hates his job, having to babysit the most spoilt celeb on the planet. When he speaks, he means it to everyone around you. “Let’s all use this time to the fullest, yes?” 

(Later on he’d go and apologise to the people you brought to tears. Not that he’s under any obligation to do so, he’s simply a gentleman like that. And maybe he cares about your reputation.)

You grumble, taking the ice-chips that Nanami offers you. It’s hard to be angry with diet-abiding ice-chips in your mouth. “Don’t need to ‘analyse’ any stupid competition. R0ck-Chic has me, and I’m the best.” 

The fucking audacity, Nanami cringes. And she’s not even wrong. That’s the worst part. 

You kill it on stage that night. Broadcasted live, the TV ratings spike immediately when you come on screen, bootleg solo fancams flooding Twitter and your ending fairy goes viral. The photocard prices jump up to $2000. 

There’ll be stalkers tonight following the car. I’ll have to drive through the offside path. Nanami took all the security measures that any manager worth their salt would.

Only he didn’t account for how crazy your stalkers would get tonight in particular. Even the offside has large unmarked SUVs, waiting to trail your car to a standstill. Sasaengs.

You’re in your sweatpants, performance makeup off, texting away inside the car that Nanami is driving right now, clearly no idea of how much danger you’re in. A fan would simply take your autograph and leave happily. Sasaengs, especially ones of this calibre, would stab you. At least she’s not screaming. Yet. 

He’s very correct. Because the moment that he tells you that you’ll have to stay in the dance studio tonight (can’t risk leaking the group dorm location to the stalkers), screaming is exactly what you do. 

“You promised I’d go home!” You stamp your feet on the ground, chuck your phone at him, throwing a proper fit. “I’m sick of you stupid fuckers ruining everything! Everyone is dogshit here!” The regular migraine that comes after dinner-time drives nails into Nanani’s temple. “Nanami-san, you dumb fucking gasbag! I’m tired! I-WANT-TO-GO-HOME!”

“SO-DO-I!”

Both you and Nanami are shocked silent. No one has ever talked back to you since you became famous, and you became famous at the age of 5. It’s weird. It’s interesting. 

Poor Nanami-san now has to deal with all the drama you cause as well as this new problem: you might be growing a teeny weeny crush on him.  

Bonus: you have to buy a new phone. stop throwing phones. 

masterlist

a/n: I have insomnia and a bad cold. no one has suffered like me.

[augustinewrites]

in the years bakugou katsuki’s friends have known him, they have learned that despite his loud and brash personality, he was a notoriously private person. he seldom posted on social media, rarely did interviews or showed up on talk shows. the media still ate him up, his evasiveness about his life outside of hero work only leaving people wondering just what he was hiding.

“are you sure this is the place, denks?”

he kept his private life hidden so well under wraps that he didn’t even tell his bestest friends in the whole wide world that he’d moved apartments. they’d found out by accident.

kaminari checks his phone again. “yeah! this place is on shinsou’s patrol route. i don’t think bakugou knows, but shin and i have seen him walk in here three times this week!”

simply entering a building on its own wouldn’t be enough to rouse suspicion. the first time, shinsou had reported that he’d seen bakugou wearing his uniform trailing behind a woman in a suit - someone from legal or pr, he assumed - and kaminari had thought it was for a witness interview and brushed it off.

the second time had been a little more unusual. it’d been bakugou on his own, dressed casually with his cap tipped low and his backpack slung over his shoulder. kaminari hadn’t had much time to think about that one because he’d been helping an old lady cross the street, so he’d just assumed he was visiting a friend or something.

the third time had been downright suspicious, because he’d seen bakugou dressed casually and carrying two bags of groceries in his arms. this occurrence had been downright suspicious, and had prompted kaminari to make a groupchat to share his findings.

kirishima glances around the busy street, humming. though it’s one of the wealthier districts in musutafu, the street is quiet, sleepy, dotted with small shops and street vendors. the closest agency is three blocks away, and it isn’t even bakugou’s. “it’s kinda far from our agency, don’t you think? it’s way off our patrol area, and his job is basically his life. why would he live here?”

“that’s what we’re here to find out,” kaminari shrugs, pocketing his phone. there’s a doorman stationed outside the building, sending the pair a polite grin as he holds the door open. “swanky place though, don’t you think? maybe i should get myself a nike deal too! then i can finally get out of shin’s place.”

___

katsuki’s just gotten out of the shower, stirring idly at the pot on the stove when he hears a knock at his front door. he flicks the heat down a notch before heading for the door to peek through the peephole.

that’s when pro-hero dynamight, number two on the hero billboards, and a role model for children everywhere, leans back and mutters, “fuck.”

another knock, a little more insistent this time. “hey, bakugou? you home? denks, if this isn’t his place this is gonna be real awkward.”

“fuck. fuck,” he glances over his shoulder at the bedroom, then back at the door. this wasn’t how everyone was supposed to find out. especially not ei and denki of all people, whose mouths were bigger than their combined iq.

he lets the analytic hero side of his brain assesses the situation first. the obvious answer is that he could just…not open the door. it’s a good, quick solution in the short term, but will still come back to bite him in the ass later. when it comes to his personal life, no wall (or door, in this case) could withstand the nosiness of his friends.

his other option was to, well, open the door. just a crack, of course. feeding the vultures a half-truth would placate them for the time being, so he could retreat and come back with a better plan.

“hey! bakugou!” kaminari cheers when he begrudgingly opens the door. “so you do live here!”

“last time i checked, yeah,” he huffs, staying planted firmly in the doorway. he treats this like he would any interview, shutting down any unwanted questions with blunt, half-answers. it’s usually enough to deter most reporters, but his friends have learned to shrug off his hostility simply because they lack any self-preservation skills.

“can we come in?” kirishima asks hopefully. “we wanna see your new place!”

“no.”

he rolls his eyes at their identical pouts. “why not?”

“because i can’t trust you both near things that can stain.” he gestures to the hall. “now can you please get out of here so i don’t burn dinner?”

“ugh, fine,” kaminari relents with a louder than necessary groan, which katsuki immediately finds suspicious, especially when the blond places a hand on his shoulder. “i gotta admit, this is a nice place, man, you did good. i’m proud of you.”

katsuki feels it a second too late– the light tingling that often precedes–

he curses through clenched teeth as kaminari shocks him with a voltage just shy of a taser, body folding as it fights the current. his so-called friends take the opportunity to push past him and into his living room.

“awe, look!” that electric dipshit coos, picking up a picture frame. “It’s a picture of all of us at graduation!”

“and look at this one! this one is of him and–” kirishima’s expression shifts into genuine surprise. “this is the head of our legal department…and you’re kissing her! on the mouth!”

of course it’s then that the bedroom door opens, three heads turning to see you walking out, toweling off your wet hair. “katsuki?”

the pro, still crumpled in the doorway, looks away as his friends do a double take, then fix him with wide eyed stares.

“katsuki!” you gasp, rushing to his side. “oh my god, are you okay?”

“‘m fine,” he coughs, letting you help him to his feet. “aside from the two ass clowns in our living room.”

“hey!”

“oh, ignore him,” you simper, pressing yourself into his side. “he loves you guys, but right now…i think he’d prefer to love you from afar. at least until our housewarming party!”

“housewarming party?!”

[honeycrispappletree]

ivy // hajime iwaizumi ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

masterlist

part 5: ivy

by: frank ocean

Yn quietly listened to the city talk as she exhaled her worries through smoke. Her fire escape slightly creaked everytime she took a drag. Playing with the cigeratte in her fingers, she closed her eyes and tried to escape her own head. She should be happy, she’s getting everything she’s ever wanted. She’s excited, truly, but she can’t fully let herself feel good. She can’t shake the off feeling inside of her, that there’s something wrong.

Her eyes snap open to the screaming of metal clashing. She turns her head to Iwaizumi, climbing out of the window of the apartment onto the fire escape next to her.

‘Hey’ he starts, sitting down and leaning against the building wall.

She greets him back, and it’s silent for a few moments. One thing that yn loves about being with Iwaizumi is that they can sit in the quiet and it won’t get uncomfortable. Sometimes they don’t need to say a single thing to eachother, they can just breathe.

It’s different this time. The silence is heavy. In a normal situation, Iwaizumi would have brought up yn smoking immediately. He doesn’t though, and it doesn’t go unnoticed to her. She wishes he’d take it away from her, cup her face gently and tell her to stop. Look into her eyes like he loves her. But they continue to sit without a word. There’s something unspoken between them that’s making every moment of quiet more unbearable. Iwaizumi breaks it first.

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ Iwaizumi reveals. He keeps his attention on his sneakers.

‘What?’ She responds gently, keeping her attention on her cigeratte.

‘There’s just something i’ve been thinking about for awhile, and I don’t know how to say it. I just…’ He sighs as he struggles to find the words.

‘You don’t have to dance around it, Haji.’

He whips his head to look at her. He’s met with her side profile, exhaling smoke through her pursed lips. He furrows his brows in confusion, did she know what he was gonna say? Like she could sense his uncertainty, she put out her cigeratte and turned to face him.

‘We both like eachother.’

I thought that I was dreamin’ , when you said you loved me

Iwaizumi’s eyes go wide. He doesn’t really believe she just said that.

‘Yn-‘ is all he’s able to get out,

‘Don’t deny it. Please don’t deny it.’ she pleads, searching his eyes for any sort of reaction.

‘I’m not denying it’ He whispers, like everything might shatter if he says it any louder.

the start of nothing, I had no chance to prepare I couldn’t see you coming

She speaks in a lower tone now, ‘Friends don’t act the way we do’.

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He mentally yells at himself. He never knows what to fucking say. It’s like he’s drowning in his own head.

it started from nothing ooh, I could hate you now

‘Everything’s changing. I’m starting to get serious about life.’ Her eyes continue to search his, but it feels like there’s nothing behind them. ‘I don’t want to regret anything. I want you to be apart of it.’

‘I am apart of it’ he affirms softly.

‘Not like this’

He returns his gaze to his sneakers. This is everything he’s ever wanted. To be with her. For her to feel the same way. This might be the best moment of his life. He could almost smile.

‘I can’t’

The fire escape screams.

it’s quite alright to hate me now

‘What?’ She doesn’t understand.

when we both know that deep down

He shakes his head and repeats himself, ‘I can’t.’

Her eyes narrow and her tone makes a 180, ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

‘I can’t be on a billboard. I can’t be in articles. I can’t do everything that you��ve been dreaming about your whole life.’ He pushes himself up and paces to the other end of the fire escape.

the feeling still deep down, it’s good

‘You’re not making any sense’ she says as she follows pursuit, pushing herself to stand up. He turns around to face her. The lights of the city illuminate behind him.

If I could see through walls I could see you faking

‘You have a destination. You’re going somewhere. You have someone to be’, he explains, ‘I don’t have anyone to be. I’ll hold you back. You can’t be who you want to be if i’m around.’

If you could see my thoughts you would see our faces

‘And you get to decide that for me?’

‘You’ll see it down the road, or you can see it now’

Safe in my rental like an armored truck back then, we didn’t give a fuck back then

He feels like he can’t breathe. Her face of pure confusion has turned into a face of pure hatred. She’s never looked at him that way before.

‘So it’s you or being famous?’ She scoffs at the ultimatum.

‘That’s not what i’m saying-‘

‘That’s EXACTLY what you’re saying, Iwaizumi’ She sneers.

His face flickers with hurt at the change of name. He closes his eyes as he tries to find the words,

‘I want you to be happy, yn’. He looks at her with his whole heart.

I ain’t a kid no more

Her face returns to a blank slate, like she doesn’t feel anything at all. She won’t let him see her cry.

‘I will be’ she says softly, like it was a challenge.

we’ll never be those kids again

Before he can say anything else, she climbs back into the apartment. He slides his forehead into the palms of his hands. The front door slams.

we’d drive to syds we had X6 back then, back then no matter what I did my waves wouldn’t dip back then

Iwaizumi stays entirely still for a few moments. He fixes his expression to nothing before slowly making his way back inside. He breathes in and out deeply as he goes to the kitchen to brew himself a pot of coffee. He listens to the rigid spinning of the ceiling fan as he watches the coffee drip. He pours himself a cup. Wrapping his hands around the mug, he flinches at the temperature. He stares into his own distorted reflection in the liquid. He gently takes a sip, breathing in and out deeply once more.

everything sucked back then

And in the flash of a moment, his hand is burned, ceramic shards scatter the kitchen floor, and there's a mug shaped hole in the cabinet door behind him.

we were friends

more!

iwaizumi hates having his photo taken

HE THOUGHTTT IT WAS GONNA BE NICHE HE GOT STRESSED OUTTTTTT

kuroo knows if yn and Iwa got together it would ruin the band so hes against it

he was right

iwaizumi WAS gonna tell yn he was probably quitting the band but she thought he was confessing

embarrassing

kageyama heard EVERYTHING

taglist: @eggyrocks @v1oletfury @stagemanagerchronicles @iluvmang @nitasplace @wave2mia @jadeoru @walllflowerrrsss @tespho @piapiaweee3 @illuzminate @kr1nqu @itsdragonius

edit: half the tags didn’t work the first time idk why sorry!! i think it’s good now

a/n: fuck grammar dont talk to me I KNOWW ITS SOOO BADD everytime i read it i find a mistake i just give up. listen to ivy by frank ocean while u read it will make the vision. guys this took me so long for what. theyre so tragic. also when he throws the mug like hes facing one side of the kitchen and he turns and throws it into the cabinet that WAS behind him idk if that made sense

[lets-play-our-game]

Old Spidey, New City

I just came to my senses

Peter looked around groggily, taking in his surroundings. He was laying supine on a flat rooftop, several other building towering over him, the sight of huge digital billboards flashing brightly, incomprehensively, around him..

He had hit the ground, - Roof? - hard, and while the city around him was blindingly bright, he was sure it had been daylight he had seen before passing out. Either way, it was a dark sky that shone above him now, with just as many stars as he was use to (which was close to none on a good night)

In fact, he wasn’t even sure the spell had worked, it still looked like his city, but Strange wouldn’t have left him unconscious on a rooftop. They were both assholes, but not that kind. Not “cast a spell but fuck off before the other person realised it didn’t work” kind of asshole. Peter certainly wouldn’t have hurt him if it hadn’t, Strange had been upfront about the chances.

Must have worked then.

I live in another dimension

Fuck! It worked.

At least, the jump did. Time and research would show if this was the right universe. Had to make sure there wasn’t already a Peter Parker in this one, that mutants existed and he wouldn’t be dissected the first chance the government got, that superhero was still a job he could avoid signing up for..

Regardless, he was out of the old one, and his family would be safe.

Just, without him.

Peter stood and released a deep breath.

Fear is nonexistent

There was nothing he could do now, just hope the doctor could carry out the rest of the plan. He’d done his part.

Peter pulled his mask down over his face, whatever emotions he was showing gone from view, grabbed his small pack from where it had landed, and stepped to the edge of the roof.

*thwip*

Suit up and swing through the city

He swung high, avoiding lit windows and people out of their balconies. He was tired. So, bone dead tired and a fight was the last thing he was itching for. He knew a few good spots to crash in his old city, but who knew if they existed here.

As spiderman swung, he slowly became aware of the differences between the two cities. The ads were different for one, and what few brands recognised seemed to have picked different colours. Coke-a-cola had radioactive-orange packaging. He was not looking forward to a neon christmas, if that was a thing here.

Police lights were still red and blue, but the siren was different. That was hardly a surprise.

The biggest difference, and he almost fell out of the sky when he finally noticed it, was all the cars drove on the wrong side of the road.

“What the fuck..” He perched on the side of a building and watched the traffic, letting his camo take hold and blending in with the concrete he gripped to.

He shook himself free after a few minutes and swung on.

He was so fucking tired.

Annihilate, I’m wide awake Be very afraid

He found a rooftop that even in this universe didn’t have stairwell access, internal or external, which was perfect. He threw down his small bag, which contained little more than a change of civilian clothes, a few snack bars and a one or two mementos, onto the dirty concrete.

I’m in my own world give me space

Exhausted, he lay down, the bag as a make-shift pillow, and stared up at the sky, letting the noises of his new city, his new life, surround him.

Tomorrow, he might go looking for a better bed, food, a job maybe, hopefully a shower

Tonight - he just needed to get some fucking sleep.

I’m in my own universe give me space..

[megamindsecretlair]

A Taste of the Divine - Chapter 1

Masterlist Chapter 2

Pairing: Yakuza!True Form!Sukuna x Black!Fem!reader/plus size reader

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. slow burn. Monster fuckers unite. Dark elements. Kidnapped reader. Cursing, graphic depictions of violence, implied violence against women but not shown, mentions of blood and gore, Sukuna is aroused by violence. Sorry if I missed others.

Summary: Sukuna is the feared leader of the Itadori clan. There are rumors that he uses a pet beast to get rid of his enemies. Nothing but rooms and locations full of blood and body parts. He happens about a group of men who dared to cross his territory without permission. When Sukuna runs across you, he suddenly finds himself unable to kill you. Not until he figures out who you are and why you were so important as to get kidnapped. He takes over being your captor, whisking you away to his property, where he proceeds to play with his food.

AO3 Link

Word count: 5,763k

A/N: Could not get this idea out of my head to save my life. I hope you enjoy. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, reblog, or unhinged ask.

Taglist: @westside-rot @00aijia00 @amethyst09 @ciaqui @we-outsiiiide @browngirldominion @iv0rysoap @thecookiebratz @harmshake @judymfmoody @multiversefanfics @tvchi @twocentuar @umber-cinders @chaos-4baby @soft-persephone

Rain beat against the windows in a steady stream. Cold, neon lights shone in a haze just beyond, painting the sides of the building sunset purple and cerulean. Ads played lazily on the billboards, reminding people that even while sleeping, it was never too late to buy.

Rival clan Kamo had members holed up in a shithole penthouse apartment, awaiting the signal for when they could move. They spent the first few days playing cards and board games. They were strictly forbidden from turning on their phones. From going outside. From doing anything fucking fun. 

Yet, after a few days when they were tired of talking to each other, it was only a matter of time before someone broke the rules. There were only four of them. Each low tier members of the Kamo clan, some not even worthy of the association. 

They were a low-key crew, handling situations that required stealth and finesse. Like babysitting a sweet little morsel tied up in the bathroom. They were instructed not to talk to you, touch you, or breathe in your direction.

Days passed and the men’s eyes lingered a beat too long, licking their lips as their thoughts ran away on their face, or rubbing their hands together as if they could imagine what your skin would feel like. 

While on mission, they used no names. So instead, they numbered themselves. One, the leader, was bald with a stern frown permanently etched onto his face. He currently held the biggest pot of money on his side of the table, flipping through cards with masterful precision. 

Three was to his right, a man with long hair that reached well past his shoulders. It was swept back into a half ponytail, the rest running down his back like a black river. Two was next, a shifty and nervous sort of man who couldn’t sit still longer than a minute. Eyes were always on a swivel around the room, looking for potential threats.

Though if Four had anything to say about it, he’d say that Two was snorting the White Dragon and they were left to suffer through it. Four held the worst hand with his cards, but he kept his face neutral. He could bluff with the likes of Three, but One might see through him. 

A thump on the roof made them all look up. All except for One who continued to stare at his cards. Two sat up in his seat, moaning and chewing on his nails. He shook his head back and forth, getting more agitated by the minute.

“I told you we should have checked. This doesn’t feel right,” Two said.

Three sighed and rolled his eyes. “You say that about every drop of water that hits the roof.” 

Two shook his head once more. “That wasn’t a raindrop,” he said and pointed to the ceiling. Four looked at him, annoyed. This mission was freaky enough without the ghost stories. He took a swig of his whiskey, following the burn down his chest since it was the first interesting thing tonight. 

He stood up, getting ready for Two’s freakout to overtake the night. First it was the bird that flew into the window. Then it was the nail he found under his mattress. He went on rants about ill omens and angering the elder gods. 

“Then what was it, genius?” Three sighed, tossing down his cards because he also knew that Two was just getting started. A crackle from the lit fireplace drew Four’s attention. He stared at it and briefly wondered if dying by fire was worth the pain.

“We’re too close to his border. How sure are you that this is on our side?” Two asked. 

One leaned back from the table, tossing down his cards and rolling his neck. “I know how to do my job,” One said. He folded his arms and stared straight ahead. If Four wasn’t mistaken, he was pretty sure that Four was a hidden synth. Nothing but clockwork and oil pumping through his system. 

The first thing Four was going to do when the mission was over, was take his payment and go find a warm pair of legs to sleep between. Maybe this was burnout. Maybe he needed to check out that app his sister sent to him about that crap. She always thought his stress was too high. Always going on about going on walks or getting a pet or doing anything else that didn’t involve being a gangster.

Heh. He owed his baby sister a call soon. Their last conversation ended too quickly when she started talking about an asshole teacher and how Four offered to kill him. Or at least persuade him to watch his fucking mouth.

“How do you not know who Sukuna is? He’s the leader of the Itadori clan,” Two said.

Three laughed obnoxiously and clapped his hands. “Since when do you believe in fairytales? No one’s seen or heard of that made up bullshit. You really think that he has so much curse energy, that he’s lived this long? That he has a secret army of beasts who rip his enemies to shreds?” Three continued laughing, his chair creaking from Three settling into it. 

Two cracked a smile and Four poured himself another drink. The first two clearly weren’t doing the job. Four moved back to the table, bored out of his skull. In fact, he should probably check on you. He wouldn’t get paid if you went on and died on him.

Instead of sitting, Four changed directions and went towards the bathroom. The penthouse was decorated in slate gray and mustard. There were expensive paintings on the paneled walls, ceramic statues of bodies twisting, imported plants from all over the world every few feet. It was a pompous, underhanded way to show that the rich could buy anything, even nature.

Four moved down the wide hallway, big enough to park a sedan in and still have room on both sides. He knocked on the door once and your answering gasp was enough confirmation that he needed. Still..,

He opened the door, turned on the light, and looked down at you. You were on your side, curled up on the plush bathroom rug like a pathetic pet. Your sweater was stained and dirty, your light colored jeans worse for wear. The tennis shoes used to be a light color, but were now so dirty that it was hard to tell. The blindfold was still secure on your face.

“You dead yet?” Four asked.

“Untie me and find out, bitch,” you spat at him.

He laughed, tempted to kick you in your fat ass stomach for that. But he doubted you’d feel it. “I’d watch that mouth of yours,” he said.

“Or else you’ll try to stick your shrimp dick in my mouth? Might take me a few tries but I’ll bite clean off if you do,” you growled. 

Four laughed again and shook his head. “Never fails to make me laugh, bitch,” he said. He turned off the light and slammed the door. His anger at last getting the best of him. Stupid bitch. He had half a mind to break that reckless streak of yours. To fill your mouth so you couldn’t talk back for once.

You’d been nothing but a pain in his ass since they kidnapped you. You fought like a hellcat, scratching and biting. They had to punch you in the face a few times to knock you out and then drag your fat ass to the van. When you came to in the bathroom, you gave everyone a mouthful. And had been an annoying asshole the last few days.

Four rubbed his shoulders and walked away. He needed the money more than he needed to teach you your place. As Four walked down the hallway, he heard a series of thumps that made him falter in his steps. He looked between each of the closed doors, sealed up like a damn museum in this place.

He walked closer to one door, where he thought the thumps were coming from. He strained his hearing, awareness searching for anything out of the norm. Two and Three were still arguing in the living room but Four was too far away to hear what stage they were in. If Two was standing on the table and arguing his point or covering his ears and screaming loud over the other person.

Four opened the door he was in front of, arms up, prepared for anything to pop out. The room was dark but the window was open, letting watery moonlight shine across the carpeted floor. Looked to be some kind of guest room, all done up in cobalt blue. Four did a cursory sweep, just in case.

He turned around to the shadowy figure before him and jumped, screaming out before realizing that he faced a mirror. His heart skipped a beat as it caught up to the realization that he wasn’t in danger. He stalked closer to the mirror, chuckling as he confirmed with his eyes that he got scared by his own reflection. The other men couldn’t know this. They’d see him as weak and he couldn’t have that. 

He tapped the mirror once, for extra confirmation. Two’s conspiracy theory rants were starting to get to him. Next thing he knew, there’ll be Sukuna’s pet beast right behind him. He chuckled at his own thoughts and looked at his reflection. It became darker so he leaned in, opening his mouth to look at his teeth.

The darkness kept going, almost otherworldly so, and Four felt a menacing, thick presence at his back. The aura was indescribably heavy, bowing him at the shoulders. Going lower still. He had just enough energy to turn his head and stare into a pair – no two pairs – oh god – there’s too many red eyes staring at him.

He opened his mouth to let out a scream but a slice to the neck cut it off. His hands flew to his neck, warm spray of blood soaking his fingers. There was nothing to compare to the horror of feeling the heat from your own blood outside of your body. Hands stained red and sticky. Four stared into those red eyes and his last thought was of how Two was actually fucking right this time.

One opened his eyes with a silent gasp. “We are not alone,” he said. He hopped from his seat, flying to the edge of the living room where they had abandoned the majority of their weaponry. They each held their guns at the base of their spines, tucked into their pants. But the bigger weapons lay across the table, thrown haphazardly. They had gotten too comfortable.

The menacing aura was enough to choke him but he kept his mind on the mission. This had turned from a simple kidnapping to a game of survival. No amount of money was worth this, losing his life to the boogeyman. His people had forgotten the old world. Forgotten that the myths were merely legends once upon a time. 

The lights shut off as his hands closed around his semi-automatic. Two and Three finally stopped their incessant fighting and grabbed their guns. Gone was the twitching, sketchy conspiracy nut and in its place was a ruthless killer. A ruthless kobun for the Kamo clan. 

Three took measured, slow steps around the room. The rain seemed to increase in intensity. But that was only because it was quiet now. The water slapped against the windows. Purple and blue neon light shone in from the windows giving them just enough light to see each other. Or see anything that may have entered the penthouse.

If they somehow found a way to survive the night, they’d have no answers on how the beast got in. How the beast found them. Or how Sukuna even knew that they were on the this side of the boundary. 

One hadn’t lied. He was very good at his job. This building was right on the cusp of Sukuna’s territory but it was decidedly in Kamo’s territory. If this was Sukuna’s infamous beastie, then Sukuna was in the wrong this time. Honorless scum. 

One swept through the living room, keeping his semi-automatic up and at the ready. He communicated silently with the other two. Where the hell was Four? If he was back there missing with you at a time like this, he’d kill Four himself. 

He took off in your direction, intending to check and make sure that you hadn’t escaped. Reaching the door, he opened it and heard you gasp. “What’s going on?” You asked.

“Shut up,” he hissed. If you were too fucking stupid to understand what was going on, then the least you could do was shut that fucking mouth up for once. He closed the door and continued checking rooms, wondering if Four went out onto the terrace for a smoke break. 

He made his way forward, the crack of a door catching his eye. He used his gun to nudge the door open, the room too dark to see much of anything. Still, something was off about this room. Some lingering aura that beckoned him even as his brain was screaming for him to turn around and run and never look back. 

His boot squelched on the carpet and he looked down. His mind couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. His mind said he was looking at a mangled hand but his eyes only saw blood. Red. 

There were pieces everywhere. Half a foot. An elbow. One stepped backwards. The evil aura in this room was astounding. The rumors were true. They were actually true. Sukuna did have a beast in his employ and it was here to eat them all. 

He turned and ran to the door only to be blocked by a massive arm across the doorway. The massive tree trunk sized arm split in two. Oh god. There were four arms. Red eyes crept open slowly and a wide grin split open in the middle of the beasts’ belly. The monster stood on two legs, at least seven foot tall, and it chuckled. It laughed.

“You’re far from home,” the beast said.

“You’re in Kamo’s territory. When Kamo hears about this…” 

The beast chuckled and the deep rumbling laugh was like the crack of lightning outside the windows. “Who’s gonna tell him?” The beast asked.

One was no stranger to fear and he would not pretend as if he were not capable of it. But even as he trembled and gulped around the painful lump in his throat, he stared at the many-eyed beast and lifted his chin. 

“Your lord has no honor,” One said. Sweat gathered at his brow, tickling his forehead and he fought the urge to wipe it away. To move. 

The beast laughed again. And laughed still as he picked One up as if he weighed no more than a feather. It laughed and laughed as it took big chunks out of One, chewing on him like a snack. Blood sprayed One’s face, hot and sticky and stinging his eyes. His screams were no match to the sound of that maniacal laughter.

You 

The second scream had to be the worst one. Maybe because it was coupled by the sound of bone-chilling laughter. Something cold and cruel. Your arm was killing you from laying on your side but you were finding it difficult to roll over in this bathroom. 

The nauseating perfume clung to your nostrils and made it hard to breathe around its cloying scent. Why couldn’t these idiots kill you and call it a day? You hated being at their mercy. Hated the way they casually joked about slitting your throat or teaching you how to respect your betters. 

Assholes. You’d be a liar if you weren’t enjoying the sounds of their screams. But at the same time, you didn’t want to meet whatever the hell that thing was. You prayed that you’d remain invisible, small, insignificant. Not worth whatever that thing’s gaze was. Surely it was some sort of vengeful god. Malevolent beast come to feast on the world. 

You couldn’t draw attention to yourself. Couldn’t make a sound. In case the beast was capable of turning the knob, opposable thumbs letting you know that the beast was far scarier than previously believed, you wanted to remain on the floor. Better yet, you needed to get somewhere you could hide. 

Your options were limited. There were no other sounds outside your door. You knew that you were in the bathroom so you rubbed against the floor until you could heave yourself into a sitting position. You were out of breath, but you had to keep going. Had to get into the tub.

Hell, what was worse? The silence or the screams? 

You got to your feet and steadied yourself. You were woozy. It’d been too long since your last meal. Your fault. You couldn’t take your death lying down. You fought and cursed and insulted their dick sizes until you were blue in the face. They retaliated by withholding food. 

You’d take that over the way they knocked you out. Hitting you like a grown man. Your jaw still stung from it. Your skin would surely be darker with a bruise the size of a fist. The way their hands wandered while they checked you for weapons, tied your hands behind your back, and shoved you into a musty van. How they laughed over your figure as they pretended to struggle with tossing you into the bathroom. 

You didn’t know when they put the blindfold on but had to be when you were out cold. There was no telling what they could do while you were sleep so you learned to sleep lighter, waking up at any little sound. So far they weren’t hurting you. You couldn’t imagine why. However, you’d have to stop provoking the last guy that came in here. He was perilously close to breaking and you didn’t want to be around for it. 

You felt behind you for the edge of the tub. Rich people’s apartments like these usually had a tub on one side and a shower on the other. As if it was some subconscious misogyny bullshit about women taking baths and men taking showers. 

You scooted further down, tennis shoes scraping against the tile as you tried to figure out how you were going to get into the tub safely and quietly. You weren’t even sure that you’d be hidden from the door. But you had to do something. Had to try at least.

You lifted one leg and got into the tub as another blood curdling scream split the air. You were shaking with fear while at the same time feeling vindicated. Fuck those bastards. If you’d survive, you’d never take your life for granted again.

The sound of wet splatter hit the walls and you wondered briefly if a window opened somewhere. If there wasn’t rain pouring all over fancy furniture. You got your other foot into the tub and then sank to your knees, getting down into the wide tub and turned on your side. 

It wasn’t perfect. And you didn’t want to think about what kind of germs you were kneeling in. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

You waited. You jumped at every sound. Every scrape. Every knock of wood. There was a final scream as the last of your captors went silent. His screams still echoed in your ears. 

Your heartbeat thumped steadily, shifting your awareness inward. You ached all over. Your shoulder was killing you. Your stomach pains twisting your insides. You had a faint ache in your foot and you weren’t sure if you sprang it during your last escape attempt. 

How the hell did you end up here? 

It was the question that rang through your mind every so often when you weren’t thinking about escape. How did you end up kidnapped, taken, and held against your will like this? 

And the sick part? No one would know. You had a job where you set your own hours, the perfect introverted job. You didn’t have to talk to others when you didn’t want to. Didn’t have to set alarms for when you went to sleep or stayed up. You followed your body’s natural rhythm and was damn happy with your solitary life. You had friends, but they knew about your need to disappear sometimes. Go radio silent while you work on your special projects. Or pigged out in front of the TV. 

So here you were, stuck between how you were going to escape or how you ended up in this position. You lived a normal life. You didn’t go out of your way to hurt others. You gave money to the homeless and smiled at the janitorial staff. You weren’t perfect, but fuck. You didn’t deserve this shit.

Thumping steps traveled down the hall and you clasped your lips shut, throat shaking with your need to cry. You needed to alert someone, anyone, to come and help you. Or at least untie you so you could have a fighting chance. How pathetic it was to die on your back, tied up, and at the beasts’ mercy. 

The steps got closer. That aura. It was so intimidating. Sweat gathered on your brow, fear like icy spikes in your stomach. There was no way that you were getting out of this alive. With an aura like that, the beast could likely smell the fear on you. Lead it straight to you as if you had rang the dinner bell. 

You were so stupid. You should have used your remaining time to find a way to cut through the zip ties behind your back. Found a pair of scissors or clippers. Anything to get your hands free. Ah well. Didn’t matter this time. Because whatever it was that was outside of your door, you had no way of defeating such a creature.

Sukuna

You smelled delicious. After dispensing with the four-man crew that dared cross into his territory earlier in the week while traveling to this dump, Sukuna licked blood from his lips as he shrunk down from his true form. 

He hadn’t intended on striking against the Kamo clan for at least another two weeks. He’d been in the middle of his usual reconnaissance, following the habits of his enemies before pinpointing when to strike. 

These four were barely worth the effort. A small time, petty offense. But the rules were the rules and he had to enforce them. He grinned, picking meat from his teeth as he thought how these idiots still haven’t figured out that there is no Sukuna’s beast. He was the beast.

He had no qualms about eating his enemies into submission. Fighting for every strip of land, every pulse of illegal activity in the country, every dollar to join his coffers. And he’d be damned if even one cockroach stepped an antenna out of line. 

What he did not expect was the tasty scent of fear wafting from the bathroom. A stowaway. The imbeciles had hidden you somehow. Oh, that delicious scent. He followed it, already growing hungrier by the second. 

His black suit was pasted to him, slick with the blood of the four insignificant humans. Let their people find them like this. Ripped apart, Let the rumors grow. The beast. The beast. 

He approached the door and he sensed that you sensed him. Your body was shaking, teeth clacking. He could hear you through the door. He was getting harder by the minute just thinking about it. He pictured where he’d start first. If he’d bite your neck. Or somewhere he could still make you scream. He wondered what you’d sound like.

He pushed on the door and it gave way under his hand. He left a bloody handprint on the door as he swept into the dark room. His eyes adjusted to the dark, detail starting to fill in as his eyes relaxed. 

There you were. Sukuna chuckled evilly as he approached. You were too damn good. Each second brought a fresh wave of fear skittering down your spine. He inhaled deeply, mouth salivating with the thought of ripping you to pieces. 

You were cowed in the bathtub. Sukuna grinned wider before he really took you in. Your hands were bound behind your back. You also had a blindfold on. Your clothes were dirty and stained, a strange odor emanating from you. Your shoes looked like you’d been marched around in mud for the past few days. Your hair was wild and unkempt, riotous thick hair escaping your plaits. 

His smile disappeared. You had already been kidnapped. You weren’t part of their crew. You were a victim. Sukuna’s curiosity peaked. It wasn’t every day that he ran into this situation. He was no hero. Whether lord or pauper, a tasty meal was a tasty meal. But the urge to eat you was growing fainter the longer he took in every detail he could about you.

What did you do in order to get kidnapped by these thugs? What was so special about you? You’d clearly been here a few days and you were still alive, untouched. You were important to them for a reason. 

“Well?” You asked.

Sukuna was taken aback by the sound of your voice. He could smell your fear and yet…you dared to talk to him? 

“Quit playing around and kill me, I don’t have all day. Or night. Whenever it is,” you huffed.

Shocked, Sukuna laughed. Hell, he hadn’t been this surprised in a millenia. “Who are you?” He asked.

“I’m a nobody. Are you going to kill me or not?” You asked. 

Sukuna chuckled again, sucking blood from his finger. “Pretty eager to die,” he commented. 

“Not very eager to wonder when it’s coming. The wait is the worst part,” you said.

There was a hitch in your voice. As if you were no stranger to waiting or being disappointed. Sukuna tilted his head. This was bizarre. It’d been a long time since he felt like this, interested in something other than eating at the moment. You couldn’t see him. You were right to be afraid but still had the audacity to talk to him like that.

He had half a mind to break your spine here and now. Rip your head from your shoulders. Suck the life from your heart. His fingers twitched with the insatiable need to shred. Throat burned with a hunger that never truly faded. 

He stepped closer to you, stared down at your pathetic form on your side in this tub. It’d be so easy to lift his boot and crush your skull. So easy to snuff the spark of life that kept you animated. 

But he found himself hesitating. Withdrawing his presence. You gasped audibly, catching your breath. It was a wonder you held out as long as you did. He��d seen people have entire heart attacks after enduring his aura for too long. But not you.

“Who are you and why did those men hold you captive?” Sukuna asked. 

“I don’t know. I told you, I’m a nobody. Just an insignificant bug,” you said.

A burning in Sukuna’s chest made him want to correct you. To ensure that you’d never talk like this about yourself where he could fucking hear. He grimaced and scowled. What the hell kind of thoughts was he having? 

He lifted his hand, reaching out over your form. He’d just snatch you up like he did the others. You were their victim and it wasn’t terribly your fault for crossing boundary lines with them, but well. He couldn’t let you go.

What if you talked? What if your harmless story caught on the news like wildfire, spreading, until the legend of Sukuna’s pet beast was no longer feared. The real gangsters knew. No one fucked with him or his clan and lived to tell the tale. 

He had to end you right here and now. Go on and do it. Be done with it. Separate your head from your body. Again, he was unable to harm you. There were too many questions in his head. He was having fun not being the smartest person in the room at the moment. 

He growled and grabbed the front of your sweater. You yelled out, kicking your legs as Sukuna lifted you higher, more at eye level with himself. You scrambled, kicking and kicking. 

“Put me down!” You screamed.

Sukuna laughed. “Aren’t you scared?” He asked.

“I’m terrified!” You yelled. 

“Then how do you bark orders with the same mouth that should be begging for mercy?” He asked.

“What mercy? Go on and kill me and be done with this bullshit,” you said. You were still flailing but no longer screaming in fear. 

You were fun! He scanned your body, looking for some source of trickery. Some hidden agenda. He stretched his awareness searching for a hint of your aura to reveal something that explained you. Some part of your genetic makeup, some part of your clothing or jewelry able to repel creatures like him.

Nothing. You wore nothing, you had nothing, you were nothing. And he still had questions. He wanted to know more. His thirst for knowledge was almost as large as his thirst for blood. He should want yours. But even yours smelled insignificant. 

“Who are you?” He asked once more, voice soft as he regarded you. You didn’t make sense and it was driving him nuts. Driving him to the point of not wanting to solve you at all. He’d rather toss you into the nearest fire and call it a job well done. 

Tonight, at least, his curiosity got the best of him. He’d figure out who you were and what you were keeping from him. Then he’d get rid of you. 

“I’m nothing, a nobody,” you responded. Your lips parted and he felt a strange tug in his chest. Another weird sensation he hadn’t experienced in hundreds, if not thousands of years. 

“You’re coming with me,” he growled. He half dragged, half carried you out of the room. You didn’t fight him or scream. You didn’t try to tug yourself free. You kept up as much as you were able as Sukuna left the penthouse suite of the Kamo clan. He didn’t have to worry about security cameras as he turned off power to the whole block.

Rain pelted the both of you, soaking his shirt. Rivulets of red dripped from him and disappeared into the nearest drain. He ran towards his car at the end of the block, shaking you in his haste to get to his car. His hair plastered to his face and he growled. He didn’t have enough hands to move his hair from his face.

It may be the dead of night, but that meant little to a world still guided by its misconceptions and folktales. They told themselves stories about being safe because the government told them that they were. Nevermind the fact that the pent up anxiety they pushed down, the suppressed emotions, created a legion of curses to haunt the natural world for years and years to come yet. 

He couldn’t shift into his true form over hair in his eyes. Too many cameras. Too many onlookers. He pushed you into his car and you finally yelped as your shoulder hit the side of the seat. 

He quickly crossed in front of the car and got in, starting it, and tearing off down the street in a whirl of tires and smoke. The sound of the windshield wipers were the only source of sound. 

Sukuna kept glancing at you. At the way the streetlights and ads shone periodically across your face. It was maddening to see. And yet all you did was pant for breath. Your lips were parted again. Were you doing it on purpose? What the hell was wrong with you?

He could tell that you were still scared. Still nervous to be around him. But there was a soft acceptance in the way you didn’t mouth off or ask a million annoying questions. You were an unassuming presence beside him and it was a feeling he wasn’t used to. Couldn’t name. 

It didn’t take long for Sukuna to arrive at one of his many penthouses. This one was in the dead center of the city. If his enemies got through his defenses and reached the middle of the city, well then, they deserved to take their shot at him. 

He pulled into the private garage, turning off the engine and looked over at you. You licked your lips and he followed the movement, the glide of your tongue darting out from your mouth. Sukuna tore his eyes away with a scowl.

He got out of the car a little too roughly. Yanked open the passenger side door a little too harshly. Grabbing you out of the seat with too much force. He slammed you against the car as he closed his door. Then, he dragged you towards the private elevator.

No cameras. Exactly what he needed. He rode the elevator straight to his penthouse. It opened out into a spacious foyer decorated in black. He dragged you inside, growing impatient with your human body unable to keep up with his stalking gait. 

He knew the perfect room to throw you in too. Sometimes Sukuna liked to play with his food. 

He pushed you into the small room that had a million cameras set up inside. The room was decorated in an off white subway tile scheme. There was a bunk bed held up by chains drilled into the wall. There was a private bathroom. He found that allowing that little bit of decency made humans think he was merciful. It made betraying them that much more delicious. 

You fell to the floor on top of your bad shoulder and cried out. Sukuna laughed at your pain and shut the door. 

“Why won’t you kill me?!” You yelled, loud enough to be heard through the thick, reinforced door. No small feat. 

Sukuna turned and looked at you through the checkered plexiglass window. He smiled, grin spreading across his face and likely making him look feral. 

“The fun’s just getting started, princess,” he said. His haunting laugh echoed throughout his apartment as he left you alone for the night. Tomorrow, he’d make sure that you knew whose control you were under.

Masterlist | Chapter 2

[sehtoast]

Tender Threads ( Homelander x OC )

chapter one: first impressions

chapter directory

summary: holding the heart of a self-proclaimed god is hard work, but someone's gotta do it. who'd have ever thought it would be some nobody, a simple street level hero-branded-vigilante, who would ascend to one of the seven coveted thrones and do just that?

tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

It’s a night like any other in the concrete jungle of New York City.  A streak of red swings through the streets by lines of webbing, eyes peeled for anyone disrupting the peace in his friendly neighborhood.  Well, not his neighborhood exactly.  He was just a vigilante after all.  There’s plenty of fun to pick from, but only one instance could be so special to the city’s one and only Spider-Man– to Benjamin.

It’s not the quippy banter with the thugs breaking into the back of a bodega, nor is it the amusement he gets from webbing each of the fools in one big pile on the ground that makes this night memorable.  It’s the interruption, the anomaly that appears all too silently from the sky.

“And just what do we have here, hm?” 

The bug turns in surprise, steeling himself against the rush of anxiety that shoots through his veins.  This is no ordinary supe here to gripe about him stealing their thunder.  This is a man– a god, perhaps– in a whole ‘nother league. 

Ben would recognize him by voice alone because it was impossible not to hear it at least once a day.  Hell, hide the costume and he’d probably still recognize that face– because it’s everywhere. Billboards, magazines, fucking cereal boxes– you name it, he’s probably there.

Before him stands The Homelander, captain of The Seven, pretty much the face of Vought International.  World’s most powerful supe.

“Oh, y’know.”  He gestures.  “Riffraff doing what they do, and me doing what I do.”

“Nicely done,” Homelander says, professional smile etched into his face like he’d rehearsed this.  “You know, good work like this is why we’ve been nipping at your heels, kiddo.  Really wish you’d stop making us chase you around.”

And there it is.  This was no chance meeting– as if one of the big boys from The Seven would ever be caught dead in an alley in Harlem of all places.  Spidey cocks a brow behind his mask.  Vought must be desperate.

See, he’s been particularly unlucky lately.  

Even before he donned the mantle of Spider-Man, it was never about being in the big leagues.  Benjamin mused upon the idea of it, but he could never find himself truly taken with the idea of selling himself as a hero.  Not only was the mere idea of commercializing his ability to do a unique good revolting, it would strip away one of the only true freedoms he has.  Of course, Vought knew nothing of his reasons– not that they’d care either way– and were ardently pursuing him to fill the now vacant seat formerly belonging to Translucent.

And now, as his luck would have it, they’ve sent their biggest dog to fetch their desired toy.

Benjamin’s sixth sense tells him nothing in the moment.  No hidden danger, no tickling of warnings to bolt.  A goose chase spanning two months finally coming to a titanic head as The fucking Homelander himself holds him not-quite-hostage in an alleyway. 

“You’re still their top pick, you know,” Homelander says, nodding over to the webbed pile of crooks.  “You play by their rules without even being on the team.  A little… sloppy, but effective.  Tell me, how is it you’re going to turn down a spot in the biggest of the big leagues, hm?  You’ve pretty much skipped the line.”  Homelander scuffs the sole of his boot against the ground, kicking a pebble to the side as he meanders closer.  “What, is vigilantism more fun?  You like having all those warrants?  Vought could clear ‘em up.  Get you set straight in the eyes of the law, make you official.  Pay you for your late night troubles…”

Ben bristles as he comes closer.  It’s not the proximity necessarily, it’s… 

It’s like he’s looking straight through the mask.  

Benjamin releases a tight breath.  “My answer isn’t changing.” He says firmly, despite the anxiety cooking in his chest.  He is not a confident man by any stretch.  The most bravado he’ll ever know in his life comes from being Spidey.  Nobody can see him– nobody knows who he is when he’s got the mask on. He can be whoever he wants.  But right now he feels see through.  

Pick your words carefully,  he thinks to himself.

“I’m not a show pony for Vought to extort.”

Don’t cave– do not give him that satisfaction.  It’s what he wants.

He wouldn’t work for Vought.  He’s chosen years of barely scraping by rather than taking a tech job with them as a regular person, why the fuck would he do it as a supe?  What, he’s just supposed to ignore the endless skeletons in their closet?  The pain and suffering, all the people he’s seen online talking about how Vought threw money at them to not sue after some accident or another only to up and disappear?  

Ben idolized heroes for so long.  His powers didn’t manifest until his late teens and he grew up wanting to be just like the superheroes that made the world a better place– until he realized that those types were so few and far between that they might as well not even exist.  All of his childhood heroes were NDAs and settlements, pain and suffering, all covered with media stunts and weak, lazy apologies.  Posters were torn down, action figures tossed in the trash– he moved on and eventually became the hero he wished his idols would've been.

“Show pony? Pfffft,” Homelander laughs, blowing a raspberry.  “Please.  Look at yourself.  Skin tight red and blue suit, leaving messes of webs everywhere you go.  Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you’re already there.”

“They parade you guys around like trophies,” Ben counters, trying to keep the edge off his tone.  “I’m not in this to make money for some rich-fuck shareholders, y’know.”

“And?  See, you told every single agent before me that you were in ‘this’ to make a difference.”

Fuck.

“You know how much fucking range you’d have in The Seven?”  Homelander splays his arms wide as if to show the scale of the world.  Agitation is starting to write itself on his face, leaking free in the twitches of his eye and those rapid blinks.  He clearly didn’t expect to have to work for this.  “You could help anyone anywhere, all you have to do is say yes.”

The worst part?  That’s not technically a lie.  And it’s not not tempting. 

“I’m sure you’ll see reason,”  Homelander smirks, sauntering just the slightest bit closer.  “Benjamin.”

The bug’s heart drops to his gut, eyes going wide and glancing in the direction of the pile of webbed crooks in the hopes they neither heard nor will a last name be following. 

Fuck, fuck– 

They have his name. 

“Don’t–”

“Don’t what?”  Homelander asks innocently, lips curling even sharper.  “You really thought we wouldn’t know who you are?  Pff– hah!  Please.”

Closer and closer, every step feeling like a lifetime.

“I can see through that mask, you know.  Can see how scared you are.” Homelander tuts as he comes within arms reach.  “I can hear the pitter patter of your little heart…”

Ben gulps, breaths coming heavy.

“And…”  Homelander leans forward, voice a whisper. “I’m sure you understand, Mister Colyer, that I could kill you right now…”  A hand falls to rest on Ben’s shoulder, gripping tight.  “I really don’t like being told no.”

Ben’s voice shakes and his knees quake, totally ready to dart as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“I'm… not– I'm not doing it.”

His sixth sense doesn’t stir.

Homelander’s bluffing.  But, really… So is he.

It’s like the world froze.  Time stands still as they stare at one another.  Benjamin can see the anger dancing in Homelander’s eyes, but nothing comes of it.

Not even when the bug backs away and that leather clad hands falls free from his shoulder.

“Look, uh… this was nice, y’know?”

Smooth, Ben.  Smooth.

“But uh, just call me Randy Jackson, because it’s uhm... it's gonna be a no from me, dawg.”  Terrible time for humor, but something had to break the tension.  “Goodbye, Homelander.” 

And with that, Ben bolts, vaulting up and off the side of a building to propel himself into the night.  

Homelander remains in the alley, still stunned, a piercing ring deafening the world around him.  He lingers, thoughts racing.

Turned down by the bug, huh champ?

Of course, of fucking course there would be some commentary.

“Hey big guy, you gonna let us go?”  

And of course there’s some filth bold enough to interrupt him.

Homelander turns, eye twitching as he scans the pile of mud practically cocooned in webbing.  They expect him to release them.  After all, Spider-Man is a vigilante.  None of his catches are technically official, though there’s usually enough evidence for that fact to be ignored.

“C’mon, you know we ain’t done no harm!  Me and the boys were just walkin’ by is all.”  

The man in question chuckles nervously at him.

Homelander saunters closer, hands behind his back.  He stands over the man, inspecting every little detail.  The growing fear in his eyes, the way he sweats.

Putrid. Echoes the voice in his mind.  Remind them of who they’re talking to. Of the god they disrespect.

He lifts his foot, placing it dead center on the man’s chest.

“No– please, I didn’t–”

He presses down slowly, grin etching onto his face as pleas turn to tight gasps.  The others in the webbing try to scramble, but they can’t escape.

They’re at his mercy.  As they should be.

A crunching sound precedes his favorite part.  Ribs and muscle give way and a loud squelch graces his ears and the ringing– oh the ringing stops. It's serene, knowing what power he holds.  What iron fist he truly has wrapped around the neck of this world.

Attaboy.

To think they’d think him so low as to aid them.  To think they’d get to live after seeing him rejected so brazenly.

Now for the rest.

As he takes care of the others, he wonders just how persuasive he'll need to be with the little spider.  What threads must he pull to get his way?

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

As Long As No One Knows, Then Nobody Can Care

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

2.6k words

Warnings: Language, lying/sneaking around, kissing, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, fluff & flirting

You floated up to your bedroom late that night. And the next morning when you came down for breakfast. And while you walked next to your dad through the parking lot.

It had been a perfect evening. After a bit of making out with Roy, he wrapped his arm around you and let you lean on his shoulder for the rest of the movie, unabashedly glancing at you during all the romantic moments that were nothing compared to the look in his eye. After the movie, he walked you to your car, kissing you against the car door and promising to see you at training the next day.

And see you he did. When you followed your dad into the coaches’ office, Roy caught your eye from the changing room, where he stood holding his kit. He offered you that fucking smirk, raising a cool eyebrow at you before slipping his shirt on.

Fuck, he was going to be the death of you.

You spent the morning organizing some paperwork for your dad while the men were on the pitch, pretending that you weren’t thinking about Roy Kent and the way he’d kissed you. Once you finished, you joined your dad on the sidelines, wondering it was obvious that you were struggling more than usual to keep your eyes off of Roy. You smiled as you watched him run up and down the pitch, feeling your heart skip a beat every time you heard his booming voice.

“You alright?” Your dad’s voice interrupted your drooling. “You’ve been actin’ all dreamy all day.”

“Yeah,” you stammered out, quickly averting your eyes to literally any other player on the pitch. “Just fine, Dad.”

That seemed enough for him. For now, at least.

Once training ended for the day, you made your way to the boot room with a question from your dad for the kitman. Finding no kitman and only shoes, you took a moment to lean against a cool wall and close your eyes, trying not to dwell too hard on the image you’d just gotten of Roy wrapped in a towel after a shower. It was always a sight that left you flustered, but now that you knew what kissing the man felt like, the scene was something close to torture.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?”

Roy’s voice had your eyes snapping open. “Nothing,” you lied, both relieved and disappointed to see him fully dressed now. “Heading home, then?”

He shrugged and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby. “Got that Nike thing,” he reminded you. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, clearly thinking, before opening his mouth again. “Don’t suppose you’d want to come.”

That Nike thing. His Nike photoshoot, for advertisements that would probably follow you all over on billboards and in magazines. But yeah, sure, “that Nike thing”.

“Really?” You couldn’t hide the surprise in your suddenly squeaky voice. You’d hoped Roy would ask you out again, you were desperate for this to be more than just one perfect makeout session during a Nora Ephron movie, but this wasn’t what you expected.

His face was clearly amused as he nodded. “Sure,” he said softly. “Need someone there who’ll tell me if I look fucking stupid. What d’you say?”

What you wanted to say was that he’d never look stupid. What you wanted to say was that you’d go anywhere, do anything, as long as he was there too. But thankfully, you had some semblance of self-control that allowed you to answer, “Sounds fun, Kent.”

It was arranged in quick whispers. You’d meet Roy at his flat, and he’d drive you both to the studio. Afterwards he’d treat you to dinner as a thank you for joining him. Both of you were fighting smiles by the time you’d finished making your plans for the strangest second date you’d ever heard of.

“Don’t feel like you have to dress up for these fashion people,” Roy added before he turned to leave. “Wear what you like.”

A part of you initially thought this was his roundabout way of instructing you to dress up, to not embarrass him in front of the chic photographers and stylists that would no doubt be there. But when you saw the gentleness in his eyes, you realized it was something different. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place in his world; he wanted you to feel like you belonged there. And damn, if you didn’t want to belong in his world.

After the two of you said goodbye with the tiniest kiss in the world, Roy slipped out of the boot room, taking your gaze with him. A Nike photoshoot with Roy Kent. You were going to a fucking Nike photoshoot with Roy fucking Kent. The thought had you wanting to spin in circles and squeal like a child. Instead, you simply met your dad at the car and half-listened to his chattering all the way home.

Once you were in the privacy of your room, you scoured your closet for the right outfit. You settled on a short, simple dress, one that you usually saved for nights out with friends or dates. After a touch of makeup, you listened carefully at your door for your parents. While jeans could slip by them easily, something like this was a bit more conspicuous.

“You’re all dressed up. Special plans?”

Oh, hell. Why couldn’t your dad catch you last night, when you were in jeans? Why did he have to catch you tonight, with your tiny dress and your hair all done?

“Just going out with the girls,” you lied, lied, lied. “Grab some dinner, maybe hit a club.” You nodded, trying to act nonchalant, like you weren’t sneaking out to see one of his players.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Alright, love.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, careful not to muss your hair. “Have fun. Make good choices.”

The words your dad had sent you off with since you were a teenager rambled in your head as you drove to Roy’s. He would not like this choice. Lying to your parents, seeing Roy Kent outside of football, letting him kiss you and, if he wanted to, even more than that.

But when Roy greeted you with an impressed “Fuuuuuuuck” and a dizzying kiss, you found that you really liked this choice. A hell of a lot.

Over the years, you’d been to tons of team picture days. You’d seen your dad take photos with fans. You had waved at photographers on game days. You weren’t new to the fame that came with professional football, not by a longshot.

But you’d never dated a professional athlete and gone to a photoshoot with him.

Roy sat still in the makeup chair, eyes on your reflection in the mirror as the makeup artist worked on his already perfect face. You relished the way his gaze roamed your figure, the way he was clearly trying not to smile and make the makeup artist’s job harder. When she pulled out the mascara, Roy narrowed his eyes.

“Do I want to wear fucking mascara?” he called to you playfully.

“You do,” you teased with a wink. “Very hot.”

Roy nodded to the makeup artist. “You heard the woman. Mascara time.”

Watching Roy do his photoshoot was nothing short of entertaining. Lights flashed blindingly as Roy took different poses, looking gorgeous as ever in black Nike trackpants. A young woman kept scurrying up to you, asking if you needed coffee or anything, nodding curtly every time you assured her you were fine. The scene in front of you was enough of a treat. The photographer tried to get the midfielder to smile over and over again, but all Roy would give was a scowl; luckily, Roy Kent looked damn good with a scowl on his face.

“Come on, Roy,” the photographer urged as Roy held a football between his hands and quirked an eyebrow. “One smile.” He glanced over his shoulder at you, perched politely in a chair some assistant had brought you. “For your girl,” he tried.

The corner of Roy’s mouth tugged upward for a fraction of a second before he narrowed his eyes playfully at you. “Do you want to see me fucking smile?” he teased.

Pretending that your face wasn’t on fire at being called Roy’s girl, you shrugged. “Dunno, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Might be ugly as hell.”

When Roy threw his head back in a surprised laugh, the chuckling photographer started clicking away, capturing the rarest sight of all: Roy Kent’s real smile. Fuck, some part of you hoped they’d use one of those pictures for the ad campaign. But a selfish part of you wished they wouldn’t, so that you could keep his smile all for yourself, locked up in your heart and memories, away from any and all prying eyes.

It was late by the time the photographer shook Roy’s hand and wished you both a good night. Roy took your hand in his with ease, as though he did all the time, and led you out of the studio and back to his car. He paused, hand hovering over your door’s handle, before glancing at you.

“D’you still want to grab some dinner?”

His voice was sharp and gruff, almost as if he was expecting a no, but his eyes were asking you to say yes. It was a pattern you were already beginning to recognize: when he wanted something, when he hoped for something, Roy hardened himself, anticipating rejection and disappointment, the two things you didn’t think you’d ever be able to give him.

“Of course,” you assured him with a small smile. “I really worked up an appetite, sitting there and watching you pose.”

He chuckled and let his shoulders loosen a bit. “Right. Better feed you before you have your dad make me run laps all fucking day.” He took your hand in his. “C’mon.”

With the late hour, the streets weren’t too full, and with Roy keeping his head dipped, no one noticed the Chelsea superstar wandering down the road holding the hand of his manager’s daughter. Still, your heart was pounding. All it would take was one person to recognize either one of you, to snap a photo of Roy and his mystery woman, and all hell would break loose. But feeling Roy squeeze your hand as you turned a corner made you feel like it might be worth it. He might be worth it.

“Anything sound good?” he asked, nodding towards the rows of pubs and restaurants.

Your eyes flickered from spot to spot, wondering how full these places were and how easily Roy would be recognized. Finally, your eyes landed on an unassuming little hot dog cart across the street. Its dull neon sign and tired-looking vendor looked like the perfect opportunity to avoid unwanted attention. With a squeeze to Roy’s hand, you nodded towards it.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “A fucking hot dog?” His mouth widened into a smile. “You’ve spent too much time eating stadium food, you know that?”

“I’d like to not walk into a crowded restaurant with Chelsea’s superstar,” you mumbled as Roy guided you across the street.

“Good point,” he chuckled. He gave a quick nod to the cart vendor. “Whatever she gets, just make it two.”

You quickly gave your order, never letting go of Roy’s hand as he stuffed a few bills into the man’s hand, mumbling something about keeping the change. Hot dogs in your free hands, the two of you wandered down the road a bit until you came across a park. Roy nodded to a nearby bench, secluded and tucked into a dark corner. A tree offered ample covering, letting in only twinkles of starlight and a couple of rays of moonlight. The two of you sat, close enough that your thighs were touching, and began munching on your simple dinner.

“How’s your hot dog?” Roy asked, his mouth half full of food.

Some part of you liked how comfortable he seemed next to you; you wondered if he was like this with all his dates. You sure as hell hoped not. “Good,” you answered after swallowing a particularly large bite. “Although, I’ve gotta say, this might be the weirdest second date I’ve ever been on, Kent.”

He quirked a thick eyebrow at you. “Date? Who said anything about a date?”

The teasing glint in his eye saved you from any sense of humiliation. “Oh, fuck me,” you laughed, throwing your head back.

Roy’s smirk grew as he shouldered you playfully. “Oi, not on the second date, princess.”

“Prick,” you mumbled, leaning close and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Eat your fucking hot dog, Kent.”

For once, Roy did as he was told, although his cocky grin remained. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he opened his mouth again. “How’s school?”

“It’s school,” you answered simply. “I go to classes, I see my friends, I do my writing. Boring and normal. Not exactly exciting stuff to someone who plays in the Premier League.”

He shook his head. “When your whole life is this one fucking thing,” he explained slowly, “then normal is pretty fucking interesting.” His soft eyes found yours. “Especially when it’s your normal.”

“My normal is reading fucking books and professors telling me why my writing sucks and having debates with twenty-year-olds who turn their noses up at my opinions in class, only to approach me at a pub that weekend,” you scoffed. “Your normal is playing football in front of sold-out crowds and dating models and doing Nike photoshoots.” You nudged his foot with yours. “You looked good, by the way,” you added. “In your photoshoot.”

Roy took your empty hot dog wrapper and balled it up along with his own. “It’s kind of weird, doing that shit,” he admitted. “But at least the photographer was pretty cool.” He studied your face carefully. “Sorry if he made you uncomfortable,” he added, his voice quickening. “With that whole ‘your girl’ thing.” He cleared his throat.

“It’s fine,” you assured him, your cheeks suddenly hot. “Just the risk I take hanging out with you, I guess.” Another kick to his foot, to assure him that the atmosphere between you was still light and playful.

When you looked at him, his face was hard, but not cold. Thoughtful was perhaps the best way to describe it. “It is a risk,” he said slowly. “Us seeing each other.” As he spoke, he reached out and took your hand, intertwining your fingers together. “But if I’m being fucking honest, it’s a risk I’m glad to be taking with you.”

Oh, hell. Your mouth went completely dry as Roy’s words hit your ears and your heart. In the time you’d known him at the club- and now in private- you never thought of Roy Kent as the romantic type. He had dates, not girlfriends, and when he did have girlfriends, the stunning women tended not to stick around for very long. And while he wasn’t vulgar in the changing room, he wasn’t a prude either. He’d roll his eyes and mumble something about his latest fling and joke about how whoever was questioning him would kill to be in Roy’s place. And you’d sit in the office wishing you could be in some model’s place with Roy. Roy Kent was a player, and it didn’t seem like he wanted the game to end anytime soon.

Yet there he was, his words soft and gentle, his wide eyes asking if you were okay with what he just said. Something that implied that this was a little more than a few stolen kisses and a pair of hot dogs in the park.

“Worth the risk,” you murmured quietly, so quiet he almost didn’t hear you.

But he did hear you. And your words had a small smile appearing on that beautiful face. A smile so perfect you couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing it.

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@veryprairieberry @itswhateveripromise @slaymybreathaway @darkmagazineblaze @larascorneroftheworld @infinetlyforgotten @caught-the-feels @rae4725 @sisinever @cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782

[chlerc]

position rose ; charles leclerc

— summary; in which Charles shows up to his apartment with a bouquet of flowers in hand for you, and he realise that it is not just some sort of benign gesture. Will he finally see that it should have been you all along?

pairing — charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

word count — 2301.

content — friends to lovers, f. reader is a football player wow! Mason Mount cameo because I’m a loyal Chelsea fan and he did show up at Monaco Grand Prix 2022, praying he’s there this year. P.s she loves slapping his ass, what would Charles do with the bouquet of roses for you? Celebrate a pole position together.

NAVIGATION + author’s note: in honour of Charles home race weekend nearing its date and Barça champions of Laliga title! also does anyone know how to indent paragraphs

IF CHARLES HAD KNOWN better, the last thing he’d do was to invite her to the Formula 1 Grand Prix De Monaco 2023. Not when she’s right there sitting on his bed, in her jersey with his name and number printed to the back of her football club; it was the custom shirt she had gotten him when she first signed with the club. The athletic shorts clinging onto her thighs didn’t aid him either.

“You’re actually insane if you think I’m gonna let you wear that to any of my races this week. Shit, blue isn’t even our colour, Tesorino.” He complains, mumbling the last sentence out as if he was totally against the idea of her in those tight shorts. “You literally just flew me in from my hotel in Madrid after a match, didn’t say shit about bringing me here to watch the race, Charles. I thought I would have stayed at home to watch because of our schedule clash.”

He kept silent and winced on his part, she wasn’t completely off about that and the fact that he didn’t inform her of it. To be fair, she had known that he had a race this weekend and he would have definitely flown her in. Charles made it a promise to be at every match of hers, if he could and this was one of the matches he couldn’t attend. Not seeing her would kill him either way, it’s a win-win situation.

“Eh but you did win though, a goal and two assists. I’m doing you a favour by letting you recharge by watching me!” He threw her a Ferrari team shirt and black shorts her way as much as he loved seeing her in her own colours, this certainly wasn���t a time for it. “Anyways, why do you have another printed replica of the jersey you got me? Scared you’ll miss me that much huh?”

Rolling her eyes at him as she walked past him, his shirt and shorts in a hand, the other slapping him on his ass. “You need to stop doing that whenever you walk past me! What if they got it on camera? The next thing you’d see is FC Barcelona Femeni Player, Y/n caught slapping Formula One Driver, Charles Leclerc on the ass.” He eyed her as she made her way towards the bathroom.

Shit, he loves her curves of softness. With the muscle of a footballer and those damn thighs, she was the most astonishing girl he had ever met. She had safe eyes, perhaps that's the best way to say it. She had a beauty that made those billboard-princesses look as paper thin as they are, she was something robust and real. That was his girl, it was her before she was his and it was her all of her days.

He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of his best-friend in that light, but growing up with her and watching her mature into what she is today didn’t help. “You’d love that though wouldn’t you? On the front cover newspaper in the sports section and top hashtag on twitter’s trending, that’d certainly boost your Spotify stats and Instagram followers!” She calls from the bathroom, and he pictures her sly smirk on her face.

Yeah fuck, if he wouldn’t love being seen with her although their friendship was already widely known. A shriek escapes her when she runs out of the bathroom, phone in her hand and looking all star struck. “No one told me he would be here!” She shoves her phone up in his face, the Instagram story of Mason Mount by the McLaren garage.

“Mi Tesoro, you literally played against Chelsea’s Women's team in the Champions League recently. Why are you acting all fangirl over him? You didn’t even seem excited to see me by my garage, in my race suit if I must add.” His jaw twitches, watching her bounce around him. “It’s different, I see you almost everyday but I only see him on the pitch when he plays.” Charles hums in response, if that’s what keeps her going then he’s not going to stop it.

“He’s stopping by the Ferrari garage later, I invited him over just because I’m a Chelsea fan too, don’t think I’m doing this just for you.” He watches her jaw drop open and curve up, looking at him as if he hung the stars up for her. But fuck he barely even supported Chelsea, he had never watched a premier league match live even when he was in Silverstone for the race. Well, if that’s what it takes for her to look at him, he wouldn’t mind inviting any Footballers she loves to any other race.

Charles is starting to question if everything he does was for the sake of her smile. The type of smile that reaches his bones, the type of smile that extends to her eyes as the sides crinkles and her dimples on display. “Quit looking at me like that, we have to go if you wanna see your favourite boy on the track and I have a qualifying session to get to.”

“No, you’re my favourite boy for doing this for me.” And there’s a slap to his ass before he knew it, a strangled groan evades his lips as he slips on the Ray-Ban shades. “Will not be doing this for you anymore if you keep slapping my ass, that habit needs to go.” Charles watches as she runs past him, loving the way she donned his team shirt and pants so perfectly that it made him feel something, just a little.

There’s a bounce in her steps when she walks out of the lobby of his apartment, the sun set in the sky as fresh colours brushed upon an artist’s canvas, as if those rays were destined to create a great work of art. The rays dawned upon her, her tan skin illuminated in the hues and Charles watched as she turned around with his cap covering her face from the sunlight.

There was a softness to her appearance, a kind of warmth married to a shyness. “You seem awfully excited about the qualifying session and I wonder why.” He flicks his cap, sauntering past her as they enter the garage, where her eyes had already landed on the English footballer for Chelsea. “You have fun with him, I need to get ready.” Charles bends to leave a peck on her cheek, something he had always done before qualifying or the featured race, he thinks she’s good luck for him.

His fingers hesitated on clicking the Whatsapp icon on his phone and to open the chat with his younger brother. Once in a lifetime thing, it’s now or never and he fears he might never have the balls to do this again.

charles: get me a bouquet of roses on the way here would you?

arthur: lol for y/n? finally getting some pussy aren’t you? 😁

charles: shut up mate, just get them :)

arthur: 👍 but if you fuck it up with her, you’ll lose me as well.

arthur: dude i don’t even know how you got a barça player as your best-friend. 

charles: wtf picking my best-friend over your own brother?

charles: she was my best-friend before she became a barça player…

arthur: our best-friend and good luck for quali.

charles: yeah thanks, will do my best.

He shuts his phone off, walking out of his room in his race suit, the custom helmet for his home race in his hand. Greeted by the sight of his best-friend ogling at the footballer beside her with her headset on as he made a beeline towards her. “Hey, nice to finally meet you. Big fan, hoping the team does better next season though.” He pulls Mason in for a hug, a pat on the back before pulling away. “You head back to our home right after qualifying okay? I have a debrief and stuff, it's gonna take a long while.”

“Mhm yeah sure, good luck. Cheering for you always.” She mumbles into the crook of his neck, ruffling his hair before pushing him towards his car. He staggered from the impact of the push and threw a glare her way but never could he get angry at her. Not now or ever.

Sitting in the cockpit with his foot on the throttle, pushing flat out on the last straight before crossing the line with his last attempt of Q3, only two things on his mind. Pole position and roses. Fuck he didn’t even know what he was thinking with the roses. And before he knew it, the static noise from the radio broke his train of thoughts. “And P1, good job Charles.”

His heart was at ease clinching the pole position for his home race, hoping it’d go as smoothly as the featured race tomorrow. One thing off his mind now, the other thing weighed slightly heavier on his shoulders. He’s turning 26 this year, surely asking a girl out would be no challenge for him.

Charles pranced his way towards Max and Carlos, it was a Ferrari front row lockout for the weekend’s qualifying session. Sure he’d love to stick around and celebrate with the team, but not when his prize was right at home waiting for him. “Great work today Carlos, hopefully it goes as well tomorrow.” He clasps the Spaniard by the hand, pulling him for a hug as they make their way towards the Ferrari garage.

“Your flowers, remember don’t fuck it up.” Arthur shoves the bouquet of roses into the right hand of Charles, his left holding on the Pirelli Pole Position tyre. “Charles, I see you finally making a move on the Barça player eh? Good luck mate.” He’s taking the chance to tease Charles, but whatever it takes for Y/n. “Thanks, you’re a Real Madrid fan though, Carlos. Not sure if luck is needed from a Madrid fan…”

He’s in his room, swiftly changing out of his race suit into the team’s attire and attending the quick debrief with the team before leaving the garage. The strides he takes are huge, the roses in his clammy hands, the rapid beating of his heart blaring at his ears. Hell he wasn’t even this nervous during races or qualifying sessions.

Charles is met with the button of the elevator up to his apartment where his best-friend would be sitting on the couch, awaiting him to have dinner together. The elevator was a plain silver box with plain silver buttons and plain silver doors, something he took every day yet it has never felt as confined and as cramped as it was now. Not when his anxiety was eating him alive, everything he had waited for was right in front of him when the elevator doors opened.

The door unlocks with a simple reading of his fingerprint and he sees his favourite girl jumping off the couch and running towards him. Her eyes glued onto the bouquet of roses in his hands, her eyebrows cocking up at the sight. “Which fangirl got this for you?” She nudged him by the elbow, taking a seat on the couch like she was earlier. “Eh, it’s for you.” He hands her the bouquet, craning his neck away from her gaze. “For me? What’s the occasion, or is this some roses your fan girl got you and you give it to me as a donation.”

“No I got it for you, technically I asked Arthur to get it for me so I could give it to you. Anyways, I wouldn’t give you what my fans gave me, are you crazy?” He’s rambling and it’s so absolutely adorable, it’s the fact that he doesn’t know he’s only rambling when he’s nervous but she picked up on his mannerism anyways. “Mhm, thanks Charles. Congrats on the pole today, you were flying out there.”

She rises to her feet, leaving a chaste kiss on his cheek, her arms wrapped around his waist. His heart beating so rapidly and loudly, he’s afraid she might be able to hear it with her head resting against his chest in their stance. This wasn’t just a benign gesture like he thought it’d be, it’s literally a whole love confession.

“I don’t know how to put this but I think I’m in love with you. Okay, maybe not I think but more like I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I don’t think you ever realised how I’ve never been in a relationship, like hell I could have gotten anyone I wanted but it was you I was waiting for, for a long time now if you don’t see it. If you’re willing to give me a chance, I would love to make you the happiest girl alive. So, what do you say? Can I please be your boyfriend, mi tesoro?”

His fingers running through her caramel strands, calms him down a little at her stillness and quietness. “Say something baby, please don’t keep me in suspense.” He’s pleading, and never has he pleaded for anything or anyone. “I don’t know what took you so long to realise the same thing, Charles.”

“Took me Mason Mount and seeing you in my team’s shirt over and over again to realise that.” There’s a huge grin on his face, the deep happiness in the well of his dimples, those dimples that showed her the way home.

“I’d like to thank my brother for the so-so motivational ted talk of choosing you over me if I messed this confession up. I love you, you’re the best-friend I could ever ask for and I promise to be the best boyfriend ever.”

[dilly-oh]

Crush

“Kakashi, for fuck’s sake, it’s your turn,” Asuma growled around his cigarette, holding out the report as they stood in the hallway outside the mission office. “It was your turn the last ten turns. You ain’t squirrelin’ outta this shit again.”

“I need to go water my plants,” Kakashi said, slithering away from the others as he tried to make a quick getaway. Genma stepped to the side, blocking his path.

“Come on, man. That cute Chunin with the ponytail is at the desk. You know, the one you have a crush on?”

Kakashi froze in the act of levering the nearby window open, snapping around to give Genma a look of pure outrage.

“Excuse me?”

“You. Chunin. Crush,” Genma repeated slowly.

“What am I, fucking five?” Kakashi narrowed his visible eye. “I’m a grown-ass man who kills people for a living. I’m feared throughout all the nations as Sharingan Kakashi. I’m a fucking legend. I don’t get crushes.” He paused. “And even if I did have one on him, how would you even know?” Genma shrugged.

“Cuz you’re always walking into walls and shit whenever you’re near him.”

“I do NOT-” Kakashi began, then promptly kicked over the wastebin next to the door, scattering trash all over the floor. Literally everyone in the mission room snapped around and stared at him accusingly.

Even the Chunin. Who was, admittedly, very cute.

“You’d better clean that up,” he said, his tone that of a disapproving teacher about to mete out punishment to an unruly student.

Okay he wasn’t that cute.

…Godammit yes he was.

Kakashi hurriedly shoved all the trash back into the bin, slapped Asuma in the face with the report, and bolted out the window.

---

It kept happening.

Kakashi was just minding his own business, buying groceries at the local market (because even trained killers needed to eat) when he saw the Chunin fondling some melons, and suddenly the pyramid of eggplants he’d been perusing had collapsed, a wave of them tumbling down and rolling all over the floor in a vegetable tsunami. The store manager started shouting and Kakashi decided he’d just order takeout as he slipped out the back exit.

At the laundromat, he caught sight of the Chunin folding his tighty-whiteys and somehow mismeasured the appropriate amount of laundry soap, resulting in the washing machine foaming itself to death like a rabid dog. Kakashi had to put it down with a Chidori and then escape through a window amidst the ensuing chaos.

He knocked down an entire shelf at the library when he saw the other man bending over to reach a low book. He quickly teleported out of there before the man could turn around and see him standing ankle-deep in porn.

Late one night, he was leaping along the rooftops and spotted the Chunin at an outdoor restaurant, seated at a table with friends, head thrown back in raucous laughter. Kakashi sailed through the air, eyes glued to the sight, so he didn’t see the billboard until it was too late.

It couldn’t go on like this.

---

“Okay you might have a point,” Kakashi said. Genma gave a snort.

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t even know his name-”

“Iruka.”

“Iruka? Oh GOD, even his name is fucking adorable.” Kakashi covered his face with his hands and took a deep, calming breath. “…Who else knows?”

“Everyone, Kakashi,” Genma said flatly. “Everyone knows. Even the Hokage knows.”

“Alright then.” Kakashi straightened with a determined air. “It seems pretty obvious what I need to do.” Genma stared at him for a long moment, chewing on his senbon.

“…Actually talk to the man and have a heartful confession about your true feelings?”

“Fuck no. Avoid him for the rest of my life.”

“Oh thank God I thought you were gonna say ‘kill him’.”

“Maybe I should start avoiding you, too.” Kakashi narrowed his eyes. “My plan will work, just you wait. I’m not called a genius for nothing.”

---

“Kakashi, meet your new mission partner,” the Sandaime said, standing in the doorway of his office and patting Iruka proudly on the shoulder.

Kakashi nearly spit out his tea. Through his mask.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he choked out. This mission debriefing had gone to shit, and he’d been sitting there all of five seconds. The Sandaime frowned at him, wrinkles deepening with displeasure.

“I will not have you looking down on young Iruka here simply because he’s a Chunin,” he said firmly, taking a seat at his desk. “What he lacks in experience he more than makes up with sheer determination. He will be a great asset for this two-man mission and I hand-picked him for exactly that reason.”

“Understood,” Kakashi said, switching to mission mode in the vain attempt it would help distract from the overwhelming presence of the other man. It didn’t. Iruka took a seat right next to him, their thighs so close Kakashi could almost feel his body heat. He pushed his chair away a few inches for some breathing room and knocked over a potted plant.

“You two will be travelling deep into the Forest of Death,” the Hokage explained. Kakashi hid a wince. The Forest of Death has worsened over the years, rotting from the inside like a fruit gone bad. It had devolved into a festering jungle filled with mutated beasts that would messily devour their bodies and environmental hazards that would devour their chakra. But as long as they were careful-

Iruka crossed his legs and Kakashi bumped a pile of papers off the Hokage’s desk.

Yeah, they were in trouble.

“Your mission consists of two parts,” the Hokage went on. “The first is to reach these coordinates.” He handed the pair a scrap of paper with a set of numbers scribbled on it. “The second part is in this.” He held out a small, innocuous scroll. “It contains special instructions, only to be read once you’ve reached the site. Not before. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Kakashi said with grim resignation as he accepted the scroll and tucked it safely away. He just needed to get through this mission as fast as humanly possible, then he could go back to smothering his emotions under a metaphorical pillow. It would just be a few hours. He could DO this.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” Iruka said, giving him a dazzling smile.

Kakashi spilled his cup of tea all over his lap.

…It was going to be a long mission.

---

The trek through the Forest of Death lived up to its name. It was a long, arduous journey through the dark, twisted woods, fraught with danger at every turn. Kakashi was on edge, painfully aware that, with one misstep, nearly everything in the jungle, plant and animal included, was capable of killing him at a moment’s notice.

That is, if Iruka didn’t kill him first.

Kakashi fell on an anthill and suffered a dozen venomous stings when the man decided to adjust his ponytail.

He walked into a tree and was nearly strangled by sentient vines when Iruka wiped his mouth after taking a drink from his canteen.

Kakashi tripped onto a patch of brambles which started actively draining his blood when Iruka raised an arm to wipe his brow and his shirt rode up.

And that was only in the first hour.

Iruka himself was an ideal companion. He followed Kakashi’s lead without question, trusting his judgement and experience with nothing but polite obedience, even attempting to start up a conversation once or twice. After Kakashi bit his tongue trying to reply, he took to ignoring the other man, who quickly caught on and fell into a sullen silence.

I can’t take much more of this, Kakashi thought to himself darkly as he slogged through the mud hours later. Every inch of his body ached, multiple wounds stinging and burning. Or maybe that was just the leeches. Konoha’s about to have a Missing-Nin if we don’t get there soon-

“I think…I think we’ve arrived,” Iruka cut in, checking his compass and studying his map. “Yes, these should be the correct coordinates. We’re here.”

Thank fuck. The nightmare was nearly over. Kakashi slipped the scroll out of his pocket and unrolled it. The orders contained within were rather short and simple. A single sentence. Four words, actually.

Ask him out already.

Kakashi stared at the message for a full ten seconds, then promptly set it alight with a Katon.

"What the fuck!” Iruka cried.

“Meant for my eyes only.” Kakashi stamped on the ashes, grinding them into the dirt. “I was to burn it after reading to leave no evidence.”

“Oh, well, I guess that means it’s my turn to read this one,” Iruka said, pulling out a second scroll from his pack. Kakashi hurriedly snatched it away and ripped it open, scanning the contents.

Pussy.

Kakashi burned that one, too.

“Seriously, what the fuck!” Iruka cried louder.

“Mission’s done, we’re heading home,” Kakashi stated, then turned and took a step.

And promptly sank up to his thigh in the suddenly soupy ground.

…Oh fuck.

“Don’t move!” Iruka shouted in warning. “It’s quicksand.”

“No shit,” Kakashi snapped out, then quickly shut up as he sank to his waist. He went perfectly still, arms out to keep himself afloat in case he sank further. “Calm down, I’m fine.” He closed his eyes, concentrating as he released a flare of chakra to push him free of the mire. The quicksand quickly gobbled up. “…Okay, maybe panic a little, I’m not fine.” The quicksand seemed to have developed a taste, and was now steadily devouring his chakra with a voracious appetite. “Okay, panic a lot. It’s draining my chakra.”

“Damn, hold on.” Iruka started rifling through his pack and pulled out a coil of rope. “Here, we’ll use this to get you out- actually wait, I think you’re close enough for me to reach out and grab you. Quick, give me your hand-”

Iruka stuck out his hand. Kakashi’s stomach did a little flip.

“Fuck no, I’m not touching you. Throw the rope.”

“What is your problem with me?” Iruka demanded. “I hardly know you and you already hate me.”

“I do not hate you,” Kakashi ground out through gritted teeth. “Throw the damn rope.”

“Not until you tell me what your deal is.”

“There is no deal.”

“Bullshit! You’ve been cold and distant this entire time. You’ve barely spoken a single word to me in hours. The fuck did I DO?”

“Nothing. Throw. The ROPE.”

“Tell me why you’re being such an asshole to me!”

“Because I fucking LIKE you, okay?!” Kakashi finally exploded. The background noise of the forest fell silent at the sudden outburst. Iruka just stared at him.

“…What?”

Kakashi tried to stem the flow of words, but they all came spewing out in a rush like verbal diarrhea.

“I keep walking into walls and knocking over shit and it’s all because of YOU and your dumb FACE and perky ponytail and that fucking dorky way you tuck in your pants-”

“What’s wrong with the way I tuck in my pants-”

“-because I have a stupid fucking CRUSH on you!!”

“God, what are you, five?!” Iruka shouted back. “Why can’t you just say you wanna fuck me like an adult?”

Kakashi gaped at him, flabbergasted.

“ExCUSE me?”

“Admit it. You want me.” Iruka crossed his arms, looking him up and down. “I don’t really get why, though. I’m always yelling at you in the mission room. You got some sort of humiliation kink?”

“Okay, you know what, you can just leave me here-”

“Don’t act like you’re not a pervert,” Iruka snorted. “I’ve seen the kind of shit you read.”

“That’s not the same!! It’s a book, not real life!” Kakashi argued. “Just because I read it doesn’t mean- I would never- look, my dad taught me to be a gentleman, alright?!”

Iruka studied him for a long moment, then tossed him the rope. Kakashi sighed in relief and grabbed it.

“…So we’re not gonna screw after I pull you out?” Iruka asked teasingly. “Not even get a bit handsy? Make out a little?”

“Of course not!” Kakashi squeaked out. “What kind of guy do you think I am?!”

Iruka broke into a huge grin.

“Oh my God, you’re adorable.”

Kakashi let go of the rope.

“Hey!” Iruka hurriedly reeled in the rope, then tossed it out again. It slapped Kakashi square between the eyes, but he didn’t even flinch. “Kakashi. Please take the rope. I don’t wanna have to file the paperwork. There’s, like, ten different forms.” He still didn’t move. “Please.” He just glared. “…Take the rope or I start taking my clothes off.”

Kakashi seized the rope in a death grip and didn’t let go until he was back on solid ground, chakra-depleted but alive. His legs were a bit shaky as he stood, and he was covered in thick, viscous mud from feet to armpits, not to mention the squelching noises every time he took a step.

“Okay, honestly, I’m a little insulted you grabbed on so fast,” Iruka said. “Are you sure you have a crush on me?”

“Will you stop talking about-” Kakashi went to pick up his canteen and accidently punted it into the quicksand. “MotherFUCK-”

“Yeah, okay, I see it now.”

“Look,” Kakashi said wearily, almost dragging a hand down his face before remembering it was coated in mud, “I just want to forget this whole mission ever happened, alright?” Iruka gave him a mischievous smirk.

“You sure you don’t wanna just bone?”

“Bone? BONNNNE?!” Kakashi repeated incredulously. “In a monster-infested jungle?”

“But I brought protection,” Iruka said, then held up a kunai. Kakashi refused to laugh, even though it was funny.

“Forget it,” he snapped. “A mosquito will probably fly up my dick and make it rot off.”

“Don’t worry, I’d suck it out.”

“Okay we are LEAVING-”

“Wanna hold hands while we walk?”

“Correction, I am LEAVING-”

"I’m serious, actually,” Iruka said, holding out his hand invitingly. Kakashi froze, staring at the proffered appendage like it was a bear-trap ready to spring. His stomach did another flip. “Come on, please? I don’t bite.”

Kakashi knew Iruka was just teasing, poking at the embarrassed Jounin with a stick to get a laugh.

Fine. Two could play at that game.

He reached out and took Iruka’s hand, their fingers twining together like old friends.

“…Unless you ask me nicely.”

Kakashi tried to yank his hand away but Iruka refused to let go, so he just reeled him in like a prize catch. Their chests bumped together, and he caught a whiff of the other man, a deep, woodsy scent that sent a shiver down his spine. He froze again as Iruka looked up at him, studying him with those big brown eyes that were not nearly as innocent as they looked.

“You know,” Iruka purred, leaning in even closer, “if you asked me right now…I might say yes.”

Kakashi gulped, throat suddenly dry. He wavered for a moment, uncertainty twisting his guts, then gathered his courage and barged forward.

“Umino Iruka,” he said tremulously, “would…you like…to go out with me sometime?”

Iruka gave him a blank stare.

“…Yeah that’s totally what I meant.”

“Oh my GOD-” Kakshi started to walk away.

“I’m kidding.” Iruka pulled him back, laughing. “Honestly, I’ve had worse first dates.” He looked at Kakashi and cocked his head appraisingly, a gentle smile chasing away the devilish one. “You’re very sweet. It’s refreshing, really. I’m so used to dudes just jumping straight to sex. It’s nice to meet a guy who actually wants to get to know me.”

Kakashi’s cheeks burned beneath his mask. Because it was true. He did want to get to know Iruka, and now he had the prime opportunity. Everything had already been laid bare, all the embarrassing bits hung out to dry. It’s not like it could get any worse.

“Now, let’s get you outta those muddy clothes.”

On second thought, maybe it could.

-End-

Written for @kakairu-rocks KakaIru Valentine's Week 2024, Day 3 Prompts: Crushes and Idiots in Love.

[eris-snow]

𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐏𝐚𝐲

Tags: shoto x gn!reader, angst

Having your memories given up was his choice. But just because he chose this path doesn’t mean that it was the path he wanted

Every time Shoto see you, it’s like he’s falling off the deep end again. Watching you from afar is always the most painful thing. Watching you forget everything he was and everything you had with him was worse than any wound on the battlefield.

And Shoto had fought many battles.

It would be fascinating, feeling this deep, sick ache fester if it didn’t hurt this fucking much.

He still watches you, even if you don’t know it.

He watches how your smile forms on your face, how your features lift as you laugh and how you look so much lighter than when you knew him.

Did he really pull you down that much? Will there come again when you face someone with that very same smile you tailored especially for him?

He doesn’t like thinking about those questions. It makes him spiral. He doesn’t like spiralling.

He’s sits on the same roof, admiring you from the same balcony window he used to come visit you through, with a trail of blood leaking from open wounds. He can’t remember ever using the front door once.

Sometimes, he’s almost come close to reintroducing himself to you again. He wants to. He really wants to. You were the first person he’s ever loved, and Shoto’s certain that you’d be the last.

After all, how do you love after killing it with your own bare hands?

Having your memories given up was his choice. It was to keep you safe after a particularly close shave with a villain. Your heart had stopped beating at one point, and you had taken a considerable blow to the head.

When you woke up, all your memories about him were erased.

It was for the best, he remembered thinking because as much as he loved you, as much as it hurt, it hurt even more knowing that you flatlined because of him.

That’s why when there was when the opportunity presented itself, Shoto flew out of your life the second you said “Who are you?”

Call him weak, call him a coward, but he’d rather you safe than you dead because of his greed.

But he can’t find a way to pull away completely from you. He’s tried overworking himself, consuming himself in his hero work, only to be reminded that his break spot is a billboard facing your school.

He’s tried dating others, but it’s never the same.

He wants to be a hero. He wanted it so much, and he’s finally got it when he hit the Top 3 in the Hero charts that year.

But there’s always a price to pay for what you want the most, because as he stares out at the people he’s sworn to protect some selfish part of him still wishes that you would remember just what you really meant to him, even after all this while.

[calicomarie11]

Eddie breathes out as he takes in the sunset over LA. The view from the roof of the firehouse is spectacular tonight, the smog taking on a golden hew as the sun’s last rays hit it. Christopher had actually picked up when he called, and even though the conversation was stilted and awkward it was progress.

He’s hopeful that Chris will be ready to come home soon, if only to be able to go back to school with his friends and get out from under his grandparents’ thumbs. This has been the hardest summer of his life, and it’s thanks to Buck and Tommy that he is surviving it.

Speaking of, Eddie hears the bang of the door as it slams open fast enough to hit the wall and rebound. A few seconds later he looks over to see Buck standing beside him, his face thunderous. It’s an odd feeling, to be happy when his best friend is so obviously upset.

Eddie lets him stew, sure that Buck will speak when he’s ready. His friend is not known for keeping his thoughts to himself. He hopes he doesn’t take too long, he wants to share that Chris actually talked to him this time.

Buck lets out a heavy sigh and Eddie perks up, ready to be supportive. “Something on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer right away and Eddie starts to worry that this is something serious, life changing. He really hopes it’s not about Tommy. He’s never seen his friend so happy in a relationship before and Tommy is a lot easier to get along with then any of Buck’s exes.

Buck turns to him, his face severe. “Have you been watching Hotshots?”

Eddie frowns, confused by the question. “No, of course not. We made a pact.”

Buck lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank fuck. Apparently we’re the only people who kept to the pact.”

He’s still confused about what a TV show has to do with Buck’s bad mood. He had thought about watching the show, if only to be prepared to support Buck if Taylor the show screwed him over, but Buck has been so adamant about ignoring the show’s existence that he’d decided against it. His only knowledge of the show comes from the billboards and bus stop ads of beautiful people in heroic poses that are ubiquitous around the city.

“I thought we were ignoring the existence of that show. What’s brought this on?” Eddie asks.

“Traitors,” Buck grizzles. “Apparently everyone has been watching the show. Tommy, Lucy, the rest of the Harbor crew. And Hen, Chim, and Ravi all admitted to it and implicated Karen and Maddie too. I can’t get upset about Harbor, they didn’t know, but I can’t believe my family would betray me like that.”

Eddie’s a bit surprised himself. Buck had been very forceful about ignoring first the book and then the show. He’d only had the one breakdown, that Eddie is aware of, about how stupid he felt when Taylor turned their relationship into a media empire. At the time he had barely restrained himself from saying I told you so. He had never trusted her, but Buck was hurting and it wasn’t his place to make him feel worse. He’s glad Buck’s taste in men is better than his taste in women.

Back to now, “I’ve never watched it, I swear. What brought this on?”

Buck sighs, his hand drifting towards his forehead to rub at his temple. “Tommy didn’t know about the history I have with the show and I was telling him about Bobby’s new job and he got really excited and told me about everyone watching it. Then I had to tell him about Taylor and he told me about Randy.”

“Randy?” Eddie says, the confusion apparent in his voice.

Buck turns to Eddie, his face too conflicted for Eddie to accurately parse the emotions there. “Do you really want to know?”

And Eddie has to stop and think about it. Because, of course he wants to know what is bothering Buck, but at the same time, he’s dealing with so much emotional fallout from his actions in the spring that he’s not sure what impact one more bombshell might have. Will this be the thing that sends him teetering over the edge? But surely Buck would keep it locked down if he really thought this would send him into a spiral.

“Let it rip,” Eddie says, trying to sound confident.

Buck looks at him curiously, not entirely sure about that response. “Apparently, a large portion of the fanbase for Hotshots think that Sandy and Ricky should be together.”

“And Sandy and Ricky are…” Eddie trails off in confusion.

“You and me,” Buck says, his voice flat.

Eddie stares at Buck, his head tilted as he processes. “But I’m straight. How would that even work?”

“I know,” Buck almost shouts to the skyline.

“I mean, I’m really straight. I’ve thought about it and everything,” Eddie says.

“What?” Buck’s nose crinkles as he turns to look at Eddie. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I was telling Frank about you liking guys now,” Eddie starts before Buck interrupts him.

“You talk about me in therapy?”

“I talk about my life and relationships with other people in therapy and you are probably my most stable relationship ever,” Eddie says.

Buck’s face breaks out in a wide grin and he bumps his shoulder into Eddie’s. “Aww Buddy, I love you too.”

Eddie shoves him a bit, his face flushed. “Yeah, yeah. Anyways, Frank thought it was interesting that my best friend turns out to be…bi? Queer? Have you settled on a label?”

“Oh, bi, definitely. I thought about pan, but I like the bi flag better,” Buck says with a shrug.

“Right, bi, and he asked if I’d ever considered you as more than a best friend. And I told him no, because I hadn’t. But it stuck with me, so I did think about it because we do work so well together and Chris loves you and it would make things so much easier.”

Eddie focuses on Buck, who is shifting nervously next to him. “But, I’m sorry man, I’m just not into dudes. Like at all.”

Buck lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank fuck,” he laughs. “I was afraid for a second there I was going to have to let you down easy.”

Eddie glares at him, not appreciating how relieved Buck looks. “Hey, you could do worse.” Like Taylor fucking Kelly he thinks.

“Eddie, I love you like a brother, but you are one of the most emotionally constipated people I have ever met and I’m a needy motherfucker. It would never work. You’d shut down, I’d get insecure and start pestering you which would make you shut down farther and we’d both end up punching holes in the wall.”

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this,” Eddie says slowly.

“Yeah, Tommy asked me a similar question after he figured out the Randy thing. And my gut reaction was hysterical laughter. But I thought about it later and it was still a hell no. Sorry man.”

Eddie tries to glare at Buck, but the twitching at the corner of his mouth ruins the effect. “Well, I don’t want to date you either.”

Buck nudges him again. “I know dude. Don’t worry, a few more years of therapy and you’ll be as emotionally healthy as me and then we’ll find you your own Tommy. For now, you can be the token straight guy.”

“Token straight guy? What about Chim and Bobby?” Eddie says, confused.

Buck just grins and jogs back to the stairs. Eddie follows him. “What about Chim and Bobby, Buck?”

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