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winxanity-ii · 9 months ago

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FATHER, FORGIVE ME

ship: father charlie x fem!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 4.1k a/n: ahhh….I just want to say I'm so thrilled with all the love and support for the mini Devotion series! It means the world to me to see you guys enjoying it as much as I do. And a huge thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday! I got drunk asf, and here's the rough draft I made while tipsy, lolol. Hope you all enjoy~ 😈✨..

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You wouldn't say you were a bad person.

Selfish? Maybe. Impulsive? Absolutely. But "bad" seemed a bit of a stretch.

It's just that, when you saw something you wanted, you didn't hesitate to take it—and, honestly, you had no regrets. Not until now, at least.

Sitting here, surrounded by the smell of old hymn books and dusty incense, listening to some wrinkly old man in a white robe drone on about salvation.

The whole thing was your mother's doing. She had this recurring phase, like clockwork, where she'd get bitten by the "Bible bug."

For a few weeks every year, she was the most devoted Catholic you'd ever seen. She'd call, text, guilt-trip—anything to get her kids back on the straight and narrow, even if just for a Sunday morning.

For the last seven years, you'd managed to dodge it. Moved out at eighteen and never looked back, leaving the duty of church attendance to your three other siblings.

Usually, someone would take one for the team and tag along with Mom until her enthusiasm fizzled out again. But this time, it seemed your luck had run dry—your sister had finally roped you in, and here you were, seven-year streak shattered.

You sighed deeply, eyes half-lidded as they flicked across the stained glass windows—all those saints staring down at you in judgment.

You couldn't help but think of all the things you could be doing right now. Sleeping, for one. Your bed sounded like heaven compared to the hard pew beneath you.

Or brunch with your friends—mimosas and laughter, not these monotone chants and the faint smell of mothballs.

Hell, you could've called Kevin over and gotten dicked down instead of dealing with this—

Your thoughts screeched to a halt, slamming against an unexpected sight.

The old priest, the one whose croaky voice was practically white noise at this point, stepped away from the pulpit. In his place was someone else—someone younger, someone whose presence commanded attention.

A man, tall, dark hair neatly combed back, with a crisp black cassock that hugged his broad shoulders just right. He moved with a sense of ease, like he belonged up there.

And damn, was he handsome. Handsome enough to pull your focus completely, which was a feat in itself given the circumstances.

Your eyes tracked him as he approached the podium, his voice replacing the rasping chant of the old priest. It was smooth, warm, resonant. Nothing like the man you remembered from years ago.

He spoke about community, faith, redemption—but all you could think was how someone like him ended up in a place like this.

You found yourself leaning forward, just slightly, as if drawn in by some invisible force. Your irritation melted away, replaced by a strange curiosity.

Maybe… maybe this wouldn't be the worst way to spend a Sunday after all.

The priest stood quietly at the altar, his figure framed by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows. A faint scar traced its way down the right side of his forehead, a mark that spoke of some unknown hardship or past misadventure.

He was youthful but with the stillness of someone who’d seen enough to understand patience and humility.

With each breath, the man seemed grounded in his presence, shoulders relaxed but broad, the fabric of his robe resting comfortably against his chest.

His appearance was almost angelic, yet the subtle scar and the weight in his eyes hinted at something more complex beneath the surface—a man of God, perhaps, but one who had walked through fire to find his faith.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow in appreciation as you stared at the handsome man up there. You leaned over a bit to your mother, eyes never straying from his figure. "Ma, who's that? Is he new?" you whispered to your mother.

She looked up from her phone, Candy Crush flashing on her screen. You silenced the snort that wanted to come out. Looked like she might retire from church early this year, you thought to yourself, seeing her early signs of disengaging.

She glanced up at the front, giving a quick look before going back to her game. "That's Father Charlie Mayhew. He was brought in about two or three years ago, I think," she murmured absently, barely paying attention.

Father Charlie.

You watched as he spoke, his voice strong yet gentle, his eyes sweeping over the congregation with a genuine warmth. He wasn't like the old priest—this one seemed to genuinely care, as if each word held weight.

You wondered if that scar came from something dramatic, some story worth knowing. Your gaze lingered, taking in the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips moved with each word. Something about him felt... magnetic.

You found yourself sitting up straighter when the two of you made eye contact—he blinked, his words stumbling just slightly, a brief hitch in his otherwise smooth delivery. "I, uh... I apologize," he stuttered, looking off to the side, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You caught the way his eyes shifted nervously, almost as if he was trying to regain his footing. It was subtle, but you could see it—the way he tried to pull himself back together, to get through the rest of the sermon without any more disruptions.

He cleared his throat to continue, "As I was saying... uh, the importance of faith in our lives cannot be overstated. We must always strive to, um, to do what is right, even when it's difficult..." His voice trailed off slightly, but he managed to steady himself, his eyes avoiding yours as he focused on the rest of the congregation.

It made something stir in you, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

You bit down gently on your lower glossed lip, eyes trailing over his form, taking in every subtle detail. The way his hands gripped the edge of the podium, the faint flush creeping up his neck—it was all so telling.

He seemed innocent, reactive.

You smiled to yourself, letting your gaze linger as he continued, noting the way he seemed to avoid looking in your direction now, as if afraid that another glance might trip him up again.

Maybe you should pay a visit to Father Charlie—see if you could break that serene composure of his.

You could already imagine it—the way he might tense up under your touch, the way his voice might crack if you whispered something just a bit too forward.

The thought alone made your heart race, anticipation bubbling up inside you, like something in you just knew—he'd be fun to unravel.

You leaned back in your seat, a slow, satisfied smile playing on your lips. Oh, this was going to be fun.

The sermon ended with a quiet murmur of 'Amen' from the congregation, followed by the gentle shuffle of people rising from the pews.

You glanced around, watching as people slowly made their way to the exits, some stopping to chat while others lingered near the back of the church.

The old priest was nowhere to be seen, but Father Charlie remained, standing at the front as he spoke softly to a small group of parishioners.

Your mother, of course, made a beeline for him. You heard her voice carrying over the hushed conversations, gushing about how moving today’s sermon was.

You rolled your eyes, unable to help yourself, and slowly rose to your feet, making your way over with an almost lazy stride.

As you approached, you could see your mother perk up, her eyes lighting up as she turned to you. "Oh, there she is! Father Charlie, this is my youngest, ____." She gestured towards you, her hand lightly resting on your arm to pull you closer. "You've met my other children over the years."

You could see the change in Father Charlie almost instantly. His posture shifted, his back straightening just a little more, his eyes rounding as they landed on you. He seemed almost like an eager puppy, his gaze bright and attentive.

He quickly pulled his eyes away, turning back to your mother with a polite smile as he nodded. "Yes, I remember," he said, his voice a touch softer. Then he turned to you, his eyes meeting yours as he gave you a gentle smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. I don't think I've seen you here before... ?"

Your mother gave a sort of laughing scoff, waving him off as she caught his attention again. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, Father, the day she willingly comes to church without an incentive is the day the devil is welcomed back into Heaven's gates."

You kept your eyes on Father Charlie, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head slightly. "Maybe I just hadn't found a good enough reason to come before," you said, your gaze locked on his, your voice light but carrying a hint of something more.

His eyes widened just a little, and you watched as a faint blush spread across his cheeks, his lips parting slightly as he blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Before he could say anything, your mother’s name was called from behind. It was one of her church friends, and in an instant, she was off, waving a quick goodbye and leaving you standing there in front of Father Charlie.

You didn't waste a second, taking a daring step forward, your eyes fixed on him. "So..." you said, letting your gaze roam over him before meeting his eyes again. "You seem awfully young to be running a church like this. I have to say, I'm impressed."

He looked bashful, glancing down for a moment before looking back up at you. "Oh, well, thank you. I just... I do my best," he said, his voice soft, the pink on his cheeks deepening.

You smiled, tilting your head just slightly. "Do you do one-on-one sessions, like other churches do?" you asked, your voice carrying a hint of mischief.

He blinked, clearly confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, you mean confessionals?" He nodded quickly, his expression shifting back to something more serious. "Yes, I do. In fact, I was planning on doing confessionals later today, after the services. Not many people take me up on it, but I think it's important to always offer the option."

"Oh, really?" you said, letting your voice drop just a bit, your head tilting to the side as you watched him. You let a small smile curve your lips, your gaze never leaving his. "Well, you wouldn't mind if I came to see you and... confessed, would you, Father?"

He stuttered, his blush deepening as he quickly nodded. "N-No, of course not. You're more than welcome to come by, anytime," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

You smirked, giving him a nod. "Perfect," you said, your voice smooth, before turning on your heel and walking away, back towards where your mother was waiting.

You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, the weight of his eyes almost burning into your back. And you loved it.

This really was going to be fun.

The church grew quieter as the service officially ended, people slowly trickling out while you lingered, waiting for your moment.

Eventually, you made your way to the confessional booth, the small wooden space feeling cramped as you settled in. The air was close, the scent of polished wood and incense hanging heavy.

You could hear Father Charlie shuffling on the other side, the sound of the door closing behind him, the rustle of fabric as he got seated.

You took a breath, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you began. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." you said, your voice soft, but there was an edge to it that you couldn't quite hide.

There was a pause before you heard him clear his throat, his voice coming through the small screen that separated you. "The Lord is always ready to forgive. Please, tell me your sins, my child."

You sighed, leaning back slightly, your fingers brushing against the hem of your dress. "I fear I desire a man that is just out of my reach," you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. "It's wrong for me to want him... but I can't seem to help myself."

There was a moment of silence, and you could almost picture the look on his face—concerned, earnest, wanting to help. His voice was gentle as he responded. "Desire can be difficult to control, but it is not inherently sinful. It is what we choose to do with that desire that matters. You must pray for guidance, ask for strength... and remember that God understands our struggles."

You hummed softly, your eyes half-lidded as you listened to him, but your mind was drifting. His voice was soothing, and you found yourself imagining what it would be like if things were different.

If there wasn't a screen between you.

If you could reach out, touch him, feel that innocence melt away under your fingers.

Your hand trailed down your side, your fingers brushing over your thigh as you let out a soft sigh.

His voice cut through your thoughts, sounding a bit uncertain. "Sister ____... are you alright? Do you hear me?"

You smiled to yourself, your mind made up. You leaned closer to the screen, your voice dropping to a near whisper. "Father," you began, your tone coy, "I must confess... I find it difficult to focus when you're speaking. You have such a... soothing voice."

His breath caught audibly, and you could almost hear the way he was struggling to gather himself. "W-What do you mean, sister?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, laced with confusion.

"It makes me think... sinful thoughts."

You could hear the slight hitch in his breath, the rustle of fabric as he shifted. "S-sister," he stammered, clearly taken aback. "This... this is not appropriate."

You ignored his protest, your voice growing softer, more intimate. "You know, Father, I've always heard that confession is good for the soul. And right now... I think there's only one thing that could truly absolve me of these desires." You let the words hang in the air, knowing exactly what you were implying.

"Sister, this... this isn't..." His voice was shaky now, the uncertainty clear. "I don't think—"

"Come get me, Father," you whispered, your tone daring, challenging him. "You wouldn't leave me like this, would you?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then you heard it—the slow shuffling as he moved. The sound of his door opening, the soft creak of the confessional booth as he stepped out.

You pushed your own door open, stepping out into the dimly lit church. Father Charlie was standing there, his head downcast, his face flushed a deep red. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out, his eyes flickering up to meet yours before darting away again.

You took a step towards him, your movements slow, deliberate—like a predator closing in on its prey. His breath hitched as you approached, his shoulders tensing. He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, I... this isn't right. We shouldn't—"

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the front of his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You let your hand slide down, your voice a low purr. "Father," you purred, your eyes locking onto his, "I want you to take me somewhere... push me to a higher calling, yeah?"

His eyes widened, the pupils dilating as he stared at you, his lips parting in shock. For a moment, he seemed frozen, and then, almost as if the word was pulled from him, he whispered, "Okay..."

His hand was trembling slightly as he reached for yours, and you let him lead you out of the main church area, his eyes flicking nervously around to make sure no one was watching. He led you down a dim hallway, stopping at a small door that opened into a cramped janitor's closet.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him.

You pushed him back against the wall, your lips crashing against his. He gasped, and you took advantage, licking into his mouth, tasting the hint of mint on his tongue as a low groan rumbled from your throat. His hands hesitated for a moment before resting on your waist, his touch light, unsure.

You deepened the kiss, feeling the way he shivered beneath your touch, your hands pushing up under his cassock, fingers skimming over the hard lines of his abdomen. His muscles tensed under your fingertips, a shudder running through him as he let out a shaky breath.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face in the low light, and he chased your lips, leaning forward as if he couldn't stand the sudden loss of contact.

You let out a dark chuckle, your hands coming up to cup his flushed cheeks, squeezing gently. His face was a deep shade of red, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in short, uneven pants. He looked almost dazed, completely overwhelmed, and it only made your smile widen.

Your thumb grazed over his plump bottom lip, pressing gently before dipping just inside his mouth. His eyes fluttered, his tongue flicking out hesitantly to brush against your thumb before retreating. You let out a soft sigh, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Oh?" you murmured, raising an eyebrow, your gaze fixed on him.

Charlie swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto yours, his breathing ragged. You stepped closer, rising onto your tiptoes, your lips just barely grazing his as you spoke. "You did so well during the sermon, Father," you whispered, your voice low and dripping with suggestion. "It makes me wonder... what could such a blessed mouth do somewhere else?"

His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn’t pull away. You gripped his shoulder, your fingers digging in just enough to make him shiver, and tugged him downwards. "On your knees," you said, your tone commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Charlie sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was filled with a mix of confusion, desire, and something almost like reverence, and it sent a thrill through you.

You watched as he knelt before you, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the part of him that knew this was wrong, that wanted to resist—but the desire was stronger, and he couldn't bring himself to stop.

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair, your touch surprisingly gentle. "That's it," you murmured, your voice softening just a fraction. "Such a good Father... doing exactly what you're told."

You took a step back, your eyes never leaving his as you moved to the nearest wall, leaning against it comfortably.

With slow, deliberate movements, your hands reached down, unzipping your mini skirt and letting it slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You made a show of it, your fingers tracing along your thighs, sliding over your hips, and letting out a soft sigh as you watched him.

Charlie's eyes widened, his gaze following every movement, his lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. The flush on his face deepened, his eyes locked onto you with something like awe, mingled with pure, unfiltered desire.

You smirked, lifting one hand and curling your fingers in a come-hither motion. He hesitated only for a moment before slowly beginning to crawl towards you, his eyes never breaking away from yours.

The sight sent a thrill through you, a shiver of excitement running up your spine. He reached you, his hands carefully coming up to rest on your legs, his touch light, almost reverent.

His fingers traced along your calves, moving upwards with a hesitant slowness that made you release a shaky sigh, your back arching slightly as his touch grew bolder.

His hands were trembling as they reached your hips, his fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he let out a shaky breath, his fingers hooking into the waistband and slowly slipping your underwear down, his eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Once they were off, he shifted closer, his breath ghosting over your bare skin. He surprised you by gently lifting one of your legs, settling it over his shoulder as he pulled you closer, his face inches away from your most intimate parts.

He let out a deep, almost pornographic groan as he leaned in, taking a slow, deep breath, as if breathing you in. The sound sent a jolt through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Charlie looked up at you one more time, his eyes searching, as if asking for final permission.

You smiled, your fingers sliding through his hair before giving a gentle but firm scratch along his scalp, your silent approval. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh before leaning in.

At first, his movements were hesitant, his tongue slipping out to give an experimental swipe. He was sloppy, uncoordinated, his lack of experience clear, but there was a determination in the way he moved, as if desperate to please.

You let out a soft hum, the sound encouraging him, and he grew a little more confident, his tongue pressing more firmly. He licked a long stripe up, his tongue swirling at the top, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

"That's it, Father," you murmured, your voice a soft purr. "You're doing such a good job."

The praise seemed to light something in him, a low groan vibrating against you as he pushed in closer. The sound made you gasp, your back arching slightly as the vibrations sent a rush of pleasure through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He grew bolder, his tongue delving deeper, slipping inside you as he began to eat you out like a man starved. He was messy, the wet sounds filling the small space, his lips and tongue moving with increasing fervor, as if the more he tasted, the more he craved.

He bullied his tongue into you, his nose brushing against you as he lost himself in the act, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you against him as he worked.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet, but the soft, wet sounds filled the small space, making it impossible to ignore.

Your hand moved up, your teeth sinking into the back of it as you stifled a moan, your thighs trembling as he continued. His tongue moved with determination, pressing deeper, swirling before retreating, then focusing on your most sensitive spot.

When his lips closed around your clit, giving a particularly hard suck, your vision blurred, and stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arched, your body pressing against his face as the waves of pleasure rolled over you, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your thighs shook as you slowly came down, your body relaxing slightly against the wall. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. You gave Charlie a small shove, pushing him back just enough.

He hesitated, his tongue giving one last languid lick, followed by a reluctant suck before he finally pulled away, his lips glistening, his breath coming in low, heavy pants. His bottom face was a mess, his eyes half-lidded, dazed as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, your fingers cupping the bottom of his face, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek as you gave him a swift peck on the corner of his lips. He blinked, his eyes widening slightly, a blush deepening across his face.

Straightening up, you reached down, picking up your discarded thong, folding it neatly before slipping it into the pocket of his cassock. He stared at you, his lips parted, his breathing still uneven.

"Thank you, Father~" you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction. You watched as his blush deepened even more, his eyes darting away from yours. "You know," you continued, your tone teasing, "I might just have to come back for confession more often."

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, a mix of confusion and something darker swirling in them. You smiled, giving him a wink before turning on your heel, striding out of the closet, leaving him kneeling there, his breath still shaky, his face still flushed.

As you walked away, a satisfied smile playing on your lips, you couldn't help but think that maybe church wasn't going to be so bad after all.

A/N: hehehe, dont mind me, just wanted to see charlie's and y/n relationship in reversal...

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kxsagi · 3 months ago

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Hiii can i request a fic with sae with fem reader where she’s basically training him as the instagram boyfriend who takes all her baddie pics on instagram?? And it’s just him being done with her 🙏🏻

I’ve been reading ur fics btw I WANNA EAT THEM<3

https://www.instagram.com/share/BBBZ0w77HV

“𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧��”

a/n: THE REEL LMAO (the only right way to train your man)

man, writing this can make you tell i’m a gen z kid help

(art credits go to l_An_pi on twt)

"sae. the lighting. you're not even trying."

"i’m literally holding a reflector with one hand and your eight-pound camera with the other. what more do you want from me?"

you huff, stomping over in your knee-high boots and micro-mini skirt like you're storming a runway. the sunglasses on your face slide down your nose from the force, and you push them back up with a dramatic sigh. your hair is perfect. your outfit is curated. the sun is doing god’s work behind you. the only thing ruining this moment?

your instagram boyfriend is absolutely phoning it in.

“okay. do you want to know what the problem is?” you say, taking the camera from him like you’re about to do a TED Talk.

“not really,” he replies, deadpan. but you keep going.

“angle. height. passion. you gotta take photos of me like you love me, sae.”

“i do love you,” he says, monotone, “i just don’t love this.”

he gestures vaguely at your little shoot setup in the middle of the park. there’s a tote bag full of props, a change of shoes hanging from a tree branch, your iced coffee abandoned on a bench, and a small crowd of pigeons that have taken a suspicious interest in your lip gloss.

you ignore him. you’re in baddie mode.

“okay okay, let’s reset.” you twirl dramatically back into position and strike a pose. “squat a little. lower. tilt the camera. pretend you’re obsessed with me.”

he squats with a visible lack of enthusiasm, camera in hand, muttering, “i am obsessed with you, unfortunately.”

click. click. click.

“can you arch your back more?” he says suddenly, like it physically pains him.

you blink. “oh? ohhh? look who’s getting into it.”

“i’m not. i just know you’ll whine later if the photos don’t give ‘main character.’”

you gasp, clutching your invisible pearls. “he listens!”

he sighs.

click.

“sae,” you coo sweetly, “your aura is giving ‘held at gunpoint.’ can you give me, like, 10% more energy?”

“this is my maximum energy for this,” he replies, completely expressionless.

you pout. “but i need you to like... slay.”

“i play 90-minute matches in front of international crowds. i don’t need to slay.”

“you have to if you wanna keep dating a baddie,” you sing-song, blowing him a kiss before turning back around and adjusting your pose.

sae zooms in and takes a few shots. despite his complaints, the photos are perfect. he’s frustratingly good at this. the composition? flawless. the lighting? divine. the candid ones where you’re mid-laugh? make you want to propose to him yourself.

but you can’t let him know that. not yet.

"okay, now let’s do outfit two,” you say, skipping over to the tree branch and grabbing your denim jacket and kitten heels. "also i wanna try that photo where you spin me around.”

he stands up slowly, brushing the grass off his sweats. “you want me to spin you. in those heels.”

"mhm," you nod, shimmying into your jacket, "for the aesthetic.”

“for the hospital bill, you mean.”

you roll your eyes and offer your hand. “c’mon, it’ll be cute. boyfriend content.”

“i didn’t sign up for being content,” he grumbles, but he’s already reaching for you. he spins you once, gently, one hand holding yours and the other on your waist. you giggle as your hair flies around your face.

“again! faster!” you demand.

“you’ll die.”

“it’ll be worth it if i die hot.”

he looks at you with the flattest expression known to man. “you’re already hot. now stop moving so i can get the damn shot.”

your heart jumps at that. not the compliment, he says that kind of stuff casually all the time. it’s the way he says it while adjusting the camera settings like he didn’t just casually drop a little you’re already hot while you’re spiraling like a tornado in heels. like he doesn’t even think twice about it.

you recover with a smug grin. “so you do love being my instagram boyfriend.”

“i love you,” he corrects, snapping a photo, “but i’m suing you for emotional damages after this.”

later, when you’re scrolling through the photos together on the couch, you’re squealing and he’s pretending not to be proud of his work.

“look at this one,” you shove the phone in his face. “you got the sun flare and my good side. you’re so talented. i’m giving you credit in the caption.”

“no. absolutely not.”

“too late. ‘photo credit: my man 💅’”

he groans and flops back on the couch, arm behind his head. “i’m changing my name.”

“your name is ‘my man’ now. congrats.”

he glances at you, eyes soft despite the exasperated sigh he lets out. “you owe me.”

“i’ll buy you kombucha seaweed tea. with sea salt, of course.”

“you owe me more.”

“i’ll submit your jawline to a fan account. or i can make a thirst trap edit of you!”

“i want the last mochi ice cream in the fridge.”

you gasp, scandalized. “the strawberry one?!”

“compensation for emotional trauma,” he says, stealing your phone and scrolling through the pictures. you watch his brows furrow just slightly, like he’s analyzing his own angles, then relax.

“… these are actually good,” he mutters.

you smirk. “see? you are obsessed with me.”

he side-eyes you, phone still in hand. “… i’ll deny it in public.”

you lean over and kiss his cheek, giggling when he doesn't even pretend to hate it. “too bad. the internet’s gonna know. you’re caught in 4k, baby.”

he snorts, finally letting the tiniest smile crack his face.

“next time, i’m charging you by the hour.”

“mhm. you’ll still do it for free.”

“unfortunately,” he says, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, “you’re right.”

and then he scrolls back to your favorite photo, saves it to his phone, and sets it as your contact picture.

whipped. absolutely whipped.

#sae is down bad #the only way men should act with you #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x reader #instagram boyfriend

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sa1ntn3k0 · 3 months ago

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Snow Leopard Gojo (∩˃o˂∩) ♡ nsfw!

The sun perched high in the sky, its golden rays filtering through pillowy clouds that drifted lazily like overstuffed cotton balls. They played a tiny game of peek-a-boo with the light, casting dappled shadows over Tokyo University’s sprawling campus before leaving, bathing the world again in a warm, buttery glow. You tilted your face upward, savoring the breeze that tousled your hair, a gentle, vanilla-scented kiss from spring. This was your favorite kind of day: bright enough to lift your spirits but soft enough to keep the world from feeling too loud. Perfect for the oversized cardigan you’d thrown over your pastel-yellow mini dress, its airy fabric fluttering around your thighs like sunlight given form.

Your morning lecture, unfortunately, had been anything but luminous. Your Professor’s monotone voice had dragged through the hours like a knife through cold, stiff butter, dissecting a research paper on quantum physics that might as well have been written in ancient Aramaic. You’d doodled bunnies and cartoon cats in the margins of your notebook, your mind wandering to the cafe you loved, the one with the heart-shaped mugs and the barista who always added a sprinkle of cinnamon to your chai. But getting there meant braving Shibuya’s chaos: the screech of trains, the tsunami of suits and school uniforms flooding the crossing, the neon signs that buzzed like angry wasps. Just thinking about it made your shoulders tense.

No, today calls for compromise. You’d settle for the sleepy little shop near FamilyMart, even if their tea tasted like water with a dash of sugar. Slinging your tote bag higher onto your shoulder, its pastel patches of Miffy and Hello Kitty clinking gently against your thermos, you stepped onto the sidewalk, your strappy sandals tapping a quiet rhythm against the pavement. The dress you wore hugged your curves sweetly, its buttercup hue mirroring the sun, while your lips glimmered with a gloss that smelled like strawberries. You’d dressed up for no one in particular, really, but there was joy in feeling pretty, even if only the breeze noticed, and unfortunately that perv two seats behind you in class.

The cafe’s bell jingled as you entered, its air thick with the aroma of stale croissants and bitter espresso. You beelined for the refrigerated case, grabbing a bottled milk tea and a pastry swirled with pink strawberry cream, its flaky layers far too enticing to leave without. Back outside, you claimed a bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, its petals drifting around you like confetti. The first sip of tea was cloying and underwhelming, but the pastry? Too good. The cream burst on your tongue, tart and sugary, and you closed your eyes for a blissful second-

Rustle.

Your thick lashes fluttered open. The bush beside the bench shivered, leaves trembling gently. No wind stirred the air. You leaned closer, squinting, as the rustling came again, more insistent now. A tiny, pearlescent paw poked out, followed by a puff of fur so impossibly white it seemed spun from moonlight. Your heart squeezed... A kitten!

“Hi, baby,” you cooed, crouching low, your dress pooling around you like melted sunshine. The creature crept forward, and- oh.

This was no ordinary kitten.

Snow-leopard cubs weren’t exactly part of Tokyo’s urban wildlife, but there he was: a miniature king of the mountains, his fur a tapestry of charcoal rosettes and ivory silk. His paws were comically oversized, velvety pads as pink as bubblegum, and his tail, thick and banded with shadow, swished with mischief. But it was his eyes that stole your breath: twin pools of Arctic cerulean, glowing with an almost otherworldly intelligence. They locked onto yours, unblinking, as he toddled closer, his little nose twitching at your pastry.

“Hungry, huh?” you giggled, breaking off a crumb. He lunged, a blur of fur and enthusiasm, snatching the treat from your fingers with a tiny mrowp! “Hey!” you gasped, but the scolding died in your throat as he flopped onto his back, the stolen prize clutched between his paws. His belly was fluffier than a ball of sugary mochi, and when he purred, it sounded like a tiny motorboat.

“You’re a little thief,” you murmured, scritching the soft fur beneath his chin. His purrs vibrated, and he nuzzled your hand, his pink tongue rasping against your thumb. That’s when you felt it, a slim ribbon of leather around his throat. A collar? You coaxed him onto your lap, heart hammering as you traced the tiny tag.

Satoru, it read, in curlicue letters.

A human name for this definitely not-human creature. Your thumb brushed the tag again, half-expecting it to vanish like a dream. But Satoru merely chirruped, batting a paw at your hair, his claws sheathed. He reeked of wet grass and mischief, but also… loneliness? You glanced around. No frantic owners in sight, no posters pleading for a lost cub. Just you, this mysterious little being, and the sudden, unshakable sense that fate had dropped him into your path.

Finders keepers, right?

“Alright, Satoru,” you sighed, bundling him against your chest. He curled instinctively into the warmth, his nose tucked into the dip in your collarbone. “You’re coming home with me.”

The train ride was a blur of whispered coos and stealthy cuddles. Satoru slept the entire way, a living, breathing heat pad, his paws kneading your cardigan into a doughy mess. By the time you reached your apartment, he’d claimed you as his personal pillow, his purrs vibrating through your ribs. You deposited him gently on your bed, a nest of floral quilts and plushies, and watched, smitten, as he stretched, his tiny claws catching the sunlight.

“Mama’s gonna kill me if she finds you,” you whispered, smoothing a thumb between his ears. He blinked up at you, those galaxy-blue eyes crinkling with what could only be… smugness?

No, that was silly.

The Great Bath Incident™ began, as most disasters do, with way too much optimism.

Two days. Two days of Satoru’s reign of terror had left your apartment smelling like grass and dirt. His fur, once as pristine as freshly fallen snow, now resembled a dust mop dragged through a dusty corner of your living room. He’d rolled in something unspeakable during his 3 a.m. zoomies, something that clung to him like a vengeful ghost and made your nose crinkle every time he trotted past.

“Okay, baby,” you announced, scooping him off the windowsill where he’d been sunbathing like a tiny, furry emperor. “Spa day.”

Satoru’s ears flattened. His light azure eyes widened into saucers, pupils dilating with betrayal.

“Mrrrp?”

“Yes, mrrow,” you said firmly, marching him to the bathroom. “You reek of dirt and tuna.”

The bath itself was… a spectacle.

You’d prepared meticulously: hypoallergenic honey-scented shampoo (the fancy kind for “sensitive babies,” according to the label), a stack of baby pink Hello kitty towels warmed in the dryer, and a rubber ducky you’d impulsively bought because look at his face, how could you not? Satoru took one glance at the filled tub, hissed like a deflating balloon, and attempted a gravity-defying backflip out of your arms.

“Nuh uh! No escaping!” You wrestled him gently into the water, his paws slapping the surface in protest. Bubbles foamed around him as he yowled pitifully, his tail thrashing like a fluffy whip. “You’re fine-it’s warm, see? Warm!”

He was not convinced.

Satoru transformed into a soggy gremlin, all claws and drama, splashing enough water to water a small farm. His squeaky protests echoed off the tiles, a bomb of bratty chirps and growls that somehow still sounded way too adorable. You couldn’t help but giggle as he tried (and failed) to scale your Miffy shower curtain, his soapy paws slipping comically.

“You’re such a baby,” you cooed, scrubbing between his ears. His fur lathered into a marshmallow fluff, revealing the striking black rosettes beneath the grime. “Look how pretty you are! So handsome! Yes, you!”

He paused mid-squirm, tilting his head at your praise. His whiskers twitched.

“…Prrt?”

“Very handsome,” you confirmed, booping his cute little nose. “The handsomest little snow boy in all of Tokyo- hell, the world.”

Satoru looked way too full of himself, his tantrum momentarily forgotten. He allowed you to rinse him, though not without a few half-hearted swats at the showerhead. By the time you reached for the heated towel, he’d morphed into a docile little loaf, his fur gleaming like spun sugar.

“All done!” you chirped, turning to grab the towel-

Sploosh.

A sound like a wet mop hitting the floor.

You froze.

Then came the drip-drip-drip of water, the creak of the tub, and-

“Ahem.”

A voice.

A human voice.

Deep. Smug. Somehow familiar.

Your spine went rigid. Slowly, so slowly, you turned.

There, lounging in your now half-empty tub like a pampered sultan, was a man.

A naked man.

A gloriously, infuriatingly beautiful naked man.

Your brain paused.

He was all lean muscle and snow-white skin, his physique carved so sharply, it made your cheeks burn up, heart race fast. Damp white hair clung to his forehead, framing a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting, sharp jawline, pink, plush lips quirked in a smirk, his strong neck held a baby blue leather collar, and eyes… Oh.

Eyes like glacial lakes, bright and bottomless, flecked with starlight. Satoru’s eyes.

Your gaze darted higher.

Oh no.

White ears twitched atop his head, velvety and tipped with ink-black fur. Behind him, a tail as thick as your thigh swayed lazily, its leopard-like rosettes glistening.

“Hey,” the man purred, resting his chin on the tub’s edge. His voice dripped with mischief. “What’s up?”

You screamed.

Not a dignified scream. A full-throttle, horror-movie-worthy screech that rattled your strawberry mint toothpaste tube off the sink.

“Wh-WHAT?! WHO-HOW-”

He blinked innocently, tail swishing. “Aw, c’mon, princess. You’ve been calling me ‘handsome’ and ‘baby’ for days. Don’t act shy now.” His voice was all smooth, like honey, but so mischievous-like, you felt way too many emotions.

Your face combusted. “THAT WAS FOR A CAT!”

“And yet here I am.” He stretched, water sloshing as he raised his arms above his head, displaying a torso that could’ve been chiseled by Michelangelo. His underarms bore fluffy white hair, the amount of hair only a grown man could have. “Better than a cat, right?”

You hurled the pink towel at his face.

He caught it effortlessly, grinning with a flash of faintly pointed canines. “Feisty! I like it.” Wrapping the towel around his hips (thank God), he rose from the tub, droplets cascading down his- Nope. Don’t look. Don’t you dare look.

You looked.

His lower half was… Wow. His abs were more defined when he stood, a fluff of white hair ran down his belly button, you could see the outline of his hung dick through Hello Kitty’s bow, and you felt blood rush, fast. You wanted to pass out, wake up to your baby, not some hot dude!

“S-Satoru?!” you squeaked, scrambling backward until your spine hit the door.

“The one and only!” He winked, flicking a wet ear. “Thanks for the bath, by the way. And the gourmet lamb chops. And the snuggles.” His tail curled playfully. “You’re a way better pillow than my last owner.”

Your mind reeled. The all-night zoomies. The picky eating. The smugness. It all clicked into place like a cursed jigsaw puzzle.

“You-you’ve been a human this whole time?!”

“Hybrid,” he corrected, leaning against the sink with infuriating casualness. “Snow leopard genes, human charm. Cute, right?” He flashed human jazz hands, claws retracted.

You gaped. “Cute?! You destroyed my Miffy lamp! You jumped on my boobs!”

“Hey, you’re the one who kept cuddling me while you slept.” He smirked, stepping closer. His tail brushed your ankle, impossibly soft, annoyingly wet. “Not that I minded. You’re really warm, and man, your tits are soft as-”

Your face flamed. “OUT. Get out of my bathroom! Put on clothes! Explain yourself!”

Satoru chuckled, low and rumbling-a sound that vibrated straight through your bones. “Don’t got any, smarty pants.”

You lunged for the door handle. He was faster.

A big, human hand (warm, genuinely huge) pressed the door shut above your head, caging you in. His scent enveloped you, honey shampoo, snowfall, something wild and electric.

“Relax,” he murmured, leaning down until his nose nearly brushed yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Unless…” His gaze dropped to your pillowy lips. “…you want me to.” His breath was minty, smelling of the kitty toothpaste you rubbed those fangs clean with a few minutes ago.

Your breath hitched. “Wh-”

Ding-dong!

The doorbell rang.

Satoru’s ears pricked. “Expecting someone?”

Your blood turned to ice.

“…Mama.”

His smirk vanished. “Shit.”

End, for now. Hehe.

Whoop! That was fun, I love snow leopard Gojo, he's so… Ugh, need him. Of course, will be continuing, want to lean this into a smutty fic, so stay with me! I'm super busy with my classes but I’ll try to upload asap! Also, I see reader as 18-21, or higher if you think of grad school or whatever. Satoru’s his 29-year-old self!

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #snow leopard gojo!#gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo fluff #hybrid gojo #jjk x reader #hybrid x reader #gojo x reader smut

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allfearstofallto · 1 year ago

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Being Kenma's girlfriend isn't for the faint of heart. Kenma is sweet, caring, strangely physically affectionate, and most importantly generous, but even he has his flaws. A few things that grind your gears or even upsets you to the point of anger. Specifically, the lack of attention he gives you.

You know it's his job, his streaming and gaming, but even you find yourself longing for his attention. He always seems elsewhere, his mind wandering to what he's going to play next or who his next collab will be with. In the end, you always feel second in his life. Second to his games and consoles and career.

You're used to going to bed alone with him in the other room, only to feel him climbing in beside you at close to two in the morning. His arm will be draped around you and you'll be pulled into his chest, followed by the sound of his soft snoring.

“The character creation in the newest game I'm playing is incredible,” Kenma said in his typical monotone voice while you sat his breakfast down in front of him. He spoke slowly and quietly all the time, but you who'd been his girl for years already knew how to recognize his excitement.

“Is it?” You questioned. Kenma played a lot of games. A lot. More games than you'd seen or heard of. Some were games he was just curious about, some were review copies that he had to play, but he had a lot of experience under his belt. So when Kenma said anything was good in a game, it meant it was probably outstanding, considering how high his expectations were.

He stuffed some food into his mouth and began chewing, swallowing the food down a little too quick before talking again, “The face modeling is super realistic, but not uncanny at all. The devs really put a lot of work into it. Watch me play later tonight.”

You giggled at his enthusiasm, but agreed nonetheless. It always made you shy to watch your boyfriend stream. The amount of comments flowing in asking for his opinion and telling him how cool he was did something for your confidence. They admired him, but you truly knew him. You know his flaws and weaknesses, his favorite and least favorite foods. You knew how many times it took for him to beat that particular souls like game, the one that frustrated him enough to quit for weeks. So tuning into his stream that night was no issue.

You watched a few minutes of the game, a JRPG type hack and slash fighter. The game did look incredible with beautiful landscapes and oddly fun enemy designs. Kenma played perfectly, only stopping to pause for a second to show off his in-game character. You tried to look extra hard at her face, that being one of the things that Kenma enjoyed most about the game.

With a soft smile and a blush, you giggled shyly. His character looked just like you.

#haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu kenma #kozume kenma #kenma #kenma x reader #haikyuu kenma x Reader

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heesmiles · 5 days ago

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HOW TO HEX A HEART k.th

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 7.5K ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairing s𝜗𝜚 ravenclaw ! taehyun ៹ hufflepuff ! reader ᧁ; angst ˒ fantasy ˒ hogwarts au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ angst hogwarts au grumpy x sunshine academic rivals to lovers yearning characters are aged up set in a college like hogwarts setting ft sunoo (enhypen)

in which୨୧ ㅤִ Love was sacred, love was rare, love was fleeting...but Taehyun wanted none of it. Instead searching for a fullfilling life in the pages of texts books and viles filled with potions, your cheery personality and natural smarts did little for his ego and too much damage to his high standings in all of Hogwarts academics. He must put a stop to it...if he wished to stay on top.

★ !rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . chat I'm so excited!! This is apart of a collab I'm doing with my fellow writers and friends: the nine and three quarters collab. I hope ya'll enjoy. guys I actually hate how rushed this is. I'm sorry!! i wrote it ages ago for our event and it’s been siting in the drafts for a while now, i can honestly say….its not even nearly close to my best work. i wish it was better because taehyun deserve better! i’ll be writing my coraline fic soon as a redemption arc for tae, i swear by it!

The dungeon was alive with a symphony of simmering cauldrons and chattering students, the air thick with the sharp tang of fluxweed and the earthy musk of powdered root of asphodel. Candles floated above the stone tables, flickering with a lazy indifference, casting golden halos across glass vials and worn parchment. You sat hunched over your cauldron, stirring clockwise; then counterclockwise, exactly as the textbook instructed, though you liked to think you added a little flair to your technique. Beside you, Sunoo leaned over to check your progress, his face drawn in a mix of admiration and mild panic.

“I swear mine’s more brown than bronze,” he whispered, frowning at his own mixture.

“It’s because you’re overthinking it again,” you giggled, nudging him gently. “You have to let the potion speak to you. Feel the ingredients. Make a little magic of your own, y’know?” He rolled his eyes but smiled, accustomed to your blend of mysticism and mischief. You were sunshine in a bottle, golden, glowing, maybe a little overwhelming on days like this, but endlessly kind, brimming with a passion for the craft that made even the most monotonous ingredients feel like keys to a hidden kingdom. You adored Potions. It was alchemy and artistry, mystery and discipline, all bubbling into something beautiful.

“Alright, ingredients table, now!” barked Professor Oakenhart from the front of the class, his robes flaring dramatically as he paced. “Step carefully. If you spill the unicorn hair again, Nott, I will make you polish the cauldrons with your tears.” You perked up immediately, hand shooting into the air before anyone else could even blink. “I’ll go!” you chimed, hopping up from your stool and bouncing toward the table with a spring in your step.

But in your unbridled enthusiasm, you didn’t see him. Kang Taehyun. Towering. Silent. Cold as the dungeons themselves and twice as sharp. He was the kind of student who didn’t just read the textbook — he memorized the footnotes, corrected the professor’s misquotes, and brewed potions with the precision of a seasoned apothecary. And he hated you. Not in the way someone hates a rainstorm or a bad meal; no, he hated you with purpose. Your effortless charm, your laughter echoing across the corridors, the way professors smiled just a little too brightly when you answered questions correctly. Worst of all, you matched him. In test scores, potion grades, practicals. You were sunshine to his storm cloud. And it infuriated him.

So when you turned and smacked straight into his chest, your half-filled vial of brewed Knotgrass solution flying from your hand and splattering all across the front of his pristine uniform, it was more than an accident. It was an act of war. “Oh—oh my god—I didn’t see you—! I’m so sorry!” you gasped, hands fluttering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to mop it up or vanish into the floor. “It was an accident, really, I didn’t—”

“Obviously it was an accident,” Taehyun cut in, voice cold and clipped, The potion dripped from his vest in sluggish streaks, soaking into the ravenclaw blue. “Next time, try looking where you're going instead of skipping around like some deranged fairy” You blinked, momentarily stunned by the venom in his tone.

“I—” But he was already striding off toward Professor Oakenhart, presumably to report the offense and extract his revenge in the form of docked house points or an extra essay. The silence he left in his wake felt oddly loud, like someone had extinguished the warmth in the room. You returned to your seat with what you hoped was dignity, though your cheeks burned and your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest. Sunoo was watching you, eyes wide.

“That was brutal,” he whispered. “Are you alright?” You forced a bright smile, even though the potion fumes still clung to your nose and your pride felt a bit bruised. “Just peachy!” you chirped, plopping back onto your stool and picking up your ladle. “Besides, a little Knotgrass never hurt anyone. Except maybe his ego.”

Sunoo snorted into his sleeve. Somewhere behind you, you swore you could feel Taehyun’s glare like a knife to your spine.

Professor Oakenhart clapped his hands for silence, the crystalline ting-ting-ting of his silver rings against his wand echoing through the vaulted stone. Bubbling cauldrons fell obediently to a hush, the once-lively chatter collapsing into a hush so complete you could hear the delicate pop of fluxweed bladders bursting in the brew. Oakenhart let the hush linger, he enjoyed suspense the way a sphinx savors riddles; before letting his voice pour down like cold mountain water.

“Next year’s class prefect,” he announced, letting the words hang, “will be chosen in three weeks’ time. The badge will go”, his dark eyes skimmed the room, “to the student who best embodies the virtues that keep this ancient castle alive: scholarly excellence, unwavering helpfulness, and the kind of leadership that does not require howling at those beneath you.” His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, toward the Ravenclaw benches, then to you in your Hufflepuff yellow, where you sat up straighter on reflex. A hush of anticipation prickled through the air, sparking like powdered moonstone hitting hot embers.

It took no more than a heartbeat for both your hands and Taehyun’s to shoot skyward, mirror images of ambition in two very different skins. Your arm rose with sunshine optimism, sleeve fluttering like a pennant above a castle tower; Taehyun’s lifted with predatory precision, elbow locked, fingers slicing the air as if claiming rightful territory. Two comets on intersecting orbits. “Questions?” Oakenhart invited, his thin smile hinting that questions were only respectable if they tasted of genuine curiosity and not vanity.

Taehyun noticed you first, noticed the way your fingertips wiggled for attention as though determined to catch falling starlight, and a quiet scuff of disapproval hissed past his teeth. “Little miss perfect,” he muttered under his breath, the phrase delivered like a curse brewed from nettle and spite. But the professor’s nod landed on you, not him. You stood, straightening your robes with a soft brush of palms, and the dungeon’s torchlight caught the hopeful glimmer in your eyes. “Professor,” you began, voice warm as summer rain, “will academic collaboration — tutoring students outside one’s own house, for example; count toward the leadership criterion, or is it measured strictly by individual achievement?” The question sailed across the room, thoughtful and earnest, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon from the potion still clinging to your cuffs.

Taehyun’s scoff was immediate, a low, velvety sound of contempt. “It’s hardly rocket science,” he drawled, loud enough for the nearest cauldrons to tremble. “Prefects inspire excellence, they don’t spoon-feed it. Obviously individual performance weighs heaviest.” His sarcasm slithered through the air like a smoky serpent, confident that everyone would see the answer as plain as daylight.

Instead of bristling, you turned to him with the brightness of a heliotrope bending toward dawn. You dipped your head, just a fraction and let a beatific smile unfurl, soft and sincere. “Thank you, Taehyun,” you replied, voice edged with honeyed cordiality. “But I find that shining your light helps others see where they’re going, and what’s leadership if not lighting the path?” Your gentle retort glimmered with the audacity of grace, and the dungeon seemed to flicker brighter for a heartbeat. The sight of your tilted head and unconquerable optimism struck Taehyun like a spell gone awry. A low, involuntary snarl rasped from his throat, a feral sound quickly smothered behind a pursed line of lips, but not before you caught it, not before half the class saw the flash of winter in his eyes. The tension between you twanged like a harp string wound too tight: one pluck away from music, one tug away from breaking.

Professor Oakenhart cleared his throat, once, sharply, expelling the storm before it could fully gather. “An astute question, Miss, Yes, mentorship and cross-house assistance will be tallied.” He inclined his head toward you with a hint of approval, then pivoted to Taehyun. “Mr. Kang, if you have a different inquiry, do raise your hand properly rather than providing commentary mid-air.” A ripple of muted laughter swept the benches, but your gaze held steady on Taehyun’s. Where his irises turned to flint, yours softened to amber, and in that quiet, smoldering stalemate something unspoken sparked, an ember that might turn to wildfire or to warmth, given time and care. For now, though, it merely glowed, pulsing in the shadowed dungeon like a promise you both refused to name.

Sunoo nudged your elbow the moment you sat, wide-eyed and whispering, “I think you just poked a Hungarian Horntail.” You responded with an easy grin, quill poised to continue your notes. “Better a Horntail awake,” you murmured, “than a dragon who never learns how bright fire can be.” Across the aisle, Taehyun pressed a palm flat to the cool desk, steadying himself against the tremor of unfamiliar emotion. His quill scratched furious strokes into his parchment; ink as dark as midnight vows, but beneath that practiced scowl, a new question brewed in secret: How does one extinguish sunshine…without first stepping into its light?

After the classroom became a quiet hush, everyone working silently alongside their partners, Professor Oakenheart instructs Taehyun and yourself to rise and follow him to his desk. “You will both report to the potion storeroom tonight. Seven o’clock. No excuses. And no magic.” He says with a sigh. “I cannot have students arguing in class, it’s unsavory.”

“Yes, Mr. Oakenheart.” You say with the downward tilt of your head. Taehyun didn’t say a word. His robes still glistened from your accidental splash, the potion drying in uneven patches across his sleeve. He glanced at you once, briefly, with all the warmth of a midwinter frost, then turned away.

You walk back to your seat next to Sunoo solemnly, sitting down next to him silently. Sunoo whispered, “You’re cursed,” under his breath as you sat back down. You grinned and whispered back, “Just peachy.”

–

Seven o’clock arrived like a tolling bell, and the potion storeroom, usually locked, usually silent, opened with a low groan as Professor Oakenhart wordlessly ushered you both inside. The room was narrow and cluttered, lit by a handful of enchanted lanterns that hovered in lazy loops, casting golden light onto rows of old wooden shelves. Vials of powdered roots and dried wings lined the walls, their labels yellowed and curling at the edges. The air was rich with the scent of earth and time; rosehips, wolfsbane, peppermint, and mildew. “You’ll sort and organize all of this,” the professor said, gesturing to a chaotic pile of unbottled ingredients and stained glassware stacked across the center table. “Without the use of wands. You leave when it’s done.”

Then he left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with an ominous finality. You turned to Taehyun with a sheepish smile. “Well… could be worse.”

Taehyun didn’t even glance at you. “Could be over faster if you stopped talking.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, grabbing a jar of shriveled billywig stingers. “You act like I spilled that potion on purpose.”

“You didn’t not spill it,” he muttered, picking through a box of dried dittany leaves with the care of a jeweler inspecting glass. “You’re always fluttering around like a butterfly with no sense of direction. No wonder you can’t stay upright.” You rolled your eyes and tossed your hair back defiantly. “You’re so dramatic. One splash of Dreamless Sleep on your sleeve and you act like I’ve ruined your career.”

“That potion was for me, actually,” he snapped. “A concentration tonic. For my study schedule. Unlike you, I don’t need to flirt my way through classes.” The words hit like a slap; sharp, misplaced, and far too personal.

You blinked. “I wasn’t flirting, Taehyun.” He didn’t reply. Just turned, his fingers tight around the neck of a decanter filled with bluebell essence. The silence stretched long and brittle. You turned back to the shelves, trying to focus on alphabetizing vials instead of the heat rising to your cheeks. You hated that he could twist your sunshine into something shallow. You hated that it hurt a little, even if you knew better. It was when you were climbing a rickety step stool to reach a jar of flobberworm mucus that it happened, your foot caught on a crooked rung, and the world tilted sharply. You yelped, arms flailing for balance, but gravity was faster.

And Taehyun; curse him, was there. He caught you by the waist in a startled breath, your chest nearly colliding with his, both of you frozen in a strange, suspended heartbeat. For one unbearable second, the air was different. He smelled like cloves and parchment and the faint memory of apples. His hands were warm through the fabric of your robes. Your face was tilted up to his, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a thought that tasted too much like truth. Then he let go.

You stumbled back with a startled gasp, catching yourself against a shelf just in time to stop an entire row of beetle eyes from toppling to the floor. “You—!” you started.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he snapped, brushing his hands down his robes like your presence had scorched him. “You’re so dramatic,” you said again, this time with venom. “One second you’re catching me, the next you act like I’ve hexed you.”

“And you’re unbearable,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “Always smiling, always talking, always pretending the world is sugar and stars. It’s exhausting.” You stared at him, chest heaving, the light from the lanterns catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the irritated furrow in his brow. But underneath all that anger; buried like a secret, was something else.

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe it’s not pretend.” Taehyun said nothing. Just turned back to his work, jaw clenched, knuckles white where they gripped a jar of valerian root.

You returned to the pile of unsorted ingredients with a huff, brushing the dust from your skirt and refusing to meet his eyes. The silence between you wasn’t peaceful, it was brittle, strained, the kind of silence that creaked like a staircase in an old manor, aching to be broken. Taehyun was the one who cracked first. “Maybe if you focused half as much on your work as you do on being liked, you wouldn’t be in detention.”

You turned sharply, a vial of crushed lovage seeds in one hand. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I’m just stunned you think being liked is a flaw.”

He scoffed, not looking up from the set of empty phials he was aligning by size. “Popularity isn’t the same as talent.”

“And coldness isn’t the same as intelligence,” you snapped. “Just because you glare through every lecture doesn’t make you smarter than everyone else.” He finally turned to face you, eyes flashing like lightning behind stormcloud lashes. “I’m not cold. I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

You stepped closer, your arms crossed now, potion dust glittering faintly on your sleeves like constellation flecks. “You’re so scared someone else might outshine you that you treat everyone like competition.”

“No one has outshined me,” he replied, voice like steel. “Until you.”

The silence that followed was a strange one. Thicker. Quieter. Like the world had taken a step back to let those words hang between you — taunting, trembling, true. You blinked. “What?”

He looked away too fast. “Forget it.”

“No, you said—” You took a step closer, your heart thudding, not from the argument, but from the accidental confession strung beneath it. “You said until me. You think I’ve outshined you?”

“I think you’re exhausting,” he muttered, back to organizing now with unnecessary force, placing bottles like they’d offended him personally. “You breeze through everything like it’s easy. People like you. Professors praise you. And somehow, despite all your little smiles and your sunshine-and-daisies attitude, you’re still top of the class.” You stared at him, stunned. “You think I haven’t worked for this?”

“I think you’ve never needed to work as hard,” he hissed, not cruel but bitter, like it was a wound he’d carried for too long. “You show up and everyone adores you. I have to fight for everything.”

Your voice softened. “That’s not my fault, Taehyun.” He paused, a jar of dried mint frozen in his hand.

“No,” he said, after a breath. “It’s not. But it still feels like I’m running a race you get to skip the hurdles for.” You didn’t know what to say to that. The space between you wasn’t so wide now. Just one potion-stained table and a pile of unsaid things.

“I don’t try to make you feel that way,” you said, quieter now. “I just… I like being here. I like learning. I like this world. It’s not about beating you.” Taehyun exhaled, slowly. “It’s always been about beating me.” You looked at him then; really looked. The precision of his posture. The tension in his shoulders. The fury not just with you, but with himself. With his need to win. And buried beneath that, the fear of what it might mean to lose to someone like you.

“Maybe,” you said gently, “it doesn’t have to be a race.” He looked up, and for the first time, he didn’t seem angry. Just tired. And quietly, painfully aware of you in a way that went far deeper than rivalry ever could. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.

You tilted your head and smiled; not mockingly, but softly. “Maybe I would.” He didn’t smile back.

–

The sky was ink-blue, bruised with stars. The Astronomy Tower stood quiet, wind whispering through the slits in the stone as if the castle itself was holding its breath. The hour was late enough that most students had turned in, their dormitories dim with drowsy candlelight and dreams. But you couldn’t sleep. Something in the air tonight felt unsettled. Heavy. Like the prelude to a storm, but not one outside.

A strange instinct tugged at you; soft and insistent. So you wandered, slippers padding across stone, drawn not by sound but by silence. You found him there. Taehyun. Perched on the low ledge of the Astronomy Tower with his knees pulled up and his arms resting on them, his robes dark against the greystone, face upturned toward a sky he didn’t seem to be seeing. There was something wrong in the stillness of him.

He was always sharp in class, always stiff with pride, always holding himself like a blade; ready to cut, ready to be cut. But here, under the stars, he looked… tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind that came from being measured too often. From being whittled down into something small and perfect and hollow. You approached gently, your footsteps careful. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you at all. Just kept his gaze fixed forward, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone.

But you saw the parchment clutched in one hand, wrinkled and shaking slightly in the wind. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t need to. The way his shoulders curled inward, the way his mouth pressed into a thin, unfeeling line; it told you enough. So you sat beside him. You didn’t speak. Didn’t press. Just opened your satchel and wordlessly held out a Chocolate Frog, your last one. You kept it for exam days and rainy Sundays, but tonight, it felt like he needed it more than you. For a second, he didn’t move. Then, without looking at you, he took it. His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Tense. But real.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease. You just sat beside him in silence, letting the stars be the only witnesses. Letting the wind pass between you like breath. Letting kindness be quiet and simple and soft. And when you left, he still hadn’t spoken. Still hadn’t looked at you. But the Chocolate Frog wrapper sat folded neatly on the ledge when you returned the next day.

The next morning in Potions, everything feels almost normal. Almost. You and Sunoo arrive late, breathless from a stairwell that decided halfway through to rotate in the wrong direction. Professor Oakenhart levels you both with a tired glare, but waves you in without comment. You settle into your seat and reach for your ingredients; belladonna, porcupine quills, armadillo bile, your fingers moving on instinct while your mind drifts elsewhere.

To the Astronomy Tower. To the letter he never spoke of. To the way he never thanked you. To the way you hadn’t needed him to. It happens so fast you barely register it. A soft pop. A hiss. The sharp crack of glass. And then, boom. Your cauldron erupts in a bloom of green smoke and sparks, a chemical chaos that splashes up in a hot rush of steam and acrid potion. You flinch, arms flying up to protect your face, heart hammering in your throat. But nothing touches you.

Because in the heartbeat before the blast, a shield spell snaps into place; silver and curved like a falling star, held firm by a voice you know too well. “Protego.” When the smoke clears, you’re blinking through tears, more from shock than anything and coughing through the haze. Your cauldron is scorched, bubbling like a wounded beast, and Sunoo is somewhere under the table muttering prayers.

But all you can see is Taehyun. Standing across the aisle. His wand still raised. His hair mussed slightly from the force of the blast. His robes dusted with soot and powdered nettle. He says nothing. Just looks at you for one long, unreadable moment. Then lowers his wand, turns on his heel, and walks back to his seat like nothing happened. You stare after him, stunned. Because it wasn’t like him to help. It wasn’t like him to notice. But he had. And something in your chest warms like sunlight over frost.

The Professor grumbles something about careless brewing, assigns a week’s worth of clean-up duties, and moves on. But you don’t care. You’re still staring at the back of Taehyun’s head, and the words you didn’t say last night echo louder now than ever: Maybe it doesn’t have to be a race.

–

Snow had draped itself over the castle like a dream.

Hogwarts shimmered under winter’s enchantment, its towers crowned with frost, its courtyards glowing gold with fairy lights. Students bustled about in robes lined with velvet, their laughter rising with each breath like smoke into the star-splattered sky. Tonight wasn’t the Yule Ball, not exactly, it was something smaller, softer. A midwinter celebration organized by the Prefects and Professors: music in the Great Hall, warm drinks passed from student to student, and the magic of December clinging to every flickering candle. You arrived with Sunoo, cheeks flushed, hair kissed with snow. Laughter danced on your lips before you even crossed the threshold, Sunoo telling a joke that made your sides ache, your friends gathering around like stars drawn to your gravity. You were radiant in your winter robes, something golden in your grin. You loved nights like this. Nights full of warmth and wonder. Nights where the world felt like it belonged to you.

He was already there. Taehyun stood on the far edge of the room, near the refreshment table but untouched by it. Alone. Always alone. His Ravenclaw blue scarf hung loose around his neck, frost still clinging to the hems of his sleeves, and his expression unreadable, carved from cool stone.You didn’t notice him at first. Not really. Not until someone asked you to dance.

It was a boy from Gryffindor, tall, smiling, a little shy. He offered you his hand and you, ever the sun, said yes without hesitation. Your friends cheered. Sunoo nudged you playfully. And soon, the two of you were spinning between floating candles, the music lifting your steps, your laughter like honey and light. Taehyun noticed. He noticed the way your head tipped back when you laughed. The way your hands fit so easily into someone else’s. The way you looked, joyful, unguarded, lovely, and not at all like the girl who once gave him her last Chocolate Frog in silence.

He didn’t stay. He turned before he could think better of it, his footsteps soundless on the marble. The corridor outside the Great Hall was quiet, save for the distant hum of music and the soft hush of falling snow through an open window. He didn’t know why he left. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t have the words for it. He just knew he hated watching someone else hold your smile. So he left. And you followed.

You found him near the foot of the grand staircase, his back to you, the golden candlelight brushing against his shoulders, setting soft fire to the edges of his silhouette. “Taehyun.”

He didn’t turn. You stepped closer. “You left early.”

“I wasn’t enjoying myself.”

“Why not?”

A beat. Then: “You looked like you were.”

There was something sharp in the way he said it. Something jealous. Something that trembled beneath the surface, unwilling to admit what it truly was. You folded your arms. “So you were watching me.” He turned to you then, slowly. His expression unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes were thunderclouds.

“You always want people to look at you,” he said, low and quiet. “So don’t act surprised when they do.”

Your breath caught, more from the venom than the words themselves. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always have to be seen, don’t you? Always the center of the room. Always dancing, laughing, shining — like you need everyone’s attention to survive.” You flinched. But you stood your ground. “And you push everyone away because you’re afraid they’ll see something you’re hiding.”

“Better than parading around like you have nothing to hide.”

“At least I’m not cruel about it.” You quip back, hurt.

“Oh?” he snapped. “You think I’m cruel because I don’t fawn over your every word? Because I don’t melt under your smiles like everyone else does?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer now, your voice trembling not with fear but with fury. “I think you’re cruel because you can’t stand that someone else might be your equal.” His jaw clenched.

“And because you’re angry,” you whispered, “that I make you feel something you can’t control.” Silence. Thick, aching silence.

“You’re insufferable,” he breathed.

“And you’re impossible.”

“I hate the way you laugh.”

“I hate the way you lie.” A pause. A breath.

“I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you.” Your breath catches in your throat. Your mouth suddenly like cotton.

Then, like a flicker of a flame Taehyun was kissing you. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire meeting fire, snow melting on burning skin. His mouth met yours with all the tension of months pressed into a single, trembling heartbeat. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every insult, every rivalry, every bitter word. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for him to stop running. When you pulled apart, breathless, your hands still clutched his robes. He stared at you, stunned. Like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wanted to do it again.

You smirked, the corner of your mouth curling just so. “Still hate me?”

His lips twitched. “More than ever.” But his voice was hoarse. And his fingers didn’t let go.

Morning broke cold and silver, the kind of pale light that softened the snow but sharpened the air. In the Great Hall, everything looked the same. Students chattered over toast and pumpkin juice, scarves half-tangled around their necks, steam curling from mugs like the remnants of dreams. The enchanted ceiling swirled with drifting snowflakes and a pale winter sky. But something was off-kilter in the space around you. Something missing You scanned the tables without thinking, eyes flickering past familiar faces. Sunoo noticed, you could feel his gaze as you forced a too-bright smile, buttered your toast with robotic precision.

“Did something happen last night?” he asked, voice soft, careful.

You shrugged, looking down at your plate. “Nothing.” But your hands trembled. And Taehyun wasn’t at his usual place near the end of the Ravenclaw table. Not that you were watching. Not that you were waiting. But still. You saw him again outside the library, later that morning. His robes were immaculate as always, scarf draped neatly over one shoulder, a book in his hand he wasn’t reading. You approached him cautiously, your heart fluttering like a sparrow trapped in your ribs.

“Taehyun,” you said, gently, like the name itself might break if you spoke it too loud. His eyes flicked up. Cold. Unbothered. Your smile faltered.

“Can we talk?” you asked, hands twisting in the hem of your sweater.

“No.” Just like that. Clipped. Sharp.

You blinked. “What?”

“I said no.” Something inside you shrank, just a little. “Taehyun… what happened last night—”

“Was a mistake.” The words hit like a slap. You felt the breath leave your lungs, staggered by the sudden, cruel distance of him. “You kissed me,” you said, voice small, cracking. “You said—”

“I got caught up in the moment.” His tone was flat, practiced. Like he’d already rehearsed these lines. Like he’d spent the whole night scrubbing every softness out of himself. “It didn’t mean anything.” The world tilted. Your lips parted, your voice caught in your throat. You could feel the sting building in your chest, behind your eyes. He didn’t look at you, wouldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the spines of books he wasn’t reading, as if pretending you weren’t there would erase what happened.

“I thought you—” You bit your lip, hard. Swallowed. “I thought you cared.”

“I don’t.” It was brutal, how easy he made it sound. And that was what broke you.

You turned before he could see the tears spill, before your voice could crumble entirely. You ran, not caring who saw, not caring where you were going, just needing to escape the weight of that hallway, of his voice still echoing inside you like the last note of a song gone wrong. Snow flurried around you as you burst outside, not feeling the cold through the heat in your cheeks. The castle loomed behind you, windows glowing warm with light you couldn’t bear to be near.

You collapsed beneath the shadow of a tree near the lake, the frost crunching beneath your knees, and let yourself cry. Quietly, messily. Like the sky had fallen only for you. You hated how much you’d hoped. Hated that one kiss had unraveled you. Hated that even now, even with his cruelty still ringing in your ears… You still wanted to believe he didn’t mean it.

The next morning came like a betrayal. Sunlight poured through the dormitory windows, golden and gentle, but it felt wrong against your skin. The castle still breathed with its usual rhythm, owls cooing in the distance, portraits murmuring, fireplaces crackling softly, but none of it reached you. It was as though something inside you had gone still. Quiet in a way that even your cheer couldn’t touch. You sat beside Sunoo in the Great Hall, picking at your breakfast with no real interest. Your usual glow was gone, dulled into something shadowed and quiet.

Sunoo nudged you gently with his shoulder. “You didn’t say much last night.” You didn’t meet his eyes. “There wasn’t much to say.”

He watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “This is about Taehyun, isn’t it?” Your fingers curled tighter around your spoon.

“We kissed, ” you whispered, barely audible. “And then he said it was a mistake.”

Sunoo’s brows lifted, and then quickly drew together in concern. “What?”

“I thought it meant something,” you said, voice cracking. “But he shut me out. Said it didn’t mean anything. Like I was just… a moment to him. A mistake to be scrubbed out.”

Sunoo’s expression darkened. “What a bloody idiot.” You gave a weak laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. He reached across the table and covered your hand with his. “Look, I know you like to see the good in everyone, even in jerks who don’t deserve it, but maybe it’s time you started putting that heart of yours somewhere safer. Someone who’ll actually protect it.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “You’re right.” But the ache didn’t lift. Later that day, you filed into Potions class with the rest of the students, your bag slung over one shoulder. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering roots clung thick to the dungeon air. You walked with your head high, shoulders back, smile forced into place like armor. He was already seated when you walked in. Taehyun.

Sitting at his usual spot near the front, posture rigid, jaw tight. His fingers tapped soundlessly against his textbook. He didn’t look up when you entered. Didn’t so much as flinch. But you felt the chill in the room anyway, the weight of all that was unspoken crackling between you like a live wire. Still, you were you. Still sunshine, even with cracks in your light. You walked over, careful steps echoing softly, and perched on the edge of the desk beside his. “Hi, Taehyun,” you said, your voice light, as if your heart wasn’t twisting. “I was wondering if you finished the reading for today. The part about powdered asphodel, wasn’t that fascinating? I thought—”

“Can you just shut up for once?” His voice cut through the room like a blade. The entire class went still. You froze. “I’m trying to concentrate,” he said, still not looking at you. “And I don’t need your insipid, cheery commentary. Merlin knows it’s exhausting enough seeing you parade around like everyone’s personal ray of sunshine.”

A few people snorted with laughter. Someone whispered behind their hand. You felt every eye in the room swing toward you, your face, your smile, your frozen stance. And Taehyun finally looked up, and his expression was cold, clipped, composed. But your world cracked. You swallowed the lump in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. You looked around, saw the amusement on their faces, the mockery, the disbelief that anyone as soft as you could’ve tried to reach someone as sharp-edged as him. And then your gaze landed back on Taehyun.

“All I’ve done,” you said, voice trembling, “is try to be nice to you. To care for you. Even when you were cruel. Even when you didn’t deserve it.” He said nothing. Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’m done.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see if there was even a flicker of regret in those storm-grey eyes. You turned on your heel, your shoes tapping hard against the stone, and fled the classroom. Again. But this time… you didn’t cry. This time, your chest burned with something else. This time, you were done being soft for someone who only knew how to bruise.

Taehyun sat frozen in the aftermath. The laughter had faded. The stares had drifted away. But the silence that followed your exit rang louder than anything else in the room. He stared at the empty space where you’d stood, chest hollow and knotted, something sour rising in his throat. The words he’d thrown at you echoed back in his ears; sharp, venom-laced things forged in fear, insecurity, and pride. And regret, thick and immediate, curled in his gut like poison. “Taehyun?” the professor called. But he didn’t answer. He stood up abruptly, chair scraping back, and bolted.

His shoes struck stone as he ran through the corridor, breath tight, wand forgotten. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to find you. That he had to. His heart beat painfully against his ribs. The hallways blurred past him, students turned their heads as he passed, but he didn’t stop. He found you in the greenhouses, your favorite place, tucked behind the castle where the air smelled of earth and mint, where your emotions could breathe. You stood alone beneath the arching glass dome, surrounded by sleeping winter blooms. The late afternoon light spilled through the frosted windows in ribbons of gold. You had your arms crossed, head bowed, lips pressed tightly together. When you heard the door open, you stiffened.

“What do you want?” you said, voice hoarse, but strong.

Taehyun’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry.”

You laughed, bitter and soft. “You’re always sorry.”

“I know.” He took a step closer. “I know I keep ruining things. I know I keep hurting you. But I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t mean to.”

“Then why do you?” you snapped, eyes glassy, anger trembling under your skin. “Why do you keep pushing me away? Every time I try to be kind, every time I try to care about you — you throw it back in my face.” Taehyun looked down at his hands, curling them into fists. “Because you make it hard to pretend I don’t feel anything.” You stared at him.

He looked up, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, raw. “You’re always happy. You shine so damn much it hurts. And I... I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone expects. And then you walk in, and you’re better than me, and kinder, and I didn’t know what to do with that. So I lashed out. Because it was easier than admitting I—” He swallowed. “I like you.” Silence bloomed between you. Quiet. Fragile.

“You’re such a bloody idiot,” you muttered.

Taehyun blinked, startled. “What?” And then you stepped forward. Fast. Sure. Your hands came up to grab the collar of his robes, tugging him down before he could react. Your mouth crashed into his with a force that knocked the air out of both of you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was furious, raw, earned. Taehyun made a soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat, his hands fluttering for a moment before settling; one on your waist, the other braced against the table behind you. But you didn’t wait for him. You deepened the kiss, teeth and warmth and heat and something frantic behind it all. You poured your anger and your longing into him, tasting the apology on his tongue, daring him to mean it.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, your eyes burned into his. “I’ve liked you for ages, you emotionally constipated genius,” you whispered, chest heaving. “But I’m not going to keep running after you if you’re going to keep running from yourself.” His mouth parted. He didn’t speak. He only nodded, once, reverent.

“I won’t break for you again, Taehyun,” you said, softer now. “So if you’re going to kiss me back next time… mean it.”

“I will,” he breathed, eyes wide, lips swollen, still stunned by the hurricane of you. “I swear.” And this time, when you kissed him again, it was slower. Sweeter. The first page of a new chapter written in ink instead of fire. And for once, he let himself feel it.

–

The announcement came quietly, a simple flick of parchment and a name spoken with no ceremony. At breakfast, the Great Hall was humming; spoons clinking against porridge bowls, owls flapping in with the morning post, low chatter weaving between house tables like mist. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, spectacles glinting as she unrolled the scroll of student appointments. Her voice carried with its usual sharpness, precise and unyielding. “The Prefect position for next term,” she said, “has been awarded to Miss Eliza Rowe of Gryffindor.”

A polite smattering of applause followed. Nothing loud, nothing triumphant, just the rustle of hands clapping out of obligation more than celebration. Eliza, three seats down from the golden trio’s old haunt, blinked, then straightened her back and nodded once, the picture of composed satisfaction. She’d dotted her i’s with logic, crossed her t’s with ruthlessness, built her empire from timetables and perfectly executed essays. And she deserved it. You blinked, mid-sip of pumpkin juice. Across the table, Taehyun paused, one hand wrapped around a buttered scone. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. And then, like a shared secret, you both burst into soft, startled laughter.

No bitterness curled on your tongues. No resentment twisted in your chests. There was no sting to the loss, only the warm realization that you hadn’t even noticed the stakes anymore. Taehyun leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of his plate, eyes gleaming in the slanted morning light. “You know, I think this might be the first time I’ve lost anything and not wanted to hex someone about it.” You smirked. “Wow. Character development.”

He grinned, actually grinned, the corners of his mouth curling like sunlight creeping through storm clouds. “Don’t push it.” You looked down at your plate, then back up at him. “I mean, we both lost, technically. And yet…”

“And yet,” he echoed, voice low and warm, gaze lingering. His fingers brushed yours under the table, just a whisper of contact, but it said everything. You glanced around at the bustle of the Hall. No one was paying attention to you anymore. The spotlight had shifted elsewhere. You and Taehyun were no longer the top contenders, the academic titans vying for dominance. And you didn’t care.

The rivalry had sharpened you both, carved out the edges where you met, but now, here, in this quiet moment between spoonfuls of marmalade and melted butter, it felt like something new was blooming. Not softer, exactly. But truer. Less about pride. More about presence. “I think,” you said slowly, “I’d rather have this.”

He tilted his head. “This?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Us. Whatever we are now.” For a moment, Taehyun didn’t answer. Just looked at you, like you were the only person in the castle worth watching. Like maybe, in some unspoken way, he’d already chosen this over everything else. Then he said, “Me too.”

Epilogue

The letter arrives on a Tuesday. It isn’t sent with an owl, or folded with formal corners. It’s slipped into your Potions textbook, tucked between a page on amortentia and the properties of powdered moonstone. You find it when your fingers brush against the soft, familiar parchment, sealed with nothing more than a pressed flower. A heliotrope. His favorite. And yours. Your name is scrawled across the front in his ever-meticulous handwriting, slanted and confident and just a touch dramatic. But inside; it’s him, wholly and undeniably.

Meet me at the Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Midnight. Don’t bring Sunoo, or I swear.

Stop asking questions you already know the answer to, Little Miss Perfect. It makes me want to kiss you. Which is inconvenient. Because I hate you.

—T.K.

You laugh, soft, delighted, head shaking in disbelief. The paper crinkles in your hand as your fingers clutch it tighter, your stomach blooming with something golden and giddy. You press the letter against your lips, a half-suppressed giggle escaping. He still says he hates you. You roll your eyes, slip the letter into your sleeve, and go anyway.

The Astronomy Tower is quiet when you arrive, the air tinged with cold and the faint, fragrant echo of spring pushing through winter’s shadow. Snow clings in delicate lace to the ramparts, the sky a deep indigo velvet scattered with stars. Hogwarts sleeps below, its windows glowing faintly, warm and distant. You find him leaning against the parapet, robes fluttering slightly in the breeze, curls tousled and dark against the moonlight. He doesn’t turn as you approach, but you know he hears you. He always does. “You’re late,” Taehyun murmurs, without looking.

“You’re impossible,” you reply, stepping beside him, shoulder brushing his.

He finally glances at you. “And yet, here you are.”

You smile. It’s soft, easy. “What’s the occasion?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks up, at the moon, at the stars, at anything but you. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. “I used to come here to get away from people. To think. Sometimes just to breathe.” You say nothing. You let him unravel in his own time.

He exhales, long and slow. “Now all I think about is how badly I want you here. All the time. Even when you’re babbling. Even when you’re winning at things I swore I needed to beat you at.” You glance at him, heart beating like a drum beneath your ribs. He turns to face you fully now, the night making a poem of his profile, sharp lines, soft edges, eyes full of unspoken things.

“You ruined my solitude,” he whispers.

You tilt your head, teasing. “You’re welcome.”

His lips twitch. “I should hate you for it.”

“And yet?”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be wrong with.” You reach for him first this time, fingers brushing his, pulling him into your gravity. He meets you halfway. The kiss is quiet. Slow. Like a confession. Like a wish. Above, the stars burn steady. Below, the castle dreams. And somewhere between the heavens and the earth, a boy who built walls and a girl who tore them down find something far sweeter than victory. Not perfection. But something better. Home

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

#kang taehyun imagines #taehyun imagines #tomorrow x together x reader #tomorrow x together imagines #tomorrow x together

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marchy-emmet · 2 months ago

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Ingo:

-Will hug anyone if asked

-Usually doesn't mind being touched

Emmet:

-Enjoys his personal space

-Makes an exception with Ingo... always surprises him from behind

(I know there's a lot of headcanons that may be the opposite to this, but I see it very differently! Ingo's loud enthusiasm and Emmet's more reserved and monotonous mannerisms translate to certain preferences of physical touch for me.)

#submas #subway bosses #subway boss ingo #subway boss emmet #pokemon #pkmn #pkmn bw

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kenzdolls · 2 months ago

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OBLIVIOUSNESS . 5.8k

𖤐 synopsis: you’ve just arrived as the new student of ua, and kirishima and bakugou have grown a liking to you. but, you’re very oblivious to their feelings.

𖤐 pairing: katsuki bakugo + eijiro kirishima x fem! reader

𖤐 sent in by: @cosmopretty

𖤐 trigger warnings: mild violence, mild swearing [katsuki duh]

𖤐 side note: this has some ooc of the quirk for reader.

you took a deep breath as you stared up at the imposing gates of ua high school. after your family's unexpected move to japan, you never imagined you'd end up transferring to the most prestigious hero school in the country. yet here you were, your quirk—the ability to temporarily absorb and redirect kinetic energy—deemed impressive enough to warrant a mid-semester transfer to class 1-a.

"you can do this," you whispered to yourself, adjusting your new uniform one last time before stepping through the gates.

the school was even more impressive on the inside than you'd imagined. massive hallways lined with windows stretched before you, and students with incredible quirks milled about, chatting and laughing as if attending the top hero academy in japan was completely normal.

"are you the new transfer student?" a friendly voice called out.

you turned to see a tall boy with glasses approaching you, his movements almost robotically precise. he adjusted his glasses with a crisp motion.

"i am iida tenya, class 1-a representative! it is my duty to escort you to our classroom and ensure your integration is smooth and efficient!"

his enthusiasm made you smile despite your nerves. "yes, that's me. i'm y/n. thank you for the help."

"excellent! follow me, and i will explain the essential protocols of ua as we proceed!"

as iida led you through the school, practically speed-walking while delivering an impromptu lecture on ua's rules and schedules, you tried to absorb as much information as possible. but your mind kept wandering to what your new classmates would be like. would they accept you? would your quirk measure up?

——

"class, we have a new student joining us today," aizawa-sensei announced in his usual monotone voice, barely looking up from his papers. he looked tired, wrapped in his yellow sleeping bag despite standing at the podium. "please introduce yourself."

you smiled nervously as twenty pairs of curious eyes fixed on you. the classroom fell silent, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

"hi everyone! i'm y/n. i just moved here from overseas. my quirk is energy redirection—i can absorb kinetic energy and release it when needed. i'm really excited to train with all of you and become a hero!"

as you scanned the classroom, your gaze lingered momentarily on two boys sitting near each other. one had spiky ash-blonde hair and intense crimson eyes that seemed to be studying you with unusual interest. his posture was confident, borderline arrogant, with his feet propped up on his desk despite iida's obvious disapproval.

the other boy had vibrant red hair styled in sharp points and a friendly smile that instantly put you at ease. unlike the blonde, he was leaning forward in his seat, looking genuinely interested in your introduction.

"you can take the empty seat behind kirishima," aizawa pointed to the red-haired boy, who immediately turned around and flashed you a sharp-toothed grin.

"hey there! i'm kirishima eijiro! your quirk sounds super manly!" his enthusiasm was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile back.

"thanks, i'm still working on controlling it completely. sometimes i absorb too much energy at once and it's hard to regulate the release."

"that's so cool though! my quirk is hardening," he demonstrated by hardening his arm, which turned jagged and rock-like. "not as flashy as yours, but it gets the job done!"

"i think it's amazing," you replied honestly, impressed by the transformation.

"tch, another extra joining the class," the blonde boy grumbled, though his eyes never left you. there was something about his gaze that didn't match his dismissive tone—he seemed to be assessing you, calculating.

"don't mind bakugo," kirishima laughed, nudging the blonde's shoulder with surprising familiarity. "that's just his way of saying hello. he's actually really awesome once you get to know him. best explosion quirk in the school!"

bakugo scowled but didn't correct him. "if you're going to be in the hero course, you better not slow the rest of us down," he said to you, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes that belied his harsh words.

"i'll try to keep up," you replied with a small smile, refusing to be intimidated.

something like approval flashed across bakugo's face before he turned back around in his seat.

"all right, enough socializing," aizawa called out, fully emerging from his sleeping bag. "let's begin today's lesson."

——

your first week at ua was a whirlwind of new faces, challenging classes, and grueling training sessions. you quickly learned that ua's reputation for excellence was well-earned—every student was pushed to their limits daily.

to your surprise, you found yourself frequently in kirishima and bakugo's company. it started during your first practical training session when all might paired you with kirishima.

"young y/n! let's see how your energy redirection works with young kirishima's hardening! a fine combination of offense and defense!" the legendary hero boomed.

you and kirishima clicked immediately as training partners. his hardened body could deliver powerful impacts that you could absorb and redirect, multiplying the force. by the end of the session, even all might was impressed.

"excellent teamwork!" he announced, giving you both a thumbs up.

"that was amazing!" kirishima high-fived you, his sharp teeth gleaming in a wide smile. "we're like the perfect combo!"

"not bad," came a gruff voice from behind you. bakugo stood there, arms crossed but eyes attentive. "your quirk might actually be useful in a real fight."

coming from bakugo, you quickly realized this was high praise.

"thanks," you replied, genuinely pleased. "i saw you training too—your explosions are incredible."

"hell yeah they are," he said with a smirk, but there was less hostility in his tone than before.

"hey, y/n!" kirishima chimed in. "a bunch of us usually study together at the library after classes. you should join us!"

"really? that would be great, actually. i'm still catching up on some of the material."

"awesome! bakugo comes too—he's actually super smart, even if he pretends not to care."

"shut up, shitty hair," bakugo growled, but there was no real malice behind it.

you noticed something then—a certain softness in bakugo's eyes when he looked at kirishima, a subtle shift in his perpetually angry expression. and the way kirishima could touch bakugo's arm or shoulder without getting blasted across the room… it spoke of a closeness that went beyond ordinary friendship.

——

over the next few weeks, you found yourself spending more and more time with both kirishima and bakugo. what started as kirishima offering to help you catch up on training quickly evolved into the three of you studying together, having lunch together, and even hanging out after school.

one afternoon, you were studying in the library with them when you noticed bakugo uncharacteristically helping kirishima understand a complex hero law concept.

"no, hair-for-brains, the liability statute only applies if the civilian was already in danger," bakugo explained, his voice softer than usual. his shoulder pressed against kirishima's as he pointed to a passage in the textbook.

"ohhh, i get it now!" kirishima beamed, practically glowing under bakugo's attention. "you explain it way better than the book, bakugo!"

"that's because the book was written by idiots," bakugo muttered, but a small, proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

you watched this exchange with growing realization. the lingering touches, the softened voices, the private smiles—they weren't just close friends. there was something more between them.

"y/n, you okay?" kirishima asked, noticing your thoughtful expression.

"oh! yeah, i'm fine," you replied quickly. "just trying to understand this material."

"want me to help you too?" kirishima offered eagerly. "bakugo just explained it really well!"

"sure," you smiled, sliding your chair closer to theirs. as kirishima launched into an explanation, with occasional corrections from bakugo, you couldn't help but feel a warm sense of belonging. these two boys, as different as they were, had somehow made room for you in their world.

what you didn't know was that the two boys had been dating quietly for a few months before your arrival. and now, they both found themselves increasingly drawn to you, a development that surprisingly didn't cause jealousy but rather mutual understanding between them.

——

"i think she's amazing," kirishima confessed to bakugo one evening as they walked home after parting ways with you. the sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over them. "the way she handled that simulation exercise today was incredible."

"she's got good instincts," bakugo grudgingly admitted, which was high praise coming from him. "and she doesn't take shit from anyone."

just that afternoon, you had stood your ground when monoma from class 1-b tried to belittle your quirk. your calm but cutting response had left him speechless, and bakugo had actually laughed out loud.

"you like her too," kirishima nudged him, grinning knowingly.

"shut up, hair-for-brains." bakugo shoved his hands in his pockets, but he didn't deny it.

they walked in comfortable silence for a few moments before kirishima spoke again.

"you know, we could…"

"could what?"

"tell her. about us. and how we both feel about her."

bakugo was silent for a long moment. "you think that would work? us and her?"

"i don't know," kirishima shrugged, reaching out to take bakugo's hand. "but i think it's worth trying. the way she looks at you when you're training… and she always sits next to you at lunch even though you pretend to be annoyed."

"she sits next to you too, idiot."

"exactly," kirishima grinned. "i think she likes both of us."

bakugo squeezed kirishima's hand, his expression thoughtful. "let's give it a few more days. make sure."

——

meanwhile, you remained completely oblivious to their feelings. to you, kirishima was just being his usual friendly self, and bakugo's gradual softening around you seemed like normal friendship development. you didn't notice how kirishima always found excuses to sit next to you during class, or how bakugo's eyes followed you during training sessions.

you also didn't see how the rest of the class had started to notice the dynamic between the three of you.

"y/n is so clueless," mina whispered to uraraka during lunch one day, her yellow eyes darting toward where you sat between kirishima and bakugo. "those two are practically tripping over themselves for her attention."

"wait, i thought kirishima and bakugo were together?" uraraka asked, confused. "i've seen them holding hands when they think no one's looking."

"they are," tsuyu joined in, her finger on her chin thoughtfully. "but they both seem to like y/n too. kero."

"that's… actually kind of sweet," uraraka smiled, watching as kirishima offered you some of his lunch and bakugo pretended not to notice but still pushed his dessert toward you when he thought no one was looking.

"i wonder if she knows," mina mused.

"i don't think she does," todoroki unexpectedly joined the conversation. "she looks at them the same way they look at her when the other isn't watching."

the girls turned to him in surprise.

"what?" he shrugged. "it's obvious."

——

the next day, you were paired with kirishima for rescue training. the scenario involved rescuing civilians (represented by weighted dummies) from a collapsing building.

"ready for this?" kirishima asked, flexing his hardened arms with excitement.

"born ready," you grinned, feeling a surge of confidence. over the past weeks, your control over your quirk had improved immensely, partly thanks to kirishima and bakugo's help during extra training sessions.

as you entered the training zone, the simulated building began to crumble around you. kirishima immediately hardened his body and shielded you from falling debris.

"thanks!" you called out, already moving toward the first dummy.

"no problem! that's what heroes do!" he replied, his smile impossibly bright despite the chaotic environment.

working together seamlessly, you began evacuating the "civilians." kirishima would break through obstacles while you used your absorbed energy to clear paths or boost your speed to reach stranded dummies.

at one point, a particularly large piece of concrete came crashing down. kirishima hardened just in time, catching it inches above your head.

"that was close," you breathed, finding yourself suddenly very close to him, his face just inches from yours.

"i'd never let anything happen to you," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. for a moment, time seemed to stand still as you stared into each other's eyes.

the spell was broken by aizawa's voice over the intercom. "five minutes remaining."

you both snapped back to the task at hand, but something had shifted between you and kirishima—a new awareness that hadn't been there before.

from the observation deck, bakugo watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, not out of jealousy but with growing certainty. the way you looked at kirishima… it was the same way you sometimes looked at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

——

the breaking point came during a joint training session a few days later. you were paired with bakugo against kirishima and todoroki in a capture-the-flag style exercise. the objective was to either secure the opposing team's flag or immobilize both opponents.

"don't hold me back," bakugo warned as you took your positions, but there was no bite to his words.

"wouldn't dream of it," you replied with a smirk. "i've got a strategy if you're willing to hear it."

bakugo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "let's hear it."

you quickly outlined a plan that would use his explosions and your energy redirection to create a diversion while also setting up a powerful combo attack. to your surprise, bakugo actually listened without interrupting.

"not bad," he admitted when you finished. "let's do it."

as the exercise began, you and bakugo moved with surprising synchronicity. you flanked todoroki and kirishima's position, with bakugo launching calculated explosions that you partly absorbed, building up energy for the decisive moment.

when todoroki created an ice wall to block your advance, bakugo blasted through it, creating a shower of ice fragments that momentarily distracted them. in that perfect opening, you released all your stored energy in a concentrated wave that knocked todoroki off his feet.

kirishima, hardened and prepared, charged toward you. bakugo moved without hesitation, positioning himself between you and kirishima.

"now!" he shouted.

understanding instantly, you placed your hand on bakugo's back, absorbing the kinetic energy as he created a massive explosion directed at the ground. the force would have thrown both of you backward, but you channeled the energy and redirected it forward, propelling bakugo like a missile straight into kirishima.

the impact was calculated perfectly—strong enough to push kirishima back but not enough to hurt him seriously through his hardening. the momentum carried bakugo and kirishima tumbling to the ground, with bakugo quickly pinning the red-haired boy.

"gotcha," bakugo grinned triumphantly.

meanwhile, you dashed for their flag, snatching it just as todoroki was getting back to his feet.

"victory to team bakugo and y/n!" all might's voice boomed over the speakers.

you ran over to where bakugo still had kirishima pinned, both boys looking up at you with expressions of admiration—kirishima's open and bright, bakugo's subtle but unmistakable.

"that was fucking amazing!" bakugo exclaimed, finally releasing kirishima and grabbing your shoulders with an excited gleam in his eyes that you'd never seen before. "the way you redirected my explosion—nobody's ever synchronized with my quirk like that!"

"we make a good team," you laughed, slightly breathless from the fight and his unexpected praise.

"hell yeah we do," he agreed, still holding onto you, his crimson eyes locked with yours. for a moment, it seemed like he might say something more, but he released you and stepped back, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks.

"that was amazing you guys!" kirishima jumped up, seemingly unbothered by his defeat. "even though you beat us, the way you handled bakugo's explosions was incredible, y/n! and bakugo, dude, that strategy was genius!"

"thanks," you smiled, accepting the water bottle kirishima offered you. "though i think bakugo did most of the work."

"no way," kirishima shook his head, his eyes sincere. "you two were perfectly in sync. you know, he doesn't work well with just anyone."

"really?" you looked over to where bakugo was now arguing with todoroki about something, gesturing wildly. despite his confrontational stance, you could tell he was more animated than angry. "i feel like i've known you both forever, even though it's only been a few weeks."

kirishima's expression softened. "i know exactly what you mean."

across the training ground, bakugo caught kirishima's eye over todoroki's shoulder. something unspoken passed between them—a silent agreement.

——

later that afternoon, you were in the girls' locker room changing after training when mina sidled up next to you.

"sooo," she drawled, her yellow and black eyes gleaming with mischief. "you, bakugo, and kirishima, huh?"

"what about us?" you asked, genuinely confused as you pulled your uniform shirt on.

"oh come on!" mina groaned dramatically. "the way they look at you? the way you look at them? it's the juiciest drama in class right now!"

"i don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, though you could feel your cheeks warming. "we're just friends."

uraraka joined the conversation with a gentle smile. "y/n, kirishima literally gives you his jacket whenever you say you're cold. and yesterday bakugo yelled at mineta for staring at you for too long."

"that's just kirishima being nice and bakugo being… bakugo," you replied, though a strange flutter was building in your chest.

tsuyu tilted her head. "you really don't see it? kero."

"see what?"

"that they're both totally into you!" mina exclaimed. "and from what i can tell, you're into them too!"

"but they're together," you blurted out before you could stop yourself. you'd never spoken this observation aloud before, but you'd been increasingly certain of it.

the three girls exchanged knowing glances.

"so you've noticed that much at least," mina said. "yes, they are. but that doesn't mean they can't also like you."

you stood there, uniform half-buttoned, mind racing. could it be true? had you been completely missing the signs?

"think about it," uraraka said gently. "how often do they both just happen to be wherever you are?"

"how bakugo is almost nice to you when he's a jerk to everyone else," mina added.

"how kirishima always saves you a seat," tsuyu finished.

as they spoke, dozens of little moments flashed through your mind—bakugo's lingering glances, kirishima's casual touches, the way they always included you… had you really been that oblivious?

"i… i need to think," you mumbled, hastily finishing changing and grabbing your bag.

as you left the locker room, your phone buzzed with a text. it was from kirishima:

hey! bakugo and i were wondering if you could meet us on the roof after school? there's something we want to talk to you about. no pressure though!

your heart skipped a beat as you read the message. after your conversation with the girls, the timing seemed almost too perfect. you hesitated for just a moment before typing back:

sure, see you there.

——

the rest of the day passed in a blur. you couldn't focus on any of your classes, your mind constantly drifting to what kirishima and bakugo might want to talk about. by the time the final bell rang, your stomach was in knots.

you made your way slowly to the roof, each step feeling heavier than the last. what if the girls were wrong? what if this was about something completely different? or worse, what if they had somehow found out about your growing feelings for both of them and wanted to let you down gently?

the sun was setting as you pushed open the door to find both boys waiting, looking uncharacteristically nervous—even bakugo seemed on edge, pacing back and forth while kirishima leaned against the railing.

"hey," you called out softly, causing both to turn toward you simultaneously.

"y/n! you came!" kirishima's face lit up, though you could see he was fidgeting with the hem of his uniform jacket.

"of course," you replied, walking over to join them. "is everything okay?"

the boys exchanged a look, some silent communication passing between them. finally, bakugo took a deep breath.

"y/n," he started, uncharacteristically using your actual name instead of some nickname. "we have something to tell you."

"first," kirishima jumped in, "we want you to know that there's no pressure here. whatever you decide is totally cool."

"decide about what?" you asked, heart hammering against your ribs.

"shitty hair and i have been dating for a while now," bakugo stated bluntly, watching your reaction carefully.

even though you'd suspected it, hearing the confirmation still made your breath catch. "oh! that's great! you guys make a really cute couple." you meant it sincerely, even as part of your heart sank at the confirmation.

"there's more," kirishima continued, his cheeks almost matching his hair as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "we both… really like you. as more than a friend."

"a lot more," bakugo added, his eyes intense as they fixed on yours. "and it's not just physical or whatever. you're strong and you don't take shit and you're… you."

you blinked, processing their words as your mind raced to catch up. "wait… both of you? like me?"

"yeah," kirishima nodded, looking both hopeful and terrified. "i know it might sound weird or complicated—"

"it's not weird," you interrupted, a slow smile spreading across your face as relief and joy flooded through you. "i like both of you too. i have for weeks. i just never thought…"

"are you serious?" bakugo looked genuinely shocked, which was rare for him. "how could you not notice? i've been less of an asshole to you than to anyone else in this entire school!"

"and i've been finding every excuse to be near you," kirishima added incredulously. "i literally gave you my favorite hoodie last week!"

"oh my god," you laughed, suddenly seeing all those moments in a new light. "mina and the girls were right. i am oblivious."

"no shit," bakugo muttered, but there was no real heat behind his words. in fact, you could swear you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"so…" kirishima took a step closer to you, hope shining in his eyes. "would you want to… be with us? both of us? we've talked about it a lot and we both want this—want you—if you're interested."

your answer was to close the distance and take both their hands in yours, kirishima's calloused from his hardening quirk, bakugo's warm from his explosions. "yes. absolutely yes."

the smile that broke across kirishima's face was blinding, all sharp teeth and pure joy. even bakugo couldn't maintain his scowl, a genuine smile softening his features in a way you'd rarely seen.

"can i…" kirishima hesitated, looking at you with such tenderness it made your heart ache. "can i kiss you?"

your answer was to lean forward and press your lips to his. the kiss was sweet and gentle, everything you'd imagined kissing kirishima would be like. when you pulled back, his eyes were wide with wonder.

"wow," he breathed.

you turned to bakugo, whose eyes had darkened as he watched the two of you. "your turn?"

for a moment, he didn't move, and you worried you'd misstepped. then he cupped your face with surprising gentleness and pulled you into a kiss that was all passion and barely restrained fire—completely bakugo.

when he released you, you were breathless.

"damn," kirishima whispered, watching both of you with undisguised admiration.

the three of you stood there as the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the rooftop in golden light. kirishima's arm slipped around your waist, and bakugo's hand remained intertwined with yours.

"so," you finally asked, "how does this work exactly?"

"however we want it to," bakugo replied with unexpected wisdom. "no rulebook for this shit."

"we'll figure it out together," kirishima added, squeezing you closer. "that's what heroes do, right? face the unknown."

standing there between them, feeling bakugo's steady presence on one side and kirishima's warm enthusiasm on the other, you had never felt more certain of anything in your life.

——

the next day, the entire class 1-a froze in collective shock when the three of you walked into homeroom together. bakugo had his arm casually draped over your shoulder, while you held kirishima's hand on your other side. the three of you had talked late into the night, figuring out the beginnings of your relationship, and had decided there was no point in hiding it.

mina was the first to react, letting out an excited squeal that made jirou wince beside her. "finally!"

"wait, are all three of you…?" kaminari pointed between you, his face a mixture of confusion and awe.

"got a problem with it, dunce face?" bakugo challenged, pulling you slightly closer in a protective gesture.

"n-no! it's cool!" kaminari quickly backed down before breaking into a grin. "actually, it's kind of awesome."

"i'm so happy for you guys!" uraraka beamed, giving you a thumbs up.

iida adjusted his glasses, looking momentarily flustered before regaining his composure. "while this is certainly an unconventional arrangement, as long as it doesn't interfere with your studies or hero training, i see no reason to object!"

"thanks, class rep," kirishima laughed, squeezing your hand.

as you took your seats, you could feel the curious glances of your classmates, but they were largely supportive—or at least interested rather than judgmental. even todoroki gave a small nod of acknowledgment as you passed his desk.

during lunch, the shock value had still not worn off as you sat between the boys in the cafeteria, kirishima feeding you bites of his food while bakugo's leg pressed against yours under the table.

"i still can't believe she didn't notice we liked her," kirishima chuckled, his arm draped comfortably across the back of your chair.

"oblivious as hell," bakugo agreed, but his tone was almost affectionate as he reached over to brush a strand of hair from your face. the gesture was so casual yet intimate that several nearby students did double-takes.

"hey, i got there eventually," you protested with a laugh.

"yeah," kirishima smiled, resting his head on your shoulder while bakugo's hand found yours under the table. "you did."

across the cafeteria, the rest of class 1-a watched in amazement.

"i've never seen bakugo so… calm," midoriya whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the unusual sight of bakugo showing affection openly.

"love changes people, i guess," uraraka replied with a smile.

"it's manly as hell," tetsutetsu commented from the class 1-b table. "they're not afraid to be who they are."

as if hearing them, bakugo turned to glare in their direction, but when you leaned in to say something to him, his expression immediately softened as he turned back to you.

"so, training after school?" you asked both boys. "i want to try this new move i've been thinking about—combining bakugo's explosion with kirishima's hardening."

"hell yeah," bakugo nodded, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "i've got a few ideas too."

"count me in!" kirishima added enthusiastically. "with the three of us working together, we'll be unstoppable!"

watching them together—bakugo's fierce determination and kirishima's unwavering positivity—you couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, the three of you really would be unstoppable. not just as heroes in training, but as partners supporting each other through whatever challenges lay ahead.

some things would never change completely. bakugo would always be explosive, kirishima would always be enthusiastic, and perhaps you would always be a little oblivious. but that was perfectly fine with the three of you.

after all, it had led you exactly where you were meant to be—together.

taglist: [open]

mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @gh0st-g1rll @luvseraphh

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lheslie · 2 months ago

Text

Mark Variants Vs Mirko Reader

"I live every day as if I'm not gonna see another one. That way, I'll have no regrets when I die." - Mirko from My hero academia.

- Main Mark

Other than his father, you were his favorite superhero. He loved your strong conviction.

He deeply admired your strength and skills, he loves your enthusiastic energy when fighting.

When you started to team up with him, he loved talking to you everyday asking for advices on how to become a better fighter.

Sparring with you is the best time for him as he kept seeing you smile as you fight with him, trying to keep up with him.

He loved your confidence being able to fight full on, even after being injured you're able to immediately stand right back up.

Handling multiple enemies, even you're alone.

You're not even afraid facing them head on, even if you know they're stronger than you.

"If there's a will, there's a way " You spoke as you found an enemy weakness, using it to your advantage.

As you were quite reckless, he's quite worried, you didn't even stayed a week inside the hospital, after regaining conscious, you sprung up back into action on the battlefield.

You were always in the frontlines, and he makes sure that he's always beside you to guard you against enemies behind your back.

He especially loves your supersuit, he sometimes gets distracted admiring it.

"Oi! Are you underestimating me? Fight with everything you've got!" You shouted gaining his full attention.

"S-sorry my bad." As he started to spar again with you.

- Omni Mark

He liked your enthusiasm and confidence, you know yourself very well, strength and limitations and yet, even though he already threw you to a building, normal heroes would be dead or knocked unconscious but instead you stood up again, ready for another round.

You adjusted your dislocated bones, relocating them to the right position, stretching again.

"You fight well, yet you waste your time, saving people who isn't even greatful for what you do." He spoke, approaching you.

"I live every day as if I'm not gonna see another one. That way, I'll have no regrets when I die." You said licking blood fixing your hair, getting ready for another fight.

"Very well, then I'll give you a proper fight to the death." He stated.

- Target Mark

"IS THERE NO ONE WORTHY HERE?" He screamed as he kept killing heroes.

"Then fight someone who is." You spoke as you surprised him with a kick from the back hitting his back bone.

He immediately fell vomitting blood on the ground.

He stood up to take revenge, but you kept kicking him down making sure he doesn't get anytime to stand up.

"Go to sleep." You said, trying to kick his temple, but he caught your ankle, throwing you to the wall.

He got back up flying, looks on your direction to punch you again, but you were able to regain your senses and avoiding his punch, standing up.

"Where have you been all this time?" He questioned you.

"Beating your other variant's asses, you should say hi to them in death." throwing another punch at him.

"Those were entirely weaker versions of me, they don't deserve to be called by the same name as me." He snorted

"Well either way you're dead, so stop talking." You yelled.

- Viltrum Mark

"I can see you've come back for more." He monotonously spoke as he looked at you with your newly ampuated body parts.

"You thought by taking off my limbs would stop me right there? You have to kill me before you actually defeat me." You declared, flipping him off.

Viltrum Mark clenched his teeth in anger as he replied. "Very well then, you shall die."

"I ain't that weak." You huffed.

"GET DOWN FROM THERE AND GIVE ME A FAIR FIGHT THEN." You yelled, at him.

- Shiesty Mark

"Fuck, this is no fun. Everyone's so weak." He complained, as you took out a street light that collapsed on the ground hitting him with it.

"Well here's fun! How about you go and die!" You smiled.

He flew off but quickly gained momentum.

"Ugh, fuck. I'm gonna make sure you don't have an easy death." He spoke angrily.

"Hmph, and who said I'm dying?" You kicked him with your luna fall, making him fall to the ground.

"You think that's enough to defeat me? Motherfucker!" He cursed at you.

"Well there's more where that came from, just wait you evil fiend." You laughed, lunging at him.

- Sinister Mark

"You put up a fight." He said as he was floating above you, as you stood up again, wiping blood from your face.

"You underestimate me, I haven't shown you everything I've got." You laughed as you run at him, trying to kick him again with your full power, but he caught your leg.

"You've got strong legs, I wonder how you'll react when I slowly crush your bones." He said smiling with bloodlust, he started to slowly strengthen his grip on your leg, trying to crack your bone.

Instead of wincing in pain your smile still preservered, and kicking him with your other leg.

You jumped with one of your healthly leg, retreating to the shadows, putting a bandage on it.

"Look's like bunbun got scared." He chuckled trying to find you under the rubbles.

"Come out little bunny." He slowly meancingly chuckled.

After stopping the blood gushing out of your leg, you tied the bandage tightly.

You went out again to kick him down.

"I thought you've ran away, I would've been really disappointed." He stated punching you to the wall.

"And make you happy? Never." You stated as you punched him to the other pavement.

- Prisoner Mark

"Give up, you have no chance against me, I've killed thousands, just submit." He said as you stood up again.

"Hahaha! Never." You said standing up again, licking the blood off your lips.

"Then you shall meet your fate." He said punching your guts, making you fly again to the wall again.

You slowly stood up again, for another fight.

"You're not giving up are you?" He muttered.

- Mohawk Mark

Mohawk Mark chuckles to himself proud causing havoc.

"Halt, Evil Mark!." You shouted gaining his attention.

He looked around trying to find where that sound might be, while you took the opportunity to kick him in the face.

He fell down, from the sky.

"How did you jump that high." He laughs amused as blood oozes out of his face, he wiped it off.

He started to fly again and rushed at you, jumping again you kicked him in the face again, making him fall back into the ground.

He stood up again, breathing heavily but still smiling.

"You have really strong legs right there, I wonder how you'll react when I slowly break them." He looked at you smiling agressively.

"Let's see if you can." You smiled challange him.

- No goggles Mark

"Oooh! I never fought you in my dimension." He spoke as you repeatedly hit him, not giving him any time to finish his speech.

"Wow, that's so cool." He kept smiling at the sensations of your kicks, he grabbed your ankle trying to slam you down.

"Well there's more where that came from!!" You yelled kicking him with your other foot, freeing yourself from his grasp.

"You're my favorite." He smiles.

"Hah! You haven't had enough of me yet." You smiled charging at him.

"Bring it on!!" He yelled charging to you as well.

You both started exchanging blows, equal blows to each others.

"Are you single? Will you marry me?" He asks you out of nowhere.

"Not interested in a mass murderer." You replied throwing another blow through his liver, causing major pain.

He collapsed, as he grabbed on his aching liver.

"Oh, I just love you." he declared as he passes out.

"Who doesn't love me?" You left out a chuckle.

172 notes · View notes

mrsfancyferrari · 4 months ago

Text

Distract You

Summary: FC43 + "Let me distract you."

Song: The Boy Is Mine · Brandy & Monica

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The fluorescent light of your desk lamp hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the chaos of papers spread before you. The looming university exam felt like a monstrous wave about to crash over you, threatening to drag you under the weight of differential equations and historical dates.

You chewed on the end of your pen, the taste of plastic doing little to soothe the gnawing anxiety in your stomach. Another practice problem stared back at you, mocking your inability to solve it for the tenth time.

You were determined, bordering on stubborn. This exam was everything. Good grades meant a scholarship, the scholarship meant a future, and you were not about to compromise.

Sleep was a luxury, socializing a distant memory, and food something hastily scarfed down between chapters.

A soft knock echoed through your small apartment. You ignored it, willing the person to go away. But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent.

"Just a minute!" you snapped, your voice tight with frustration. You reluctantly pushed back your chair, the screech against the wooden floor grating on your already frayed nerves.

You yanked the door open to find Franco standing there, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He was Argentinian, a whirlwind of warmth and chaotic energy who had somehow become your best friend.

He was sunshine on legs, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

"Hola, estrella!" he greeted you, his accent thick and comforting. "Mind if I intrude on your scholarly pursuits?"

"Franco, I told you, I'm studying," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "I really can't afford any distractions right now."

His smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered. He held up a brown paper bag. "I come bearing gifts! Alfajores and Argentine coffee. Figured you could use a little… fueling up."

You hesitated. The aroma of the sweet cookies and rich coffee was undeniably tempting. Your stomach rumbled in protest against the constant diet of instant noodles and stale crackers.

"Franco…" you started, then sighed. "I really shouldn't. Every minute counts."

"Every minute of staring at these dusty books is making you crazy," he countered, his eyes twinkling. "Come on, let's take a break. Just fifteen minutes. For your sanity, if not for me."

He edged his way past you, placing the bag on your cluttered desk. He surveyed the scene with a concerned frown. "Dios mio, this looks like a battlefield. You haven't slept, have you?"

"Sleep is for the weak," you mumbled, turning back to your desk.

He chuckled. "Says the woman who’s about to faint from exhaustion. Look, I get it. You’re stressed. But burning yourself out isn’t going to help. Let me distract you."

You wanted to argue, to shove him out the door and bury yourself back in your books. But the truth was, you were teetering on the edge of a breakdown. The pressure was suffocating, and Franco, with his easy laughter and genuine concern, was a welcome lifeline.

"Fifteen minutes," you conceded, pointing a finger at him. "And then you leave. No arguments."

"Deal!" He clapped his hands together, his enthusiasm infectious. He poured you a cup of coffee, the dark liquid steaming in the dim light. He unwrapped an alfajor, the sweet dulce de leche oozing from between the two delicate cookies.

You took a tentative sip of the coffee, the rich flavor instantly melting away some of the tension in your shoulders. You bit into the alfajor, the sweetness a comforting balm to your frayed nerves.

"Okay," you said, your voice slightly softer. "You have my attention. Distract me."

Franco grinned, settling onto the edge of your bed. "So, tell me about this exam. What's got you so freaked out?"

You hesitated, then found yourself pouring out your anxieties, explaining the importance of the scholarship, the pressure to succeed, the fear of failing.

Franco listened patiently, nodding occasionally, his eyes filled with understanding.

"You're putting too much pressure on yourself," he said gently when you finally ran out of steam. "You're smart, you're dedicated. You'll do fine."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered. "You're an f1 driver. You don't have to worry about things like scholarships and GPAs."

"That's true," he conceded. "But I have my own stresses, you know? Driving fast, not crashing… it's not always a picnic." He paused, then a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

"But that’s not the point! The point is, you need to relax. Come on, tell me something fun. What’s been making you laugh lately?"

You thought for a moment. It was hard to remember the last time you had truly laughed, but you forced yourself to think. "Okay, well, Mrs. Peterson in accounting tripped over a box in the hallway the other day and landed in a pile of paperwork. It was… kind of funny."

Franco chuckled. "See? There's still joy in the world! Now, tell me something else. Something…spicier."

You blushed, suddenly aware of how close he was sitting. You'd known Franco for years, but lately, something had shifted. The comfortable friendship was tinged with a new awareness, a fluttering in your stomach whenever he was near.

You had feelings for him, ridiculous, inconvenient feelings that you had been desperately trying to ignore.

"Um… I don't know," you stammered, suddenly flustered.

He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Oh, come on. There must be something. A cute guy in your history class? A scandalous rumor about the dean?"

You bit your lip, your heart pounding in your chest. "There's… someone," you admitted softly. "But it's complicated."

"Complicated how?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "He's… a friend. A really good friend. And I don't want to ruin our friendship."

"Ah," Franco said softly. "I see."

An awkward silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock. You knew you had to say something, to break the tension.

"Okay, time's up," you said, standing abruptly. "Fifteen minutes is over. Back to the books."

Franco stood as well, his expression unreadable. He picked up the empty coffee cup and the paper bag. "Alright. But promise me you'll take a real break tonight. Watch a movie, listen to music, something. Don't let this exam consume you."

"I promise," you lied, knowing full well you would probably be studying until dawn.

He walked towards the door, then paused, turning back to you. "Estrella," he said, his voice low. "Don't be afraid to take a chance. Sometimes, the best things in life are worth risking a little discomfort for."

He left, leaving you standing in your messy apartment, your head spinning. His words echoed in your mind, a confusing mix of encouragement and… something else.

You tried to focus on your studies, but Franco's face kept flashing in your mind. You replayed the conversation, analyzing every word, every gesture.

Was he hinting at something? Was he aware of your feelings? Or were you just reading too much into everything?

Hours passed, filled with more equations and historical dates, but your concentration was shot. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were missing something, that you were so focused on the future that you were ignoring the present.

The present, which included a certain Argentinian with a captivating smile and a heart of gold.

Finally, exhaustion won. You pushed back from your desk, your eyes burning, your head throbbing. You knew you couldn't study anymore, not tonight.

You grabbed your phone and scrolled through your contacts, your finger hovering over Franco's name.

What would you say? What could you say?

You took a deep breath and typed a simple message: "Movie tonight?"

The reply came almost instantly: "Pick you up in ten?"

A smile spread across your face. Maybe, just maybe, Franco was right. Maybe it was time to take a chance. Maybe, just maybe, something beautiful could bloom from the chaos of your life.

Maybe a little distraction was exactly what you needed, not just from your studies, but from the fear that had been holding you back for so long.

And as you waited for him, you realized that the biggest exam you were facing wasn't the one in your textbooks, but the one in your heart.

What had possessed you to ask him to the movies? You were a sleep-deprived, stressed-out student, and he… he was Franco. Argentinian, effortlessly cool, and possessed of a smile that could melt glaciers. What could he possibly see in you?

You splashed some water on your face, trying to look at least marginally more alive.

Ten minutes later, a gentle knock echoed through the apartment. You smoothed down your hair, took another deep breath, and opened the door.

Franco stood there, his smile even brighter than before. He was wearing a worn leather jacket and a simple white t-shirt that somehow looked impossibly stylish on him.

He had a small bouquet of vibrant sunflowers in his hand. “Ready for some movie magic, Estrella?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Ready.”

He led you downstairs and into his new charming, vintage car. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something indefinably him. As he drove, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him.

The streetlights cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the sparkle in his eyes.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual, “what are we seeing?”

“Ah, that’s a surprise,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But I promise you, it’s something you’ll enjoy.”

He pulled up to a small, independent cinema that you had never noticed before. The marquee was advertising a classic Argentinian film, "El Secreto de Sus Ojos."

“Franco,” you said, surprised, “this is… perfect.”

He grinned. “I thought you might like it. It's a bit of home, for me. And maybe a chance for you to see a little bit of my world.”

Inside, the cinema was cozy and dimly lit, smelling faintly of popcorn and old velvet. You settled into the worn seats, the anticipation buzzing between you. As the opening credits rolled, Franco leaned close and whispered, "Get ready. This is a masterpiece."

And it was. The movie was captivating, a complex and emotional story of love, loss, and justice set against the backdrop of Argentina's turbulent past.

You found yourself completely absorbed, forgetting about your exams and your anxieties. The subtitles flew by, but you barely noticed, caught in the raw emotion and the stunning visuals.

You glanced at Franco. He was completely engrossed, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the screen. A small smile played on his lips as he watched, a nostalgic warmth radiating from him.

You felt a connection to him, a sense of understanding that went beyond friendship. But the week of sleepless nights and caffeine pills caught up with you, and your eyelids started to droop.

The rhythmic dialogue, the soft darkness of the cinema, it was all too much. You found yourself drifting off, your head instinctively tilting towards Franco's shoulder.

The last thing you remembered was the comforting solidity of his presence beside you before you succumbed to sleep.

You woke up slowly, disoriented. The movie was still playing, but the credits were rolling. The theater was mostly empty, the only other occupants a couple huddled in the back row.

You blinked, trying to shake off the grogginess. Franco's hand was on your shoulder, rubbing it slowly and gently. His coat was draped over you.

He was whispering something in Spanish, his voice low and laced with concern.

"... Mi vida, tienes que cuidarte. Te amo demasiado para que te tires por la borda."

"What?" you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

Franco froze. His hand stilled on your shoulder. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his face. He seemed to realize that you were awake and had heard him.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the final strains of the movie's score.

"What did you say?" you asked again, your heart pounding in your chest.

He cleared his throat, his gaze darting away from yours. "I… I was just saying you should take care of yourself. You look tired. The exams… they are hard. You have to rest."

His explanation sounded rushed, unconvincing. You knew he was hiding something. The words he had spoken in Spanish, the tenderness in his voice, the look on his face – it all pointed to something more than just concern.

"No," you said, shaking your head. "Before that. You said something else. In Spanish."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "It was nothing. Just… worry."

"Franco," you said, your voice soft but firm. "Tell me."

He looked at you, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision.

"Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I said… 'My life, you better take care of yourself, I love you too much for you to throw yourself away.'"

The words hung in the air, electric and undeniable. Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at him, your mind reeling.

"You… you love me?" you managed to stammer.

He looked down, his cheeks flushed, the color contrasting starkly with his olive skin. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. "Yes," he said, his voice low, almost ashamed. "It's stupid, I know. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Stupid? Why stupid?" you asked, bewildered. A thousand questions swirled in your head, but that one felt the most pressing.

He finally looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a raw honesty that made your stomach flip. "Because… because nothing can come of it, right? You're you. You're… magnificent. And I'm just… me."

You frowned. "Franco, that's ridiculous. You're amazing."

"Yeah, amazing at fixing your broken laptop and translating confusing Spanish homework," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Not exactly boyfriend material."

"That's not true!" you protested, the words bursting out of you before you could even think. "You're kind, you're funny, you're incredibly smart… and you're always there for me. That’s more than I can say for most people."

He looked at you, searching your face for any sign of insincerity. "But... we're friends. Best friends. I didn't want to ruin that."

"And you thought blurting out a declaration of undying love in a near-empty movie theater was the best way to preserve our friendship?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

He winced. "Okay, maybe the timing wasn't ideal." He paused, then added, "And maybe... maybe I hoped you felt something too. It just kind of… slipped out."

You looked away, your own emotions a tangled knot in your chest. You had always valued Franco’s friendship, relied on it even.

He was your rock in a sea of uncertainty, the one person who always understood you, who always knew how to make you laugh, even when you felt like crying.

But romance? Had you ever considered him in that way?

A memory surfaced, unbidden: a late-night study session in his tiny apartment, the air thick with the smell of coffee and burnt toast. You were huddled together on his worn couch, poring over textbooks, his arm brushing against yours.

You had felt a spark then, a fleeting awareness of him as something more than just a friend. But you had dismissed it, chalking it up to stress and sleep deprivation.

"I... I don't know what to say," you finally admitted, the honesty feeling like a weight lifted from your shoulders. "I'm just… surprised. I never thought…"

"I know," he said softly, interrupting you. "And that's okay. You don't have to say anything. Just… forget I said anything, if that's what you want. We can just go back to being friends."

The thought of going back to how things were, pretending this hadn't happened, felt unbearable. You didn't want to lose his friendship, but the idea of ignoring this newfound truth, of burying your own feelings, felt even worse.

"That's the thing, Franco," you said, turning back to him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think I can just forget it."

He looked at you, hope flickering in his eyes. "So… you're saying… maybe…" He trailed off, afraid to voice his expectations.

You took a deep breath. "I'm saying that you're not just my friend, Franco. You're… you're important to me. And maybe, just maybe, there could be something more."

You hesitated, then admitted the truth that had been slowly dawning on you. "I think… I think I might love you, too."

His eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Really? You mean it?"

You nodded, a nervous smile mirroring his. "Really."

He reached out and took your hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "I've been in love with you for years," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "Ever since you helped me move into my first apartment and accidentally dropped that box of mate all over the floor."

You laughed, remembering the incident vividly. "I was so embarrassed! You just laughed and made me a cup."

"How could I not? You looked so horrified," he said, squeezing your hand. "That's when I knew. You're clumsy, and a little bit chaotic, but you have the biggest heart of anyone I know."

"And you're stubborn, and you always think you're right, but you're the most loyal and supportive person in the world," you countered, playfully nudging his shoulder.

A comfortable silence fell between you, filled only with the unspoken emotions that had finally found their way to the surface. The theater emptied around you, the cleaning crew beginning to sweep the aisles, but you didn't notice.

You were lost in each other's gaze, the world outside fading away.

"So… what now?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Franco grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Now? Now, I think we need a proper Argentinian date. Empanadas, dulce de leche, maybe even some tango lessons."

"Tango lessons? That's a little ambitious, don't you think?" you teased.

"Only if you don't trust my lead," he retorted, winking. "Besides, I'm sure I can convince my abuela to give us a few private lessons. She's a tango queen."

"Okay, okay, you've convinced me," you said, laughing. "But if I step on your toes, don't say I didn't warn you."

He stood up, pulling you up with him. "Come on," he said, his hand still holding yours. "Let's get out of here. I know a place that makes the best empanadas in the city."

As you walked out of the theater, hand in hand, the city lights seemed to shine a little brighter, the air felt a little warmer.

The world, which had always felt familiar and comfortable with Franco by your side, now felt vibrant and full of possibilities. . . .

194 notes · View notes

kunastrophic · 3 months ago

Text

pairing - popular! satoru gojo x fem! loser! reader

sypnosis - you have a passion for art but you're losing inspiration till you start drawing the pretty boy in your class !

reader is very awkward and makes a mildly stupid decision but it's okay, she's our girl nonetheless !!! not proofread !!!! i'm far too lazy

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being so artistic in such a drab place can be excruciating when taken into deep consideration.

honestly, could you have ever possibly gone to a more dreadful building? to call school boring is a major understatement in your eyes. seven continuous and seemingly never ending hours of the same bland off-white and beige walls surrounding you, almost making you feel trapped, like they're slowly closing in on you. the decor is worse, shockingly enough considering the lack of it.

fake plants, brainless posters that no one actually reads past the fifth grade, shelves adorned with drawers filled with typical school supplies, though all but the pencil drawer collects dust.

a few of the teachers seem to notice the distasteful environment and want to flip it just as much as you do, though you wholeheartedly believe they'd be better suited as preschool teachers rather than ones at a highschool.

no seventeen year old boys or girls want to walk into a classroom with tacky rainbows and suns with smiley faces plastered on the walls. the effort is appreciated by you, but you really do wonder whether or not they're conscious of the age group they teach.

the most ‘interesting’ things in this dreary institution are the tvs funded to the core classes, though even those lose points since they're only ever on to play the same three ‘school appropriate’ playlists that have you wishing they didn't implement a headphone ban. you honestly believe you can feel your ears bleeding within the very second they click the play button on the playlist.

even so, you take pride in the fact that you're likely one of, if not the only imaginative person in this school, the only one who can somehow find artistic enthusiasm in a place as depressing as this.

that was until recently.

this entire week, you've been desperately trying to find even a lick of motivation to draw, but alas, nothing.

feeling hopeless, and like you might need to quit art and start selling drugs, you look around the classroom, hoping something or someone will catch your eyes.

it's pitiful, really. imagine being so run dry, so out of original ideas that you would rather look around this miserable hell-hole for help rather than lay in your mind, desperately trying to form an original thought or idea.

almost immediately, you realize what an idiotic idea this is. seriously, how are you to find anything worth drawing in such a monotone environment? even the students line up perfectly with the same boring aesthetics.

it's like they all lack any sense of originality, like they all pick their clothes from the same store- no, the same closet. it's all variations of white, grey, navy blue, black, and off-white tops paired with faded blue jeans or black leggings. doesn't that get boring at some point?

you suppose you aren't in a position to judge, for you are no better. though, at least you have a plausible excuse. you were bullied for years over your niche interests and odd style, you were forced into the mold your society created as to what a highschool girl should be.

you're about to give up when someone catches your eyes.

satoru gojo. of course, he catches everyone's eyes everywhere he goes, and you hate to admit that you know exactly why. piercing blue eyes that remind you of a drop of blue dye falling onto fabric, like if you held a blue orchid between your finger tips then spun it quickly, watching the colors blur together beautifully. fluffy white hair that almost resembles a cloud- no, no that's too soft. maybe closer to snow? yes, snow, gently fallen, heavenly stacked snow. his cheeks had the softest pink tint to them, like a lipgloss smudge on a dress. almost invisible, yet there nonetheless.

he's alluring, you won't deny. he's like if someone drew what an angel would look like and then he crawled out of the page.

would it be weird to draw him? probably. do you anyways? yes.

the first sketch is mediocre. already, you know he's a perfect muse. finally free from art block as you try to draw him perfectly.

you examine the first finished drawing.

the eyes are a shade too dark despite it only being a pencil drawing, his hair is too long and flat, he honestly looks more like a woman rather than the infamous satoru gojo.

‘okay..’ you think to yourself

‘round two.’

you continue this cycle the entire class period. drawing while taking your previous imperfections into account then finding new ones within that art work.

you try not to make it too obvious that you're blatantly staring at him from time to time. you pray he doesn't notice, and for the most part, he doesn't seem to.

weeks pass, and this has become your ritual for every class that you share with him. shove your assignments into a folder to do them later, (though it's pointless since deep down you couldn't care less for the assignment and it more than likely will end up crumpled at the bottom of your bag by the end of the week), you pull out your sketchbook and begin drawing.

you've had a few close-calls and awkward encounters when he would happen to look in your direction and catch you staring, but he didn't seem to care much- or so you thought.

the bell rings, queuing you to shove everything in your bag, not caring what gets destroyed in the process- we are speaking of your school bag after all, something you deemed absolutely worthless years ago.

you approach the door when a strong hand grabs your wrist.

it's not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you back.

you turn to look at the culprit only to be met with those iconic and almost hypnotizing blue eyes. orchids.

“hey, how come i never get to see those drawings? i mean, i am the muse after all, shouldn't i be first to see?” he's smiling.

he's smiling and he knows you've been drawing him and- god, is it hot in here?

one second, you're up-close, staring into those remarkable eyes that you've mastered drawing over the last month, the next, you bolted out of that classroom.

in retrospect, you probably looked stupid considering you had to take a second to remove his hand from your wrist then had to dodge through the endless crowd of students who had also just been released from class, tripping at some point, but the past is the past and you obviously have no control over that.

you spend the next morning trying every excuse in the book to try and stay home. there's no way you can withstand sitting in the same classroom as him after that.

however, much to your displeasure, you find yourself sitting in your seat with your face buried in your arms. maybe he won't know you're there if he can't see your face?

as you drown in your thoughts, dreading ever choosing him of all people as a muse, a sudden voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife.

“running away mid conversation is really impolite.”

you don't bother looking up. that'll just dig you a deeper grave- if that's even possible.

“yoo hoo? (y/n), i'm talking to you!” he speaks in a sing-song voice, almost as if this is a big joke to him.

you almost raise your hand and ask to use the bathroom so you can hide from him in there all week, till- wait- he knows your name?

you look up hesitantly, confusion plastered onto your face like a cream-heavy pie on a shitty prank show.

“you know my name?” you ask hesitantly, your voice coming out significantly softer than you intended. god, you probably sounded so pathetic.

“duh. you're the pretty artist lady. you made that really good eye drawing in like sixth grade, no?”

now you're REALLY confused. he knows your name and has known your name since sixth grade?

“you remember that?” you reply, sounding too excited for your taste.

“of course i remember. you were the talk of the playground after that.” he laughs fondly at the memory and you can't help but let it shoot straight through your heart, making it ache in a way that felt too good, almost wrong. almost.

“can i see the art you made of me?” he tilts his head in a way that, in your mind, resembles that of a dog when told to do something it doesn't understand. cute.

you suppress a giggle at the thought.

you suppose he does deserve to see the art you made, especially considering how uncomfortable it must've felt to feel your eyes all over him as you drew him.

you rummage for the most recent drawings in your bag then hand them to him.

your heart starts to race. what if he hates them? what if he thinks they're awful? what if they're not good enough and he assumes that you think he's ugly? what if-

“i'm in love with you.” he suddenly speaks, staring at the papers in awe.

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(a/n : and then they kissed and married and had 828282892839 babies and grew old together yeah !!! idk people (like four people total...) said they liked my ideas so here's a low quality drabble uhhhhh idk !! PLEASE don't bully me if this is bad, i'm very much a beginner author !!!!!)

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #satoru x you #satoru x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru x y/n

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rafecameronssl4t · 11 months ago

Text

What is French for priceless? || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

GIF by @baocean

Summary: Canon fic based on s3 ep 1 :)

Warnings: swearing, rafe being a dick but what's new lol

Word count: 1,640

MASTERLIST

divider by @h-aewo

Watching from the balcony, you watch the sleek car come to a halt in the driveway, its polished exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. Rafe had mentioned earlier in the week that he was expecting someone from overseas to look at the cross. "To make a deal," he had said, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

You turn on your heel, only to come face to face with Rafe. His tall, imposing figure blocks your path, his piercing blue eyes scanning your face. "You good?" he questions, his voice low and laced with concern. His eyes search yours as you stare at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. Your brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Fine," you reply in a monotone voice, unable to mask the skepticism you feel. The tension between you is palpable. You are wary of Rafe's dealings, especially the idea of bringing someone he barely knows to the house to inspect the cross.

Rafe's eyes narrow slightly as he gauges your reaction. "It's going to be okay," he says, attempting to reassure you. "These people are professionals. They know what they're doing." But his words do little to quell your unease.

You remember the stories you've heard about deals gone wrong, about the dangers of dealing with high-value artifacts in the market. Rafe, with his charismatic but unpredictable nature, often walks a fine line between legitimate business and dangerous ventures.

As you stand there, the man and woman approach the front door, their footsteps echoing on the stone pathway. You glance back at them, then return your gaze to Rafe, who is now watching you intently, as if waiting for you to voice your concerns. "I just hope you know what you're doing," you say softly, your voice tinged with worry. "This seems too risky, Rafe."

He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Trust me," he says, a confident smile playing on his lips. "I've got this." You nod reluctantly, but the nagging doubt remains. As the front door opens to admit the visitors, you can't shake the feeling that this deal, like so many others before it, could lead to trouble.

"Again, thank you both for coming. I know it was a long way to travel. But I think what we have is..." Rafe trails off beside you, his voice filled with an enthusiasm that you find hard to match. You watch his profile as he glances at you, seeking your approval or at least some acknowledgment. "Is pretty worthwhile." He smiles charmingly, but you respond with a quiet sigh, unable to shake your apprehension.

"Yes, well, Michel is the most prominent antiquities dealer in the West Indies," the woman begins, her voice smooth and practiced. She is dressed in a sharp business suit, her demeanor exuding professionalism. You cut her off abruptly, your skepticism boiling over.

"How come I've never heard of him then?" you interrupt, your tone sharp. Rafe whips his head toward you, his eyes narrowing into a hard gaze. The tension between you is palpable, but you ignore him, focusing on the woman.

The woman pauses, looking between the two of you with a slight frown before Rafe intervenes. "I'm so sorry, my girlfriend is a bit tired. Still jet-lagged from our travels," he says, chuckling awkwardly. He places his hand on top of yours, a gesture meant to soothe, but it only makes you roll your eyes. The woman nods with understanding before continuing. "Unfortunately, he only speaks French."

"No English," Michel chuckles, a warm, almost apologetic smile on his face. He is a middle-aged man with round glasses and an air of authority. You turn your attention outside, feeling bored and restless.

"Yeah," Rafe chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "What is French for priceless?" His attempt at humor falls flat as you turn your head back at his words, your expression unamused. You observe the three in front of you, feeling like an outsider in this high-stakes game.

When the cross is unveiled, Michel's reaction is immediate and visceral. His eyes widen, and his breath catches as he stares at the artifact, almost awestruck. You watch closely as he steps closer to the gold cross, his fingers twitching with the desire to touch it. His translator, looks on in amazement.

Michel says something in French, his voice filled with reverence. The translator turns to Rafe. "May he touch it?" she asks. Rafe smiles, clearly pleased with the reaction. "Knock yourself out, Michel." As Michel feels the intricate design under his fingertips, Rafe looks to you for some sort of approval. You only glare at him, still skeptical and unimpressed.

"He wants to know where you found it," the translator says. Rafe shrugs, shaking his head dismissively. "Don't worry about it. We got it. That's all he needs to know. It's here. It's for sale. So, who can we get to buy it?"

Michel takes off his glasses, his face serious as he speaks. The translator translates his words with care. "For a piece of this value, there are very limited buyers. An institution, a museum." Rafe nods along, understanding the implications, but he looks deflated.

"But, he has a client in Barbados who will be interested," the translator continues. You tilt your head at her words, alarm bells ringing in your mind. "Rafe," you say firmly, trying to get his attention. "This is already risky enough."

He, of course, ignores your protests, his focus entirely on Michel. The anticipation in the room is thick, almost suffocating. "This client will have lots of questions. He'll want to meet with you in person," the translator says. At these words, you can no longer contain your frustration.

You stand up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Jesus fucking Christ," you mutter under your breath, casting one last look at Rafe before storming out of the room.

"Y/n, I don't have time for this, okay?" Rafe says in a dismissive tone, his impatience evident. "I gotta get to Bridgetown, I'm taking the boat." From the first floor, you watch as he places a black duffle bag on the ground with a sense of urgency.

"Come on, Rafe. You don't even know this guy," you reason with him, your voice edged with concern. Rafe removes his sunglasses, glancing at Michel's business card with a nonchalant air. "You can't just go out and try to make a deal, Rafe. That's so risky!" Your eyebrows furrow in disbelief as he leans against the railing, looking down at you with a smirk.

"I can't?" he retorts in a mocking tone, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. "I know you think you know what you're doing," you call out as he walks back into your shared room, his presence filling the space with tension. "But there are people out there that know your dad is alive—no! Not just people, Pogues." You correct yourself, taking a sip of your drink, the frustration evident in your voice.

"Pogues, Pogues," Rafe mumbles dismissively as he packs a suitcase with determined efficiency. "Listen, they can't prove it, alright? They don't know where we are," he shrugs, walking back into the room again as you rub your forehead, already feeling a headache coming on.

"Your sister does!" you yell, the desperation in your voice growing. Rafe emerges from the room, his expression hardening. "Oh, Sarah does!" he calls out, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Listen, Sarah's not going to do anything, baby. She's too afraid, and if the Pogues show up, I'm just gonna handle it," he says in a calm tone, but his words do little to reassure you. You narrow your eyes at him, the anger bubbling up inside you.

"Oh, you'll handle it?" you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. "When have you ever handled anything for us, for your family? Huh?" Your voice grows louder with frustration. "Rafe, everything you touch turns to—"

Your words are cut off by the sudden sound of Rafe's hand slapping the wooden railing. "Hey! Hey!" he shouts, his eyes flashing with anger. You stare at him, shock evident on your face, as he takes a moment to calm himself down.

"Listen," he says, his voice now calmer but still laced with intensity, "I'm gonna sell the cross that I found, okay? That I saved, and when Dad wakes up—" You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief as you take another sip of your drink. "-okay," you mutter quietly, barely listening.

"—he's gonna see that I took care of it. Not my fucking girlfriend," he says in a belittling tone, his words cutting deep. You scoff, maintaining a calm composure despite the sting of his words. "Sure, Rafe. Sure."

"So, why don't you go have yourself another Tom Collins?" he shrugs, pushing himself off the railing with an air of finality. "While I go make us all a shit ton of money, okay?" He speaks slowly, his words dripping with condescension.

Your grip tightens on your glass, the frustration boiling over. Without thinking, you hurl the glass toward him, but it hits just below where he was standing, shattering on the wall. Rafe looks down at the broken glass, a smug smile on his face. "You missed."

Your breath quickens, each exhale laden with a mix of anger and hurt. “Get. Fucked. Rafe,” you seethe through gritted teeth, your voice a dangerous whisper. Without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and stride away, leaving him standing there with that infuriatingly smug expression. “Love you too, babe!” he calls out sarcastically, his voice dripping with mockery.

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neoangelxx · 4 months ago

Text

Flustered ⊱✿⊰ Nanami Kento

AU: You’re a teacher at Jujutsu High and it’s nothing like the movies. They embellished it all for good TV! No one dies or defects, you exorcise curses, level up through the power of friendship and make it back to the dorms just in time for dinner. You’re the school’s new bombshell teacher who's taken a liking to another teacher!

Reader Info: Office siren style and sweet bimbo personality but you’re a genius on the battlefield with a strong technique.

wc: 638 | part 2

You’re a new hire, arriving long after the infamous Nanami Kento left the jujutsu world. He was like a ghost haunting the school halls. Everyone from the students to the teachers whisper about his reliable and strangely comforting nature. It’s a full semester of you getting use to the mundanity of teaching when he comes back. A month after you get a new student.

“Nanami would be a great mentor for him.” Gojo is insistent on it.

That’s not the only reason Nanami decides to comeback. He was fed up with his new job, it was monotonous and the work felt degrading. When he got the call for Gojo it was like he had gotten back an understanding of himself. He was meant to help people and this office job wasn’t helping anyone. He accepted without hesitation.

Nanami almost instantly regrets his decision when the door opens and Gojo’s grating voice welcomes him back. Then he notices you, distracted in the corner before noticing his arrival. The ballon you were messing with floats sadly next to you as you scramble around for something. You find the party popper pulling the string, confetti and streamers fly out.

Your smile is wide and genuine, Nanami doesn’t want to take his eyes off you but Gojo has always been demanding of any and all attention.

He calls your name, “late with the streamers but the enthusiasm was there.”

Nanami rolls it around in his mind, beautiful and befitting, he wonders how you say it, missing Gojo closing in on him like a lone hyena.

He laughs, “oh my sweet Nanami! I was so worried those grey office walls would dim your bright personality but I’m glad to see you haven’t changed.”

Gojo is sarcastic and irritating. Nanami doesn’t get a chance to tell Gojo off like he wants to because you start talking next.

“Nanami-shi, it’s so nice to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you, all good things!”

Your voice slowly fades away replaced by a cheesy melody, red roses frame your face and sparkles dance in between them. You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, shyly look off to the side before glancing back up at him. The music stops, the flowers disappear and you’re waiting, waiting for Nanami to answer whatever question you asked, or weigh in on whatever statement you spoke.

“Uhhhh, sure?��

Nanami didn’t usually “uhhh” or “ummm”, he wasn’t hesitant in his responses.

You come a little closer, “you aren’t as scary as I thought.”

You drag a hand across his bicep as a goodbye. A feather light touch that makes his eyes widen. You don’t look back but Nanami ‘bout breaks his neck watching you leave.

“She’s a lot Nanami, be careful,” Gojo says quickly reminding Nanami of his presence.

“Don’t talk about her -woman, like that.” Nanami doesn’t think Gojo can call anyone “a lot”.

“Her or woman?”

“Both,” through gritted teeth.

Gojo laughs, “God whatever those office walls did to you I’m going to have to thank them.”

He throws an arm around Nanami. “She’s gonna eat you alive.”

Nanami whacks Gojo upside the head.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento #fem reader #nanami x y/n #jjk nanami #kento nanami

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maroonshirt81 · 5 months ago

Note

omggg what about a carcar cruise au?? Like they meet on the boat 😭🫶

thank you for the great request <3

---

carcar, 2k words, rated m for language

---

When Carlos arrived at his McLarenCruise luxury suite, his luggage was already waiting for him on the bed, next to a young man in a bright orange uniform, who was standing there with his hands folded behind his back. As soon as the door fell shut behind Carlos, the man started to speak like a robot who’d been waiting for its activation command.

“Welcome to your private luxury suite aboard McLarenCruise, where your comfort is our priority,” he drawled in what Carlos guessed to be an Australian accent. “I am Oscar, your personal steward, and I’m here to assist with anything you may need during your voyage.”

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said, flashing him a cheeky grin. “What if I need a little more enthusiasm?”

“I’m afraid that is not a service provided by the McLarenCruise stewards' crew,” Oscar prattled on, if possible even more monotone than before. “If you are unsure of how to make use of the steward appointed to you, I can print out a list of appropriate requests. It includes things like unpacking and storing your luggage, stocking your suite with toiletries and other amenities, and delivering room service.”

“Relax, Oscar.” Carlos laughed, plopping down on the bed. “I was only joking. Don’t act like I asked you to take off your pants.”

“I can also print out a list of actions that aren’t appropriate,” Oscar said. “It includes sitting on the bed while joking about your steward taking off his pants.”

Carlos’s mouth dropped open to tell him that he would never, in a million years, ask someone like Oscar to take off his pants, because… well – have you seen Carlos? But he realized in time that the inappropriateness of such a reply was probably even worse than the joke had been to begin with, so he said nothing.

Oscar seemed to take this as his dismissal. He nodded, as if he had provided exceptional service, and then left the suite before Carlos could ask him to unpack his luggage.

****

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos tried again once evening came around. He had ordered a Risotto al Tartufo Bianco over the comm and then spent 20 minutes checking his hair in the mirror to make sure his charm was turned up to eleven.

He wasn’t the type to treat service staff poorly. In fact, he prided himself on being well-liked by all his subordinates – whether at his own firm, in restaurants, or within his household. He could crack a slightly grumpy Australian, no problem.

“Good evening, sir,” Oscar replied as he wheeled the cart into the suite. “Will you be eating at the table by the window?”

“Yes, please,” Carlos said, following behind to watch Oscar set the dishes on the smaller table in the suite. He looked a little out of place, with his bright orange cap, bright orange polo shirt, black shorts, and white tennis socks, serving a $100 dish to a high-end luxury suite.

“The cruise company forces you to wear this outfit, or is it a personal choice?” Carlos asked as he sat down in the chair Oscar had pulled out for him. He made sure Oscar saw his bright grin and knew that he was joking this time.

But Oscar didn’t laugh. Instead, he heaved a slightly disappointed sigh.

“Please, sir. I know this is a famously hard lesson to learn for old white men. But it is never appropriate to comment on the outfits of people in your service. Please reconsider letting me print out that list for you.”

Carlos was reeling.

Had this guy seriously just called him an old white man? He was thirty!

He must have been reeling for a moment too long because, once again, Oscar nodded at him as if he had just been dismissed after doing an amazing job and left without looking back. He hadn’t even poured Carlos a glass of wine.

And Carlos desperately needed it now.

****

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said the next morning, upon opening the door to what he first mistook for a wandering corpse. He had not bothered with trying to be charming today, but the even pastier-than-usual color of Oscar’s round, unremarkable face made him soften a little. “Are you seasick?”

“No, just sick of this job,” Oscar mumbled, barely audible. “What could you possibly want at six in the morning?”

Carlos arched his eyebrows high, surprised by the sudden lack of robot-like professional speech.

“You were asleep?”

“What gave it away?” Oscar asked. There were pillow lines etched into his cheeks, highlighting the truly terrible, blotchy stubble vegetating between the acne scars. Carlos didn’t point that out, though, since the question had clearly been rhetorical anyway.

Despite looking like he had just rolled out of bed, Oscar was wearing his trusty orange hat and orange polo.

“Do you just sleep in these clothes?” Carlos blurted, remembering Oscar’s lecture about outfit comments too late.

Predictably, Oscar started, “I get that at your age, memory might begin to fail, but–”

Carlos threw the door in his face.

Fuck it. He could find the early morning spin class by himself.

****

Oscar continued to be the most infuriating, judgmental, and frankly useless service personnel Carlos had ever dealt with. The charm offensive was not working, just like Oscar’s eyes, apparently, because he kept insinuating Carlos was some geriatric creep with a power kink. All week, he made Carlos feel like the biggest asshole who ever lived, hinting again and again at printing out a list of appropriate and inappropriate behavior toward his luxury cruise stewards.

Carlos even started to have nightmares about a monster with an orange for a head and unblinking, dead eyes, accusing him of wanting to fuck it.

And yet.

And yet, when he was lounging on a sun chair on the deck by the pool one afternoon, sending a request for a hopefully spit-less cocktail to be delivered to him, he felt an odd pang of disappointment when a different, much more chipper-looking orange-capped young man appeared to deliver it to him.

“Where’s Oscar?” he asked.

“Oh, he has the afternoon off,” the guy informed him, somehow managing to directly answer his question without implying Carlos was a sick freak who should be arrested for indecent behavior.

“I see,” Carlos said.

“I’ll be at your beck and call until he’s back, sir,” the chipper guy said cheerfully. After a week of Oscar’s flat stare, this guy’s energy felt borderline manic.

“That’s fine, I won’t be needing you again,” Carlos sighed, waving him away.

Damn. He had come on this trip to wind down from his stressful job, maybe have a little summer fling with a hot twink – not to be haunted by a prickly, orange steward.

Letting his eyes wander over the various people surrounding the pool dressed only in the tiniest swimwear possible, he found himself utterly uninterested in any kind of fling. Until…

Until a soft, high giggle caught his ear from a few deckchairs away, where a group of young men were gathered, towels wrapped around their hips or draped over their shoulders.

Carlos immediately perked up. Now that was the kind of laugh he would like to elicit from someone. Honest and unguarded, as if they weren’t used to it but just couldn’t help their good mood in his presence.

Glancing past the various people obstructing his view, Carlos finally found the source of that special giggle, and felt like the air got punched out of his chest for a second.

Because standing there was a guy who could only be an actual, honest-to-God prince. Light brown hair with almost reddish highlights from the sun, falling over his forehead in the most perfect, gravity-defying curl. Crinkly eyes, pale skin with rosy cheeks and a fine peppering of moles spread across his whole body. He was obviously fit, but not in the kind of anabolically enhanced bodybuilder way. His arms had a nice shape to them, as he stood in a cute little pose, hand on his hips, accentuating a tiny waist. And outlined by a wet pair of black shorts was the most perfectly round, biteable ass Carlos had ever seen.

Now that was a guy Carlos would ask to take his pants off!

He kept observing the guy, waiting for the right moment to make his move, and the instant the prince sank into one of the free deckchairs while his friends wandered off toward the pool or the bar, he seized his chance.

Leaving his untouched cocktail behind, Carlos grabbed his bottle of sunscreen instead, master plan already forming in his head.

The guy was lying on his stomach when Carlos reached him, wet drops of water glittering compellingly on his back, face hidden in the nook of his elbow.

Carlos cleared his throat twice before the pretty guy turned his head, blinking one eye open.

“Sorry,” Carlos said, all casual-like. “I noticed your back is starting to be a little red.” Showing off his bottle of sunscreen, he added, “Do you want some of this?”

The guy just stared at him, until Carlos started to sweat a little.

“I could… ah… I could put it on, if you want?”

Finally, the beautiful man pushed himself up on his elbows, his brows furrowing in mild irritation.

And then.

And then he started to speak.

In a very familiar, incredibly judgmental Australian twang.

“Top subject on the list of inappropriate interactions with your stewards,” he said. “Has to be approaching them on their afternoon off and offering to rub sunscreen all over their body!”

Carlos dropped his bottle of sunscreen without even noticing.

“Oscar?” he croaked, eyes snapping open so wide, he felt they were in danger of rolling right out of their sockets.

“Yes?” Oscar said, as if it was incredibly obvious that this… this God of a man was the same sickly pale steward who kept pestering Carlos’s every waking and sleeping moment with his thinly-veiled insults and scathing remarks. The same orange little traffic light figure. The same bad-mannered human Cheeto who complained about being woken up too early up to eleven o’clock, despite being tasked with bringing Carlos his breakfast.

Carlos turned around, not bothering to pick up his sunscreen, and launched himself right into the pool.

Because that was the closest he came to throwing himself overboard the ship.

****

He was surprised to actually find Oscar by the door come dinner time, wearing the same orange cap and polo and unimpressed expression as always. Carlos had almost expected to be permanently switched to the borderline-manic guy.

“Hello, Oscar,” Carlos said contritely, and stepped away to let him wheel in his little cart.

“Spaghetti Carbonara – the classic Italian version, per your request,” Oscar narrated, as he put down the dishes on the little table by the window. Carlos noticed the additional plate with a cloche over it, hiding its content, before Oscar even pointed it out.

“There’s a special little something for dessert under there. On the house. Bon appétit!”

And with that, he left, once again without pouring Carlos any wine.

Carlos waited until the door had fallen shut behind him, then lunged for the cloche, lifting it up.

As he had expected, there wasn’t actually any dessert under there.

Instead, it was a piece of paper.

Carlos took it and read through it, groaning louder the further he read.

Once he was done, he balled the piece of paper up and threw it across the room. Then he went over to the comm and dialed the steward’s office.

“Mr. Sainz! How can we help you?” a female voice asked from the other side.

“I have a message to leave for Oscar, please. Do you have something for writing?”

“Sure,” the woman said. “Go on.”

“Please write down: Carlos Sainz, 055-8155…”

****

#carcar #oscarlos #carloscar #f1 rpf #oscar piastri #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #my fics

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nick-writes-stuff · 6 months ago

Text

One-sided Estrangement

Hwang In-ho x gn!reader

summary: You had been friends with In-ho as long as you can remember, up until he suddenly disappeared without a word. You end up participating in the games and win. On your ride back to the mainland, In-ho tries to reconcile with you. It doesn't go well. (part 1 on my page)

! warnings: hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers speedrun, discussing canon-typical violence, considerable amount of cursing

a/n: after the feedback on the last fic, i've decided to make two different endings for my last fic. this one can be read stand-alone, but there is some context you'd be missing. hope you enjoy!

The attempted mutiny of the games organized by Gi-hun was a rather short-lived one. It wasn't hard for In-ho to fake Young-il's death and retake his position as the Front Man. The fact that any of the players thought they had a fighting chance was laughable. A few hungry, injured, and sleep deprived players with a limited supply of ammo had no chance against the military sized forces at the game's disposal. While there were some casualties, there was hardly a scratch on the operation.

Ever since he had decided to pull you out of the games, he finally felt a shred of humanity that he thought he had lost long ago. There was something to look forward to for the first time since long before the games.

He found himself watching you far more than he would have for other players. It was like his eyes immediately scanned for your form on the cameras. Every time he entered the control room, his eyes darted to the tile in the floor where your picture remained lit. He didn't know what he would do if he came back to find it darkened.

He had to wait for an opportunity. It wasn't like he could just have the workers escort you out of the dormitory. If he was going to do it, it had to be during a game. It would be easiest to do if you were supposed to be eliminated. They'd done this before with Il-nam. All it took was a stray gunshot and an announcement with your number. They also would have had the chance to do so if you were somehow not picked during a game. He thought he remembered something like that happening in the 2021 games, but it wasn't a common occurrence at all.

He had been preparing everything in order to pull you out, but he hadn't even considered the fact that you would win. He wasn't doubting your capabilities, not in the slightest. He knew you could hold your own in a fight, and you had a clever wit. He just never thought you would be able to dish out the sort of violence needed to actually make it to the end. But here you were in the back of the limo blindfolded and bound, of course. It was the typical procedure. The driver had just left the ferry when he noticed you started to stir.

In-ho sat across from you in the back of the limo, mask off with a glass in his hand. He took a swig before beginning to speak.

"Congratulations, Player 284." He said, monotone with little enthusiasm.

Your eyes fluttered against the cloth of the blindfold, and your vision remained dark. You didn't react for a moment before mumbling, "You're the guy that Gi-hun mentioned." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.

He chuckled softly. "An astute observation." He said.

"Why am I awake?" You asked. This seemed odd. They could easily have just shoved you out of the car while you were unconscious. It also didn't make sense to have the man in charge of the operation here during the drop-off, although you knew that he would be from Gi-hun's story. Seemed like too many risks.

He took another sip of his drink. "I like to ask the winner a few questions before they go. They always give insight and constructive criticism that I couldn't get elsewhere." He said. It wasn't a lie, but you were definitely set to be awake far longer than other winners.

You scoffed. The idea of anyone giving constructive criticism was laughable, although you did think he was likely being sarcastic. "You wanna know what you can do next time?" You asked, your tone definitely seeming more stern than before.

"Precisely."

"Next time you can go fuck yourself." You spat.

He had to stop himself from chuckling. There's the spitfire attitude he remembered.

"Now, now Player 284. Do you want to go back to sleep? I can arrange that." He said. His tone was sharp, but his face remained neutral. He just wanted to get on with the conversation. Ever since he had begun to plan your reunion, he felt a spark of anticipation and excitement that he hadn't felt for a long time. The last time he did was when his wife first told him she was pregnant. Since then, there wasn't much of anything he looked forward to until now.

You stayed quiet for a few moments. You were weighing your options here. Did you want the drug induced peace and quiet, or did you want to stay alert but listen to his rhetoric? It was hard to choose, but you decided you wanted to take in as much info as you could. Maybe you could finish what Gi-hun started.

"What do you want?" You said, your tone almost defeated.

He never really did this before, but he figured out some basic questions about the experience to move the conversation toward his end goal. Simple stuff like your favorite game, the food quality, and the voting process. You gave short answers, never saying more than you needed to.

The final two questions were more focused on leading you toward the reveal. After your response to the first one, he didn't think you would take these questions well.

"Which elimination would you say affected you the most?" He asked, still monotonous thought he was intently engaged in the conversation.

The parts of your face not covered by the blindfold recoiled into a disgusted shock at his words. You wanted to give him a piece of your mind. You wanted to scream and say all 455 of them and that he's a monster for thinking this question wasn't horrific. But you didn't. You sat silently for a moment, long enough that he actually started to think you wouldn't answer him.

You had 455 to choose from, and while there were definitely some others in the running, your answer was obvious to you.

"Player 1."

He hummed in acknowledgment but didn't give off any verbal cues regarding his emotional state. His lips did curl into a smile, however. It was intriguing to him that despite the confrontation that occurred that day, his 'death' was the most effective. "Why's that?" He asked, pressing you for insight to your reasoning.

You tried not to look disgusted by his question. This was just another way to torture a player for more enjoyment. Why does he need to keep reminding you that everyone who was close to you was gone now?

You muttered, "He reminded me of someone I knew back home." You didn't want to elaborate further.

He waited a few moments to see if you would continue, but you stayed quiet. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" He probed.

"Why does it matter?" You said.

You weren't making this easy on him. "I was just looking for insight on emotional connections formed in the games." He said.

You had to take a deep breath to avoid losing your temper on him. As much as you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, you wanted to get as much information from this interaction as possible. "A good thing, I suppose." You murmured.

"Player 1 is one of the very few players who were eliminated outside of a game. This set of games had a lot of those." He said, trying to lead you towards explaining how you felt after he had 'been eliminated.' He almost wished he could have stayed in after the players' attempt at a coup. He could only imagine what they were thinking once they realized their mutiny failed.

You bit your tongue to stop words from flying out of your mouth. How could he act like that's an honorable distinction? He was really thinking of all of the players as statistics now. It made you sick. You paused for a moment to think of something to say that wouldn't get the tranquilizer gas turned on. "Probably for the best." you said.

That piqued his interest. "And why is that?"

"So I didn't have to see him die." You said, feeling your eyes tear up at the thought. Seeing Young-il die would have made you think about In-ho being dead. You hated thinking about the fact that he may be dead right now and you didn't even know. You tried to forget the fact that In-ho's situation even existed. Thinking about the circumstances tore you apart because he was either dead and gone or out there living life happily without you. You didn't know which was worse.

He couldn't help but smirk at the irony of your statement. You never saw him die because he didn't, obviously.

In-ho actually felt his heart skip a beat as he prepared to ask you his last question. Emotions of excitement and anticipation and anxiety were all breaking through his impenetrable facade he had maintained for years now. All of these emotions were bubbling up inside him, and the strangest part is that he kind of enjoyed it. He felt lighter and happier than he had been for a long time.

"I have one more question for you, Player 284." He began. Your posture relaxed somewhat. You were glad that this was finally almost over, and you wouldn't have to think about the most traumatic thing you experienced for much longer.

"Would you ever be able to forgive me for running the games?"

You tensed up. You were immediately on guard again. You were sick of this. You didn't want to deal with his bullshit. Is he really trying to get you to feel sorry for him? You went through hell just for the man in charge to dare to ask for forgiveness. He didn't even attempt to explain himself or his reasoning or even give a single apology. He just wants you to stroke his ego and tell him that his games work to indoctrinate people into his fucked-up perspective of the world.

The second he saw your body go rigid, he knew this wasn't going to end well.

"Why would I when you haven't even shown a single ounce of remorse?" You said through gritted teeth. Your shoulders shook as you took shaky breaths to try to keep your composure.

In-ho sighed softly. "If I did show remorse, would you forgive me?"

"It wouldn't be genuine, and you know that. If you felt a shred of remorse, you wouldn't be here running the games." You retorted. He could feel your glare pierce him through the blindfold.

He felt his mouth dry up as he realized that this may not go the way he planned. He finished the rest of the liquid in his glass before sitting it in one of the cup holders.

"You know, we're more alike than you think." He said, a slight chuckle escaping his lips as he realized the double meaning to that statement.

You scoffed at him. "Go to hell." You spat.

He continued to chuckle. "No, I'm serious." He continued before you could interject. "I played in the games and won. Eventually, I found my way back here and worked my way to my current position."

Your jaw dropped as you started to comprehend what he was saying. He went through this and decided it was a good thing to continue? He saw hundreds of people get murdered and decided to perpetuate the violence? You didn't care what his reasoning was; there was no way to justify that. The thought alone made you sick. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" You asked incredulously. You started to get paranoid about not being able to see. You pushed yourself as far back in your seat as you could in order to create some form of distance between you.

"You're asking the wrong questions." He said matter-of-factly. "The question is: what is wrong with the world?"

You only shook your head in response. You tried to control your breathing, closing your eyes even though the blindfold was obstructing your view anyway.

He continued on with a phrase that definitely made him sound preachy, but the motives behind his actions are important for the road to forgiveness you are starting down.

"Can you imagine how bad the outside world had to be for me to be okay with accepting the fact that all the bloodshed and violence in the games is better than what's outside? We're giving them a chance to-"

"You're killing them!" You interrupted, raising your voice.

"And what would happen to them outside of here? They were being hunted down by loan sharks and hardly living as they were. We gave them their chance to change their circumstances and lessen their suffering."

You scoffed. "Lessen their suffering?! You tormented them and used them as entertainment, and when you decided you were done playing with them, you killed them!" You couldn't believe how depraved he was. How could he believe that this was mercy?

His anticipation was starting to turn into anxiety. He wanted this to go well. He wanted to be able to connect with you again and have some sense of normalcy. He didn't think that his idealistic hope was going to be realized. "The same thing that happened here would happen out there. Here they were treated like equals. They all had a fair chance to succeed here regardless of their past mistakes. You of all people would-"

"Don't. Don't you dare imply you know anything about me because you don't." You spat.

In-ho chuckled. You went quiet at his reaction. You were still angry, but there was a growing fear that he was going to retaliate in some way.

"You know, it's funny you say that. Because I do know you." He couldn't help but smirk as he said that.

You swallowed hard. Your uneasiness only grew as you heard the leather seat creak underneath him. When you first felt the blindfold move, you flinched and instinctively moved away from him. He stopped you with a gentle hand on your cheek to hold you in place.

As the blindfold was pulled off, you turned your head slightly and closed your eyes due to the bright lights. You blinked a few times as your eyes got used to taking in light. You were almost scared to look at him. Typically, when the victim sees the perpetrator of a crime, they usually don't intend for the witness to make it out alive.

But you also knew that most likely any attempt to track him down would be futile. Gi-hun had been trying to find these guys for years, and he had just found the guy who recruits players. You probably wouldn't be able to do anything to stop the operation.

Words could not describe how you felt as you met his eyes. You first recognized him as Young-il, and you felt betrayed. He really had to drag this out and made you describe how you felt after you thought he died just to stroke his own ego.

But then you remembered the conversation you had with Young-il. He was so insistent on talking about who he reminded you of. His reactions just didn't make sense. Why did he care so much when you spoke about a man he never met?

You studied his face. You knew who he was, but he seemed almost unrecognizable. He didn't look like how you remembered In-ho looking when you saw him last, and he had definitely had time to care for his appearance after he stopped his role as a player. But his demeanor was also completely different than either man you remember. You would give anything for him to be some separate man who just happens to look like the others, but deep down, you knew the truth. In-ho was the Front Man. And the Front Man used the alias Young-il as a Player. And he played you. He played with your emotions just to get you to tell him how much you missed him. Then, just like the other players, he decided he was done playing and got rid of them.

Your breathing quickened as you started to comprehend what was happening. You were confused and angry and scared and sad and a million other emotions as your mind raced. How could he do this? How did the man who had risked his life in order to save his brother turn into this? A man who took countless of other's lives to fulfill his own messed-up view of the world. A man who saves through a slaughter.

As In-ho watched you, he quickly realized that this wasn't going to go the way he hoped.

When you finally regained control of your breathing, you were quiet. You didn't look him in the eye. You couldn't.

"Let me get this straight," you started. You were clearly angry, but your words were carefully chosen. "You chose to abandon everyone who loved you in order to run death games for rich assholes. You went through the same thing I just did, and afterward, you decided you enjoyed it and stayed to kill innocent people."

"I wouldn't say I enjoy it. I see the societal value in holding these games. It is really a way to offer a chance to those in need and better the world by taking out the trash, as my predecessor would say. After I won, I wanted to help people get the same chance I did." He said. His face remained neutral, and that only made you angrier.

You ignored the phrasing of 'taking out the trash' to focus on the bigger picture here. You couldn't help but chuckle. "See, this shows how different we are. Because I just won, but I just feel overwhelming guilt for the lives lost, and I want to go home to my family. Unlike you." You spat back. Then your face dropped as you realized something else.

"Oh my god, what will I tell your mother? I can't lie to her but I can't tell her this. I can't." You said, breathing quickening again. "And Jun-ho too. How will I..." You trailed off.

Jun-ho.

Jun-ho had went out on some investigation and came back half-dead with a bullet in his chest. He refused to talk about it, but he was clearly shaken up. You know he's been working with the captain who found him to find the island where it happened.

In-ho could see the pieces of the puzzle fit together in your mind. "No. No, no, no. You didn't. Tell me you didn't. You didn't shoot him. You didn't."

He didn't say anything. Why the fuck won't he say anything?

When did you start crying? You hadn't realized it until the tears dropped onto your still bound hands.

"I did what had to be done." He said, voice notably softer than he was speaking before.

That sentence broke something in you. "I wish you would have come to me." You murmured. You took a deep breath, shoulders shaking slightly as you tried not to break down. "But I also don't think I could have done enough to prevent this. I wasn't even enough for you to tell me where you went."

"But I'm here now. I'll admit it. I was avoiding you, my mother, and Jun-ho because I was a coward. I didn't want to admit I was struggling and when I fucked up I didn't want to tell you. It was easier to run off, and after she died, I didn't feel like I had any other purpose in life. But the games gave me that purpose. Gave me something to live for."

Your face quickly changed to a look of disgust. The spark of anger rekindled in your heart. "Something to live for, huh? Your friends and family weren't enough for you?" You snapped.

"I told you, I was a coward. Leaving was easier than explaining everything that happened. Even before I was a player, I didn't have intentions of coming back." He said, raising his voice somewhat.

Your jaw dropped into a look of surprise. You finally met his eyes with a gaze that perfectly captured the whirlwind of emotions you were dealing with.

"And then after the games, I knew I couldn't explain any of this. You'd all be horrified on where I got the money from, and you would never understand the hell I went through to get it." He paused for a moment, realizing the next words he was about to say would likely be a turning point in the encounter.

"But that won't be a problem for us anymore."

He was right. This was a turning point in the encounter.

"Are you really trying to recruit me right now?" You asked, words dripping with venom.

"That's not the word I would use. I'm saying that we can have an understanding-"

You scoffed. "An understanding?!"

He rolled his eyes, an action you clearly disliked according to your facial expressions. "Since we both have been through the games and won, there is no longer that rift in between us."

"Yeah, I wouldn't call it a rift. Right now, it's probably the size of the Grand Canyon." You muttered.

He sighed annoyedly. Why won't you just listen to him? You have to be trying to antagonize him at this point. His patience was quickly running thin. "I'm not asking you to participate in running the games. Hell, you can forget they exist for all that I care. All I'm saying is that we can give our relationship another chance now."

You chuckled in disbelief. "You're being serious?" You asked, the question only partially meant as a joke. When he didn't react, you knew he was being genuine. "You just put me through a fucking death game. You stood back and let that happen."

"I gave you a chance to change your life. You can live the life you wanted now without needing to worry about your father's loan sharks." He said quickly. Why couldn't you understand how he changed your life? He did you a favor. He was trying to make amends, but you were refusing to cooperate.

You laughed. "Do you really expect me to thank you?" You shook your head. "Whether you want to admit it or not, you purposefully put my life on the line." You took a deep breath as you made the hardest decision of your life. "If you can't accept responsibility or feel any shred of remorse, this is going to be the last time we speak. I won't say anything to your mother or your brother, but I can't do this." You said, voice wavering as you realized the finality of this encounter.

"What happened to you saying that you would do anything to get me back in your life? What happened to you saying you loved me?" Once the words left his mouth, he knew this was doomed. You were right. He was manipulating you. He just tried to use your emotions against you for his own gain. But ultimately, he wouldn't have done it differently if given the chance.

You opened your mouth in shock. It took you a moment to be able to speak. "I don't love you. Not anymore. The man I loved is gone." You said. You met his gaze for the last time. "I don't even know who you are anymore. You..."

You stopped talking as he rushed to put on his polygonal mask, scared of what that could mean for you. Was this it? Was he gonna kill you?

"What the hell are you-" You were interrupted by the loud hiss of the containers of gas leaking into the cab. In-ho's hand was hovering over a remote on one of the arm rests. You assumed his mask had a respirator in it. That's why he put it on. You started to get tired from breathing it in, just like when you started the games.

He was still a coward. He couldn't admit to what he did wrong, so he's shutting you out. You wanted to be angry at him. You wanted to tell him how much he ruined your life, both before and during the games. You haven't been the same person since he left, and knowing that he was making a conscious choice to leave again should piss you off to no end.

But you didn't. You stayed calm. Deep down, you only wanted one thing.

"You know, I still hope you'll be happy."

His eyes widened at your statement as your eyes started to close. But you didn't see him react at all. It wasn't much longer until you drifted into unconsciousness.

When the gas stopped flowing, the silence he was left in was deafening. He tried to stop his eyes from tearing up under the mask. He wasn't going to take it off regardless. He's not sure he ever would.

In a few hours, you would be waking up somewhere on the outskirts of Seoul. You would wake up with the debit card in your mouth, holding the 45 billion won you earned through your victory. Once the limo started driving off, the last piece of Hwang In-ho would be left behind. That man was gone, dead to all who knew him. Maybe it's for the best.

#nick writes stuff #squid game fanfic #squid game x reader #squid game x you #hwang in ho x reader #front man x reader #in ho x reader

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