#turns out practice does work....who would have thought .. apparently not me...

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Improvement :3

[yinyuedijun]

TRUST FALL | asakura shin x f!reader

Shin is a painfully vanilla guy but tries his best to let you live out your kinky fantasies. You have a breakdown when you try to indulge his very normal one. (Or: 3 times Shin humoured your kinks + 1 time you humoured his.)

11.5k words, sequel to situationship. nsft tags: fingering with the power glove, free use, somnophilia, domesticity kink + breeding kink. all sex is consensual (sometimes veers into cnc territory, shin relies on esp to obtain consent), none of it is rough or mean. toward the end of the fic, the narrative focuses on anxieties and/or desires about starting a family. chapter 203 spoilers. dividers by @/cafekitsune!

IMPORTANT: the reader is hypersexual due to off-screen sexual trauma, which is not explicitly described, but is discussed. there is also one non-graphic nightmare related to this trauma that turns into a horny dream about shin (lol). 20% of this fic is a psychosexually strange healing narrative, 80% of it is just silly porn.

Sometimes, Shin is glad that he can hear all your thoughts.

Mind you, it's not like he doesn't want to give you some privacy. God knows he's tried a million times to tune out your internal monologue the way he can normally do with other people, and god knows you’ve tried your hardest to imitate the cognitive trick that Nagumo does to keep his mind hidden away from Shin. The reality is, though, that your feelings always overpower any psychological barrier that the two of you attempt to create. Your thoughts are always too loud for him to ignore, usually because you're either too happy or too horny around him to keep them quiet. Apparently Shin has that effect on you.

But often he doesn't mind it. It’s sometimes even convenient. Helpful for all the stuff that you want to do in bed, for example.

Now, Shin’s known from Day 1 that you're kind of a freak. He’s seen enough of your psyche to understand the exact nature of your sexual fantasies, and on the day that you became an official couple, he went home and googled how you're supposed to have safe, sane, and consensual sex with a person who dreams of doing the exact opposite of that. Although Shin is himself a strictly vanilla guy, and the two of you were already having perfectly nasty vanilla sex that was satisfying you—he likes you a lot. He wants to treat you right, give you nice things. This includes everything from flowers to chocolates to exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, even if it means he’ll need to get a little freaky about it.

Shin’s since ended up learning a lot about BDSM, and he’s also ended up trying a lot of basic BDSM practices that don't really work on you. You are shockingly bad at enforcing your boundaries. You always get too horny to remember your safeword (Resident Evil—you chose it yourself), find it too much work to use nonverbal cues, and you dry up whenever he tries to use the traffic light system.

“It doesn't matter,” you once whined at him, “it’s not like I’d ever not wanna have sex! You can do whatever you want to me.” Which was an insane thing to say, and exactly why Shin feels like you should know how to use a safeword. But when he tried to explain this to you, you’d crawled into his lap and begged him to fuck you anyway. His dick got so hard that he could only say yes, though he first made you understand that it would be regular sex, not the stuckage roleplay you'd been asking him to try.

Regular sex. You're only supposed to be having regular sex.

There is no reason why you should be in tears right now, desperately trying to stop yourself from cumming on Shin’s fingers—and all over his power glove.

This is mostly your fault. Mostly. Ever since seeing Shin nearly kill someone using the thing, you've fantasised about him having it on in bed. Specifically, you’ve fantasised about him wearing it while his fingers are knuckle-deep in your dripping pussy. Shin wasn't ever planning on humouring those daydreams, but, well. He likes you a lot. He wants to give you nice things. If you want to have a mind-blowing orgasm while you're grinding your clit against the power glove, he'll let you—on the condition that you don't ruin it.

You've been having a lot of difficulty fulfilling this condition.

You're breathless, broken. Face tight from the effort of holding back your orgasm for so long. You’ve cum nearly twice now, and only didn't because Shin decided not to force it. Not yet, anyway. He admits he's being a little mean: every time he curls his fingers and rubs your sweet spot, he feels your cunt drip for him and he can’t help but do it more. The tears pearling up at the corners of your eyes and the way you're trying to squirm away from his hand would ordinarily make him stop—even make him worry—but then he hears you thinking, right there, right there, feels so good Shin you make me feel so good do that again, and then of course he has to comply.

“Shin,” you whimper, “I’ll cum if you don't stop that.”

You try to pull away again, hips jerking back from his touch, but your pussy is begging for him—tight and wet and greedy for more. His fingers are soaked, as is the black steel encasing his palm. Part of Shin feels like the glove has already been ruined; the rest of him is too horny to care. Completely unrepentant, his thumb rubs gentle circles into your clit, and he feels his cock throb at the noise you make.

“Shin,” you whine, “don't.”

He glances up at you. “You want me to stop using my fingers?”

No. You bite your lip. Pretend to look distressed. “I… I’ll make a mess if you don't.”

“I'll slow down,” he promises, and when he eases the pressure on your g-spot, your inner disappointment is so loud that he knows what he should do next.

When Shin lowers his face between your legs and pushes your thighs open with his free hand, you squeal.

“Shin!”

“What? I’m not using my fingers. Should be fine, right?” He doesn't need to wait for a response—he already knows what you're thinking—so he leans down and puts his mouth on you the way he's been wanting the whole night.

You whine when you feel his tongue on your clit. Clench immediately around his fingers—more Shin please I want more please touch me the way I like, you know where—so he curls them again, and the way you cry makes him want nothing more than to get on top of you and fuck you properly.

But that's not how you want to cum. You don't want to cum on his cock; you want to finish on his fingers, soak the sheets, and probably ruin Natsuki’s day with a repair call. So Shin closes his eyes and starts sucking at your clit, and he’s relentless about it—even though you try to push him away, even though you start keening and telling him to slow down, even when you’re panting hard and pleading with him to give you a break. “Shin,” you say, voice breaking, “Shin, no, I can't, please, I'll—I’ll cum, you gotta stop, no no no, I can't, I can't—”

You sob. Fully cry as your back arches, and Shin groans as you gush all over his fingers. Can’t help but watch as you fall apart for him, the way you’ve been wanting the whole time. He admits that it was hot seeing you cum despite the fact that you were begging not to, knowing that he was the one to make you lose control. Still, Shin is a vanilla guy; as soon as you've calmed down, he's wiping away your tears and studying you carefully.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Was that alright? I was reading your mind the whole time and did whatever you were saying to me, but I was still a little worried that—”

You throw your arms around him and shut him up with a kiss.

Once Shin gives up on the use of safewords and starts relying on his clairvoyance, the free use thing also becomes a lot easier.

Now, it isn't like you aren't beaming into Shin’s mind���whether at the store, in your home, or even on the train—that you want him to fuck you at all times. It isn't like he's happily obliging whenever he's over at your place, as many times as his dick will allow. But he likes to ask first, and he likes to hear you say yes first. Unfortunately, you have the specific fantasy that Shin doesn't care what you want—you just want him to manhandle you and pull you onto his cock whenever he feels like it. Also, it's apparently very important that he takes you by surprise, and that he keeps going even if you complain about it?

Shin truly doesn't get it. He's not opposed to having frequent sex. He likes you a lot, wants to give you nice things. You want his cock inside you at all hours of the day? Sure, he’ll give it to you. But why do you want him to be so rude about it? Whatever happened to saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?!

So anyway, he does it.

It’s hard catching you by surprise. His ESP tells him that you do want—and now expect—to be fucked nearly every moment of every day. You want it in the morning, when you wake up in bed and heat starts curling in your belly at the sight of him next to you. You want it when you're in the kitchen, trying to focus on making dinner while you squeeze your thighs together and try to relieve some of the heat between your legs. You want it as you clean the windows, your panties soaked and thighs messy with slick, thinking of the way Shin fucked you against the glass just the day before.

Want you inside me, Shin, you think nearly all the time. Want you to use me. Please?

This is how you find yourself leaning against the kitchen counter, all the dishes in the sink forgotten as your pussy squeezes around his dick. How you find yourself warming his cock as the two of you watch TV, your focus on the screen wavering as his fingers circle your bud. How he ends up interrupting you when you’re trying to read, pulling down your top so he can squeeze your breasts and tease your nipples through your bra. Stress relief, he calls it, which is true. There are fewer things that take his mind off his ex-assassin troubles than playing with your tits as you squirm on his lap, listening to you squeal and whine as you try to read. Sometimes he can get you to cum that way, too—just by licking and pinching your nipples and letting you grind yourself on his thigh.

It takes him a long time to actually get you off-guard, though.

He finally manages it when he comes home after a late shift in the store, wound up from nearly (but not actually!) killing two hitmen. It wasn't the violence that had bothered him, really; it was the fact that those pricks had knocked over an entire shelf in the store in the process of attempting murder. Couldn't they have attacked Mr. Sakamoto outside?! It took fucking forever to clean up and restock all those cooking wines and soy sauces. Assholes.

To his significant shame, Shin spent his entire commute afterward thinking of coming home and seeing you. Not to kiss you and cuddle with you, which was the sort of thing he wanted to do at the start of the relationship—but to pull you onto his lap and hear the cute noises you make whenever he plays with your body. Apparently that's now his stress response after several weeks of your free use policy, which makes him want to die a little bit. But as this been your explicit goal, he also decides not to fault himself for it too much.

By the time he's stepping into your apartment, he's already hard and thinking about which positions he’ll fuck you in.

In a miraculous twist of fate, Shin catches you while you're folding laundry and thinking about the news, rather than the way his dick felt inside you last night. He knows then that this is his moment: the stars have aligned, and he can finally fulfill your favourite fantasy.

“Shin,” you say, face lighting up. “Welcome home! I didn't hear you come in.”

When he kisses you, you beam at him in a way that's so pretty and innocent that it makes his cock twitch and has him feeling bad about what he's about to do. The two of you could have a wholesome night in for once. You're in the mood for it. He can tell from the way you’re chattering at him about your day off with Lu, and how you’re thinking about maybe doing a trip to Hakone with him because of a travel ad you saw on the subway. I've only ever been once on a mission… it would be nice to go as a couple next time. I wanna go to a ryokan with Shin…

Shin would definitely enjoy a couple’s trip with you. Not just to Hakone, but everywhere else in the world too. Maybe it can be an annual thing, something to do for anniversaries. (Though it's not like he’s thought of destinations for your next five anniversaries or anything. Nope. Not at all.)

Ordinarily he'd start trip planning with you on the spot, but this is an unprecedented opportunity, and his dick is throbbing from the sweet way you keep looking at him. You're in the middle of talking about plans for the rest of the evening, still folding laundry, when Shin's hands slip beneath the hem of your t-shirt.

He feels like a creep doing it. It's rude, right? It's so rude. You were thinking just now about making some popcorn and cuddling up to him and watching John Wick tonight. You weren't expecting to feel his palms sliding up your sides and cupping your breasts. Or for him to start kneading them.

But after a moment of shock, Shin hears a mental cheer from you that’s so loud that it nearly has him laughing.

Of course, you don't voice your enthusiasm. “Shin,” you whine instead, squirming as his fingers start circling your nipples, “I'm—ah—trying to get these chores done.”

“I’m sure they can wait,” he says, pulling you backwards. His cock presses against your ass and your thrill is palpable in his neurons. “This’ll be quick. I promise.”

You don't give in immediately. You chide him a little, then make a half-hearted attempt at continuing at your task. Your hands shake as you pick a shirt out of the basket and start folding it, all while you're being groped and teased and rutted against like a toy. You’re opening a drawer when Shin’s hand wanders between your thighs and he runs his fingers along your shorts. They're thin enough for you to feel his touch through the fabric, and you shudder when he starts rubbing your pussy through them—with a precision that has you melting, because he can hear it when you think about how good it feels when he touches your clit like that, especially while he's ignoring your complaints about it. Who knew you had it in you, Shin? you giggle internally. (Definitely not him, he wants to reply.)

He slides a hand into your shorts, and that's when you drop the laundry and give up.

Shin finds himself fucking you for the better part of the night, first from behind, then from beneath you. The sight of you bouncing on his cock drives him so crazy that he has you pinned underneath him not too long later, moaning and drooling as he drives you into the mattress. He only stops when you start thinking that you're starting to feel too sore. (You can keep going anyway, Shin, you tell him, but he knows he wouldn't be able: it kills his boner whenever you're in any kind of pain.)

But even if you’re a bit uncomfortable, you're practically glowing by the time he's finished.

“That was so fun,” you say as you kiss him. “You should do that more often.”

Shin snorts. “I don't think we can have sex any more than we already do without my dick falling off.” He gives you a curious look, suddenly worried. “Is this really not enough for you, though? ‘cause I can do other things if you want. Use my mouth, or toys, or whatever…”

You seem confused. “Well, it's not really about how many rounds we go…”

He blinks. “It's not?”

“No.”

“Then what is it about?”

You tilt your head. “Haven’t I said it? I mean, I've definitely thought it. It’s about being treated like a ho—”

“I know,” Shin interrupts, deadpan, and you giggle. But then he's studying you intensely; if he wants to give you exciting orgasms for the rest of your life, he'll need to understand what makes you tick.

“What’s the appeal of, uh… being treated that way? If it's not just about how many times we do it in a day?”

Shin encounters one of the major limitations of ESP: if you can't form a coherent thought, then Shin can’t read it. He can only see the knot in your brow, feel the discombobulation in your mind as you try to make out the exact shape of your desire. See it in your face when you can't.

“Who knows,” you finally say. “It's just hotter the way we did it just now, I guess? Like, it's a whole genre of porn. Tons of people like it.”

He frowns. Shin truly doesn't get it, and he wishes he did. But he doesn't need to understand your fantasies to humour you, as long as it makes you happy.

Though... there is one free use scenario he can't deliver.

No matter how many times he’s tried and how many times you've begged him, Shin can't bring himself to have sex with you in your sleep.

He feels a bit bad about it, honestly, because you clearly really want it. You've pleaded with him to try it out for the past twenty nights in a row, slept in exceptionally revealing lingerie just to tempt him, and have recently begun a diabolical routine of teasing him every night. You make out with him, rub yourself on him like a cat in heat, and grind your core on his aching cock through your tiny little panties—all before rolling over in bed and knocking out.

But despite your new habit leaving him with the worst case of blue balls in the world, Shin just can't bring himself to touch you in your sleep.

He doesn't get how it's supposed to work in the first place. It's a kink you probably picked up from all the fanfiction and doujinshi that's rotted your brain, and it doesn't make sense at all when applied to real life. A trained assassin is the worst person to try somnophilia with: “You're a light sleeper and your first instinct is to kill anyone who startles you,” he’d pointed out once. “How am I even supposed to touch you in your sleep without you waking up and accidentally stabbing me?”

In response, you started to take benadryl and melatonin before going to bed, and you promised that you would absolutely, 100% not stab him if you woke up in spite of that. (Okay, it might be more like 90%, but Shin can just use his ESP to see the future and dodge, right?) This flabbergasted him, but also didn't really surprise him.

It also didn’t really help.

The heart of the problem is that somnophilia is truly just too freaky for Shin. Despite everything he's tried with you, nothing really hits like vanilla sex. Even when he's enjoying the more adventurous stuff, he can only do so if he knows without a doubt that you're fully into it, and that's just kind of impossible if you're asleep when he's doing it. What if you wake up and realise that you didn't want any dick that night, actually? What if you wake up and you feel complicated, empty—not as good as you thought you would?

“But I’m always going to want it,” you insist, “and I'll like whatever you do with my body! You don't have to worry about all that.” Which is, again, an absolutely insane thing to say—but Shin doesn't know how to explain that to you. Your mind buzzes with frustration and something that feels a little like heartache whenever he tries, a knot in your chest that you don't really understand yourself, and it makes him feel so bad that all he can do is kiss you until your sadness ebbs away.

So Shin keeps his hands to himself, even when you're having the horniest dreams he's ever seen.

He doesn't mean to peer in on them. It's just impossible not to when you're next to each other in bed and your subconscious is making you think and feel crazy things. The sad dreams are probably the loudest ones, but the wet dreams are a close second. And this current dream is both very wet and very loud. Whenever Shin closes his eyes, he sees it clearly: some faceless man is on top of you, inside you. With each thrust of his hips, you shift in your sleep—thighs pressed together, hips twitching. Hot breaths, little whimpers. Your body is begging to be filled.

Shin doesn't take it personally that you're dreaming of some random guy instead of him. It's part of a particular kind of free use fantasy for you—the idea of anonymous men using you impersonally, like some kind of gloryhole. You used to think of it so much in your waking hours that it's lost all shock value to him. It doesn't turn him on, either—it's just not his thing.

So he lies down next to you and prepares to fall asleep to some pretty mundane gangbang visions. He's nearly drifted off when something happens that makes his eyes open wide—

You start to feel uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, uncertain. You've just realised that you can't recognise the face of the man on top of you, that you aren't sure if it's Shin. You’re squirming, wanting to get away, because I don't want anyone other than Shin to touch me, I don't want anyone other than him to use my body, I don't want anyone other than him inside it. A sense of panic grips you, and now the whimpers you're letting out don't sound needy anymore.

You sound afraid.

Shin is on you immediately. A hand on your cheek, his voice soft so as not to scare you. “Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. I'm right here. Wake up for me, okay? C'mon.”

He shakes you gently, and then not so gently, and now he's wondering what ungodly cocktail of sleep meds you took to stay unconscious like this. But even if you aren't awake, you can still hear him, his voice cutting through the fog of your sedative-fueled dream—and that's enough to comfort you. You can make out his features now, which are so handsome that you can't help but calm down.

Oh, your dream self says, it is you. Hi, Shin.

Shin sighs. “Hi,” he says, voice full of relief. “Yeah, it's me.”

The little smile you give him is so tender that his heart lurches. I'm so glad, you sigh. I don't want anyone else to do this to me.

This dream version of you is chatty. Infinitely chattier than your real self. I wouldn't have minded some other guy on top of me in the past, you know? you tell him as he undresses you. As long as I came, I didn't really mind whoever was inside me. It's not like I got to choose anyway. I was using my body for missions, so I only slept with whoever I got assigned. Cumming was a nice bonus though.

The Shin in your dream kisses a path from your jaw to your neck to your breasts, ignoring you. (The real Shin would never do this—he would probably start crying if you ever talked about any of this stuff out loud to him, actually.) He doesn't reply as you keep babbling about what sex used to be like for you, about all the stuff that Shin’s seen in your sadder dreams. Not that you think they're sad; you don't know that you sometimes cry in your sleep. You don't think it's too strange that the kind of sex you had for missions sometimes made you pretend that you weren't in your own body, that the kind of things being done to it weren't also being done to your heart. As long as your body had an orgasm, then you were probably enjoying it—that only makes sense, right?

But then you started sleeping with Shin, and sex always feels so different now. Shin doesn't just make you cum; he makes you feel like you're melting. Like you don't want to be anywhere in the world except in his arms where he can hold you and kiss you and hopefully fuck you a second time.

I never liked going multiple rounds with other people the way I do with you, you observe. I kinda feel like I maybe didn't like having sex at all. But you like it if it's Shin. All the things you hated doing with other people—being held, being kissed, being used—you always enjoy doing them with Shin. You’re actually pretty sure that you were doing them all wrong before you met him, and it's nice that your body feels right whenever he touches you now.

That's what you like most about when he fucks you, actually. You can always trust Shin to make your body feel right.

That's when it clicks for him: the shape of your desire, the reason your heart twinges when Shin starts talking about safewords and boundaries and how he can't just do whatever he wants with you. It makes him feel an ache in his own chest, and he finds himself leaning down to kiss your forehead, and then—after a long, thoughtful pause—the silky contour of your mouth.

The Shin in your dreams moves in lock-step with him. Kind of. He kisses you as well, his hands wandering all over your body. But then he gets wildly out of character. Shin goes bright red when he hears the porn dialogue he's been assigned. He wants to wake you up so he can tell you that he wouldn't ever call you his cum dump (what the hell), but it's making you wet that you're being treated like one—and to his utter shame, Shin’s dick is starting to twitch too. Something about you squirming underneath him, desperate and vulnerable for him even when asleep, is making his brain short-circuit.

When you start begging him to touch you—please, Shin, I was so scared I need to feel you now, need you inside me right now, want you to use my pussy, only you and no one else—Shin feels something inside himself snap.

And he touches you.

He starts with your breasts, because that seems least likely to disturb your sleep, and god knows he doesn't want you to wake up and witness him doing something so deranged. But your eyes stay closed even though you feel his touch in your dreams, your nipples pebbling as he teases and pinches them. Your brow dips and you whine, and you only get louder when his tongue starts swirling around a nipple—but you stay fully asleep.

When he reaches down, he's unsurprised to find your panties soaked through. Not just from your juices, but also from all the cum he left inside you earlier in the day. He strokes you through the ruined satin, a thumb rubbing your swollen clit, and he’s startled to feel you get even slicker. His dream self wonders at how sensitive you are, how needy your pussy is, and Shin cringes at hearing himself saying all that—but he also agrees. You always make a point of using toys to keep yourself stretched out for him if he's not around to do it himself, and your body is at this point practically trained to expect his touch—but even then, it's shocking how ready you are to take him even when unconscious.

When he pushes your panties to the side, he sees your hole is fluttering around nothing—both here and inside your dream. The sight makes him lose any shred of self-restraint, and he frees his dick from his sweats and starts fisting himself until his length is slick with his own pre-cum. Your subconscious can't quite recreate the feeling of taking his cock, leaving you panting and unsatisfied, and he fully intends to fix that.

He lines himself up with your slick folds—and he pushes into you.

Shin can hardly believe that you're still sleeping right now, all while your pussy helplessly swallows his cock. He'd feel bad if he didn't know how blissed out you were, your subconscious flooding with euphoria, your body overfilled with pleasure. He's being pretty rough with you in your dreams, but he's careful with you in reality, the way he's always told you he'd be.

Plus, he really doesn't want you to wake up.

But despite his best efforts, your eyes open. You're groggy, confused, not understanding what's happening and how come your breasts are exposed or why is there a cock inside you—and then your eyes are going wide as your pussy starts pulsing around him, and you're gasping and crying as you feel yourself soaking everything.

By the time you figure out what's going on, Shin’s come back to his senses. He blurts an apology on instinct, launches into a garbled explanation of why he was fucking you—but you just give him a dazed smile, a sweet little kiss, and then you turn over to spread your dripping pussy for him.

“Keep going, Shin,” you say, voice drowsy but no less clear. “You're still hard, right? Use my body until you feel better. Promise I'll like it.”

Shin sucks in a breath, feels the last threads of his sanity snapping. He's a vanilla guy, after all. Nothing hits like hearing you ask to be fucked out loud—except for maybe the sight of his cum dripping out of your swollen, needy pussy, your cunt fluttering around nothing and clearly wanting his cock back inside it. The combination is driving him wild.

You don't end up getting any more sleep after that.

The two of you do a lot after that. Way more than Shin ever thought he would in bed, including the most embarrassing roleplays in the world. There was the stuckage roleplay, the sex worker roleplay, the school classroom roleplay, the french maid roleplay, and—perhaps the worst of them all—the chikan roleplay.

(Yes—the two of you tried the free use thing in public, with Shin feeling you up during a commute home as you squirmed and pretended to ignore it. He'd tried to be subtle, telling himself he would stop if anyone noticed what you were doing, but you kept thinking that you really wanted him to keep going, so of course he had to oblige. Shin now can't take the Yamanote line without wanting to die from shame, nor without thinking about you instantly cumming on his fingers when he told you that you were being watched.)

But despite all those insane sex acts, nothing scares him as much as when you ask about his kinks.

“I don't have any specific fantasies,” he says quickly. “I'm a vanilla guy. You know that.”

“Uh huh. Sure. I also know that you're lying.”

He tries not to sweat.

“It’s okay, Shin,” you say delicately. “You don't need to be embarrassed. Breeding kinks are very common and respectable. It's the most normal thing out there, if you think about it. Humans need to procreate somehow, don't they?”

Shin can't form a response. He’s too busy visualising potential escape routes from this room, of which there are none because you are much faster than him and could easily intercept him if he bolted. When he accepts his fate, he forces himself to look at you and finds himself being stared at. Studied.

“So,” you say.

“S-so?”

“Tell me what flavour of breeding kink you like.”

His face burns. “What do you mean, flavour?”

“Like the kind of scenario where the breeding is happening. Like omegaverse, or hybrids, or those stories where someone's chained up and forcibly bred. You know.”

Shin realises then that he absolutely cannot tell you the fantasy that has him furiously jacking off when you aren’t around. He just knows you wouldn't understand it, and possibly you'd also read too much into it. Maybe you'd even freak out and break up with him. He’ll need to keep this a secret and carry it to the grave���or at least for another five years, after which it might make more sense to bring up as a serious conversation.

But you're very, very persistent about asking, and around five weeks later, he caves and tells you everything.

“Pleeease, Shin,” you beg for the millionth time, batting your lashes and giving him wide, pretty eyes you know he can't resist. “Whatever it is, I promise I won't judge. Like—I’m the last person who can make fun of anyone for their kinks. You know the kind of shit I read.”

Shin does indeed know the kind of shit you read—he’s also read it all, secondhand through your thoughts—and he does indeed know that you are in no position to judge anyone else for their preferences. But judgment isn't what he's worried about. It would be easier if it were. If his breeding kink had anything to do with omegaverse or hybrids or the weird dubcon stuff you described, it would be far less incriminating. But given the truth, he coughs and tries to crack a joke—“I dunno, it might be too freaky even for you”—and you give him a look so disappointed that he nearly flinches.

“H-hey—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I just wish you trusted me. “I’m fine, I promise.” I trust you with my thoughts. How come you can't trust me with yours? “Don't pay attention to whatever you can hear from my mind, by the way. It's not anything you should worry about.” I don't want you to feel guilty.

The two of you have a strict rule, given your lack of mental boundaries: when Shin overhears something that you don't want to discuss, he's supposed to pretend it never happened. Usually he obliges, but this is just impossible to ignore. You have a point: you are willing to be vulnerable around him 24/7. There are no psychological barriers between the two of you. Each moment you choose to be with Shin, you also choose to forfeit all privacy for your heart—an act that confuses Shin as much as it moves him. Because everyone dislikes his uninhibited access to their minds. Everyone has something to hide. Everyone should be at least a little bit afraid of him—you, most of all.

The one time Shin voiced all this, you gave him a funny look and thought, I don't understand what you mean.

Because you don't mind that Shin can hear all your thoughts. You don't mind him knowing your insides, feeling out all the places that make you feel nauseous and bruised and dirtied. You don't mind that he's seen things about you that make you feel disgusted with yourself, things that make you feel like your body is undeserving of love—because you know he won't judge you for any of it. Because Shin is a good person, he’s good to me and he's good to my body, better than anyone else has ever been and will ever be. That must be why I have such mind-blowing orgasms when I sleep with him.

I didn't know how good sex could feel until I met you, Shin. Did you know that?

Shin did know that. He had actually figured all that out some time ago from seeing your dreams, which is only making him feel worse. His access to your thoughts is so unlimited that he understands your desires better than you do yourself. It's only fair that you should also understand some of his, right?

Besides, it's just a kink. A harmless kink. You won't think too hard about it, right?

Right?

He clears his throat.

“I…”

You glance at him, curious.

“I'm kinda into… like, a domestic kind of scenario… with the whole, uh…”

He can't bring myself to say it, so you do it for him: “The breeding thing? Like, you’re into the idea of breeding me in a domestic roleplay?”

Shin is going to die. But he perseveres, because it's you, and you deserve this bare minimum from him: “Yeah… like. You're a housewife, and we… y'know.”

You give him a blank stare, which then gives way to understanding. “Oh! I know what you mean.”

“D-do you?”

“Yeah! Like those doujinshi where there's a lonely housewife and the neighbour cucks her husband by sleeping with her, right? Or her daughter’s boyfriend sleeps with her. Or the husband’s father.” You hum, studying him, somehow not reacting to the way his jaw just dropped. Just what the hell have you been reading when he isn't around? “Or is it one of those wedding NTR scenarios?”

“What? No!” Shin really is going to die. But he comes clean, because he won't be able to live with himself if he gets roped into a roleplay about any of those situations: “I just mean, like. We’re a married couple, and we’re trying for a baby.”

You stare, and he hears the open confusion in your mind. Apparently you can't fathom why anyone would find a life of domestic bliss sexy if it's not about to involve some form of cucking. But you keep your word and don't judge him: “Oh. Well, that'll be easy enough to do.”

Shin blinks. “You mean… you’ll do it?”

“Of course I'll do it,” you say, warm and reassuring. “I wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel, Shin.”

Something in him melts at the words, especially because he can hear that you're saying them with your whole heart. Every response he can think of is lacking, and he's at a painful loss for a reply. But then you cheerfully add, “And anyway, you fingerbanged me on the Yamanote line. This is the least I can do in return,” and Shin goes back to wanting to disintegrate.

Despite Shin’s insistence that his fantasy has nothing to do with the R18 cucking doujinshi that you read, you seem dead set on taking inspiration from them. For the next week, he's subjected to some of the worst imagery he's ever encountered as you “perform research” for the scenario you're planning for him—which is to say, he reads a great deal of ecchi manga through your thoughts. Their contents make him incredibly afraid of whatever you'll come up with, but he's also oddly touched at how committed you are to the whole thing, so he can't help but leave you to your machinations.

And to be fair to you, you do your due diligence by asking him additionally what he wants.

“What’s your idea of domestic bliss?” you say one afternoon, when the shop is slow and sleepy and Lu is mercifully absent. “Like, what do you imagine a happy household looks like?”

Shin knows the answer immediately: Mr. Sakamoto with Ms. Aoi and Hana. Eating a home-cooked meal around a table with them and Lu. Waking up each morning to the scent of miso soup and the noise of a laughing child. Hana running into the store as she returns home from school, carefree and loved. Watching you teach her how to fold origami cranes so you can make some to hang from her ceiling. Seeing you beam when she says, Thank you, neesan.

Being embraced by you when he comes back to the store after almost dying. Feeling you wipe the blood off his knuckles before kissing them. Hearing you say, Welcome home, I missed you, let’s eat dinner. Cooking for you with his hands that he once used only for killing.

That's family to Shin. All of you, in the store, together.

Now, Shin will absolutely die if you use such sacred memories as a reference for this roleplay, so he doesn't voice any of this. Problem is—he doesn't have any other reference point for what a family should be. He grew up in a lab, and then afterwards he watched his father explode on a ship. You can't exactly fill in the gaps for him either, given how you were raised, and he constantly listens to the buzz of your disappointment at having no real material to work with for this roleplay.

“I dunno,” Shin eventually says. “Maybe, like, I come home and you’re in the kitchen? And I help you make dinner? And we eat together and go to bed together. I feel like that's what a married couple does.”

You hum. “Yes, that sounds right. And I'm wearing an apron, right? With a conservative outfit that's still tight enough to be kind of sexy?”

“Uh…”

“And I'm super lonely because you've been neglecting me because of work and we haven't had sex in two years?”

Shin is baffled. You can't even go two hours without asking him to have sex—two years is unfathomable. “Uh…”

“And the neighbour has made several passes at the lonely housewife next door, but I turn him down because I only want my husband’s cock inside me, right?”

Shamefully, Shin’s dick twitches at this last suggestion. Still, he says, “Er, no, I’d really just like you to act as you normally do. I don't need a re-enactment of The Neighbourhood Housewife series.”

“Aw, okay… And you're really sure you don't want me to wear an apron?”

Shin overhears a thought, and he almost snorts. “You're free to wear one if you want.”

“I just feel like aprons do a lot for me.” You give Shin—and his shop apron—a meaningful look. “Don't you?”

Shin tries not to flush. A little afraid that you'll next suggest that he wears an apron and plays a lonely househusband, he hastily says, “Good point. I think you should wear one.”

When Shin gets home that Friday, he discovers that aprons do a lot for him too.

This revelation is shocking for him, given all the housewife-centric porn that he's been forced to read secondhand. He's seen probably half a dozen women in nothing but aprons and hardly reacted to any of them, but the sight of you in a sky blue apron, humming as you chop away at some carrots, is doing something horrible to him.

The setup is getting to him too. There are couple photos placed throughout your apartment (among them is his personal favourite, taken among the cherry blossoms at Himeji Castle), as well as a fake wedding band on your finger (he’d picked out one with you at your insistence, and Shin thought it was funny at the time but now his ears are going pink at the sight of it). The air is rich with the fragrance of cooking rice and simmering curry. New curtains, a vase of flowers on the table, unfamiliar decor and some of his personal effects are placed throughout the living room—all to create the illusion of just having moved in together.

The scene isn't making him feel horny, exactly. It's more like it's making him feel warm.

It’d be nice if the two of you could live together like this, he thinks. If Shin could really come home to this everyday, and if you could really greet him with a kiss and smile, and if you could cook together and spend time together and fuck nasty together, if you could take your husband’s cock every day and get filled up with his—

Oh. Those are your thoughts. Not Shin’s.

He clears his throat, and he half-expects you to crack a joke about your dirty monologuing, but instead you put down your knife and come by to kiss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, dear,” you say warmly, and Shin’s heart jumps at the pet name. You smile as his cheeks flush: My husband is so handsome, you think, and Shin feels like he's about to explode.

Somehow, this is harder for him than fingerbanging you on the Yamanote line. That was mortifying, but this roleplay is quickly revealing things about his psyche that frankly distress him. Still, he plays his part, and tries to get into the appropriate mindset. You're his wife right now—his beautiful, pretty, gorgeous wife who he lucked out with and somehow married and now he’s has a home with you, and he's going to start a family with you, and he hopes the baby will have your smile and eyes and hair, and he's going to take so many photos of the two of you, and holy shit he's so glad you don't have ESP.

Anyway, he comes up with an underwhelming response: “H-hi. How was your day?”

“Good,” you say. “Was nice to get a break from work. Missed you the whole time though. You kept me waiting too long.” Wanted to feel you inside me all day, you whine at him mentally, and Shin doesn't know how actual married couples go about their daily lives. If you were really his wife and he heard you thinking like that, he'd probably never leave the house.

(Roleplay, he reminds himself immediately after. This is a roleplay. He shouldn't think about actually marrying you. That would be a dangerous route to go down, and he definitely hasn't thought about it before. Nor dreamt about it. No, sir.)

“I'll make it up to you,” he promises.

“You'd better.” You point at the curry that's simmering on the stove. “You can start by helping me with dinner.”

The way the rest of the night is similar to a regular evening together. The two of you cook together, eat together, and clean together. The only difference is that instead of hearing you monologue in your head about how much you want your boyfriend to fuck you, Shin is instead subjected to fantasies about your life as newlyweds. You beam a false memory of your wedding night directly into his head, and the mental image of Shin fucking you in your wedding dress has him so bricked up that he nearly breaks several glasses.

By the time you've both showered and gone to bed, Shin has been tortured for hours with detailed fantasies about your married sex life. (They involve various sets of bridal lingerie, an amorous honeymoon in Thailand, and sex on every surface in the apartment. All unprotected, of course, and accompanied by tender kissing each time.) Somehow, you don't break immersion even once. Even when Shin joins you in bed, you're thinking about how lucky you are to have him as your husband.

Shin doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his life.

You giggle when you’re straddling his lap, feeling it for yourself through your silk slip. “Someone’s excited.”

“‘Course I am,” he says between kisses. “How couldn't I be?”

How couldn't he be, if you were his wife?

(Roleplay, he reminds himself again. Roleplay. This is a roleplay! It's not good to think in marital hypotheticals. It's stupid, really. But he's doing it anyway and holy shit is it making him horny.)

He reaches under your slip, isn't surprised to find your cunt bare and dripping for him. Stretched myself out for you while I was at home today, you think as you move your lips against his, hot and messy and addictive. Used a toy, but it just wasn't the same as my husband’s cock.

He groans against your mouth as he reads your memories of your day: not a fabrication like the hazy visions of your false wedding and honeymoon, but detailed and heated and real. How you really did feel the frustration of a lonely and neglected housewife and couldn't help but take your favourite vibrator and spread yourself out on your shared bed. How you split yourself open on it and moaned his name as it stretched you out. How you gushed as you came, and how it still didn't feel as good as Shin’s touch because you didn't get to kiss him and feel his arms around you at the end.

He feels crazy when he lays you out beneath him. Insane when he studies your gaze, honeyed with lust, and your pussy, pretty and glistening for him. You give him a smile that's shy—genuinely shy, he can tell from your thoughts, because you've done a million freaky things but you've never acted out anything so tender before. Never played house like this, never imagined a cozy and warm life where you get to have a family.

He's never really thought of it before, either. He never had a cozy and warm life growing up, and he didn't really think he could ever change enough that he could have one. Never thought he could have a family, and maybe this is just a roleplay, but it's the first time he's really envisioning himself starting one.

“Are you gonna put a baby in me, Shin?” you ask shyly, and he nearly cums in his pants.

Shin generally likes to take his time with you in bed. Even if he can hear you mentally whining for his cock, he ordinarily likes to tease you with his tongue and fingers first. But he's desperate to be inside you today, and he can tell that you aren't upset by how quickly he frees his cock and presses it against your entrance. He can feel himself throbbing as he slides between your folds, his cock twitching at the slick and sticky noises from your cunt.

“So eager,” you tease. You break immersion just to taunt him, bedroom eyes turning sly: Wow, you really do get off to this stuff. Never would have pinned you for the type to enjoy breeding someone like this—

“Wife,” he corrects you without thinking, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“You’re not ‘someone’, you're my wife,” he says, fully talking with his dick, “I wouldn't marry anyone other than you, and I wouldn't put a baby in anyone other than you.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Shin is vaguely aware of your heart pounding as he lines his cock up with your entrance, your pussy fluttering even as your mind scrambles for words. “O-oh, really? I mean, I guess that is what the scenario-ohhh—aah…”

Your mind goes blank as Shin pushes into you, and Shin’s finding it equally hard to think. He can never get used to how you feel around him—tight and hot and perfect—and it’s even more overwhelming this time thinking that he'll get you pregnant. The thought has him feeling so insane, he can't help but start fucking you immediately.

You gasp when he starts thrusting, driving his cock into you at an angle that has you curling your toes. Pleasure bursts in your mind as he hits your sweet spot, your pussy squeezing around him each time. He's touched you so many times, fucked you into oblivion so many ways, committed every inch of your body and mind to muscle memory—it’s easy for him to take you apart, force you toward a quick finish.

Your hole starts dripping uncontrollably, and your belly tightens in a way that short-circuits your thoughts. Shin reaches between your bodies before you can fully comprehend it, rubbing your clit until you’re whimpering.

Sometimes your mind sounds very needy when you’re about to climax—more more more, right there, right there, don't stop, don't stop—and sometimes you sound pretty depraved—that’s right, Shin, fill me up, wanna be your cum dump—and sometimes you sound very tender—please kiss me, please hold me, please be as close to me as you can—but right now, you just sound shocked.

A-already? you think, dazed, and before your brain can catch up with what he's doing, Shin presses down on your belly and grinds his cock against your g-spot and suddenly you're tearing up as you gush all over him.

It's so hard not to cum with you. Shin nearly has to resort to using ESP on himself to keep it from happening. But he fucks you through your orgasm without pause, and he doesn't really slow down until you're a hazy, fucked out mess. Every inch of your body is so wrung out from pleasure that Shin can't hear a single, coherent thought—just a mindless rush of dopamine—which means you're probably relaxed enough to take his cock just the way he wants.

He brushes his lips against yours, sweet and easy, before he says, “Let me know if this is too much.”

“Hmm?” Not ready to form real words yet, you think, What are you up to, Shin? and You can do whatever you want with my body, you know that now.

Shin answers by throwing your legs over his shoulders. You squeal when he practically folds you in half, grabbing at the sheets when he starts to move again. Your pussy tightens around him as he pumps his cock into you, your body eager for more even though you just came. Deep, you think, gasping, it's so deep—

Shin feels it when he hits your cervix, and he hears you thinking it too. You keen when he does it again, moaning at the feeling. Feels good, Shin, you reassure him, your fingers reaching for your clit. Keep going. It's all he needs to hear before he starts pounding into you again.

He feels like an animal when he fucks you like this. Can't think about anything other than how deep he is inside you and how completely he's going to fill you up, how you're going to be walking around with his cum inside you for days. You’re thinking about it too—please, Shin, want your cum in me, want it in my womb, want you to breed me, please, please, wanna give you a baby—

Shin groans, his hips stuttering to a halt as his cock starts twitching, and soon he's pumping thick ropes of cum into you. You follow not long after, you pussy milking his cock as you gush all over him. He lets it, too—stays inside you the whole time and makes sure that you take it all, the two of you kissing each other hungrily. Only pulls out once you're both spent, and you whine at the emptiness afterwards.

Your hole is stuffed so full that his cum drips out of you almost immediately; you make a small noise as you feel it soaking the sheets. Somewhat predictably, you reach in between your legs, spreading yourself to give him a show.

“You came so much,” you say. “I can’t keep it all inside me.” As if you even tried.

Shin is used to your cumshot displays, but he feels his throat go dry at the sight anyway. “Um…” He licks his lips, and he’s momentarily torn between cleaning you up with his mouth and pushing it all back inside you. “Aren’t there, um. Positions you're supposed to stay in after? To help. With keeping it in. To get pregnant, I mean.” At least Shin remembers this fact from one of the many breeding fics you read over the past week.

“Are there? Oops.” You give him a guilty look. “I didn't know that. I guess we're gonna have to do that all over again.”

Shin snorts. Figures. “I'm gonna need a few minutes,” he says. Then he lies down, pulls you with him. “I wanna hold you first anyway.”

You make a happy noise as you're wrapped up in his arms, his chest pressed against your back as he curls around you. Apparently still committed to your role, you grab your phone as you snuggle up to him and look up post-coital positions for couples trying to get pregnant. Shin watches you type on your screen, idly touching you all the while—his lips kissing your shoulder, his fingers running along the arc of your hip. “Oh, huh, you're right. I'm supposed to lie down and keep my lower body elevated…”

“Elevated?”

“Yeah, people put a pillow underneath their hips sometimes… or sometimes they put their legs up.”

He makes a face as he tries to imagine it. “Sounds uncomfortable. I feel like the pillow thing should be enough… not that I think it's gonna make a difference with how often you like to have sex, anyway.”

You laugh. “Kind of a wonder I'm not pregnant already, huh?” Then you give him a look that's supposed to be shy, but is a touch too playful to be convincing. “But hopefully I will be after this.”

Heat crawls up his neck as he listens to your thoughts. You're not even imagining anything especially filthy—just thinking about what it'll feel like to carry his child. Shin recognises some of your monologuing from a fanfiction you read two days ago, a lot of which is sort of sensual. But it's really the original, non-sexual bits that are doing a lot for him. Stuff like how you'll probably have really bad morning sickness, but you know Shin will be there to rub your back as you throw up. Or how you're worried about whatever weird cravings you’re going to get, but you know Shin will buy whatever snacks you want. Or how uncomfortable you'll be when your stomach gets huge and the baby starts kicking, but I bet Shin will be excited to feel that, though.

There's a long, heavy pause before you think, You're gonna be such a good dad, Shin. Because Shin is a good person, he's good to you and he's good to your body and he's good to everyone at the store. He’s going to be so good to his child, and he’ll be good to their mother, too.

Shin doesn't realise that his fingers are resting on your stomach until he feels you lay your own over his. He closes his eyes and imagines a life there, cradled beneath the hand that he once only used for killing, the laugh of a child carefree and loved, the sound of your voice welcoming him home at the end of the day—every day, for the rest of his life—and obviously it's just a roleplay, it's a roleplay and he's being a moron for thinking in marital hypotheticals, but he says, “I can't wait to start a family with you.”

You stiffen.

Shin blinks. He listens for your thoughts, but there's only a long, crawling silence, and then you bolt upright and say, “Resident Evil.”

His eyes go wide. He sits up, reaches out for you—“H-hey, what's wrong?”—but you're already slipping out of bed.

“Need to pee!” you squawk. “Don't want to get a UTI, y'know?” And then you're gone and the bathroom door is slamming shut.

Your apartment is small, just like most places in Tokyo. The washroom is well within 400 metres of the bed, so Shin can fully hear you crashing out in there. The thoughts are incomprehensible at first—garbled words, high pitched buzz, flashbulb images. Chain link fence. Bloodied knife. Needle in a child’s arm, a string of cranes hanging above their head. Zombies on a screen, Mario and Princess Peach. An older boy with white hair, pinching a crease into flower-patterned paper. Niisan left me they all left me they never wanted me. Nobody ever wanted me, except for Sei-nii but that was only to use me for missions so many missions I lost count. A dark room full of men, their jugulars slashed. Other men, other rooms over the years. There are so many of them, so many men inside my body using my body has Shin ever looked in my head and counted them all?

The sound of chimes in a convenience store. Your favourite place in the world. Then Shin at the stove, in an apron. He's so handsome. Now he's holding a baby, a little boy who looks just like him.

There's someone beside him, and it isn't you.

You turn on the shower, and the rush of water is loud so Shin can't hear the sad little noise you make with your throat, although you can probably hear everything in my head, right? Sorry. Please ignore me. I'll be normal in a minute.

Shin wants nothing other than to kick open the door to help you, but his guilt stops him. His regret at how invasive his powers are, at how he can't shut out your thoughts, so loud and raw, when you most need privacy. It's the least he can do to respect your wishes and leave you alone.

He sits on the bed, listens as the roil of your thoughts become a simmer and then still. The shower turns off. The toilet flushes. I really don't want a UTI. You wash your hands, count to ten, and you come out looking and sounding so calm that if Shin couldn’t read minds, he'd never guess that you just had a mental breakdown in the toilet.

“Hi,” you say neatly as you sit down, and Shin pulls you into a hug so suddenly that you yelp.

“I said to ignore my thoughts!” you whine, squirming in his grip, trying to get away.

Shin actively stops himself from sighing. “I don't need to hear your thoughts to know something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I'm fine! I'm normal. I'm very normal right now.”

He gives you a long, unimpressed stare, but you return it with the look of a prey animal about to bolt, and he realises he has to humour you.

“...alright,” he says, “you're normal. Nothing's wrong.” Shin watches you uncertainly, seeing the tension in your body, hearing the rush of blood in your skull. You're staring at your fingers, remembering how to fold the wings of a paper bird. Trying to focus on the motions and not the person who taught them to you. Trying not to let Shin see all the people you miss and all the things that weren't meant for you.

You find it hard to look at him, so he stares at the wall instead.

“Do you want to be left alone right now?” Shin guesses.

Your voice is very, very small: “...yeah.”

Shin’s brow knots, but he can't hear anything other than a vague emptiness from your heart now, and he shouldn't be listening anyway. Shouldn't exploit the fact that your mind is so defenseless around him.

He's pulling himself away when you say, “Wait.”

You’re visualizing escape routes out of the apartment right now. You'd beat Shin in each one, and you'd be able to disappear from Tokyo long before he could ever catch up to you. But you stay on the bed instead, fidgeting as you stare at your lap, and even though your face is calm, the flood of your thoughts is so scared and sad and hopeful that Shin finds his head and heart aching simultaneously. He wants crush you in his arms and say all the things you want to hear—and then all the things you need to hear, but don't know.

But he stops himself.

“If there are thoughts you want me to ignore,” he says, “then you'll need to say the ones you want me to know out loud.”

You wince. You trust Shin with listening to all your thoughts, but actually voicing them is something you're not very good at yet. Assassins are secretive by nature, and you were raised to be a killer. I’ll throw up if I say this, you think, face miserable.

“You'll throw up if you don't,” Shin points out, feeling your stress response in his brainstem.

You nearly look—and feel—physically pained when you say, “I… I’d like it if you stayed.”

Shin's not sure when his own heart started feeling so heavy, but he's relieved to feel the weight lift. “Okay.”

So Shin settles next to you in bed, and after a moment, you start to relax. The anxious chatter of your mind goes quiet. The old memories stop blinking at you. You try to focus on your boyfriend to further ground yourself. He has a handsome face so it's easy. He goes bright red at the thought, which makes you smile.

Shin cracks a joke, which makes you snort, and after that you crawl pretty eagerly back into his arms. You demand kisses and he happily obliges. Your fingers seek him out and he knows to hold your hand. You rest your head on his chest and you listen to him talk about all the goings-on the store, the upcoming movies he wants to see, the ryokan he's booked for the two of you, and now you're very drowsy.

People's thoughts get slippery and strange when they’re on the verge of sleep. Sometimes it's garbled nonsense, but sometimes it’s their unguarded feelings. Shin hears yours, faint and scared but so very, very tender:

Wasn’t raised for a life like that… Never even thought about it… But if it's Shin…

Shin wants to grab you and make you look at him. If it's Shin, what?! he wants to ask. Suddenly, he’s having insane thoughts about if you’d like to actually live together and when's the right time to get serious and come to think of it, Mr. Sakamoto wasn't much older than him when he got married, right? Maybe he's not crazy for having daydreams where your face is lighting up at a diamond ring that he got you. Not a fool for wanting to come home to you every night. Not losing his mind for thinking that it might be nice to have kids at some point down the line.

Not stupid for maybe sort of really wanting to have them with you.

It did make him feel like he was insane, when he first started having those thoughts. Shin had never contemplated any of that stuff before. He’d grown up in a lab. Drifted through life being rejected for his powers. Shot his own father and watched him die. The only person who looked out for him after that was Mr. Sakamoto, and then he dipped soon afterwards anyway. All this to say, Shin wasn’t exactly raised to expect that he'd someday have a family, either. Never even thought about it, because he was sure he'd never get it.

But even if he’s never expected such a life, Shin can’t help but hope for it when it comes to you.

He would really like to tell you all this, but by the time his own mental crashout is over, you're fully asleep and drooling on his chest. So deep in the REM cycle that when Shin tries to read your mind, he catches you dreaming about kissing him on the Yamanote line, giggling into his mouth as his ears turn red. Typical.

There's a ring on your finger, different from the pretend-play version you left in the washroom. This one’s got a diamond, simple but pretty. It suits you.

Shin commits the design to memory, and he decides to stay up a little bit longer, watching the dream with which you've trusted him.

END

notes: the funniest part of this fic to me is how much build-up was required for shin to try the most standard kinks on tumblr dot com. i am very sorry if you felt misled by the summary/tags, expecting to read something super kinky only to find that this fic was fairly vanilla. i blame shin.

also i know this is not my best writing </3 I actually lowkey wanted to delete it all at the midway point alskdfjsldfkj but we move. please do let me know if you liked it!!!!

[everythingspokenfor]

Casually thinking about older!Bakugou . As usual, all characters are aged up 18+. MDNI.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Older!Bakugou who is still in his early 30s, being pestered by his mother to at least get a girlfriend (and eventually settle down). She is afraid she'll never be able to meet her grandkids if this continues.

Older!Bakugou who has attended weddings of his friends, co-workers and even few of the people he had rescued. Although, had no intention of settling down anytime soon, wanting to focus on hero work because it gave him a drive, something to look forward too.

Older!Bakugou who was never really interested in any women that threw themselves at him, always keeping to himself, mellowed out with age. His friends no longer setting him up on blind dates because it was all in vain.

Older!Bakugou who hires a new support tech, because he was impressed by the work. Who meets the newbie in the hallway of the building, screaming at a rookie prohero.

"this is my resume", you shoved an open file into the rookie's face,"on page 12 it list all the things I was hired for", you pause pulling the folder, skimming through the pages to open page 12, he assumes. "Here, now read carefully, does it say 'write reports for rookies because they are apparently incapable of writing it' huh?", you slam the folder shut on the table. " Don't ever expect to do your work, rookie."

You turned around and left the hallway, not really noticing that you almost ran into Pro-hero: Dynamight.

Older!Bakugou who observes you working around the lab, fierce support tech that minds her business and prefers talking to her projects over actual people. Diligent with her work, getting her job done.

Older!Bakugou who enters the lab one day because his gauntlet need to repaired.

"they are too chunky." You don't really have a filter, already working on dismantling the whole thing, not sparing Bakugou a glance.

"You should focus on your work, kid." He was already staring at you.

"What do you think I am doing, Dynamight? This chunk isn't going to fix itself."

He is glad that your words remains same, irrespective of who you are talking to. Always stating the obvious.

"watch it, kid." He walked out of the lab.

Older!Bakugou who is surprised when the new tech remodels his gauntlets but also repairs the old ones, showing him the perks of new ones while still repairing the old ones just in case he doesn't like the new ones.

Older!Bakugou who, at 32, finds himself horrified by the idea that he might be interested, in someone, someone who is younger than him. You are 24, barely am adult in his eyes. You are smart, snarky and considerate.

You explain things to people, help around the lab, yet you are still sharp can take a joke, can make a joke.

Older!Bakugou that is nervous, prospect of asking out a girl making him sweat. He stands at the entrance of your lab, clear door doing nothing to hide his hulking frame, you are still working on something, hunched over a table with a chunky metal in hand.

"you know, I can see you, right?"

He lets out a breath, a small smile breaking onto his face, he moves into the lab. You notice he is wearing casual clothes, sweatpants and a t-shirt, carrying take-out boxes in his hand.

"I was getting dinner, thought I'd get you some too." He is already setting up on the 'not work table' in the room, already aware of what would happen if he put food on your 'work table'.

"What did you do, boss?" You voiced suspiciously, already moving to wash your hands.

"Can't even get people dinner in this economy"

"People", faux disbelief evident in your voice,"I wouldn't call me people, boss" you pulled the chair out and sat in front of him.

"Why not, tech?" He teased, handing you pair of chopsticks.

You look at him with mischief in your eyes, you lean over and play your hand around you mouth, almost as if sharing a secret,"Because you don't practice asking 'people' out, Suki."

His eyes widened,"You heard that? I thought the glass door was fucking sound proof." He let out a sigh, hours of practising and he doesn't even get a chance to say it.

"They are soundproof. From the inside tho." You looked over to him, before placing your hand over his," And I'll go on that date, also we should totally check the sound proofing of the lab tonight."

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

[ovrgrwnivy]

JUNO : spencer reid

synopsis ; a slow day in the bullpen leaves the team recreating the viral sabrina carpenter tiktok trend in a fit of boredom.

includes ; spencer reid x fem!reader, the team ( mostly derek let’s be real ) teasing spencer, suggestive language, flustered boy genius.

“sweetness, if you don’t turn that damn phone down,”

derek scolded from across the bullpen, the tiktok audio on your phone distracting him from procrastinating.

“sabrina carpenter, right?”

emily spoke up, nodding your direction once she’d taken in the sound.

“that’s the ‘have you ever tried this one’ thing, right?”

you nodded, turning your screen towards her. it was a funny take on the trend, a girl making a fist with the caption ‘when my boyfriend pisses me off’ with the iconic line in the back.

apparently that’s all it took to get derek on side.

“hold on now, ever tried what exactly?”

“it’s a line in her song juno, it’s a sex joke.” you clarify, locking your phone and abandoning it back on the desk.

from the corner of your eye you see spencer squint in confusion “i don’t get it..”

derek lets out a loud laugh, earning a glare from both you and emily “of course you don’t, pretty boy.”

“the singer says the line and does a . . . pose.” emily explains vaguely, obviously expecting spencer to catch on.

he doesn’t.

“yo, reid,” derek calls with a grin “you ever try this one?” he sends a wink in the others direction, acting like he was twirling a lasso as part of the bit.

both you and emily laugh, understanding exactly what morgan meant. however, your resident genius is still left none the wiser.

“..that doesn’t really clarify anything..” spencers tone is apprehensive, like he’s really trying to get the joke but it’s falling flat.

“prentiss, we all know about your little sin to win weekends,” derek teases, nodding toward spencer “maybe a real life girl will help him get it.”

emily scoffs “god no.” you think her rejection is going to be as straight forward as that, but you could practically see the lightbulb above her head when her eyes land on you “how about a real life girl his own age?”

derek speaks up before you get a chance to protest, seeing your reaction and anticipating your response “c’mon, princess, i’ll even do half your files”

that’s all the persuasion you need, besides, it was all in good fun. no harm, no foul. right?

you thought for a minute, trying to decide what would be the least inappropriate thing to do before standing, taking a little over half your case load and dropping it onto dereks desk.

trying, and failing, to keep your giggles to yourself, you looked across the bullpen at spencer who had been watching your every move.

“have you ever tried this one?” as you quoted the song, you leant over your desk and sent a wink your coworkers way, trying your best to not join in on emily and dereks laughing.

finally, it clicked, and spencers face turned a bright shade of red. his eyes flicked around the bullpen in an attempt to stop his mind wandering, but it wasn’t really working.

“pretty boy, i never seen you speechless” derek taunts, finding great amusement in his friends flustered state.

there’s a beat of silence from spencers side of the office before he clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly in his seat. looking anywhere but at the rest of you.

“yeah, i get it now.”

“oh, we know.” emily teases, flicking a rubber band his direction.

you’re still leant over your desk, only now your face is buried in your hands in an attempt to dampen your fit of laughter.

“do i even want to know?”

hotch’s voice from his office door snaps you all back into serious work mode, you stumble over yourself to get back into your seat.

“don’t worry about it, sir.”

[clos-posts]

Okay so, hear me out:

I've been on a bit of a Merlin fanfic hyperfocuse and came across another "I'm Emrys" where Merlin has to perform magic for Arthur to believe him, in front of the entire round table council, and I had a thought.

So, we all know that Merlin is magic itself, spells that seemed powerful to other sorcerers are not that powerful to Merlin and my hc is that these spells barely make his eyes turn gold, like maybe a flicker so fast the average person will miss it.

So I imagine Merlin saying he's Emrys and Arthur being all 'well then prove it' and Merlin makes a fireball (cliche I know but bear with me). Now Arthur has seen this spell and though he has a merger knowledge of magic, knows that it's quite a powerful spell and that most sorcerers eyes are practically a blinding gold, but Merlins eyes don't change. That and Merlin doesn't even speak and therefore didn't cast a spell.

Arthur, thinking that some other sorcerer helped Merlin with his self-sacrificing, kind-hearted, not wanting anyone to die personality, appear as if Merlin is this 'Emrys' and in a patience but patronizing tone tells Merlin that's is honorable to try and protect this Emrys, but his eyes didn't even change colour and therefore can not be a sorcerer.

Merlin, in a very Merlin way, huffs and proceeds to say something like 'Well duh, that was a very simple spell. Doesn't even require that much magic to perform' and the entire room goes silent.

(meanwhile Guise blood pressure has skyrocketed and is on the verge of either killing Merlin himself or having a heart attack. He hasn't decided yet.)

Arthur, absolutely baffled (and a little turn on at the casual display of apparently immense power), asks: 'What will make your eyes gold then? If you even are a sorcerer?'

Merlin, never one to back down from a challenge and already too deep into this, shrugs and says 'We would need to be outside'

And that's how the whole council ends up on the training grounds opposite Merlin waiting in anticipation as to what he will do.

There's silence so thick that no one dares break until Merlin starts to chant. At first nothing happens and Arthur is relieved (and a little disappointed), but then clouds start to gather, think dark clouds above them, and Merlin starts to get louder. Thunder claps across the sky and there electricity in the air making Arthur's hair stand on end and a shiver works its way down his spine. He looks at Merlin and though it's subtle at first, his eyes are glowing gold.

The tension builds and builds and with one final shout from Merlin, his eyes, a brilliant gold, as lightning falls all around him, clashing to the ground destroying the train field in its wake.

Arthur can do nothing but stare. Breath caught, heart hammer, and a sudden hot arousal catching him off guard. He can do nothing but stare at Merlin, his loyal manservant, standing amidst the lighting with his head thrown back and a look of contentment on his face, as if performing magic of this magnitude is comfortable, relaxing, an everyday occurrence.

When Merlins eyes meet Arthur's, there's a, small, sad smile on his lips, and then quicker then it had started the lightning stops and the clouds disappear, and the only thing that can be heard is the birds beginning to sing again.

Arthur can't think of anything to say and stupidly say 'you destroyed the training grounds'. Merlin at this point blushes, stammers out an apology before waving his hand with a few muttered words and the training field is in perfect condition once again.

Arthur and the entire council are baffled.

Then, before anyone could say anything, Arthur blurts out a command for Merlin to go to Arthur's chambers and he does. Without question. Just a shrug, and walks off. Arthur is wheeling. This powerful sorcerer, who just showed them a feat that no mortal man will ever replicate just listens to his command with nothing but a shrug!

Anyway, once Arthur has calmed the council somewhat he makes his way to his chambers. Once he enters Merlin is speaking so fast it's hard to keep up, something about coins, destiny and then shockingly how Arthur is the only person that can kill him if he uses Excalibur. What. The. Fuck.

Arthur: I'm not going to kill you Merlin!! Why would I kill you?!?

Merlin: Well, I mean, umm, I'm a sorcerer? Emery's? The strongest warlock to ever walk the Earth?

Arthur: I'm not going to kill you Merlin. However! If you do not take me to bed and absolutely ravish me in the next 10 minutes, I may have to resort to drastic measures!

Merlin, absolutely gobsmacked, face red: Wh- what measures..?

Arthur, absolutely confident, turned on beyond belief, practically gagging for it: I'll start begging.

And before he knows it Merlin pounces, and the rest is history.

That was not meant to be as long as it was... 😂

BUT!! If someone who writes fics could take this and write a fully fleshed version on this and then tag me in it I would be forever grateful. ADHD and dyslexia does not make a good writer for me unfortunately 🥲🥲🥲

OH! One last thing! I have a hc that cold iron had a natural negative field which repels energy which is why those that have learned magic have it cut off when chained in cold iron. They can't draw upon their magic from the energy around them. However, with Merlin being magic it's a little different for him.

So, I had this image of a knight, without prompting thinking he's doing what the king would want, walks up to Merlin at some point during his light show and slaps cold iron shackles on him. But, instead of the magic stopping, Merlins eyes grow brighter and bright, and the shackles start to shake and groan, because whilst cold iron does repel energy, it's a little hard to do that from both sides and can't take the pressure. At some point the shackles start to glow as the negative properties of the iron are being overwhelmed and forced into itself. Merlin looks down, looks back at the now terrified knight and says: You should probably duck. And no soon has the knight hit the ground the shackles explode, for lack of a better word. No harm done to Merlin tho.

[diamond-rozie]

Tim stepped cleanly inside the room, and carefully shut the door behind him after checking if anyone was in the hallway. “What are you-” Danny started confused. Tim was acting very unusually right now. 

“I’m Red Robin.” He said.

Danny stared at him for a few seconds. Tim had expected him to be more shocked, Danny wasn’t like Damian and Bruce in the aspect of holding back his reactions. He watched Danny carefully and noticed that he wasn’t even surprised at all. 

His shoulder shifted a little, and a look passed in his eyes. He was relieved. That didn’t make any sense unless, “You knew.”

It made an irrevocable amount of sense. The stupid excuses he didn’t question, the easy slide bys on things that didn’t add up. Tim had wondered why Danny never brought it up with any of them. He was always quick to call bullshit on things but conveniently never on their mission cover ups. 

“Yeah.” He admitted quietly, findling with the small screwdriver in his hand.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Tim asked. He felt a little ridiculous about it all now, “How long have you known?” Tim’s mind went back to the dining room argument from last night and he rolled through it in his head. “Wait, Jason knows you know, doesn’t he?” Tim blurted, “That why he- why didn’t I realize this sooner?” 

“I mean I know you guys can’t just tell whoever you want. It’s a secret identity for a reason. You guys didn’t want me to know. So I acted like I didn’t.” Danny shrugged. “I figured it out when Dick and Bruce were in Amity, and yeah, Jason knows. He also knows I’m Phantom. Cass knows too- not the Phantom thing. Or maybe she does, I don't know.”

“You knew the whole time?” Tim balked. All the effort they put in to hide the proof before he came, and he knew the whole time. Wait, did he say- “You’re Phantom?” Tim practically yelled. 

Danny blinked at him, “I thought you knew that.” He pointed the end of the screw driver at him, “Why were you guys so okay with him being in the cave then?” 

“We thought he was Thomas Jr.” Tim threw his hands up, rethinking his entire career choice. “I mean, yeah he was in Amity with you, but we figured it was like a guardian ghost thing since the time Dick met him that one time when you got lost or something he was the one- holy shit, you were following them the whole time weren’t you.” 

“You thought Thomas was Phantom?” Danny laughed, finding this ridiculous. 

“Isn’t that how supernatural stuff works or something. Like, you guys are linked because you were switched with each other and because you were with the family he was supposed to be with so he turned into a protective spirit to, like, watch over you or something.” 

Danny's look of appalment only deepened as Tim continued explaining. “Who told you that?” 

“I mean we just kinda figured it out ourselves based on past experiences.” 

“Past experience?” 

“With supernatural stuff the right conclusion is always the most unexpected and slightly irrational one.”

Danny snorted at that. “That is a really bad rule of thumb.” 

“Right, then explain how you’re the ghost Phantom when you’re also human and alive Danny.” Tim crossed his arms. He was trying really hard not to over analyze that right. Did that mean Danny was dead or that Phantom was alive? How could he be both? Well according to Schrödinger's theory- not now Tim. He should make a new file for this later and then he’d think about it. Alone. In his room where he could properly freak out over this. 

“Touche.” Danny clearly thought this was funny so no need to put a damper on the mood. Especially after everything that already happened. 

This information changed a lot of things. Tim would have to refer this back to the Fenton-Masters case. What about Damian? Did he know Danny was Phantom? Probably not, considering none of them had, apparently aside from Jason. It would be almost impossible for Tim to not tell him that since they were supposed to be working it together. Tim wasn’t sure how he would take the information. Not only that, but gave a new scope to the vultures that had attacked and the monster that had showed up from the pits. 

Later. File. Many lists. 

“Do you want to come to Mt. Justice?” Tim asked him. 

“Like the museum?”

“Yes and no. It’s also the Young Justice base. It’s top secret and no ones supposed to know about it.” 

“What! Then why are you telling me?” 

“Do you wanna go or not?” 

“Is that even allowed?”

“Definitely not.”

Danny raised a brow. “Then we can’t go?”

“It’s far but we can just take the jet. It’s like 30 minutes tops. We could take the zeta-tubes but then Bruce would find out you took the zeta-tubes and then we’d be fucked. Well, mostly me. But still.” 

“Wouldn’t he find out we took the jet then?”

“He wouldn’t know you were on the jet. It’s not weird for me to be going there since it is my team.”

“What if we get in trouble?”

“We’ll only get in trouble if we get found out.” Tim shrugged, “Do you want to go or not?”

Danny considered it for a moment before a grin tipped his face. “Yeah.”

“Sweet.” Tim reached for his phone only not realizing he didn’t have it. “I’ll let them know we’ll be coming around. They’re all already there. Tell Alfred you’ll be going out with some friends and then come meet me at Drake Manor.”

Danny seemed to embrace the situation now, forgoing his earlier hesitance. “I’ll wrap up some stuff. I should do breakfast too so Alfred doesn’t think anything is up. I’ll give you a heads up before I’m out the door. I’ll take my bike.” 

“Take the long way round since the Manor’s in the opposite direction of the city.” 

Danny nodded. “What about you?” he asked. 

“No one’s gonna ask if I go in costume.” Tim shrugged, “Speaking of costume…” Tim turned to where he knew the wardrobe to be, “Let me see your clothes.” He opened the double doors in the bathroom where the closest would be and blinked at the largely empty room. “Where are the rest of your clothes?” He asked. Danny looked confused by that, “Oh,” Tim realized, “You used a second closet. Smart. Is it in the lab?” 

 “No, Tim.” He said, pacing his words, “These are all my clothes.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“This is a normal amount of clothes to own.” 

“But it’s like barely covering a fourth of your closet. And that’s only because everything is so spread apart.” 

“That's because the closest is the size of a literal barn. Why on Earth would I need that many clothes?”

“I thought Bruce gave you an allowance?” 

“He did.” 

“Is it not enough?” 

Danny balked at him. “Did you ask to see my closet just to make fun of me?” He huffed. 

“I’m not making fun, I’m concerned.” Tim said genuinely. Did Danny not feel comfortable asking for things? It must be because they were keeping so many secrets and he thought they didn’t trust him. This clearly ran deeper than Tim originally thought. 

Danny shoved his hand in Tim’s face, pushing him back. “Can we get back to the point?”

“Right.”

--- later ---

“Give it back!” 

“No, I had it first!

“Nu-uh. I just put it down for like two seconds when you grabbed it.” 

“You were gone for the whole round.” 

“Where’s the controller you had before?” 

“It died.” 

“There's a bunch of other ones in the drawer.” 

“You can have one from there, then.” 

“No! I want the one I had back.” Tim insisted. 

“No.” Danny moved so he couldn’t reach it. 

“That controller is player 1, so give it back.” 

“Exactly why I’m not giving it back.” 

“Why would you be player 1?”

Danny looked so smug at that, “If you recall, I’m actually older than you which gives me sovereign right over player 1.” He said pushing Tim away. 

“That doesn’t even mean anything!” 

“Ah, to be young and naive.” 

“Fuck you.” Tim said, tackling him off the sofa. 

“What on God’s green Earth is going on here?” Cass asked, returning from their small intermission for snacks. 

Bart rushed up to join her. “Is Danny winning?” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No you're not! Give it back.” 

“Get off me.”

Kon was the last to come onto the site. “Guys.” He said seriously, “Superman’s coming. And there’s someone with him.”

Tim stopped trying to strangle Danny, sharing a look of panic with his team. 

“So?” Danny asked, confused.

“Danny, you're not supposed to be here.” Tim hissed at him. “Shit. How do we hide you from Superman?” 

“It was nice knowing you.” Kon said with a sarcastic smile. 

“How far is he?” Cassie asked. 

“He’ll be here in like two minutes.” 

“I’ll hide under the couch, he probably won’t look under there.” Danny offered. 

“He can hear your heartbeat.” 

Danny smiled widely. “I got it covered.” He said, pulling himself into the small space.

Bart giggled in excitement. 

“How-”

Kon gave a silent sign that Superman was here, sending a confused look towards the couch Danny had slid under. Tim’s phone buzzed with a notification. 

Just then, “Konner?” Clark called from the Mission Room. 

The team shared a silent look. They’d just have to trust Danny had this covered. 

“We’re in here.” Bart called even though Clark would already know that.

Tim put up two fingers to silently ask Kon if there was someone else with him. He received an affirmative. This was a horrible day for prospective teammate introductions. 

“Hey guys.” Clark smiled, then confused “Why are you sitting on the floor Red Robin?” He asked.

“I was checking something.” Tim said, picking up the controller Danny had been forced to abandon. 

“Oh, okay.” He nodded, not questioning it further. “I’m glad all of you are already here.”

“Are we getting a mission?” Cassie asked. 

“Sort of.” Clark said, excited. Then in Kryptonian, “ Come .” He said to someone behind him they couldn’t see. Tim couldn’t hear any footsteps. And he found out it was because the person Clark was introducing them to could fly. And Tim also found out that Clark had spoken in kryptonian because this new person was a kryptonian. One that Tim had never met before. “This is Kara. She’s my cousin. The entire situation isn’t all clear yet but as it stands we understand that her pod, while launched at the same time as mine, was caught in an asteroid belt and was only left free recently, when it landed near the Fortress of Solitude.” Clark turned to Kara and introduced them to her in Kryptonian and then added, “ Tim and Kon-el speak Kryptonian which is why I thought you would be more comfortable here instead of the Watch Tower. Though, Kon’s could use some work. ” He teased. 

“Hey, my Kryptonian is fine.” 

“Why don’t you try saying that in Kryptonian?” 

“ My fine is Kryptonian .” Kon said confidently. 

Clark laughed and Kara looked at Kon like he grew a second head. 

“I don’t even speak Kryptonian and I could tell that didn’t sound right.” Cassie laughed. 

Tim took his turn to introduce himself to the nervous and quite blonde. “ I’m Red Robin. ” He pointed to the symbol on his chest. “ It’s nice to meet you. ” He put out a hand for her to shake but Kara just stared at it. Maybe they don’t have hand shakes on Krypton. Since Clark had grown up on Earth he didn’t really know much about the customs of his home planet for them to have learned it beforehand. 

“ Nice to meet you. I am Kara Zor-el, daughter of Captain Zor-El and the Lady Alura. ” Then she stuck out her hand like Tim had. When Tim took it to shake Kara seemed surprised by it. 

“ You’ll be in good hands here, Kara. I’ll be back to check on you later but if you need anything Kon or any of the others can get a hold of me for you, okay ?” Clark said softly trying to gauge if she’d actually be okay here without him. 

Kara started at Clark for a moment like she was processing what he’d said, “ Why will anyone need to hold you? ” 

“Oh.” Clark pondered it, “ It’s an Earth phrase. It just means that they’ll send me a message or contact me if you feel like you want me to come back. ” 

Kara took another pause to process and then, “ I see. ” And does a hand gesture that Tim didn’t understand. And neither did Clark. No one commented on it. 

After Clark left the atmosphere of the room went stale. Danny was still under the couch and they weren’t sure how willing Kara would be to not tell Clark about it. But they couldn’t leave Kara. And Tim’s phone was buzzing with notifications that he did not want to check because he recognized the haptics of the health app he had. The one that had everyone, including Danny’s, vitals. Danny, who Tim was pretty sure had just stopped his heart for the entire duration of Clark being here. Which had been a very long duration.

Kara looked between them, confused. “ Is there something meant to be done? ” 

“ How’s your english, Kara?” Tim asked.

“ Only a little . Kal-El said it will take time .” 

“ Langage harding learn. ” Kon nodded. Kara lipped his words back to herself trying to make sense of it. 

“What do we do about our stowaway?” Cass whispered to Tim. She didn’t speak Kryptnoian, but she understood enough to know what Tim had asked. 

“I could dash him out. Maybe we could spend the day together at the mall and then we’ll be best friends and then he won’t want to hang with Tim anymore because he’d rather hang out with me because I’m so much more fun.” Bart said all in one breath, his words afterwards speeding up too fast for Tim to make any sense of. 

“She’ll know something’s up. We need to test her loyalty.” Tim strategized while Kon attempted to keep Kara in conversation. 

“How? And why haven't any of the supes been able to hear him yet?” Cassie asked. 

Bart took a pause on his earlier ramblings to make Tim’s life more difficult. “Oh it’s because he’s not breathing. Isn’t that so cool.” 

Cassie shot Tim an alarmed look. “He’s a meta.” Tim said off handedly, “Can we focus?” 

“Are you aware that your brother might be suffocating to death? In fact, we may need to hide a corpse and I sure as hell would love to hear how you're going to explain that away at family dinner.” 

“Oh, don’t worry Danny’s fine.” Bart said flippantly. “Danny, if you can hear us, make the room one degree colder.” 

Tim couldn’t feel anything but Kon and Kara did. Kara eyed the room confused about the change but fortunately she didn’t comment on it. 

“So cool.” Bart whistled, lapping the room. 

“Convinced yet?” Tim asked Cassie.

“He’s an ice meta how- you know what, I don’t want to know. So how are we going to test our warden?” 

The lounge room was decorated to look like a regular living room, including hanging “family pictures” on the wall. Everyone on the wall was in costume, for security reasons, but they were actual nice pictures of the team and their mentors. Tim pulled out a batarang from his pocket, and played around with it for a while, talking aloud about random things. It only needed to sound like a real sentence since Kara couldn’t understand what he was saying anyway. Then the batarang “slipped” out of his hand landing right in one of the larger framed pictures. The impact was loud and the glass of the frame shattered and spilled on the floor. 

Cassie didn’t have to fake her flinch in surprise at that, turning to Tim alarmed. Tim adding to the performance acted shocked. Kara and Kon obviously hadn’t missed the commotion and their conversation stopped. Kara looked at the destruction of the frame, analyzing Tim and Cassie’s reaction.  

“Dude.” Bart turned to him wide-eyed, stopping in his tracks, “We’re so dead.” Kara didn’t speak english, sure, but the dread in Bart’s voice was obvious enough. 

“Why did you do that?” Cassie scolded, “That was Red Tornado's favorite.” 

Tim held his head in his hands dramatically, then he let realization dawn on his features. Slowly he turned to face Kara. “ I’ll get in really big trouble if Kal-El or anyone finds out. I can hide it, but you won’t tell will you? ” He made himself sound really worried. 

“ Won’t it be noticed? The image is large .” Kara asked. She was beginning to share their concern on her face, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she would keep her mouth shut about it.

“ Clean up can. ” Kon said in a reassuring tone. Kara looked at him sideways, clearly confused. 

“ They don’t really come in here often so we can pass it off. But you can’t tell. ” Tim told her. 

Kara looked like she was having a hard time understanding him as well. An easier time than with Kon for obvious reasons but still not an easy time. Tim couldn’t understand why since he had made sure their Kryptonian was in perfect condition. “ Pass it off? ” She echoed, confused. 

Kara must not have understood the phrase.“ Pretend like it didn’t happen .” Tim explained. 

She thought about it and nodded. “ An Earth phrase? ” 

“ Yes. ” 

Kara didn’t answer right away and Tim wasn’t sure if it was because she was still deciphering what he’d said or if she was thinking about telling. “ I will not tell Kal-El or his associates since no one was hurt and it was only a minor incident .” Cassie and Bart had already cleaned up most of the mess why Tim talked to Kara. Tim had made sure to hit the frame so only the glass would be shattered and the actual picture was mostly unharmed except for the small tear in the corner. That would be easy enough to cover up. 

Kara's body language was stiff and she was watching everything very carefully. It wasn’t strange since she had been left with a group of strangers in a new environment and she didn’t speak the local language. She seemed around Tim’s age or maybe a little older. Kara was meant to land on Earth with a mission to watch and protect Clark. This implied that she was of a status and position to receive missions. This meant she would work by a set of rules and report to a supervisor. The supervisor was likely Clark who was most likely to take responsibility for her for a variety of reasons. 

Cassie gave Tim a raised eyebrow to ask how it was going as she walked away to dispose of the glass shards. 

It would be a gamble. A deadly one. But if Tim made it look like Danny being here wasn’t that big of a breach of the rules he could convince her to keep it to herself. He shared a look with Kon. 

“ I’m really thankful, Kara. ” Tim says, smiling. He pulls out his phone and texts Cassie and Bart their half of the plan. “ We can show you around the rest of the base. Would you like to do that? ”

“ Okay .” 

“ Room fun lounge after work. Play TV on games .” Kon said. 

Kara stared at him.

“How about I do the talking?” Tim put a hand on Kon’s shoulder. 

“Why? I’m doing so good.” Kon said genuinely. Tim doesn’t respond to that. 

The tour lasted minutes and Tim made sure to bide their time well so Cassie, Bart and Danny could be fully settled in before they returned. It would take a while for Danny’s heart rate to return to normal, and it would be better that he was all there before they tried to pull this off. 

Tim checked his phone when they were nearing the end of the tour. Cassie had texted him they were good on their end. 

“ Let’s go back to meet the others. They don’t speak Kryptonian but we can translate for you so don’t worry. ” Tim said. Kara seemed nice, it was the circumstances that were a bit stressful. But that didn’t mean they should let her feel left out.

“ This is your team ?” Kara asked, following Tim back to the lounge room.

“ Yes we do missions together sometimes. When we’re not working we spend time at the base because we’re friends. ” 

“ It is nice to have friends. ” Kara nodded. 

“ Did you do missions with your friends on Krypton? ” Tim asked. Maybe he could gauge what her position had been to see how she would react. 

“ Only practice. We did not graduate from training yet. ” 

“ Going what’s there ?” Kon asked. Tim had no idea what he was saying. 

“ What dialect does he speak? ” Kara asked Tim. “ I cannot understand it. ” 

 “ We learned the same Kryptonian, Kon just doesn’t practice. ” Tim laughed. Kon understood enough that he elbowed him. “ Are there dialects in Kryptonian? ” 

“ Many. You and Kal-El speak very… proper. ” She said sheepishly. “ No one speaks that way where I am from. Only in important meetings with outsiders .” Then she paused sadly, “ Mother always said it was important to learn but I did not listen. ” Tim had figured Kara spoke so rigidly because she was nervous or shy. This explained why she was having such a hard time understanding them. 

They reached the lounge to Cassie and Danny locked deeply in a game of rock, paper, scissors. Danny had pulled his hood back up and was wearing his cowl from earlier. He had picked one of the older models that covered most of his face until the end of his nose and past his cheekbones. Danny shot scissors at Cassie, beating her paper. Bart cheered loudly, throwing his hands in the air and Cassie groaned in defeat. Danny cackled as he took the last cookie. 

“Hey, D. When’d you get here?” Tim asked for the sole purpose of silently telling the others to not call Danny by his real name.

With a mouth full of cookie, “A while ago. Who’s this?” He asked, gesturing his head to Kara. 

Tim made wide gestures and spoke clearly in english so Kara could pick up what he was saying. It would be important for her to learn. “This is Kara, she’s Superboy’s cousin.”

“I thought she was his aunt?” Cassie asked. 

Danny didn’t look nervous, fortunately, and smiled easily at Kara. Then to Tim’s surprise, “ Nice to meet you. ” he said in perfect kryptonian. 

“ He speaks as well. ” Kara commented. 

“You can speak Kryptonian, too?” Kon asked. 

“Duh.” Bart answered. 

“Dead languages are my speciality.” Danny said pointedly. Bart giggled at that. 

“ Should we build a hole by playing a game? ” Danny asked, moving on the couch to give everyone else more room. 

“ Build a hole? ” Tim laughed, “What?”

Kara looked at Danny surprised, “ You know of that? ” She asked excitedly, her eyes lighting up. 

“It’s a phrase, basically like “break the ice’.” Danny answered, then for Bart and Cassie, “Do you guys know any games we can play?” 

“ You speak very well .” Kara complimented excitedly, leaving Tim’s side to talk to Danny. “ Did you also learn? ” Meaning is he a native speaker. 

“ Kind of? ” He laughed, “ You can speak more comfortably if you’d like. ” He gestures for her to sit.

Kara seems hesitant at first, but then she says something. It sounded Kryptonian but the accent was different to what Tim was used to and he could only make out some of it. To Kara’s delight and Tim’s further surprise Danny not only understood exactly what she’d said but even responded in the same way. 

It takes a while for them to settle on a game to play given all the language barriers. Kara spoke in what Tim learned was Standard Kryptonian but would often switch to her local dialect when she didn’t know how to say things. Kon and Tim could only understand Standard, and in all honesty, between them Tim was the only one who could speak it. Bart and Cassie couldn’t speak at all. 

They decided to play charades. It was awkward and hard at first, but they all got really into it by the third round. They kept the categories simple since Kara wouldn’t know any movies. Fortunately, she seemed to feel a lot more comfortable and talked a lot more, even if it was mostly just to Danny. There were times she would make an effort to say things in english. It was really broken but they all made sure to appreciate it and tried her best to understand. 

“I’m hungry guys.” Cassie said after her turn to act out her word, plopping herself in her spot between Bart and Kon. 

“Me too.” Bart agreed mournfully. 

“You’re always hungry.” 

“Should we order Pizza?” Tim asked, pulling out his phone. 

“I want pineapples on mine!” Bart said.

“Ew. No.” Cass kicked him. “I’ll have my usual.” She told Tim.

“Like mushrooms and olives are any better.” Kon snickered. 

“It’s better than pineapples.” 

Kara looked between them curiously. 

“Danny, ask Kara what she wants.” Tim instructed. 

After hearing them talk for the last hour Tim had finally been able to pick on some of the words but the grammar of it still eluded him. 

“ Everyone, something, something, food. ” Danny said.

Kara looked intrigued, “ What, something, eating, something. ” 

“ Something, something, like, something. ” He paused thoughtfully, making a circle in the air presumably to explain what a pizza was. “Something… ” Then, he pulled Tim’s phone to face them and pointed to the picture of a pizza on the website. “ This .”

Kara looked hesitant, “ ...Some…thing? ” 

Danny nodded encouragingly, “Something. Something, good.” He said. 

Glancing back at the picture, Tim could see on her face that she’d made a decision but she didn’t say anything. “Okay.” She said in english with a nod. “Have.”

“Great!” Finishing it up, “Kon, Bart.” Tim signaled. 

“Ugh. Why do we have to get it every time?” Kon complained, throwing a pillow at Tim. 

“I’m not going because I was the one that paid for it.” 

“I’m not going ‘casue I don’t want to.” Cassie said, kicking her foot onto the coffee table. 

“But you were the one who said you wanted food.” Kon complained, already standing up. 

“I could go.” Danny offered.

“You're funny. Absolutely not.” Tim shut down. 

Kara looked at Danny curious, “ Saying, something, what? ” 

“ Something, food, something, go. ” 

In english, “...Kitch...en?” She pointed in the direction of it and spoke in Standard Kryptonian, “ Is it not there? ” 

“ No. ” Tim shook his head, “ The store cooks it and we just have to give them money and take it from them .” He was careful not to throw in phrases she didn’t know.

Kara looked confused by the concept but accepted it. 

“Wait until she finds out about Drive-Thrus.” Danny joked to Tim. 

“I’m going to go check on the left-overs.” Cassie said heading to the kitchen.

Tim checked everyone's location on his phone. Danny’s was offline for obvious reasons, fortunately no one had freaked out about it yet. But he couldn’t be too sure. “I’m going to check on our smoke screen in the mission room.” Tim told Danny, “You’ll be okay here with her?” 

“What if we get abducted by non-friendly aliens in the five minutes you’ll be gone?” Danny’s tone was serious but his face was mischief. 

“I hope you do.” Tim scoffed, walking out.

---

“It’s just one slice, Red.” Danny tried to reach over his shoulder 

“No.” Tim blocked his food with his body, “You have your own.” 

“I just want to try!” 

“No! Eat yours.” 

“You let Kara have some!”

“That’s because I like Kara and I don’t like you.” 

“But yours looks so much more better than mine.” Danny whined, still reaching. 

“Lesson for next time then.” 

“C’mon, you’re not even going to finish it.”

Everyone watched them like a sitcom while they got to enjoy their food without meddling siblings. “I will. Just so you can’t have any.” Tim shoved as much of the slice in his mouth as he physically could. He was actually already full. 

“You're the worst.” Danny said, shoving Tim. 

“And you're worse.” Tim countered, pushing him back. 

Tim hadn’t pushed Danny very hard. Danny probably took harder hits during hockey practice. Tim had pushed him just hard enough that it forced Danny to take a step back to balance himself. Which was when he’d stepped on a wrapper Bart had left on the floor. Danny lost his balance and fell. But not before hitting his head hard on the metal fridge door behind him. 

Cassie gasped in shock. Kon and Bart rushed over to check on him. Kara watched wide-eyed, not sure what to do. 

Tim quickly stepped forward, “Hey, are you-” Next thing he knows there's a whole tube of ranch being squirted on his costume. His freshly washed costume. 

Danny watches Tim’s face morph from concern to absolute disgust with a deep satisfaction and cackles like the villain he is.

“You are such an asshole.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Danny’s on his feet and Tim chased him with a packet of garlic sauce that came with the pizza. 

Apparently feeling left out, Bart decided to dump his glass of juice all over Kon’s head. 

“Dude.” Kon shouts, but he’s quick to retaliate.

“Missed me.” Bart teases using the speed force to dodge. 

Cassie and Kara, the only civilized people here, sit and eat their pizzas at the island watching them. 

“They’re so dumb.” Cassie says to Kara, exasperated. 

Kara smiles following the action with her eyes. “ How fun .” She replies and they share a laugh even without understanding each other. 

snipbit from this fic

[honeyhotteoks]

₊ ⊹ ⟡ together; alternate version (정윤호 ♡ j.yh)

yunho's been away for tour, only this time, when he comes home you have very different news to share.

style: bullet drabble (alternative sequel to losing time) pairing: non idol!yunho x fem!reader word count: 2.5k tags/warnings: fluff, light angst, all things pregnancy and babies, light smut with breeding kink/preg kink (yunho is v happy she's pregnant essentially lmao) notes: this was fully inspired by an anon in my inbox who asked what would have happened in my short fic together if the news reader had to share was a pregnancy and how would yunho react to that. i don't take fic requests, but i love babyfic and this just turned into a little bullet and drabble fic i thought i would share with everyone.

[masterlist]

at the end of losing time, yunho leaves for tour and it’s a long one. a full two, two and a half months abroad in europe while you’re left at home in a different time zone missing him terribly. 

you find out the truth while he’s away, only a few weeks into tour when you start getting sick. it’s not something you can just spring on him while he’s on tour, it would distract him, it would stress him out, and frankly you just don’t know what to do. what decision to make. 

you know how you feel about yunho, and you knows how he feels about you….  but this type of news always changes everything. 

so you keep it to yourself, and you do your best to make it through. 

only when yunho does return.... you’re showing. it's not a lot, just the beginning stages of a curve at three months, but it's starting to be apparent if you’re wearing fitted clothing and it's not something you would be able to keep from him if he touched you. 

so when he comes home, finally, and texts you, asking if he can send a car to bring you to the studio, you want to say yes so badly but you can’t. 

this isn't a conversation you can have in front of anyone else so you say no. and you’re honestly terrified, so you lie, just a little white lie. you tell him you can't come and that you’re not feeling well, you’ll see him another day soon.

anxiety is fully eating you up and you’re spiraling, and you don’t know it but your texts fully freaked yunho out. he's convinced that you’re going to break up with him and waited until after tour to do it, and he's sick about it.

after dance practice, he sneaks out and comes to your place.

all of a sudden hes there, he’s knocking on your door. 

you thought you had more time, you still don’t know how to tell him, what to say- but he’s there 

and -

You're a mess. Your hair is tangled from running your fingers through it again and again, and you're pretty sure this sweatshirt has a coffee stain on it, but he's here and no matter what you have to face this.

He knocks again, a soft rap on the door, "y/n, please let me in,"

"Just a second," You call back, knotting your hair back into a bun and kicking on your slippers. Your stomach rolls with nervousness, but at least, you think, it's not morning sickness.

When you finally pull open the door your hands are trembling, and Yunho's pained expression doesn't help.

"Hey," You manage.

"Hi," His eyes dart over you, a crease of concern between his brows, "can I come in?"

You move to let him in immediately, stepping back into the apartment, "Sorry, of course,"

When you shut the door tight and flip the lock, silence fills the space, but somewhere within you, you find the strength to turn around and look up at him.

He shifts from foot to foot, clearly off balance at the strange discomfort between you, and finally he sighs, "Whatever it is," he says, "I know we can work it out."

A strike of panic lances up your spine at the thought he might already know what words are sitting like lead on your tongue, but all you can manage is a soft, "What?"

"You're avoiding me," His hands flex and release, "we haven't seen each other in months, and now I'm here, and you haven't even smiled. I don't think you're sick, I think something's wrong."

"Yunho," Your voice cracks, and you can feel tears threatening your eyes already. You wanted to hold it together, but this is already too hard.

He swallows tightly and keeps talking, his own voice laced with nerves, "I know two months was a long time, and I know I haven't been the best boyfriend, I should have called more, made more time for us, but, y/n," he takes a tentative step towards you, "I love you, and I really don't want to give up on us, please, don't,"

Things slot into place at his words and you shake your head, "Who said anything about giving up on us?"

The words hang for a moment, and then he softly exhales, "You're not breaking up with me?"

"No!" Your voice squeaks as you rush to dispel that idea, "No, oh my god, not at all,"

He grins, covering his face with his broad hands and sighing, "Jesus Christ," he sighs, "I was going out of my mind,"

"No," You shake your head again, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you like that."

He drops his hands and you can see the tension leave his tight shoulders, "Thank god," he smiles and steps towards you.

Panic bubbles back up inside you and you raise your hand to stop him, stepping back until your hips bump into the back of the couch, "Wait,"

His expression crumbles, "What's going on?"

You just have to say it.

"Um," Your stomach flips, "I do have some news."

"News," He repeats numbly.

"Yeah," You start to cross your arms over your chest but the realization that it would pull the fabric of the sweatshirt closer to you rockets through your brain and you drop your arms helplessly by your side. You have no idea how to tell him this.

"You can tell me anything," He says softly, reading your panic in a moment, "and you know, there's nothing we can't handle together."

"Yunho," Tears start to gather, making your eyes glassy, "I don't know how to tell you this,"

"I'm here,"

The panicked, terrified, anxious part of your brain scoffs, for now. You look away from him immediately, eyes glued to the floor. If this is how you lose him, then you guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

You take a steadying breath and jump, "I have something to tell you," you knot your fingers together, "and I didn't know how to tell you while you were away. I was afraid of distracting you or trying to figure this out while you weren't, you know, here,"

"Okay," He murmurs, taking a slow step in your direction, "I'm here,"

"A week after you left," You press your eyes closed tight, tears tracking down your cheeks, "I missed my period,"

He's silent. Your stomach churns again, but you keep going, "For a little bit I just thought it was stress, or something funny, I'm not always on schedule, but, then I started getting sick," With your eyes closed and with him so quiet, you can almost pretend you're practicing this speech, one of the many times you talked it through in the shower, lying in bed, pacing laps around your apartment. "I'm so sorry," Your voice cracks, "I'm pregnant," You can't bring yourself to open your eyes. "I know I should have told you," Tears rush forward a little faster now and you take a hitched breath, "and I know you don't want this, but you deserve to know, and I... I don't, Yunho, I don't know what to do, I don't know what I'm s-supposed to do, and," Yunho steps forwards all at once, his hands cupping your cheeks and drawing your face upwards, "Hey, hey," he soothes, voice tender, "look at me," Your eyes finally open, meeting his gaze. You expect to find him terrified, any twenty-something guy with a delicate career would be, but all you find in his eyes is soft comfort. There's no trace of the idol in him, just your lover, your best friend. "It's okay," He wipes away your tears gently, "sweetheart, breathe," "Why aren't you angry?" Tears rush faster, your breath tight. He smiles, "I'm upset you didn't think you could tell me," he dips forwards and presses a kiss to your forehead, "but y/n, I love you, this isn't... baby, this could never be bad news." "W-what?" "The timing's terrible," He admits, "and I also have no idea what we're supposed to do, but I don't care. I love you, we'll figure this out." Of all the reactions you expected from him, this hadn't even crossed your mind. When he leans back from you a little to study your tear stained face again, he smiles, and it feels like everything about your life is about to change. Slowly, you pull his hands away from your face and take a steadying breath, "Yunho," you manage, "you're an idol, and besides, we're twenty-six, we're not even married, we're not, what the hell are we going to do with a baby," He slides his hands over yours and brings them together, lifting them so he can press his lips to the back of your knuckles, "We'll do what people do, we'll make it work." You shake your head, feeling fully unmoored, but he keeps going. "I knew you were it for me on the second date," He says and the world slows to a stop, "the only thing in the world I'm terrified of is losing you, but this? y/n, I'm in love with you. Did you think I haven't imagined what our lives would be like?" "I," You can't find the right words, but you try, "I love you," His smile widens, and he moves quickly, tugging you forwards and wrapping his arms around you properly. He's much taller, and he has to lean over you, but he wraps one arm smoothly around your lower back and your hands settle on his shoulders. He pulls you up in one smooth motion, his free hand slipping under your thighs as you wrap them around his waist to hold you tight against him. He kisses your lips, tender relief in every press of his mouth on yours and he nuzzles your nose with his, "I missed you," he breathes. "I missed you too," You confess, your body finally relaxing and melting into him, weeks and weeks of tension bleeding out of your body, "so much," He hugs you close, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you bury your face into his neck, and then he freezes, "Oh my god," his hand slides over your back, landing on your waist, "you really are pregnant," You know he can feel it, the change in your body when you're pressed flush against him like this, and you nod into his neck. "H-how," His hand pushes under your sweatshirt, searching your skin, "baby, how far?" "Fourteen weeks," He sucks in a breath, dropping you gingerly back to your feet, "I can't believe you didn't tell me," For a split second you think you're finally getting the anger you anticipated, but the giddy expression on his face says otherwise.

"I've missed so much," He snakes a hand under your hoodie, and lays his palm over your slightly distended belly, "I'm... god, I can't believe this," "You're not upset?" You check softly. "No," He shakes his head, and then he tugs gently at your sweatshirt, "No, but, can you take this off, can I see?" You're nervous again, but his easy energy wraps around you like a safety blanket and you nod, swallowing back any fears and pulling off the sweatshirt, leaving you in nothing but your sweat pants, and a tight tank top. His eyes zero in on the bump immediately, and the sliver of skin between your sweats and the hemline of your top. Your hands rest over your belly, a nervous, protective instinct, "I know," He blinks hard, tearing his eyes away from your changing body and up to your face. "What?" You ask, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. "You're really pregnant," He says, his voice a little rough, and then he reaches again until his hand slides over the smooth plane of your stomach, tracing the curve, "that's my baby," "Yeah," You breathe softly. 

Tears track down his face and he laughs, reaching for you again, up into his arms and nestled against him. 

From there?

He’s kissing you and he just can’t stop. 

You’re a mess from stress and tears, and hardly feel sexy, but he doesn’t care. He’s missed you, he loves you so much and this news is unexpected and terrifying but he’s so happy he doesn’t care

So holding you in his arms still, he takes you to bed

And you’re apologetic about the mess, your bed stand is covered with water bottles and anti-nausea medication and it hits him all at once how you’ve just been holding it together by a thread 

And he pulls you into the bed - “You’ve been sick, this hasn’t been easy, has it? I could have been there for you, I wish I had been there,” 

But you assure him that you’re mostly on the other side of it, you’re only sick like once in a while now not every second of every day 

And he’s like….. we are talking about that later, but right now how are you feeling? 

And you’re good…. but god, you missed him and now you’re just so relieved

So he begs you to let him take care of you now, he’s home, he can carry that weight if you’ll let him

And teary tender kissing in bed leaves his hands wandering, noticing how much is different, losing his mind over your bump and the new fullness of your breasts

And he’s hard and you’re touch starved 

And then he’s just losing it a little - kissing your body, telling you how much he loves every inch of you, how insane it makes him that he did this to you, how you made something together

And all the tenderness to dirty talk sends your brain into overdrive. 

It’s all just desperate needy, thank god we didn’t break up i can’t believe i got you pregnant sex

Worshipping oral, lots of body kissing and feral groaning from Yunho

His absolute insanity at being inside you like this - and you’re tighter, wetter, and needier than ever, and he’s just feral for it

“You’ll be the prettiest mommy, won’t you?” 

Just heaps of breeding and preg dirty talk

“God, I hope you want a lot of kids,” 

“You look so good like this, I’ll have to knock you up again,” 

“So pretty with my baby inside you,” 

And when you’re done, you fall asleep instantly. you’ve been sleeping so much more all of a sudden, and you suppose your body needs it, but it feels like you’re finally resting for the first time in weeks

When you wake, your apartment is clean, he got take out (but he’s googling best soups for morning sickness and texting Wooyoung cooking questions), and he’s making a list of everything you’ll need. He’s already making a plan of what you’re going to do. 

So even though the tour was terrifying, he’s home, he’s got you. You’re together on this, always.

[1shirt2shirtredshirtdeadshirt]

Sexism in TOS: Worst Offender, or Progressive in Retrospect in Comparison?

I see a lot of folks claim that TOS was the most sexist of the Star Trek shows by a landslide -- and while I agree that it definitely suffered from the sexism of the times, I also have other perspectives to share to give some food for thought.

I am of course not insinuating that TOS isn't sexist -- it is, but I have to ask folks to consider the breadth and depth of Berman's sexism in his run and ask yourself: Was Gene Roddenberry genuinely more sexist in his storytelling and delivery than Rick Berman?

I'm not telling you to feel one way or the other, but all I ask is that you hear me out and consider some perspectives and make your own balanced assessments. Nobody is obligated to share my opinion, but it means a lot just to have folks hear it and see their thoughts on the subject. So here is what I was originally responding to:

Someone's response to this photo:

"Devil's advocate. This was a part of the popular form of cardio during the production time of TNG. Yes, it was heavily sexualised by men, but so is literally every other way women work out. Men have been caught taking pictures of women while trying to do dead lifts, running on tracks and working on sled machines. They post them online to share too. The fact is, there is no way a woman can be shown working out without it going there. And yeah,t hat includes the combat forms of workout they do in Star Trek. Just look at how Dax dresses when she spars with Worf. Yes, they're dating, but still, same goes when 7 does and any other female.

Aerobics routines like this were made dirty and cringy. This was what women wore then by and large. This is how the workout was done. We make it cringy."

My response to them:

"I respect your take, but I disagree on a few fronts.

The miniskirt was chosen by the TOS female cast, not the male cast, specifically requested by Grace LW and affirmed by Nichelle and Majel who would go on to vehemently defend the miniskirt over the years as comfortable and embraced by them.

Grace said it was comfortable and seen as a symbol of female sexual empowerment during the 60s and thought it would be a progressive garment (and turns out that it was, as it was later adapted and worn by male crew as a skant on TNG) -- FYI those were designed by a gay man and Gene approved them.

This was also supposed to be Spock's TMP outfit:

Literally lingerie.

We saw both Uhura (who saves Kirk in from Marlena Mirror Mirror) and Yeoman Landon (the first to initiate combat with a classic Kirk-esque kick to help the Captain being attacked in The Apple) carry out their combat training in their Starfleet uniforms without ever being made to change into any ridiculous workout gear.

In fact, I'd argue Jim Kirk was sexualized even more than the ladies of the week on the show and I saw his naked body more than anyone else's on a fairly regular basis. He wore red yoga tights while topless in Charlie X while the women wore full length gymnastic suits that covered their entire body. If anything, it went out of its way to avoid sexualizing women practicing fitness in those scenes and instead focused on Kirk.

Gene confessed that he asked to have Shatner filmed in suggestive/provocative ways to "give something to the ladies", so he -- as he said -- liked to "film him walking away" or have him conveniently busting out of his shirts in just about every episode as it were, because Shatner apparently had great assets. LOL

Gene made an effort to at least sexualize both if he was going to sexualize one, and he carried that attitude forward in wanting the m/m and f/f scenes in the background on Risa for TNG. He also insisted that the men and women wear skimpy outfits on THAT TNG planet. You know the one. LOL I mean the dudes even had on less than the women:

Gene also gave permission to K/S shippers to have their conventions back in the 70s when he was asked for permission. Gene and Nimoy felt with all the skimpy outfits they had the ladies wear, why not let the ladies and gay men have their fun, too? It's how we ended up with moments like this:

Yes, those are two people dressed up as Kirk and Spock's penises doing interpretive dance. Gene didn't give two damns. LOL

In my eyes, that was a very progressive take on Gene's part for the 60s. It was actually PARAMOUNT STUDIOS who had the big problem with K/S stories and vehemently tried to shut them down. Gene literally hired slash authors on his payroll and even had several slash stories/writers published in his official Star Trek books (The New Voyages & The New Voyages II).

I feel I saw Uhura and women in TOS engaged in more physical combat/altercations defending themselves that Troi or Bev were shown holding their own.

In fact, Kirk used to get furious when someone would "dress up" his female crew members without their consent (Trelane episode, Shore Leave episode) because like his male crew members, he wanted them to be treated professionally and to also have his male crew act professionally.

Berman brought some of his own personal biases into Star Trek that in some ways regressed it. While TOS had blatant sexism and was called on it time and again, that show was made in the 60s -- a solid 21 years before TNG. We as a modern audience understood why some of it was cringe/sexist due to the time period -- look at any other media coming out in the 60s and Star Trek was miles ahead of what other shows were doing.

Compare that to Berman who was churning sexist stuff out when women like Starbuck and Scully were simultaneously on screen on other programs airing, and we had already had Sigourney Weaver and other strong women in Holywood playing respectful roles.

In my eyes, there was no need of the sexism seen in TNG but especially VOY and ENT. There was no excuse for it when other shows were writing women far better and a number of those weren't even set in the future like Trek was, making it age even faster due to having those dated perspectives frequently highlighted.

In the Center Seat documentary as well as "The Fifty Year Mission" book you will find cast members, writers and other studio alumni who attest to this. Some discussions from "The Fifty Year Mission":

"First, Berman was supposed to have been a real sleaze ball . . . According to Terry Farrel, he would go on constantly about how her breasts weren't big enough, how she should do something about it, and how his secretary was a good example to follow as she had huge breasts. She even had to have fittings to get larger bras, and that was all done at his behest.

Later Berman and Braga developed a name for Jeri Ryan's character prior Seven of Nine. They originally called the character "perineum" which if you look it up it is the area between the anus and the scrotum. Later they floated the name "6 of 9". I mean, what does it tell you about where these two were coming from in the development of this character if they had names like that put forward in all seriousness for her?"

Gene Roddenberry also had some of his own more progressive ideas for TNG cut or watered down by Berman. Roddenberry agreed TNG should have homosexual relationships and representation at a con in the 80s and insisted on it in a meeting with his writers -- something Berman later would not honor. Gene wanted the AIDS episode, showing m/m and f/f in the Riza scenes -- these were some of Roddenberry's requests to include in TNG that Berman later stonewalled.

Berman's era was sadly dated by his own misogynist bias, IMO, to the point that it can somewhat hurt the shows he worked on through his cringe egoism and blatant disrespect toward his female cast.

There is a reason why Gene could keep female actresses working with him and Berman had a revolving door of women that he couldn't seem to keep working for him -- he was abhorrent to women, on and off set. Gene wasn't perfect at all, he had a lot of issues himself -- but Berman was a whole other level. Just look at what he did to poor Jolene Blalock, Marina Sirtis and his toxic commenting on her body weight which exacerbated her struggles with eating disorders, or how he treated and talked to Terry Farrell.

Anyway, just some food for thought. I'm not saying anyone is wrong regarding a take like that, but there are a variety of ways to look at this. Gene Roddenberry isn't a saint by any means, but it definitely bothers me how folks will tote the Berman era as if it were the lesser of two evils or the more progressive depiction of women when I felt there were far more concerning portrayals of women in his era with far less justification.

(P.S: I don't event want to go near the sheer amount of "creepy old dude/villain preys on innocent/naïve/scared young woman or little girl" stories there were in Berman's era, either. But that's a whole other can of worms I can write about in a part 2.)

[littlelovelunette]

Bossy Bitch

Contains smut, oral, mentions of fingering

It was you and Jinx hanging out in the hideout, playing tea parties with Isha from time to time and going back to trash talking people.

“Sheesh.” Jinx leaned back against the broken mirror. “Had I known—”

She was cut off by some dark-skinned tall woman who opened the door and paused at the sight of you.

Jinx reached over and toned down the music.

She's never seen you.

Oh, right, you knew her. She was Sevika. Silco's right hand man when he was still alive and now she was apparently stuck cleaning up behind his messes.

“Yo.” You briefly greeted, eyes surveying her from head to toe.

Sevika didn't know why your gaze over her made her feel so small and vulnerable. Usually, people didn't even dare look in her general direction and there you were checking her out so bluntly and so shamelessly.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Jinx cut the both of you out from the slowly building depraved thoughts and the unspoken sexual tension.

“The hell’s this?” Sevika put her hand on her hip. Her gaze flicks between you and Jinx.

“You should know better than to bring anyone in here—”

Sevika began but then Jinx cut her out introducing you to her.

You'd been friends with Jinx since she was known as Powder and knew everything that's been going on.

You were morally quite grey and didn't really care for all the things Jinx did out of rage or other negative emotions. You knew her. You knew the child in her.

“Sevika? You're staring.” Jinx teased.

“Me? I'm not staring.” Sevika looked away, cheeks flushing a little in the dimmed light of the room.

Isha chimed in, “Then do you have makeup on? Your cheeks are so redddd!”

“Oh to heck with you all.” Sevika turned around and left the room, stomping off making you and Jinx giggle.

“Looks like she wants to get laid badly.” Jinx looked at you and wriggled her eyebrows.

“You won't think it's weird if I did… do her. Would you?” You asked, scratching the back of your head and pocketing your hands.

“Nah, I don't give a damn about that. But… Careful, she looks like a masochistic submissive to me.” Jinx laughed heartily, looking down at Isha’s confused face before quickly adding, “Maybe Sevika wants to get laid is all, go! Go!”

And with that, Jinx practically threw you out of her room and you could hear the blasting loud music starting back up in her room.

You sighed.

As you walked aimlessly around the hideout, you finally came across the now deceased Silco's office and peeked inside.

Sure enough, there Sevika was, doing something. It looked like she was trying to fix her mechanical arm.

That looked tough as hell given she only did have one hand to work with right then. “Want me to give you a hand?” You teased as you stepped inside.

“Oh, please, I can do it on my own.” Sevika started but then you walked up to her and took the screwdriver from her. Sevika watched as you helped her fix the gears of the detached metal arm with ease.

“You're good with this.” Sevika begrudgingly admitted, voice calculated and low.

“Y'know what else I'm good at with my hands?”

“What?”

You gave her a look making Sevika blush and look away quickly. “You should stop it with the dirty talk.”

“Why? Does it turn you on?” You smirked at her, leaning against the table with a little smirk.

“You've never submitted to someone, have you?” You crossed your arms and looked down at Sevika who was seated in the chair.

She looked up at you and shook her head, the gesture subtle but didn't go unnoticed.

“Let me be your first.” You whispered making Sevika shiver a little, your hands came down and rested on her muscular thighs.

Your grip was strong and not feather light like the girls at the brothel who were too scared of touching her inappropriately, even though the latter was already indulging in very inappropriate activities.

Sevika's breath hitched in her throat as she felt your mouth hover over her clothed heat, you could smell the arousal building in the crotch of her boxers underneath. It was a given, she wanted you. She needed you.

“May I?” You looked up, eyes gentle and Sevika nodded giving you her consent. Your grabbed the waistband of her pants and shorts underneath and pulled them down, both at once.

As Sevika settled her naked ass on the chair, the thought crossed her head that she was about to have sex in the office room. It felt taboo, but exciting.

You held her thighs open with both hands and took in the scent of her sex, probably never dominated before.

“You're beautiful.” You muttered before you let your tongue press flat against her swollen clit eliciting a small moan from Sevika.

Sevika quickly bit down on her lower lip.

She whimpered and let her head hang back as you sucked on her cunt like a starved woman.

Sevika's hand came down to hold your head in place as she tried to contain her moans.

Your tongue felt too good against her pussy and she couldn't deny it no matter how much she wanted to for the sake of her unshakeable ego.

Her eyes rolled back, the white parts only visible as sinful profanities left her mouth in a hushed whisper.

If anyone saw her like this, she'd rather die than face them ever again. Sevika never felt so vulnerable in her entire life and suddenly, it felt too good. Way too good. She wasn't supposed to let her guard down like that but there was only so much she could do because of the overwhelming pleasure.

Her mind was filling with foggy disgusting and absolutely filthy thoughts of you using her, tying her up and just ruining both her holes as she is forced to take whatever you gave her because she's just so helpless, at your mercy.

“Fuck, if you keep doing that—” Sevika started and just then you sucked even harder on her cunt than before, making her hips buck off the chair, grinding against your face, hand forcing your mouth deeper against her pussy.

Sevika came on your tongue and you gladly licked up her juices and discharge. “You're cute, ‘Vika.”

Eventually, you let Sevika come down from her high and helped her dress up. She was still so flushed from the entire act, and refused to look you in the eye.

By the time it was evening, you had help her fix the mechanical arm pretty much all the way, another few hours of work would be enough to ensure that she could use it properly again.

“Thanks.” Sevika said, voice low and grumbled as she checked the metal arm, turning it over in her flesh hand.

“Sure. I gotta get going though, thanks for the… meal.” You winked and walked out of the office with a smirk on your face.

Sevika was left being reminded of her shameless state, making your face grind against her cunt so desperately for her own release— she could feel the crotch of her shorts dampen again, fingers itching to just sink in and moan your name.

And she did.

[kingdom-of-peace]

Spotlight. pt.2| N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female! Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), cult mentions, language

Word Count: 6.5k+

A/N: Omg, thank you so much — I didn’t think this would be so well received! If you spot any grammar mistakes, feel free to let me know! FYI english isn't my first language.

You arrived at the university just before seven, coffee in hand, your scarf still dusted with the remnants of the city’s unpredictable weather, although in passing you had heard that the weekend would be sunny. The sandstone building loomed, as familiar and impersonal as always, but there was a certain comfort in its old bones—the worn edges of its stairwells and the quiet hum of thought that seemed to linger in its hallways. Maybe, had you gotten a more restful sleep the night before, you would have appreciated the stillness of the building. But instead, you'd spent hours at your dining table the pervious evening, preparing for today’s lecture, only to fall asleep in the unforgiving chair. You’d only been roused when the stabbing pain in your back sent sharp signals to your brain, warning you that if you didn’t move soon, you'd be crawling into work in the morning. You really hated that weekend lectures were a thing nowadays.

As you fumbled with your keys, trying to find the right one for your office lock, you heard footsteps rounding the corner, followed by Darcy's voice calling out to you with a grin. She jogged over, laptop tucked under one arm, her hair only slightly wind tousled. 

“Professor Hot Take, fancy seeing you here in the flesh,” she said. “Good morning to you too. And what’s that supposed to mean?” you replied, sarcastically. Darcy rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with playful disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You haven’t seen?”. “Seen what? I’ve been going over my presentation for today all night.” you stated, still distracted by the lock. “Only a chronically offline person like you could miss it. You’re auditorium lecture from Thursday is all over the internet.” Darcy replied while leaning against the wall beside you, watching you finally fitting the correct key into the lock.

“The public’s calling it ‘the lecture of the century.” She continued, while you invited her in with a snort. “Ha, very funny. The auditorium was practically half-empty. And of the people who stayed, half were students sent there by Vision to write a graded essay on the topic, full-well knowing it would be recorded. He made it a requirement, just to support me for my first public lecture here. Looking at all those sleep-deprived faces made it painfully easy to assume no one cared to actually listen.”

“Well, I was there on Thursday, and like you know, I thought your talk was brilliant. Apparently, so does half the nation,” Darcy said as she began clearing a pile of books from the couch in your office, dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor before sitting down. You really needed to start organizing things, you thought, watching her struggle to carve out enough space to sit. At the moment, your office looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. But then again, after your abrupt appointment to a professorship last semester, you had barely found the time to adjust. You’d thought you knew the university inside and out but actually holding a secure teaching position was an entirely different story.

Darcy’s last remark yanked you out of your spiral. “Half the nation?” you deadpanned. She gave a nonchalant shrug, clearly far too pleased with herself. “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating but it turns out one of the students actually paid attention. They put together a short video compilation of your lecture and uploaded it. From there, it sort of... spiralled. Nothing huge, but it was trending for a few hours yesterday.”. You blinked. “Trending?”. Darcy nodded, clearly enjoying your disbelief. “Yeah, people were talking about it—quotes, commentary, a few armchair essays. Sure, there were some superficial takes on your delivery or how ‘stern academia looks cool again,’ but overall? Some genuinely clever insights. Thoughtful discussion, even.”

She paused for effect, smirking. “Though I’m sure it didn’t hurt that you used The Hour’s host as a prime example. I swear, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have the hots for Natasha Romanoff. And online? That gets dialled up to hundred.” You rolled your eyes, already regretting your rhetorical choices but also a slight worry settled in you that maybe it had not been a good idea to single out the news anchor like that.

You had used her because, quite frankly, everyone knew her. Billboards of her face and show were plastered across the city like a second skyline. She was the easiest, most visible example of everything you were critiquing. The redhead had practically presented herself on a silver platter to you. But of course, you were just an up-and-coming academic—a newly appointed professor, still carving out space in the university ecosystem. She probably didn’t even know about your lecture. And even if she did, she’d likely dismissed it without a second thought, laughing at your age and inexperience the way so many before her had.

“Well, I’m glad at least one student cared enough about the state of our modern media landscape,” you said with a tired smile. “It was probably just a one-time fluke. People will forget about it by next week. And, for the record—I don’t find her hot.” Darcy barked out a laugh, flopping back against the armrest, a few books threatening to fall over. “Liar. I’ve only known you for a little less than a year, but even I can tell—she’s totally your type. Athletic, mature, intelligent… I mean, come on. To this day, I’m surprised she’s still single. If you can believe what the gossip magazines are printing.”

You let her ramble, referring from making fun of her for reading those pretentious gossip articles. Once Darcy hyper-focused on a topic, she could go on for hours. You tuned her out gently—not unkindly—because the last thing she needed to know was that she was absolutely right. Natasha Romanoff was, regrettably, very much your type. But that wasn’t the point. To you, she represented everything wrong with the media landscape: curated personas, manipulated narratives, the illusion of authenticity projected through high-definition screens. You might find her attractive, sure, but that didn’t erase the fact that she stood for a system of influence you fundamentally distrusted.

“Anyway,” Darcy said, pulling you back to the present, “you know you’ve got that panel discussion tonight, right? I’ll probably come with you but no promises. I still have to finish grading those papers.”. “You’ve already had a deadline? It’s barely mid-October. Your students must hate you.”. “Oh, they do. But not me they hate Banner. It’s his class and essay, not mine. I’m just stuck with the grunt work since he’s supervising my PhD.” She groaned, standing and brushing off her jeans. “I look forward to the day you both have the same academic title, and he can’t boss you around anymore. He even tried pulling rank on me once—and he’s not even in the media department.” You smiled, watching her gather her things.

“Well, don’t tell anyone yet,” the brunette added as she reached the door, lowering her voice, “but I spoke with the dean. He’s agreed to let me begin drafting my PhD thesis this semester. So maybe putting Professor Banner in his place isn’t as far off as we thought.”. “Congrats! And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Message me if you want to go to the panel together tonight.” You replied to hopeful that Darcy could pull it off.

She gave you a playful salute before disappearing down the hallway toward her shared office in the far wing—one of the temporary spaces cobbled together after a burst water pipe had flooded the computer science building last winter. Until repairs were finished, a handful of displaced researchers had been housed in your department’s extra offices. In a way, the chaos had worked in your favour. You liked your colleagues well enough, but most of them were significantly older, talking more about retirement plans than publication deadlines. They had families, routines, lives you hadn’t quite stepped into yet.

Darcy was only a year older, working on her doctorate in computer science after returning from a few years abroad teaching children programming through a humanitarian education initiative after graduating from university with her master’s degree. You’d only met her thanks to that burst pipe—and honestly, you were glad for the accident. Though half the time, you had no idea what she was talking about, especially when it came to anything related to her field of study, but she made everything here feel a little less isolating.

While sitting at your desk, getting ready for your first seminar of the day, your mind kept drifting back to what Darcy had said. She was probably exaggerating “viral” she most likely just meant the lecture had sparked a thread or two on the university's public forum. Still, you were curious. Maybe there were some thoughtful comments, even a bit of useful criticism you could use to refine the talk if you ever revisited the topic in the future. You turned on your computer, already dreading the inevitable flood of emails that greeted you each morning. Lately, it felt like they multiplied overnight. And sure enough, the moment you logged in, your inbox pinged with new messages.

But what caught you off guard was the sheer volume. In bold red letters at the top of the screen: 1.356 new emails.

You blinked.

You didn’t think you’d ever received that many emails in a whole month, regardless a day—not even close. And as you began to scroll, it became clear these weren’t just from students or university staff. A few addresses stood out immediately—news outlets, academic professionals from other universities and just random people. Hesitating only slightly, you clicked on a few promising ones and began to read.

The first email you opened was from a student—one you vaguely remembered seeing in the middle row on Thursday:

Subject: Thank you for the lecture 

Hi Professor, 

I just wanted to say how much I appreciated your talk the other day. It was the first time someone actually articulated the dissonance I’ve always felt watching the news, especially when it comes to public image versus actual reporting. It helped me reframe how I approach media critique in my own research paper.

 Kind regards, 

Michelle Jones

You smiled. That alone might’ve been worth it.

The next email, however, took a sharp and unsettling turn. It came from a fringe news outlet you’d never heard of their logo a chaotic mix of all-caps slogans and shadowy graphics. The tone immediately set off alarm bells. Instead of engaging with the nuanced critique you had offered in your lecture, the message launched into a bizarre tirade against Natasha Romanoff. Not only did it ignore your actual arguments—it went so far as to accuse her of being part of a secret cult allegedly seeking immortality through occult rituals. You felt a tightness in your chest. This wasn’t criticism. It was delusion, cloaked in the language of dissent. And worse still, your words had apparently given them more ammunition—not to analyze media structures critically, but to reinforce their own conspiratorial fantasies.

A wave of guilt washed over you. That had never been your intention. You hadn’t meant to vilify Natasha Romanoff personally—only to question the media dynamics she, willingly or not, had come to symbolize. But judging by the next few emails, you weren’t the only one being taken out of context. Several congratulated you specifically for “finally taking her down,” painting her as emblematic of everything wrong with public media.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. Perhaps you should’ve framed the critique differently—less anchored to a single figure. Maybe you should have cited several anchors, even ones you considered far more problematic. You hadn’t chosen the topic for your lecture to provoke anyone. Not really. The criticism had been sitting in the back of your head for years—accumulated slowly, not from outrage, but from exhaustion. Watching news programs blur into branded personalities, debates reduced to soundbites, tragedy wrapped in sleek graphics.

You remembered late nights during your master’s, sitting with a mug of cheap tea, watching segments not for content, but for structure. Timing. Tone. The way a camera angle could turn opinion into something that felt like fact. It wasn’t about one person. It was about all of it. And yet, now that it had a face—her face—you weren’t sure if the argument could remain purely structural.

Thankfully, the fourth email brought a welcome change of tone. It was from someone working with an NGO focused on media literacy in underserved communities. The person was interested in incorporating your analysis into a training module for younger audiences and new educators. You immediately drafted a short, polite reply, expressing interest and requesting more information. It wasn’t all noise. At least some people were listening with the right intentions. The final email before you quickly exited the mail tab read:

Subject: The one

Hi, 

I don’t even go to your school, but someone posted the clip on online. Just wanted to say: hottest professor energy I’ve ever seen. Please tell me you’re single.

— Anonymous admirer 💌

You stared at that one for a couple of seconds, then immediately hit delete.

Still, you needed a moment to collect your thoughts. Apparently, it wasn’t just a couple of forum posts. Something had resonated, and that was a strange and humbling feeling. A quick search confirmed your suspicions—your name now appeared in multiple headlines, often in tandem with the ginger woman. Some articles offered praise, others criticism, their tone ranging from thoughtful engagement to blatant sensationalism. Maybe Darcy hadn’t been exaggerating after all. You could only hope that this unexpected attention wouldn’t carry unforeseen consequences.

---

On the other side of town the first light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, slicing across the polished wooden floors of Natasha’s apartment. She was already awake. Sleep had not been a reliable companion for some time now—something she had long come to accept.

By 6:00 a.m., she had finished her run—five miles through the quiet of the city’s pre-dawn streets, the air sharp against her skin, her breath steady and measured. She liked the silence. It kept her focused. Running, gave her a clarity no editorial meeting or studio debrief ever could. Back in her apartment, she worked through a set of circuits—push-ups, planks, shadowboxing—barefoot on the mat in her sunlit living room. The rhythm of it all was familiar. A discipline she had taught herself long before television studios, prime time shows and the expectations of millions. The kind of discipline that didn’t depend on whether the headlines liked her or not.

Liho, stretched luxuriously by the window in the morning sunlight, tail flicking in irritation when Natasha exhaled a little too sharply during her last round of burpees. “You’re welcome to join,” she muttered, towelling sweat from her neck as the cat narrowed his eyes at her before resuming his nap.

After a quick shower, she moved into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast filling the space as the machine hummed to life. Waiting for the coffee to brew, Natasha crouched down by the kitchen counter reaching for the familiar tin of cat food. Behind her, Liho let out a sharp meow—half impatient, half theatrical. “I know, I know,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You act like I forget every morning.” Liho trotted closer, tail flicking, and let out another insistent noise. “Yes, your suffering is very real,” she added dryly, scooping the food into his dish. “I was five seconds late. Call the press.” He immediately dove into the bowl, purring with self-satisfaction. “At least one of us gets what they want without a fight,” Natasha muttered, standing back up just as the coffee machine let out a final hiss.

With one hand she sipped from her mug; with the other, she scrolled through her inbox. She had received far more emails than usual overnight. Most were flagged by her assistant, but a few had slipped through the filters—some congratulatory, others speculative, and a handful vaguely threatening in the way that people with too much time and an internet connection could be. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But there were also mentions of the university lecture, snapping Natasha back to the very thoughts that had consumed her the night before. It was enough to sour Natasha’s mood for the rest of the morning— not even her sacred PB&J sandwich could redeem it.

After breakfast she dressed in her usual subdued layers: tailored black pants, a crisp charcoal blouse, soft makeup, hair in a loose braid. She never dressed to impress. She dressed to control the room before she even stepped inside it. By the time she left her building around midday, Liho was curled up again in his favourite spot by the radiator, and Natasha had already planned three responses to three different questions that might come her way on today’s editorial meeting.

She didn’t believe in being caught off guard.

Luckily during the car ride, she had already forgotten about the social media dilemma involving you. Entering the network building on a weekend felt like stepping into a mausoleum—quiet, cavernous, and absent of its usual pulse. The lobby was nearly empty, save for Charlie, the elderly security guard who had already been something of a relic when Natasha was just starting out. She greeted him with a familiar nod, a rare warmth softening her expression. He had been one of the reliable figures those early, unforgiving intern days—offering quiet comfort after her first professional humiliation, when a superior had reduced her to silent tears. Charlie never said much, but he’d slipped her those strange old-fashioned sweets only grandparents seemed to know existed. It was a small gesture, but one that had kept her from walking away after week one. And for that, she never forgot him.

When Natasha reached the newsroom floor, it felt just as quiet and lifeless as the entry hall. She made a beeline for the meeting room, where Maria, Pepper, and a few other familiar faces were already gathered. People who kept the gears of the operation turning behind the scenes.

The weekend was reserved for planning the following week's segments, as her show aired during the weekdays. Natasha entered the room, a few tired "good mornings" greeting her as she took her seat. “So, who wants to start?” Maria took charge, her voice cutting through the room with authority. Immediately, Thor, a muscular man and one of the senior technicians, launched into a passionate discussion about new gadgets that could be useful for Wednesday's show. Natasha didn’t pay much attention, her focus instead on her laptop as she typed away, trying to catch up on the flood of emails she hadn’t had time to respond to at home. She drifted in and out of the conversation, nodding occasionally when she found herself agreeing with a point.

Finally, the conversation shifted to the actual content of the show, and Natasha straightened up in her seat, her attention fully snapping into focus. Now, it was time to weigh in. “I think we should consider, trying to get an interview with the person replacing Senator Rumlow, maybe on Tuesday?”.  On it," Pepper replied, her attention already snapping back to her phone. Despite being Tony Stark’s personal assistant, she played a pivotal role in managing all the major programs. Natasha couldn’t help but think that Tony better be compensating her properly. Pepper Potts was indispensable. In her eyes, there wasn’t a person more reliable or capable in the network.

“And the segment for Wednesday needs to hit harder. We’ve been playing it safe lately, and honestly, the audience can tell. We need something fresh, something real. So why not send somebody over actually reporting on the ground about those protests in France.”.  "I could ask Loki or Bucky," Maria suggested, jotting down some notes. "I already know Loki will say no," Thor replied with a sigh. "Our sister Hela just bought a new house downtown, and we promised her we'd help with the move next week." Natasha often wondered how the three of them were still on speaking terms. If you believed the office gossip, their family history, especially the sibling dynamics, were filled with intrigue and backstabbing. But, as the saying goes, blood is thicker than water. Natasha, however, had never put much stock in that notion. "Then it's Bucky," Maria decided, tapping her pen thoughtfully. "His French is better anyway. Anything else? Or can my team go over the final script for Monday?".

The room fell into silence. “Alright, that’s it for today. See you all on Monday. Natasha, I will send you the final draft by tomorrow morning.” Maria announced, dismissing the team and getting an approving nod by the news-anchor. As Natasha stood up to leave, she was called back by Pepper. “Natasha, wait... I hope you didn’t forget about tonight’s panel discussion at the old theatre.”

Natasha let out a frustrated huff, recalling the event she had noticed in her calendar during the drive to the studio the previous day. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck there this evening. She was long overdue for a quiet weekend with Liho, curled up on the couch with a few old Hollywood classics. But the panel host was a renowned publishing house, where Natasha had published her second book last year— a book that had held the number one spot for months and, as per her contract, she still had to promote it the following year.

“Tonight’s panel is the last event on your promotion schedule, you’ll only have to got to their annual Christmas Party after that.” Pepper said with a sympathetic smile. Natasha let out a quiet sigh. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. Any idea who else is on the panel?” Pepper pulled out her phone, looking at her notes. “Let’s see… Carol Danvers is on the list—she’s wrote something about media portrayals of the military. Then there’s Steven Strange, the famous internet doctor. He’s apparently talking about social media and its impact on medical diagnosis.” Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a circus already.” Pepper laughed. “Wait, it gets better— our Wanda is on there too. She published some kind of modern guide to witchcraft. Although it also addresses the portrayal of witchcraft in the media. No idea where she comes up with this stuff, but it’s selling.” Natasha shook her head. “Of course it is.”

As one of the hosts of the network’s morning show, Wanda and Natasha often crossed paths in the early hours—just as Natasha was leaving and Wanda arriving. Despite the chaos of the network, and the constant shuffle of faces moving in and out of meetings, studios, and green rooms, Wanda had become something of a quiet constant in Natasha’s mornings. Their shifts occasionally overlapped just enough to form a rhythm of casual exchanges and unspoken camaraderie. It wasn’t unusual for Natasha to catch the scent of peppermint tea and hear Wanda humming some old folk tune just as she was packing up her things. There was comfort in it.

Wanda, in all her colourful scarves and slightly chaotic energy, always seemed to see right through the practiced edge Natasha wore like a second skin. They never talked long—ten minutes in the hallway, maybe fifteen in the makeup chair if timing allowed—but Natasha valued those moments more than she let on. Wanda never pushed, never pried, just offered easy conversation and a smile that made the end of a long night feel a little less heavy. She didn’t have many friends in the building. But she considered Wanda one of the few—or at least someone she could confide in, to some extent.

“There’s also someone new—they added another name last week. Some academic who just published their PhD through them. I haven’t looked them up yet, but I can if you’re curious,” Pepper offered waving her phone and pulling Natasha out of her trip down memory lane. “Don’t bother,” Natasha said, brushing it off. “Anything I need to prepare for?”. “Not really. Karen Page is moderating, and I’ll send Peter to film some clips for socials. Just try to look like you don’t want to escape five minutes in.”. “No promises,” Natasha muttered with a smirk. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Alright, see you on Monday. And Pepper—try not to live here over the weekend.” Pepper waved her off. “My home is where my phone is.”

—

You glanced at the time again and exhaled sharply. Still a few hours left until the panel. Part of you wished you could simply email in a cancellation—make up something vague about a personal emergency or a scheduling conflict. You’d never done anything like that before, but the idea wasn’t as unthinkable as it should’ve been.

You hadn’t expected anyone to care about your PhD thesis—it was never meant to ignite anything more than a few nods from graduate students and, if you were lucky, a polite citation in someone else’s paper. And yet, here you were, suddenly part of a public conversation about media, far outside the safe confines of academia.

Your gaze drifted to the file folder still sitting at the corner of your desk—the printout of your thesis proposal marked up by your supervisor, the final version that supported your Thursday lecture, the research that had consumed most of your adult life. You had always believed in the value of distance. Of analysis without personal entanglement. But maybe that wasn’t an option anymore in today’s world.

You didn’t even know who else would be on the panel. You hadn’t looked. That had been a deliberate choice—or an act of denial, depending on how generous you were willing to be with yourself. Still, you told yourself, it would be fine. Two hours. A handful of questions. An audience of people who would forget your name by next week. With a sigh, you gathered your belongings, preparing for your second seminar of the day.

A few hours later a sharp knock rattled your office door. You looked up from your screen, blinking in surprise. The person outside didn’t bother waiting for an answer—pushing open the door with the urgency of someone used to dragging academics away from their desks.

“Seriously?” she said, hands on hips. “We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago. I waited. Like an idiot. In heels.” You squinted at the clock in the corner of your screen. Shit. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed. “I lost track of time,” you muttered, standing up and hurriedly grabbing your coat from the back of your chair.

“Obviously. Come on, we’re late and not fashionably.” As you followed her down the hallway, your thoughts were already spiralling. You didn’t want to be doing this. A panel discussion on a weekend evening? These kinds of public-facing events were supposed to be for pop-scientists, TED talk types, the ones who made flashy graphs and dramatic pauses. Not people like you, who spent nights buried in literature reviews and fought imposter syndrome on a rotating basis. You didn’t know how to perform. You knew how to write. And there was a difference. The thought of sitting on that stage, surrounded by people who breathed publicity like air made your chest tighten. What if you said the wrong thing? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer? What if they laughed not out of amusement but condescension?

“I still don’t get why your publisher made you do this,” Darcy said, holding the door open for you as the two of you stepped out into the brisk evening air. “Like, since when is academic critique mainstream?”. You shrugged. “I guess it is, when it intersects with media. Everyone has an opinion on media, even if they’ve never read a single study about it.” Darcy gave you a sidelong glance. “Still. I hope they’re paying you. Or at least giving you some expensive alcohol.”

You didn’t reply. You were too busy calculating how long the panel would run, and whether anyone from the faculty would be there to judge your every sentence. And somewhere, beneath all that, you were still hoping—irrationally—that it would all go by fast. That you could say your piece, disappear quietly, and maybe even catch up on sleep after. But you understood how these events operated, once the discussion ended, it was customary, almost expected, to mingle with the audience and engage in polite small talk. You still hadn’t looked up the other panellists in your office—doing so would’ve only added to your anxiety in the final hours. But maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have ended up late, which somehow felt even worse.

To make up for lost time, you and Darcy made a valiant attempt spiriting toward the nearest underground station. Proving to be significantly harder for your companion, her heels transformed her stride into something resembling a deer taking its first steps. Breathless and slightly dishevelled, you managed to squeeze into a train just before the doors closed. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded for a Saturday evening. You caught sight of your reflection in the window and immediately tried to make yourself look remotely presentable—adjusting your hair, fixing your collar—the little things you had meant to do in the staff restroom, had time been on your side. As you mournfully remembered the change of clothes left behind, tucked away beneath your office desk.

During the short ride, the two of you exchanged updates about your day. Darcy, as usual, launched into a semi-dramatic retelling of her ongoing war with Professor Benner’s unreasonable workload. Halfway through, she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I may have told him I finished grading everything… I skipped a few just to be here for you tonight.” Her grin was sheepish, but sincere. In that moment, your irritation about running late softened. You really were lucky to have her.

Soon enough, you arrived at your stop: The Old Theatre. True to its name, the building had once stood at the very peak of the city’s cultural life nearly a century ago. You remembered coming across references to it in some research papers—how it had later served as the city’s first television studio, one of the early strongholds of a big national broadcasting network. If your memory served correctly, Howard Stark one of the city’s most well-known historical figures had been the visionary behind it. He bought the building when it faced foreclosure and later gifted it to the city, which to this day uses it as a kind of civic venue available for rent.

You and Darcy approached the side entrance at a brisk pace, having noticed the unusually long line forming at the main doors from a distance. Ticketing had already begun, and the crowd seemed larger than anticipated for an event so rooted in academic and media theory. The popularity of the discussion appeared to have outgrown its niche origins, you thought. Missing the crowd at the main entry doors, primarily consisting of younger and middle-aged women, many of them holding merchandise and printed photographs of a striking redhead, suggesting that the panel’s appeal extended far beyond academic interest and had drawn in a dedicated fanbase cantered around a particular media personality.

Inside, you were met by a woman whose name slipped from your memory almost as soon as she introduced herself. Her tone was curt, her posture rigid with barely concealed disapproval as she gave you a sharp look—first for your lateness, then for your choice of clothing, which her eyes seemed to assess like an item in need of return. She informed you, in a clipped voice, that the organizers had attempted to reach you multiple times. You offered an apology, explaining that your phone had been on silent—a habit born more of disinterest than oversight, as you rarely used it, even in your personal life. 

Without much pause, she added that there would be no opportunity to meet the panel moderator or introduce yourself to the other speakers. Time was short. You still needed to pass through hair and makeup before the event began in half an hour.

---

Natasha was seated in the guest lounge, the scent of setting spray still faint in the air. She had just finished with hair and makeup and was, for once, pleasantly surprised—the stylist had known exactly how to work with her features, accentuating rather than masking them, a rare positive occurrence.

Across from her sat Carol Danvers, a fellow network colleague she occasionally worked out with at the private gym in their building—Carol lived just a few floors below her. While their shared discipline fostered a kind of mutual respect, their conversations rarely extended beyond reps, sparring and workplace discussions. Carol’s interest didn’t exactly align with Natasha’s, adding to that both women seemed to be in different stages in life, Carol had just recently welcomed her first daughter with her wife, Maria Rambeau—a renowned photographer in the city.

Next to Carol was Dr. Stephen Strange, unmistakable even out of his clinical setting. Natasha had interviewed him once for a special segment on digital misinformation in medicine. Though they hadn’t spoken much since, she had followed his occasional op-eds and lectures from a professional distance, intrigued more by his shifting media persona than his actual subject matter. Wanda Maximoff joined them a few minutes later, her energy softer and more eclectic than the others.

“I thought I was the last one out of make-up,” Wanda said, settling into one of the lounge armchairs and glancing around. “But I only see four of us—shouldn’t there be five?” Strange, still sipping on a coffee that had long gone cold, gave a nod. “I heard the last panellist is running late.”. “Oh, I hope they made it,” Wanda said, her tone genuinely concerned. “I think I saw someone rush past a few minutes ago,” Carol chimed in, glancing up from her phone. “Could’ve been her. Don’t really know what she looks like”. “Oh good,” Wanda said with a soft smile. “I’m really curious about their take. The publisher sent me a draft of her thesis before the release. I would like to put a face to the name.”. Strange gave a quiet hum of agreement. “I only skimmed the opening chapters, but it’s definitely got something. She’s tackling some uncomfortable truths.” Carol replied, munching on a few cashews.

Natasha, leaning back on the couch, recalled a few weeks ago when a heavy box had shown up at her apartment—one of those promotion deliveries from her publisher, stacked with new releases and promotional materials. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time, just scanned the covers, noting that one book stood out for its stark, minimalist design. The presenter vaguely remembered finding it odd to have an academic paper included in a promotional package. She’d set the box down in her office and forgotten about it, buried beneath a growing pile of scripts and scheduling notes. She tried to recall the author’s name but came up blank. Just as she was about to ask Wanda for confirmation about the title of the book and author’s name, a crew member entered the lounge, brisk and all business. “They’re ready for you on stage. Walkout in five.”. The four panellists stood, smoothing jackets and crew checking microphones, conversation cut short as they filed toward the wings.

—

You barely had time to catch your breath as you were ushered down a narrow hallway and toward the right wing of the stage. A production assistant guided you with a practiced urgency, headset crackling with cues from the control booth. You were late, underprepared, and not even sure why you had agreed to this in the first place—except, of course, for the obligation to promote your work, as the publisher had insisted. You silently hoped Darcy had managed to get a good seat as she had been quickly pushed towards the audience seating upon your arrival, a swift "break a leg" slipping from her lips as she was escorted away.

The stage lights spilled into the side corridor, casting long, warm beams across the narrow passage just as Karen Page’s voice rang out clearly from centre stage, conversing with another female voice. As you reached the curtain’s edge, you found a woman already standing there. She turned at the sound of your hurried steps, her warm expression tinged with curiosity. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, recognition dawning. “Wait… I’ve seen you before,” she said, her voice low enough not to carry. “You’re the one from that lecture about media and public perception. The one that’s been all over social media.” You gave a small, breathless nod, not sure how to respond. Recognizing Wanda from brief glimpses of a morning show you’d seen in passing, though you couldn’t quite recall which network it belonged to.

Wanda smiled, a little wider now. “I hadn’t connected the dots. I read your thesis when the publisher sent it over—but didn’t have a face to match to the fire behind those words.” Natasha had to know about your lecture, Wanda thought. Nothing ever slipped past her. But the real question lingered: did she know you were going to be here tonight? She tilted her head slightly, her voice thoughtful. “This is going to be interesting.”

You furrowed your brows, unsure if that was meant as encouragement or a warning. Wanda glanced subtly across the stage toward the opposite wing, where Dr. Strange and another figure waited in the shadows—someone tall, poised, arms crossed. The studio lights obscured the face, but the silhouette felt familiar, almost instinctively recognizable. You hadn’t looked up the other panellists. You hadn’t had time. “She’s not known for pulling punches,” Wanda added, casually. “Especially when she feels attacked. Just… be prepared to hold your ground.”

Before you could ask who, she meant, the stage manager signalled. Wanda gave you a quick, reassuring glance, then disappeared behind the curtain. A few minutes later, Steven Strange was called onto the stage. You remembered attending a few of his guest lectures back during your undergraduate years at university. Your cue was only moments away when the name of the familiar-appearing person was announced. At first, you weren’t sure if you’d heard it correctly—the audience had grown noticeably louder, a subtle shift in energy rippling through the theatre. But as Karen Page began to read the brief introduction, the words confirmed what your instincts already suspected. There was only one person that description could belong to Natasha Romanoff. The face of The Hour. A few seconds later, Natasha would be experiencing the same rush of recognition and disbelief upon hearing the name of the professor who had occupied her thoughts since the night before.

-

-

-

A/N: Revelations. Revelations. Things are about to get heated next time around. Thanks for reading, and Happy Easter to everyone who’s celebrating! :)

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @caramelcat123 @doddledoo @jassgunner

[graciescott27]

I will fall in love with you over and over again — y. itadori

Sukuna apparently knew his girlfriend in a past life?

cw: pure fluff, Sukuna

wc: 863

Yuji Itadori was no stranger to crushes. From the little girl in his kindergarten class he would share goldfish with to Jennifer Lawrence, he tended to think a bit too much about girls. Of course, given his hyperactive personality, none of those little crushes lasted long. Not once had his attraction to a girl persisted long enough to actually turn into something past a few casual thoughts.

Never once did he think the girl to break the streak would be you. 

You were his closest friend since you were kids. He hadn’t thought about you in that way until you were in high school. Somehow, being fifteen and that close to a girl made everything weird. You two talked too frequently. You hugged too much in public. You spent too much time at his house. He couldn’t help himself but to grow a little… obsessive.

As Megumi and Nobara had stated many times, he was a loser. No way he was going to actually ask you out. You were out of his league by miles. And you were his best friend. He wasn’t going to ruin that just because of a little crush that may or may not have gone away in a few days. So he swore to just suck it up and act normal.

Yuji was never one for normal, though.

Somehow, after months of him floundering, he ended up dating you. The story itself wasn’t even romantic, either. You were just spending the night at his house like you normally did on Saturdays. While you were on your phone, he started stuttering sheer nonsense, and you just asked, “Are you trying to ask me out or are you having a heart attack?” He laughed and told you that it was both. And then you kissed his cheek.

Truthfully, he couldn’t have done it without Sukuna. The King of Curses was surprisingly soft at times, and tried to help Yuji figure out his feelings. It didn’t work much, but at least the idiot figured out that it’s not the end of the world to ask out someone you’re close to.

Yuji still couldn’t figure out why Sukuna cared, though. It seemed ridiculous to him. Someone who had been trying to kill him for months just… decided to help him get a girlfriend? And even worse, he listened to him?

He figured it out in the middle of month four of your relationship.

You were sitting on his bed next to him, curled up in a pile of blankets and pillows, your phone shoved into your face. It had to have been at least 12 AM. Normally you were half asleep on top of him by that point. Yuji just later next to you, eyes darting between whatever was on your screen and your face.

He was grateful that you had in earbuds because not even two minute later, that irritating, grating voice popped out of nowhere.

“You’re an idiot,” Sukuna scoffed into Yuji’s ear. “I had to waste weeks trying to get you with your little princess, and now you’re just sitting here?”

Yuji raised a brow. “Why’s that a problem?”

“Because. When I knew her, she was practically worshiped. One of the strongest sorcerers I ever fought.”

“When did you fight her?” Yuji’s face scrunched in confusion.

Sukuna groaned. “Seven hundred years before you did.”

“So she’s, like, reincarnated?”

“Whatever term you would like the use,” Sukuna replied casually. “Her name was different then. Her face is still recognizable, however. Same sharp tongue, same clear morals.”

Yuji nodded slowly, looking back at you. He couldn’t really imagine you being some great, powerful sorcerer. Sure, you were at least three times smarter than him and you were good with your cursed energy, by you were too peaceful. You never really liked being a sorcerer. You would much rather have a normal, casual life. Yuji respected that.

“So that’s why you helped me?” Yuji asked quietly, still looking down at you. You had already fallen asleep.

“Did you think that I would help out of kindness?”

“No.”

“Good,” Sukuna hummed. “I did it for purely selfish reasons. I wanted to see her face.”

“Does she really look that close to how she did in the past?”

“Extraordinary similar.”

Yuji smiled at that. He couldn’t picture you in any era other than modern day, but he figured that you probably would have looked just as beautiful. “Cool.”

“If she didn’t have such a strong hatred for curses, perhaps I would have taken her for myself and—“

Yuji cut him off with an almost-scream. “Nope. Don’t. I don’t need details.”

“As you wish.”

After that, Yuji wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Sukuna had stopped talking. He had gotten just a bittoo occupied with staring at your relaxed expression while you slept. Maybe he could see it now. You might have been some princess centuries ago and your family was made up of powerful sorcerers. Maybe you were a rogue who used your powers to survive on your own, or you were some sort of scholar.

But now, you were just a sixteen year old girl he was hopelessly in love with.

@graciescott27

[the-witty-pen-name]

Everything that I Wanted (1)

Eddie Munson x F!Reader / Billy Hargrove x F!Reader 

Word Count: 4.2k 

Synopsis: Love triangle between your best friend Eddie and your first boyfriend, Billy Hargrove that spans over many years as you get everything you think you ever wanted. However, your life doesn’t play out how you expected it, starting from the first time you’re asked out on a date. 

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; sexual themes, language, depictions of a toxic relationship (manipulation & isolation from peers) 

A/N: Comments & Reblogs are always appreciated! Please let me know what you think! Thank you so much @munsonsmixtapes @punkrockmlchael @keeryhours for letting me talk to you about this fic ilysm

You were so excited, practically sprinting down the hallways towards the cafeteria. Your bag hits against your back at every step. You feel like you’re on top of the world. You can’t remember the last time you were this indescribably happy. You felt like you could practically float. 

Walking into the cafeteria, you take your usual seat with the rest of Hellfire Club, blending in with your matching shirts. You slide into your seat between your best friends- Gareth and Eddie. You take a moment to catch your breath as you shrug off your backpack. 

Gareth has been best friends with you since middle school, and you both became best friends with Eddie when you met him your freshman year, when he was a sophomore. You were inseparable from the entirety of Hellfire, but you and Eddie were very close. 

“What’s got you so worked up? Eddie asked, noticing how flustered you seemed to be when you all but fell into your seat. A smile spreads across his face, like it usually does, at your antics. Amusement is apparent in his eyes as he observes you- you never seem to notice how he looks at you like that. 

“I just got asked out,” you squeal, unable to contain your excitement. You couldn’t believe it had actually happened. It was something you had come to accept would never happen to you. But suddenly, it’s like the world has opened itself up to you. You were so happy, giddy and lovesick already getting swooped up in the romance of it all. 

Gareth congratulates you, happy for you as he pats your back. His eyes drift to Eddie, and the two exchange a knowing look. It was Hellfire’s best kept secret how Eddie felt about you. Everyone except you knew how Eddie was pretty much in love with you and has been, since the two of you met. It was obvious to all of your friends- except to you. 

You didn’t think you were the type any guy would notice. You were never the one that guys tended to see. It was something you longed for, you craved to be noticed- to be truly seen. You’d wanted to experience everything that you felt you were missing. You wanted the high school experience of your first date, your first kiss, a cute guy asking for your number. You never thought it was in the cards for you- so when it finally happened, you were overjoyed.

“Who’s the guy?” Jeff asked with an eyebrow raised. You’re taking your lunch out of your bag so you miss the way Jeff looks at Eddie and how Eddie’s shoulder slump dejectedly. 

“Billy Hargrove,” you exclaim, your cheeks turning warm remembering back on the events that took place a few moments ago. “The guy with the really cool Camaro,” you gush. You don’t miss how the table falls silent. “What is it?” You ask, your face falling. “I thought you all would be excited for me…”

Gareth clears his throat, the first one in the group willing to speak up. “It’s not that we aren’t happy that you got asked out…,” Gareth begins, making sure to choose his words carefully. “It’s just that… Well, Billy doesn’t have a reputation for being a nice guy…”

Your heart sits heavy in your chest at Gareth’s words. It’s a truth you don’t want to acknowledge. Billy was known to go after every girl, and you knew this. But it just felt so different to you- like maybe you’re the one to be the exception. You wanted to feel wanted so desperately that you can imagine, even if just for a little while, that you’re different. You know deep down that you’re not- but you don’t want to admit it. 

“You guys didn’t hear him just now,” you try to explain, coming to his defense. “He was so sweet when it was just us.” He was, he told you everything he knew you wanted to hear- because that was what he was good at. He knew how to get what he wanted, and he read you like the back of a book. Unfortunately, you were longing for something tangible and real- you refused to acknowledge the signs.

“Is it that hard to imagine that he might actually like me?” you ask, your voice failing you as it cracks. “Maybe I’m different- is that so impossible? Am I that undateable?”

The way you speak down about yourself causes Eddie’s heart to beak. He wishes you saw yourself the way he saw you. He holds back so many things he just doesn’t have the courage to say- especially as you seem so wrapped up in Billy Hargrove. 

“Sweetheart, it’s not that,” Eddie interjects, before you spiral too much. “You’re amazing- any guy can see that… It’s just Billy- he doesn’t.. He’s just- not the type of guy to want anything serious…” 

“He was just trying to butter you up,” Gareth says, more direct and maybe more harsh than he intends to be. “He’ll get what he wants from you and then dump you. He’s only being nice to try to get into your pants- he’s a player and he’s using you.”

Gareth's words sting, because you are so deep in denial and don’t want to accept the truth about Billy. You think that Billy is your only chance to actually date someone- no one else having shown interest in you before. 

“Maybe he does want something real, with me,” you say with a hopeful voice. “I already told him yes…” you admit softly, “we’re going to the drive-in on Saturday night. He sounded like he was really excited about it.”

“I’m sure he was,” Eddie says, an underlying bitterness evident in his tone. Grant elbows him, silently telling him to ‘cut it out.’Eddie concedes when he sees how his tone affected you. 

“I’d rather put myself out there at the risk of getting hurt than experiencing nothing at all,” you say, pointedly towards Eddie. His eyes widen at the tone, but he knows he deserves it. “Billy is the first guy to ask me out- ever! I don’t know if I’ll get the opportunity again- I’m not exactly the kind of girl guys ever seem to notice. It feels really good when someone does. Sue me.”

Eddie wants to scream, jump on top of the cafeteria table and put on his usual theatrics to tell you how he feels. He’s noticed you, he’s wanted you- he should be the one taking you out, not Billy. 

“He said I was the prettiest girl he’s ever seen,” you say, and feel embarrassed as the words roll off your tongue. Your face falls. You think that someone finally likes you. Why couldn’t your friends be happy for you? You get up, leaving your lunch behind as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “I got to go, I wanna get to class early so I can study before my quiz,” you lie, poorly making an excuse so you can get up from the table. 

Eddie watches you walk out, and he wishes he had the courage to chase after you. But he didn’t. 

“We can’t let her go out with that douchebag,” Gareth states, snapping Eddie out of his thoughts. The table all agrees with Gareth- that they need to talk you out of it. However, Eddie knows you best and your mind is already made up. Nothing that your friends could say would make you change your mind. He was right.

Saturday night rolls around before he knows it, and Eddie is just full of absolute dread. He paces in his room, music blaring. He doesn’t want you to go- he knows how this ends, and all he wants to do is protect you. But- this is what you want, and who is he to deny you that? You wanted the experience- the guy with the cool car, the guy who knew all the right things to say… Eddie couldn’t give you any of that. He felt hopeless. 

The sound of the phone startles him, snapping him out of his train of thought. 

“Eddie it’s me,” you say, propping the phone receiver up on your elbow so you could hold outfits up to you in the mirror. 

“H-hey,” he says, surprised to be hearing from you. “Aren’t you supposed to be out on your date?”

“Not yet. Eddie- I know you hate him. But, I need your opinion on what to wear,” you say, a little frantic and toss another option that you decide is hideous onto the mountain of clothes you’ve made on your bed. 

Eddie wipes his face with his hand- this is the last thing he should be doing. He shouldn’t be talking to you about a date with another guy (who’s an asshole by the way), or discussing with you what you should wear to impress him. It hurts too much. For a brief moment, he can’t help but imagine if it were him- would you be calling Gareth for advice? What would you pick out for him? Eddie can’t help it as his mind wanders. 

“What are the options?” He asks, knowing it’s better not to fight it. He takes a seat on his bed as he hears you moving hangers around. 

“The black dress I wore to Gareth’s birthday party last year- you know, the short-ish one and I’d probably wear my jean jacket with it,” You bite your lip trying to envision the look. Eddie knows exactly which dress you’re referring to, and it makes him want to evaporate. The idea of you wearing that dress for Billy makes his blood boil. 

“Might be a little fancy for a movie,” he suggests, being honest but also not disclosing the real reasons why he wouldn’t want you to wear that dress. “What else?”

“I might have another dress,” you muse, looking through your closet. “Uh, maybe not, actually- but, I have my Levi’s and maybe that lace shirt I have that looks like Madonna?”

“Maybe something a little simpler?” He suggests. “Pick something comfortable- you don’t wanna wear something tight for the whole movie.” 

“The other idea was my white sweater- the ones with the little heart buttons and maybe my jean skirt? I could wear my Chucks with it…”

“I think that’s the one you should go with,” Eddie says, honestly. He knows that outfit well- it’s one that you wear a lot. Secretly, it’s always been one of his favorites, but he’ll never admit it out loud. 

“Thanks, Eddie,” you reply and Eddie can hear you smile through the phone. He thinks his heart might beat completely out of his chest. “Can I call you when I get home after?” you ask, a little apprehensive. There’s an unspoken tension neither of you are willing to acknowledge. You think it’s just because Eddie  and the others don’t want you to go out with Billy- and this is true. But the truth is much more complicated than you are aware of as Eddie tries to hold back his feelings for you. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Eddie says with a contented sigh. You feel relief wash over you. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I get home!” you reply, giddy in anticipation. You say goodbye quickly and hang up the phone so you can get dressed. It was almost 7:00pm so Billy was going to be there any minute. 

At 6:55pm, you begin anxiously waiting by the front door, trying to calm your nerves by breathing deeply and slowly. At 7:02pm, you're pacing and peeking out from between the blinds everytime you think you see headlights. At 7:13, you’re telling yourself that maybe you got the time wrong and he actually said 7:30pm. At 7:17pm, you’re sitting on the steps in the foyer- your leg bouncing up and down to rid yourself of your anxious energy. At 7:24pm, dread swells up inside you, maybe he’s not coming. At 7:32, you hear the car horn and Billy’s car waits for you in your driveway. 

For a brief moment, you feel yourself pout. It wasn’t a big deal, but you thought that he’d come up the front steps and knock when he came to pick you up. And for a brief moment, you’re reminded that Eddie always does- even the one time your house hadn’t been shoveled yet and he walked up to the house through the snow and the legs of his jeans were soaked- but that's Eddie. You tell yourself that it's old fashioned to expect a guy to come to the door so you shake the thoughts away. You have the same feeling of disappointment bubbling up to the surface again, when he doesn’t walk around the car to get the door for you. You tell yourself to drop it, no one does that anymore- you need to lower your expectations. 

You wonder how someone who drives so fast could be so late- thinking to yourself as Billy sped out of your driveway and down your block before you managed to get your seatbelt on. You tell yourself you’re being too judgmental, and that you need to lighten up. You remind yourself about what you want to focus on. It’s Saturday night, and you’re on a date with one of the most attractive guys you’ve ever seen and he’s stealing glances at you with his really, really pretty blue eyes. 

Billy brought you to a slasher movie, thinking you’d hate it. He expected you to cuddle up to him, hide your face in his shoulder… perfect opportunities for him to get you closer. He doesn’t expect you to be really into it. He watches you watch the movie, and he’s a little taken aback. Who goes to the drive-in and actually watches the movie? You apparently. 

“You’re so far away, Princess,” Billy remarks. You’re still sitting on the opposite side of the bench seat as you’d been watching the movie. You feel a mix of excitement and nervousness when he practically tells you that he wants you close. 

“Oh,” you realize, your voice soft. The sound of his voice pulling you away from the movie just long enough to slide closer to him. Billy wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he thought it was adorable- the way you slide over to him, your eyes not leaving the movie. He lifts up his right arm and rests it across the backs of the seats, effectively wrapping his arm around you when it slings down over your shoulder. 

Inside you’re freaking out a little bit- not necessarily because it was Billy who had his arm around you, but because this was a moment you’d imagined happening to you so many times. He was so handsome, and popular- so many things, and he wanted you. He wanted you closer so he could wrap his arm around you. The feeling of being desirable made butterflies swarm in your stomach. 

“You aren’t scared, Princess?” Billy asks, his lips right by your ear, and his left hand settling on your thigh right at the edge of your skirt. You couldn’t see his smirk, thinking he knows how it plays out. Like it has a million times before with him. He plans on having you in the backseat any moment now. 

“Not really,” you shrug, a giggle escaping your lips as his hair tickles your neck. “I love scary movies,” you volunteer, sharing something about yourself. Billy doesn’t do that- he won’t offer up something even if that simple. “What about you?” You ask, and it takes him back. 

“Uh, yeah,” Billy says, not sure how to react to you. This isn’t how this works. He wasn’t here for conversation. He wanted to kiss you, slide his hands up your sweater and find those cute little heart buttons on the floor of his car a few weeks from now. He wanted to keep letting his hand on your thigh slide up further, see what your panties look like. 

You can’t help but feel disappointed at his answer. You were expecting more than just a one word response. Wasn’t the whole point of tonight to get to know each other? You hate how the silence is heavy in the car. You having a fleeting thought about Eddie- if he was here, you’d both be making fun of the terrible effects and chatting about everything and nothing the whole time. You redirect your focus back to the movie, thinking maybe Billy doesn’t want to miss anything you reason. 

“Did you know how they got it to look like that?” You lean over and ask Billy, and then you offer some information on how the special effects in the movie work. Billy looks over at you, wide eyed. Partially because, one- he’s surprised that you’re trying to talk to him, he’s not used to that and two- he’s actually surprised that he’s interested in what you have to say, and he’s enjoying listening to you talk. It stirs a feeling in him that he doesn’t recognize and it’s one he will refuse to let out. But, in the moment- just you and him in his car, he lets himself enjoy you and what you’re saying. 

A little while later, there is one scene that’s a particularly gore-filled jump scare and Billy can feel you become startled. He can’t help himself watching you watch the movie. He gently tugs you a little closer to his side like he’s wanted to all night. When he feels your body relax, he decides the moment is right. 

He slowly guides his left hand to your cheek and tilts your face up to his, resting your chin on his index finger. He can feel goosebumps on your arm where his other hand is wrapped around your shoulders. He revels in the feeling of being the one to have this effect on you. 

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears as you realize that Billy is leaning in to kiss you. He was so close to you and it was dizzying. This was exactly how you imagined your first kiss to be. The anticipation was infuriating as he took his time leaning in, smirking at the way you react to him. It was all almost too much. 

Until it actually happens. It’s objectively a good kiss- a great kiss. It’s exactly how you picture your first kiss. It’s textbook. And Billy is a good kisser, and his lips are so soft and his cologne smells so good. But, you’re disappointed- the infamous spark you hoped to feel just isn’t there. You blame yourself, having built up this moment so much in your head. You feel so foolish, expecting it to be this earth shattering feeling- but it’s just a kiss. You tell yourself that it’s perfect. 

Kissing you makes Billy’s head spin. He tries his best to not focus on it, he hates the fact the taste of your vanilla chapstick makes his knees feel weak. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. He tries his best to keep his thoughts at bay but he can’t do anything to calm the way his heart pounds in his chest being pulled in close to you. He’s addicted, and his urge to make you his- and only his- pollutes his entire consciousness. He doesn’t want anyone else but him to know you like this. This is something he wants to lock away just for him.  

He’s never been jealous or possessive like this- not for a girl before. Anxiety bottles up inside him thinking about losing you, not being able to kiss you like this. He wants this all just for him. The idea of your lips on someone else’s makes him see red. No one else can have you is all he can think about when your breathy little moans hit his ears. Suddenly, he’s petrified that you’re gonna slip away and there’s so much more that he wants. He’s never felt so overwhelmed from a kiss before. 

A loud scene in the movie snaps you both back to reality. The sudden sound playing through the speaker makes you jump, startling back away from the heated kiss. Billy first instinct is to be annoyed, but he finds himself instead- amused. He strangely finds it endearing, and suddenly, the brief emotion evaporated as he looks at you. He’s puzzled, all of this is new- but he wants to bottle it up and throw away the key, keeping you just like this. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles with a lazy smile, tugging you back over to him. He wraps his arms around you, and scoops you into his lap. Your skirt bunches at your hips as you straddle his waist. His hands wrap around your back, holding you in close to him- chests flush with each other. “You’re cute, princess,” he praises, pressing his lips to your jaw and neck, greedy to illicit every little noise from you that he can. 

He kisses you again and your mind is so fuzzy. You didn’t think you’d end up like this. You envisioned a kiss- maybe a kiss when he dropped you off. Your fantasies were so chaste compared to where the night seems to be going- where Billy wants it to go. The sensation of being so enveloped by him is too much. You think you want this, but you are too inexperienced to be totally sure. It’s all moving so fast. Your hand falls back when you feel him bite into your neck, and you moan softly at the sensation too wrapped up in your thoughts to care that he’s leaving a hickey. 

“Gonna make you mine, Princess,” Billy moans close to your ear before connecting his lips to yours again. You can feel the hardness of his cock pressing against you and despite how good it feels- you panic just a little bit. It was all happening so fast for you. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, softly- pulling away to look at him- read his face. Was it just talk or was he admitting he wanted something real? The idea of that makes your heart feel like it’s racing. “Like… you want me to be your girlfriend?” You ask, innocently. 

Billy didn’t mean that, he didn’t know what he meant. He just knows that he’s craving you and wants to have you all to himself. He’ll say whatever he thinks will make that happen. “Yeah… of course,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

Billy Hargrove wanted you to be his girlfriend. You couldn’t believe it, you felt over the moon. Your grin spread across your face from ear to ear. This was it, tonight was everything you thought you wanted. Someone chose you, finally saw you and wanted you. Relief washed over you, the fear of being alone subsided because he was here, wanting to pull you in closer. Not knowing any better, you let him in. 

Jumping in with both feet, you let Billy take the lead- so wrapped up in the idea of him that you weren’t prepared for what that would actually mean to be his. You just wanted someone so badly, so sick with the heavy feeling of loneliness that you felt so committed to keeping this feeling in its place. You didn’t even know if you actually liked him- you didn’t know him that well. But, he liked you, and told you all the things you wanted to hear. You thought he was perfect- that the moment was perfect. You ignore Eddie’s voice in the back of your mind, reminding you of how terrible the idea was getting with Billy. 

He’s driving you home when he speaks again, and it catches you off guard. 

“I don’t want you hanging around with those guys,” Billy says absentmindedly. He was thinking about Monday at school- how he’d have to see you with your friends, Eddie hanging all over you. “They’re trouble- not good for you Princess.” 

“Who? Hellfire?” You ask with a laugh. “Trust me, they're harmless.” 

“They aren’t… you shouldn’t hang around guys like that,” he says, resting his hand on your thigh. “They just want you- you think they’re your friends but they aren’t.” His mind lingers on Eddie, knowing how Eddie must feel about you. He can’t have him swooping in and stealing you away. He won’t let that happen. 

“They’re all into weird shit… trust me, baby- they’re trouble and I don’t trust them around you. They’ll just want to break us up.” 

“But they’re my friends..,” you try to insist. He shakes his head and you see his knuckles wrap tighter around the steering wheel. You do your best to ignore it. He bites his lip, holding back his anger. 

“You can’t hang out with them anymore,” he declares and it’s an absolute. 

You know it’s not right, but you confuse Billy’s possessiveness as his own way of caring about you, wanting to keep you safe. You rationalize it, you understand how it looks to have so many guy friends. It’s normal for a boyfriend to not want his girlfriend around other guys, right? At the red light, he kisses you again and all apprehension melts away. For now, when he’s kissing you like this- wanting you like this, you’ll give into anything he asks. 

You’ll worry about this on Monday. 

PART TWO

TAGLIST: @fandom-princess-forevermore @sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs @v3lv3tf0x @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @sunshine-mrk @danymunsonharrington @mrsjellymunson @fanficfantik @the-unforgivenn @punkrockmlchael @spookysace24 @crispystarfishhottub @4billy @let-love-bleeds-red @supersecretsamm

[lexirosewrites]

Ficlet idea, designer Eddie and model Steve

OH NO OMFG this prompt was from a year and a half ago (September 2023) because i apparently wrote this whole thing and then accidentally lost it in my drafts😭😭😭 might as well post it now!

A New Muse

Eddie can’t say how he went from the Indiana trailer park to having his own collection at New York Fashion Week without explaining that things like that don’t usually happen to people like him.

Maybe it was the luck of being born an alpha. Or maybe it was just stupid fate.

Who knows? Certainly not him.

And although he’s been used to the lifestyle of excess and glamor for a while now, sometimes the world he lives in now still manages to amaze him.

All it took was a lucky break and his work being seen by the right people. Then he’d been whisked away to riches and fame, his name becoming known by every young adult in a matter of months.

Suffice to say that by this point, Eddie wasn’t overly surprised when he was asked to do a feature piece in a big time magazine. The editor had specifically requested for him to design a few grunge menswear outfits to be modeled alongside the article about his rise to success.

Eddie spent weeks grueling over his designs, making sure all his pieces were representative of the kind of work he does, but it was a struggle to create something that he was proud of and that would explain his vision of fashion.

The interview itself was simple enough, just a handful of questions by someone who already knew far too much about his life. They skirted around his less than pretty past and played up the rags to riches aspect that everyone loved to oversell when it comes to alphas.

And then came the photoshoot.

Eddie had been given measurements of an up-and-coming model who would be showcasing all of the designs. Supposedly, the guy was fine modeling both masculine and feminine clothing, so Eddie was able to keep his sizing consistent across the board.

The only mistake was that he was never given a photo of the model. Or told that he was an omega.

He had no clue that the model would be the most stunning man he’s ever seen.

“Hi, I’m Stevie,” the angle introduced himself with a dimpled smile and wide eyes. His scent dripping with sugary sweetness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Eddie almost forgets to shake his hand, too enamored with the beautiful omega being presented to him on a platter. He recovers enough to slip his hand into the waiting one.

“I’m an alpha.”

That’s definitely not what he meant to say.

Steve chuckles, a soft charming little thing.

“Good to know. Do you have a name, alpha?”

Eddie’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. He might be drooling. He’s definitely lightheaded.

The omega called him alpha. He could be his alpha.

“Um, I’m so sorry! Eddie! It’s Eddie!” he spits out in a rush, attempting to recover from his temporary lapse in sanity.

Another angelic noise of amusement.

“You’re sweet, Eddie,” Steve tells him, sounding slightly forlorn about it. “But I can’t date a coworker.”

Eddie can practically feel his ears pin back against his head in disappointment like a kicked puppy.

“Oh. Right, yeah, no that makes sense. Smart idea. Gotta be careful when you’re a professional.” His voice is thin and unconvincing.

Being rejected by a perfect angel hurts more than he thought it would.

Steve’s perfectly plump lips turn upward slowly.

“But if you find me after the shoot when we’re not coworkers anymore, you can buy me coffee. That is… if you let go of my hand so I can do my job first.”

Jesus Christ.

Eddie had never let go of his hand.

He loosens his grip long enough for Steve to make it through the shoot and then he vows to never let go again.

They’re mated a year later, right before Steve changes his modeling demographic to maternity photoshoots instead.

And Eddie finds his lifelong muse.

[softidiotsposts]

Anyone Can Cook

as the wise tale of ratatouille states "anyone can cook... but only the fearless can be great"

{Hello! Second fic, this time pure fluff for recovery! Warnings: kitchens being messy, mentions of bland food, cooking, mentions of the french and reader is french, picky eaters, incorrect cooking terms (probs) // word count: 2.2k}

masterlist

Leah always mentioned Ratatouille around you, like a little disease that you could never shake. The little blue rat named, Remy, had become a staple in your household- even earning you a nickname based on the rat. She thought herself funny, with you being French and all- even a native Parisian, which apparently made it even more of a gag. One that you didn't enjoy very much.

You didn't get it- the film, while good in a general sense and clearly a children's film- had no idea of what a professional kitchen actually looks like and you liked to point out the serious misconceptions to Leah every time she forced you to watch it.

"Seriously, Lee- I have had enough of this film!"

You grumble when Leah once again picks Ratatouille to watch on your weekly movie night- this makes it twice in a row that she's picked this. Making you absolutely devastated that watching Notting Hill was being put on hold, once again.

You wonder whether revoking her TV rights on film night would fix the problem but then remember that Leah could do absolutely anything and you'd probably let her do it anyway. Even if it's a chef rat based torture.

Still, it's actually getting to the point that you remember practically every single line of the film and the plot never surprises you. Not when Leah insists on watching it all the time.

You don't even think she actually enjoys the film enough to watch it all the time either so it must only be to see your reaction.

"But it's so good- really lets me get the idea of what you do at work," Leah giggles and presses start and the obnoxious "French" sounding music starts to play.

You groan, "This is not what I do."

"Yeah, yeah, Remy- You do some cooking with fancy things, I know."

"Actually, I-"

You're about to correct Leah with the most attitude you ever have when she presses her lips against yours and you melt like butter in a pan. She knows that you can never resist her when she has her soft lips against yours and it works without fail each time- even when you're terribly angry.

Leah smirks and wraps an arm around your shoulders. In turn you sigh, knowing that there is no winning when Leah has her mind set on something or whenever she uses her ultimate weapon.

It's around half way through the film, when the famous line is said that you come upon the genius idea. Taking Leah through cooking something that cannot be made via a machine- a cooking lesson with the most inept chef you've met.

The words anyone can cook are true... to a certain extent- It comes down to personal opinion mostly, what does one truly classify as cooking? In theory, if making toast with butter was considered cooking then Leah was the expert but when it came to the taste department- that is where your girlfriend falters.

Before Leah, when you still lived in France, you swore up and down you could never date anyone with the taste buds of a five year old- saying that it was the ultimate deal breaker. Now here you are, dating a famous Arsenal footballer that has the diet of a primary schooler.

At first, it had come as a shock- you went to a restaurant on your first date (not your ideal place for a date but Leah insisted) and she ordered the plainest thing on the menu. You were in such shock that you double checked the menu to see if you weren't misreading because who orders chicken nuggets at a Michelin star restaurant? And why did they even serve such a dish?

It also happened to be the moment that you fell head over heels for Leah, so you learned to get over the food very quickly.

Yet, this was a moment to teach Leah a lesson in taking you seriously... or maybe at least putting a stop to rewatching Ratatouille every single week.

So you take a week to prepare everything perfectly, you plan out what you're going to teach Leah to cook, even survey your kitchen staff before opening with a little questionnaire.

Then you make sure that all knives are sharpened, pots and pans are present- even though you're the only one who uses them- and that all other additional equipment is on hand if needed.

After all the prep work, you go out to the market early on Friday morning to buy a whole chicken since Leah is most likely to actually eat it after it's cooked- you're against wasting food in any circumstance. Then circle around to the other side for fresh vegetables. Once you have acquired all that is needed, you return home perfectly on time.

It leaves you enough time to get your chef coat that you wear when working and find the spare one you had borrowed for Leah, then set out all the ingredients on the marble countertops. It looks absolutely perfect and tickles that ocd part of you brilliantly.

In hindsight, you should have given Leah a slight pre-warning as to what the two of you were doing today but the expression on her face when she walks in is priceless- so priceless, you wish you had recorded it, so you can show it to all her teammates and your co-workers.

“What’s all this?” Leah says, clearly confused as she drops her training bag by the discarded sneakers. 

You fan your hands out, presenting all the different things across the countertops with a large grin- just as large as Leah’s everytime she picks Ratatouille over any other mildly interesting film. 

“This, my love, is your cooking crash course with the best chef in London.” 

It’s true, the London’s society of restaurateurs had voted you best chef for the third year in a row and you couldn’t be happier to flex it in Leah’s face. It’s your personal victory and you like to compare it to her Euro win with England- just to watch her turn a little red as she fiercely defends it to be harder. 

You'd normally agree but maybe she won’t be so quick to correct you next time though because as soon as she’s in the white coat with you (and after you had taken a photo of her that will be posted on instagram later.) the two of you are off, cooking what you think is going to be the driest chicken ever. 

“No- not like that!” 

You’re quick to correct her, it’s automatic and you feel as though it’s a little harsh but this is payback for making you suffer through a cartoon rat cooking. 

You place a hand on top of hers and you swear she blushes just a bit but you ignore it, instead guiding her hand to correctly dismantle the chicken into its individual parts. After helping her with one side, you watch as she tries to complete the other- and to her credit, it is not a total disaster. The cuts are a little jagged and some of the chicken looks more like it’s been massacred rather than taken apart but albeit still looks edible. 

Then she looks up at you with proud eyes and you forget about everything for a moment- all the mental gymnastics- and focus on her sweet smile that warms your heart. You come a little closer and give her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to touch her since you've just been cutting chicken.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart."

Maybe it's an exaggeration but the blush appears on Leah's cheeks after it is completely worth a white lie.

"Thanks, Remy, I have the best teacher," Leah wiggles her brows at you suggestively and you roll your eyes in return.

"Well, I do have three Michelin stars to my name," You grin and Leah smiles back at you.

Then you add, "It's like having three of those golden ball thingys that you all pine after."

Leah's face drops a bit, "You mean a ballon d'or?"

Your face lights up and you nod rapidly, "Yes, exactly!"

Leah pulls a face and furrows her brows, "Okay, baby... maybe we should focus on the cooking?"

You nod and turn your attention towards the dismantled chicken in front of the two of you- You resist the urge to cringe and put all the different parts into a bowl that you then place into the fridge.

"Let's wash hands before the next part."

The two of you take turns washing your hands, Leah flicking water at you playfully when it's her turn and you frowning when she does so.

"Take this seriously, Lee- In my kitchen-"

"Our kitchen-" She corrects you.

You raise your brows in question, "Who uses it the most?"

Leah suddenly fiddles with her coat and looks anywhere but you, you scoff but a smile finds it way to your face anyway- then you wrap an arm around her waist.

"Whatever, just focus- as if it were a match!"

Leah chuckles but steps up to the cutting board where various different vegetables are laid out with one of your personal knives that you bring to work besides it.

"So what now?" Leah asks, evident confusion in her voice.

"I want you to cut the peppers julienne and the carrots paysanne."

Leah looks at you with the most confused expression you've seen to date when the French leaves your mouth and all you can do is sigh.

"Peppers thin like matchsticks and the carrots into circles, please."

"Now that, I can understand," She laughs and begins to chop the peppers, first gutting them and throwing the seeds in the bin beside her then slicing them into strips.

You're leaning your head on her shoulder and your arms are wrapped loosely around her waist as you watch what she is doing- Leah's fingers are wrapped around the wooden handle and she guides the blade down each pepper part with some kind of precision.

You smile and encourage her by giving a light squeeze that you feel she leans into-

"Focus, that knife can cut your finger off."

You hear Leah scoff, "Maybe you shouldn't distract me then?"

You don't say anything nor do you move your arms away from her waist instead focus on the way she's slicing the various peppers- somehow, Leah begins to stray from the very thin slices into thick chucks without even acknowledging it.

You smile, "Stop for a second, Lee."

Leah pauses instantly and turns her head to look at you from where you stand behind her, she raises a brow in question and you grin in return. Then pick up a slice of pepper, holding it up for the two of you to inspect.

"Too thick, darling."

You press yourself closer to her back, forcing her to face the board again- this time you place your hands on top of hers, they are slightly warmer than yours and the heat immediately spreads, then begin to slice as you had instructed.

The rest of the vegetables go smoothly and you let them rest to the side before taking the chicken out of the fridge again-

"We are going to bake the legs, use the bones to make a sauce with the peppers and boil the carrots."

You explain, pointing to all the different elements as you do so and all Leah does is nod before stepping closer to you so she can wrap her arms around your neck.

"Yes, chef Remy," Leah chuckles when you scoff.

She gives you a quick kiss that you so desperately want to deepen but she pulls away before you can. Instead, she turns to the board and looks at you with the same focus you see on the pitch.

"Alright, let's start."

The rest of the evening goes... as well as you'd imagine- the kitchen is thankfully still standing, but in a state of utter disarray. The sauce that Leah made under your guidance had boiled over after she turned the temperature up, so that it would "cook faster". You didn't even get the chance to explain that it doesn't work like that, when a blob of sauce landed on the floor.

So there was a large spillage of sauce all over the stove and countertop but that was the least of your worries since the fire alarm had rang... once... twice... and a third time when the chicken was in the oven. Turns out that Leah cannot preheat an oven to the correct temperature either- so that chicken wasn't even dry, as you'd predicted, it was just simply not even there anymore.

All the meat had burned into crispy back sludge and the bones smelt disgusting- so disgusting that Leah had to stand on the balcony as you threw it out. Stating that she would throw up if she had to do it. 

It turns out that nothing was safe from Leah's horrid cooking skill since the carrots suffered a death by over boiling- turning into mush rather than keeping their shape after the plunge in the steaming hot water of the pot.

In the end, Leah and you end up on the plush sofa with white styrofoam take out boxes in front of you and the normally tidy kitchen left in a rather untidy state, much to your dismay- but none of you had the energy to clean on an empty stomach.

You're shoveling food into your mouth when Leah picks up the remote and you dread what's coming. You see disney being opened and the pit in your stomach turns into sickness-

"So... Ratatouille?" Leah giggles and presses play, you music ringing out of the speakers. 

"Darling- No, please!"

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Oh GOD, breeding kink with Ghost but he's actually determined to get his darling pregnant because after everything they've been through together, how much he loves her and vice versa? I could go on but it's just something to think about. I also strongly believe he'd be that kind of girl dad heheh

Couldn't Love You More (Ghost x F!Reader)

Left pic credit: @ vhenan_virabelasan on IG

Word count: 3.7 k

Tags/warnings: Tooth-rotting FLUFF. Mild, soft smut 🔞, crying (from joy), breeding kink (obv), comfort no hurt. All the softness and love.

A/N: Excuse me, more soft!Ghost coming through! I hope you like this take anon 💕

"I'm tired of using those things."

Simon rarely whispers, hardly ever murmurs, and never coos. But this time, his voice is deliberately soft. 

You sigh and put the condom package down on the table. This evening had been a nice change, a pampering for your poor, stressed-out nerves. He had done his best to take your mind off work ever since he got home: he took you out for a 3-course dinner – which reminded you of the early days of your dating – and it was all supposed to end in a good stress relief of a fuck.

You'd sent him suggestive texts all morning, knowing he was coming home today. Those messages were extra naughty because you happened to be ovulating, and juicy, and horny as hell.

And you know he has waited for this moment as well. Which is why you can't get your head around why he wants to raise the subject of using other methods of contraception right before you're about to have sex. 

Why would he suddenly start complaining when both of you are already naked – practically seconds before you're about to roll down the condom for him?

"You know I've tried, Simon," you sigh again – you don't even bother to disguise the annoyance in your voice. After all, you've tried basically everything to make it more pleasurable for you to make love without the risk of getting knocked up. You hate the rubber between the two of you just as much as he does, if not more. Apparently you need to remind him how the last attempt with the pill went.

"I become a bloated monster," you say, realizing you're pouting only when he laughs.

You absolutely love it when he does: it's a rare thing, even with you. Even after all these years of love and dedication, the warm, husky chuckle at the back of his throat makes your heart flutter and your head feel dizzy.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean…?"

The man has a tiny twinkle in his eyes, and the flutter in your heart turns into something heavier, more serious. He looks you up and down as if to weigh whether you're ready to take in what he's about to say.

"How about we just ditch the bloody things?"

Your heart is truly getting it today: it skips a beat or two from what he says. From what he implies.

"But you…” you whisper, still unsure if you're truly discussing the same thing here. “You said that kids are a bad idea." 

"They are." 

The twinkle in those eyes turns into an amused gleam, the corner of his mouth lifts up a bit from seeing you so shocked. 

And Simon never said he didn't want children.

It's just that he has avoided the subject like it's a seasonal flu he doesn't want to catch. 

He would make the perfect father: you just know it. Sad to say, but it was one of the main reasons you fell for this man. It's stupid, but it's true: women look for these things. They can tell if a guy would be a good choice for a father. They notice safety, security, the willingness to support and provide.

Biology and instincts be damned, you simply can't deny that Simon is the first man who made you think about what it would be like to have children. And of course the perfect candidate for a father thought that kids were a bad idea…

It seemed like a cruel joke, the way he brushed you off when you first approached him with your shy request. You pussyfooted around the subject, were as delicate as one can be, knowing it might make him uncomfortable. 

And it did. It more than just did.

He freaked the fuck out, went to work, and worked himself nearly to death – literally almost got himself killed, and you understood that this was serious. His childhood, his past, the dangers of his work – of course he thought himself unfit for the role.

Infuriatingly, it only made you more convinced that he was the perfect choice. The man was just so fricking responsible.

You barred your mouth shut after that. Instinct told you Simon might just leave if you continued the talk about having kids. Not because he couldn't take it, but because he would want to give you a chance to find someone to raise a family with before it was too late. 

It was his view of unconditional love: he was ready to let you go if need be. He would set you free if he suspected it would make you happy.

But then you saw him look at tiny kids – usually the ones that had just learned to walk – with a fleeting longing in his stare. It always turned into a withdrawn sulk, the gaze of a man who has accepted his fate.

He seemed to have the softest spot for little girls, especially when they were laughing and giggling or being unruly rascals, and sometimes flinched when a baby started to cry in the store. He looked a bit distressed for a second, and not because of the noise – but because he couldn't locate the immediate source and go and calm the baby. 

That's when you realized he actually wanted kids. The biological clock on this man was ticking just as furiously as yours. 

Years passed, and you silently buried your dreams of raising a little family together. He was enough for you, more than enough: you would not break up because of this. No man could ever replace Simon. 

But it still hurt. It was like a wound that never healed.

Until this night…

This night, it seemed he would not only cure it but heal it so well it wouldn’t even leave a scar. 

You suddenly find yourself under him – his moves are so quick that it's almost like you're teleported there. He sometimes does that: lets you play with him for a while, have your fun on top before reminding you who is in control here.

And this time, he won't even let you play.

"Simon, what are you doing," you sigh with barely concealed exhilaration. 

As if you didn't know exactly what he is about to do. 

He looks at you with that possessive look he sometimes has when you two have been apart for far too long. And there's something more behind that stare. It tells you that this is serious; this means business. The package you placed on the nightstand remains unopened and, apparently, will be the witness to his mission tonight. 

Serves the damn thing right…

You take in the absolute beef of this man: the bulk of pecs above you, the wide, solid middle that nearly swallows you every time you're under him.

You almost disappear between him and the mattress when you two are doing missionary, and it's one of the best feelings in the world. You've wanted to sink your teeth in to those huge, solid shoulders for god knows how many times. Once or twice, you actually did give him a little bite, only a nib, really, during a good pounding – and giggled at the breathless grunt of "Hey" that followed.

The trail of hair, darker in tone compared to the hair on his head, spreads over his abs which rest under a thin layer of fat. The happy trail, as you call it, runs down until it meets the heavy cock that always makes your mouth water like it's your favorite meal.

His hand is weighty, adoring when it comes to rest on your waist – the callous of his palms feels just the right kind of rough as he gives you the softest squeeze and a caress.

And he must know from the wanton looks you gave him all evening that he can just walk right in. Probably knew from those texts already that you've been wet all day long.

You try to spread your legs wider than they can go as he grabs himself to be positioned to your entrance. The fat tip of him feels heavy on your folds as he lazily slides himself up and down your slit, teasing the opening but not going in. It feels heavenly to sense him, all of him, with nothing there between you. There's no lifeless rubber: just his thick velvet meeting your wetness and silk.

The darned man won't even answer your question… Probably knows it's not really a question, just an astonished sigh of love.

"It's…not safe," your head falls back as he pushes the first few inches in – teasing you still by not giving you the full length and thick of him.

"Tired of safe, too," he rumbles softly above you, feeds more of himself in, and you tighten around his cock: receive him with fierce love and yearning. He groans at the sensation – it must feel divine for him, too. It must feel like it's meant to be this way. Now and forever.

You sigh as he starts to move, slow and intense, just the way he knows you like it when there's been too much stress and life has been a bitch. He always makes you feel better, always makes you melt in his arms when you run to him from the unfair, fucked up world. 

He's got some bad days too, and that’s when you ruffle his hair, scrub his back in the shower, give him a sloppy little blowjob, or make him his favorite dish, anything to make the tension in those mountains of shoulders disappear. 

You two worship each other; there’s no question about that. 

"Simon–ah… Truly, are you serious…?" 

"Hell yeah."

The idea of him cumming inside you is thrilling enough, but it's not just about that. 

You're ovulating, and he's a man in his absolute prime. He reminds you of mountain lions and snow leopards, living their life in harsh conditions and in wandering solitude until… Until the perfect companion comes along. He's simply the most virile male there is; broad, wide, and heavy, always ready when you are.

A man like Simon just cannot be infertile.

His eyes are half-lidded already, and those pale eyelashes make you bite your lip and grab his butt like it would be a life or death situation if he chose to withdraw.

And you know he loves it when you grope his ass and try to assist him with the thrusts. 

His little helper, indeed…

"Bloody fucking hell, you feel good…"

His head rolls back, exposing the tendons on his neck, thick, like the rest of him. Everything in this man is thick and broad and good – and fuck – he glides in and out like a dream. Somehow the extra layer of rubber has taken the brunt of his thickness away, but you feel it now, all of it, and it's something you could die for.

He grunts and thrusts, then halts for a while, chuckles all breathless…

"It's gonna be one hell of a show, sweetheart."

He's talking about what comes after. How it will be when there's a new addition and not a crew of two anymore. It brings tears to your eyes to see how he's already thinking about the future – and how he does it with a smile and a pleased chuckle.

"I'm used to sleepless nights," he reminds you softly. "You're not."

Ugh – he's thinking about your well-being when it would only make you the happiest woman on earth to take care of his children. Your children.

"I'll manage," you whisper.

"I know you will."

The tears are so close now; he’s simply the one and only person in this world for whom your love is boundless. It’s endless, overflowing.

He pulls back a little, raises your legs to rest on his shoulders, then crawls forward – he’s about to go deep, and the indecent but insanely sweet position makes you quail from him at first. It’s just too much all of a sudden.

"Wait–"

"The boys said this'll do the trick," he explains, waits until you adjust under and around him.

"The–the boys?"

He had been discussing this with his workmates…? 

Discussing which position is the best to help conceive?

"Yeah. Wanna do this properly."

This man might actually be serious… He just might be serious about this, and you still have difficulty grasping it.

"I can't believe you want this," you whisper, still trying to catch your breath on what's happening.

"Believe it or not, it's gonna happen now."

The smallest tear escapes, and you purse your lips, shut them tight to prevent a tiny little bawl from erupting. 

"I've always wanted you, Simon," you breathe into the air between you as he starts to make love to you, fill you with intent. "Just you, all these years…"

He rarely whispers, but this time, his voice is the softest hush.

"Right back at ya, darling."

"I–I want to give you… want your kids," you whimper, tears coating your voice as he continues the torture while the sweet, tight love surrounds you both.

"I want a family, Simon," you pant weakly, almost distressed. So urgent, desperate, like the wound is yet to be healed. You've never said those words to him before because you were afraid he might leave. 

"Love… fuckin' hell."

He has to stop to catch his breath, to catch the truth. Of course he has known it all along without you telling him, because he simply has those instincts of a wild animal. 

But words are powerful… They are magic. And this magic wants itself spelled out.

"I'll give them to you," he promises. "All of it. I swear."

Your eyes drift closed from the full wave of his vow. This mission is a crucial one, then, one of his most important ones. The man loves challenges; he loves when you up the stakes. Perhaps that's what this is about: he doesn't want to be a coward about the thing you both want. 

The skulls, the brass and death that always surround him can't take away the fact that he's a lifegiver. No matter what anyone says, men can give life, too. He has already given you so much, and now he's going to give you children.

A few more tears push through, and it's one of the sweetest things in your life: to get fucked by him so good while you're crying from joy.

"Luv. You trust me?"

You open your eyes again, and the sight of him is crystallized through tears. It's the most beautiful thing. 

"I trust you," you answer with a shaky breath.

Your trust is even more drugging to him than the tightness of your cunt, it seems. The corner of his eye twitches once, his brows knit together, and a pained look passes in his stare: but it's the sweet kind of pain, just like yours is.

"Feels so good," you whisper, looking up at him with devout love. "So, so good…"

"You're damn right," he sighs, panting with strained, short breaths. "Never felt this good."

He rocks you like you're under the sea, at the bottom of the ocean where the waves are mellow and the seabed is made of the softest sand. You're squeezed between his arms, tightly; he pins you to the bed with his body. The flutter of those pale lashes with every thrust is illegally sweet.

Your lips are bolted shut from the raw sensation, the swelling waves, but when a noise finally erupts, it does so with force. 

You know it makes him wild whenever you cry and plead under him. You know it sends him straight to the edge, too: when you moan and tighten around his cock, spread yourself for him to plunder while you're clawing at his back. You were so embarrassed the first time you noticed the red marks on his skin after your little sessions, but he was only pleased and said you should never apologize for that. His body is full of past pain and torture, and still, still, he allows, even wants you to destroy it even more.

"Faster, Simon, please…" 

"Yeah, that's it. Beg... Beg for me, love… "

And damn right, he's eating up your wrecked state like it's time for Christmas dinner, and the table is brimming with his favorite food. You're close, so close it would be torture, devastation if he stopped. 

"Ya want me to give it to you?" His voice is more rough, more commanding. God, he's close too.

"Yes–give it to me, please–"

Just don't stop, whatever you do, don't stop…

You beg some more, but it's incoherent. Just the way he likes. 

Simon–fuck…

There's no reason to it, just ah's and fuck's and love's, all knit together in a sweet, heady mess as you come– 

Fuck–!

…the orgasm is so intense it points your toes, makes you wrap around his middle with what little strength you have in your arms and fingers and those tiny little claws. Your nails sink in, somewhere between his shoulder blades: he's so wide you can't quite reach to hug him, but you latch onto him like a drowning person nonetheless.

"Oh–oh fucking god…!" 

He comes, right after, buries himself so deep that it stings a little, but you would never, ever complain. He pumps you full, doesn't even move, only arches his back to go even deeper, although he's already buried there to the hilt.

And never has he in all your years together sounded so vulnerable. He usually just grunts and huffs when he comes, but now you get a whole string of words and a fragile, broken pitch. He sounds as if he's near the point of breaking into tears. 

It must feel divine to cum inside you instead of a condom, and what's even more, with the intent to fulfill a mission with that shot. Give life.

If you don't get pregnant from this, well… you doubt you ever will.

He's lying on top of you in a heavy, panting heap, sounding like he's just done ten deadlift PRs in a row. You can't help but laugh, breathless, too, and caress him as he comes down from his sex high.

"You can let me go now," you ghost your fingertips up and down his back when he still doesn't move. It's not that you want him to release you, but he's simply too heavy to be lying all over you like this for long periods of time.

"Nah not yet. Gotta make sure..."

He thinks you want him to pull out, and you giggle some more.

"You're crushing me," you laugh. "And we can do this all weekend, silly. If you want to make sure."

His middle contracts with a silent laugh, too.

"Got a fair point there, love."

Finally, he lets you out of the spread. He pulls out, too – that's not necessarily what you wanted, but when he takes you in his arms, you don't complain.

"That was… so nice," you say, suddenly shy. As if this was the first time he wrapped himself around you in a post-coital embrace.

"That was the best."

He's so warm, and the arm around you is heavy, even when lax. Especially when lax. You feel soft and sweet in his hold made of pure strength.

"I'd be surprised if not. You were very determined."

"You think that did it..?"

He's suddenly shy, too. You could swear he has never asked such a fragile question during or after a mission.

"No half-assing with my sweetheart."

One could say he really used his whole ass on this. You know it, because you're the one who spurred him on with weak but eager hands.

"...but I think it would be best to try again tomorrow. Just in case," he suggests, and you can hear the smile. God, that you love him.

"I wouldn't say no to that."

You imagine him waking up to your baby's cry with a sigh and a jaw-dislocating yawn, hushing you back to sleep by telling you it's his turn to go. He would finally locate the source of crying and make it his mission to cradle the little breadcrumb back to sleep, too. You just know Simon would sometimes fall asleep on the sofa while the baby is still in his arms, sound asleep just like their dad.

And you also know the child would make him laugh more. He would have the greatest time hearing all the silly (not to talk about the clever!) things the kid comes up with once it started talking. Simon would listen with a straight face, at first – out of respect – but then he would come to you with an unrestrained smile and a comment: "Did'ya hear what that little thing just said? Unbelievable..."

Whenever the kid had a tricky question, you would send them to Simon. It's decided already. You imagine him explaining things to the child with his steady and calm briefing voice while you're trying to keep your giggle in.

And when the little one was big enough to run around and poke things off the shelves, Simon would embrace you from behind while you're pouring some morning tea and say: "Should we make another one, hmm?"

After all, your little troublemaker would also need a friend to play with...

There's a gigantic, peaceful smile on your face, and Simon should be snoring by now… But he's still awake, and the arm around you draws you closer. He even tucks his hand partly between your body and the mattress. It's the sweetest prison from which you never want to escape.

"What if… What if I get grumpy when I'm pregnant?" You start to chit-chat nonsense while he holds you against a solid chest. You know he will fall asleep soon, and you wish to voice some fragile concerns before he does.

"I'll bring you ice cream to keep you nice and calm," he mutters in the back of your neck, sounding drowsy already.

"What if ice cream won't help?"

"I'll bring you chocolate."

You smile at him having a solution to every problem, no matter how minor. 

"You're really not afraid…?"

"Of you being grumpy? Nah I don't think so."

"No," you laugh at him joking around. "Of… changes."

"After all that we've been through? No." He brushes his lips over your neck, and you turn a little to look at him.

"Simon... What made you change your mind?"

He thinks on the answer for a good ten seconds. You know that inward look, which is both a gaze to the past and a shaky, hopeful glimpse to the future.

"Don't wanna die without knowing how our kid would look like. What they would be like."

You swallow past sorrow – it's such a beautiful thing to say that you have to catch your breath for a moment. Then you put your hand over his arm, the one keeping you close to him.

"Guess I got tired of living in fear," he sums up the change of heart, and you have to blink back more tears.

"I'm tired of living in fear, too," you whisper, and he entwines your fingers together. The kiss that follows is like a seal to your change of plans. It's pure hope.

"Could you... Could you say that we'll be fine?" You speak on his lips as softly as you can. You sometimes worry that he's annoyed by your constant need for reassurance, but he sounds as solid as a soldier can be.

"We'll be fine like always. Promise you that."

He doesn't seem to mind: if anything, you could swear that giving you encouragement only makes his chest puff up a little. The man gets satisfaction from you needing him in your life like this.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of us."

You ease fully into his embrace. He has said he'll take care of you many times before, but now your world is changing. It has changed already; you just know it. There's no more you and him, a team of two. 

There will be a tiny little breadcrumb too.

[100vern]

the great british fake-off | xmh

you thought the guy in the hawaiian-print shirt who seems physically incapable of being quiet would be the most annoying person here, so imagine your shock when it's xu minghao, who has seemingly decided you're the enemy and keeps sabotaging you. a baking competition for charity might have others on their best behavior, but what's a little sugar without some spice?

❆ pairing: minghao x reader ❆ genre: great british bake-off, holiday au; crack, fluff ❆ wordcount: 5.5k ❆ rating: e for everyone ❆ warnings: some swearing, minghao is a saboteur, idiots abound. ❆ credits: this netflix psd template for the banner. this recipe for the yule log; this recipe for the gingerbread house; and this recipe for the entremet. divider from here. this post for the divider. this was roughly edited by me, so any and all mistakes are my own. ❆ written for: the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories as they're posted. ♡ ❆ author's note: i had this rotting away in my wips since literally 2021, so even though it started as a completely different story, i'm so glad it's finally seeing the light of day even if it's not what i originally intended. (also, i know the banner says 12 contestants but the holiday specials only had a couple, okay. i forgot when i made it and i wasn't going back to fix it.)

The obnoxious one is wearing an aloha-print shirt.

He’s also extremely loud, his raucous, fake laughter filling every corner of the large warehouse you’ve been assigned to for filming. Makes a show of batting his eyelashes, throwing his head back every time someone cracks a joke that’s not even funny, comes up with nonsensical nicknames for the entire crew just to suck up to them.

“John Davies? Mind if I call you Joe?”

Joe doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for John, but John fucking loves it, apparently. Looks at the annoying guy like he just watched him string the stars in the sky.

But it’s the shirt—god, the shirt drives you absolutely crazy. He’s about to go on national television, be a household name, and some ill-fitting, charity shop Hawaiian print shirt is what he woke up and chose to wear. What’s his angle here? Appeal to the public with some sob story about only being able to afford second-hand clothes so that’s why he’s competing? Needs the money to care for a sick relative?

(The expensive watch on his wrist and his limited-drop sneakers tell an entirely different story, but you’re keeping that to yourself for now. No reason to play your hand so early.)

As much as you hate the shirt, you have to admit it suits him. The colors are garish and unsightly, just as obnoxious as he is, and you can’t stare at it too long because you start going cross-eyed. Looking at him feels about the same as stuffing your mouth with a bunch of sour candies: you get that same burn in the back of your jaw, same scrunched-up, grossed-out look on your face; have to squeeze your eyes shut to blink back tears.

You don’t even know his name, but you hate him immediately.

Your eyes scan the other contestants. None of them inspire the same level of animosity within you as the annoying one does; all of them nearly unremarkable. A variety of ages, appearances, backgrounds. You hear one say they’re a retired investment banker. There’s an accountant, a teacher, a fucking aerospace engineer.

And then it’s his turn to introduce himself. He clears his throat, speaks with an easy, practiced confidence. Completely void of nerves. Makes eye contact with everyone in your conversation circle. Gesticulates wildly as he speaks, immediately endears everyone to him.

“I’m Tim,” he says, and you nearly recoil at how honeyed his voice is. “But you can call me Tim. I’m thirty-eight, originally from a small town. Work as a…”

You can barely stand to listen to it anymore, each “Nice to meet you, Tim!” like another punch to the gut. How can’t these people see right through him? How are they falling for his bullshit? You should’ve known. Producers always throw in at least one bomb to up the ratings—a secret millionaire, someone rude and confrontational, a flat-earther. Even if you’re competing in a charity baking competition, of all things, it’s still reality television at the end of the day.

Just because the bunch of you are going to spend the next few days creating confections out of sugar, spice, and everything nice, doesn’t mean you have to be part of that ‘everything.’

Tim thinks he’s got this in the bag. Thinks he’s going to show up and win easily, the rest of you be damned, and even if you are typically a very nice person, you’re also highly competitive. There’ll be no rolling over done by you, and if Tim wants to play dirty—

Game on.

As you introduce yourself, you feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your head. Probably because you don’t bother with the faux-humility the rest of the contestants have. Polite and charming but firm, just the way your mother had taught you. You’re not boisterous, don’t crack silly jokes to play up to the cameras the way Tim loves to do, and you know he’s scrutinizing you the way you’d done to him, trying to figure out your angle.

Well, joke’s on him—you don’t need one.

And you really, really hope it drives him crazy.

Except maybe the joke is on you, too, because you don’t account for Xu Minghao.

In true reality television fashion, the tent is boiling hot.

As if the universe itself had looked down on all of you and decided what you all needed was a heatwave uncharacteristic of this time of year, just to up the ante. Not even ten minutes in the tent and you’re all fanning yourselves and wafting air up your shirts. Which is great, really, because it isn’t like you need to use ovens or stand over hot burners. It’s not like you aren’t going to be soaking through your clothes with anxiety sweats, either! Sweat dripping off your brow into your eyes won’t matter because you don’t need to use them.

Everything’s going to be fine!

But everything is not fine. Not only has the universe gifted you with sweltering heat, it’s given you the work station directly next to Tim’s. You’ll have to feel his annoying, off-putting aura near you for the entire competition. There’s always the possibility of him bungling it and making an early exit, but you know that’s unlikely. Obnoxious he may be, you also know a strong opponent when you see one, and something tells you you’re going to be stuck with him for the long haul.

Think of the cats, you tell yourself. All of this is for the cats.

It’s not like you never would’ve returned here of your own volition. No, your first go-round with feel-good, competition-based reality television had gone fine. You hadn’t won, of course, because you wouldn’t be here again if you had, but you placed respectably in the top three. Became a fan favorite, too, which was arguably more lucrative than winning. People make a living on social media these days.

So, it’s not the competition itself that has you white-knuckled gripping onto the edge of your station. It’s the man at the one beside you, cracking all these stupid jokes about the weather and how it’s a horrible day for tempering chocolate, so he bets that’s going to be the first challenge!

You suck in a deep breath. Try to remember the breathing exercises from that one yoga class your sister had dragged you to. It had been about the same temperature then, too—well duh, it’s hot yoga, your sister had said, which was news to you, because you never would’ve signed up for something called hot yoga willingly. Still, you endured it, just like you’ll endure this, and a little sweat is not going to get in the way of you delivering a check to all those poor, sad cats without families.

“Psst, hey,” you hear from behind you. When you turn, a man is smirking at you as he finishes tying his apron around his waist—has to wrap the strings around twice, you notice, because only someone hand-picked by the gods themselves would have that shoulder-to-waist ratio.

You don’t really recognize him. Can’t recall his name or where he’s from; can’t remember what he mentioned doing for a living. Probably something artsy, if you had to guess—he definitely has the style and demeanor of a creative, with his trendy shag-mullet and the multicolored, glitter-y snowflakes decorating his nails.

You aren’t sure he introduced himself at all, but the confidence with which he holds himself—easy, like it’d take a national emergency to rattle him even a little—implies he doesn’t really have to. Most of the people here already know him, if you had to guess, and he gives the impression that he’s not fussed with impressing any of them.

If only Tim was so inclined.

You clear your throat, vaguely aware you need to respond. “Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Ah, I don’t think so? We’ve done this before, after all. We should be seasoned veterans by now.”

He smirks. “Should be,” he emphasizes. “Feels different when it’s for charity. Extra serious, you know?”

“Right,” you agree, taking a look around the tent. “Anything for the cats.”

There’s an immediate shift in the atmosphere. What was friendly and carefree is now tense; where a smile and a floral giggle sat on the man’s lips has been replaced with a crooked scowl. And it doesn’t make sense, all you’d done was agree with what he said, but then the producers are yelling something at the front of the tent, cameramen are rushing to their equipment, and a woman appears at your side and starts clipping equipment to your clothes, and there’s no time to question it. On your right, Tim’s laughing and joking around with some crew members like they’re old drinking buddies. It drives you nuts, has annoyance pricking at your skin, flushing your cheeks—

So much so that the woman at your side leans in and asks, “Should I get hair and makeup over here?”

“I—no, it’s fine.”

The unnecessary members of the production team scatter away after a loud countdown. Hair and makeup don’t come to wipe the sweat tracks from your skin. You already know Man Behind You is standing there looking perfect because he’s equally as attractive as he is mysterious. God truly has favorites, and this guy somehow made the top five.

You stare down at the instructions in front of you, confident in your ability to read but not so confident in your ability to make sense of any of it. And it’s your own recipe, which is the worst part. You’d typed this recipe yourself. These are your hand-written notes in the margins. You’ve conceptualized, tweaked, baked, and eaten this recipe more times than you can count, and now all you can do is thousand-yard-stare into the ether.

In the time since you were on the show, you’d somehow forgotten about the chaos. Not unlike that hormone women have that makes them forget about the pain and agony of childbirth, you reckon.

In addition to being one of the most bothersome people in history, Tim apparently doubles as a prophet.

Because it is a terrible day to temper chocolate, and you’ve got a bûche de Noël on the horizon that requires you to do so. You can pivot, maybe make some kind of buttercream, but a basic chocolate buttercream is not going to win you a world-renowned baking competition even if it is Swiss meringue. A child could make that.

You sigh. Push that wave of panic to the back of your mind. In a setting like this, you have approximately ten seconds to come up with a back-up plan and execute it and you wasted your time thinking, so you’re just going to have to temper the stupid chocolate and stick to your original plan. God, you have a headache.

But the show must go on, so you do too.

Step 1: Preheat the oven.

Easy enough. If nothing else, you can preheat an oven.

Step 2: Make the sponge.

Not as easy, but you’ve made so many sponge cakes throughout your life you could probably do it in your sleep. Whisk attachment on the stand mixer. Four eggs. Sugar meticulously weighed and added to the bowl. Sugar and eggs whisked together until the mixture is the color and consistency you’re looking for. Flour, cocoa powder, and salt sifted in. Metal spoon to fold it all together as delicately as possible. You won’t have a sponge cake if you beat all the air out of it, now will you?

“Good enough,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at the bowl.

At least you’d had the foresight to grease and line your baking tray, because the entire entourage arrives at your station just as you’re meant to be pouring the batter into it and sticking it in the oven.

“Ah, we meet again,” the group choruses, genuine smiles peeking through as if you’re old friends separated only by time and distance.

That’s the weird thing about being on television. For as long as you’re able, you exist within a microcosm of daily life. A world exists outside of your bubble, you know, but you don’t see much proof of it. All of your meals are eaten together; all of your conversations are had with one another. You share temporary living quarters and oftentimes too much of yourselves, and you’re thankful the show encourages teamwork and kindness because that’s the kind of thing that can grow sour if you leave it unchecked too long.

And then it just—ends.

Bubble burst, you all go back to your regular lives. You look back on that time fondly, but the friendships are thinned out by time and distance. Eventually it all starts to feel like a dream, except every now and then something breaks through the haze to remind you it actually happened: a stranger recognizing you at the store, a message on social media, the casting team contacting you to ask if you’d be interested in competing in a holiday special for charity.

“We certainly do,” you retort, smile matching everyone else’s.

All things considered, you are happy to be back. Even if the tent is crowded and far too warm, the atmosphere is unmatched, especially when it’s decorated for the holidays.

“What are you working on?”

You explain the general workings of your yule log: chocolate sponge, hazelnut liqueur cream filling, and chocolate icing to top it off. You aren’t sure how you’re going to decorate it yet—you’ll figure it out once you get there, depending on how much time you have—but you guarantee them it’ll look festive and professional.

Satisfied with your plan, they wish you luck and move on to the man behind you. It’s so great to see you again, Minghao, someone says, and you’re grateful they’ve spared you the embarrassment of having to ask for his name. It still doesn’t ring a bell, and you can’t recall what season he’d been on for the life of you, but he speaks with a patience and a gentleness that is so unlike Tim that you nearly drop to the floor in thanks.

But as the commotion of the tent reminds you, you don’t have time to waste thinking about Minghao. You’ve only been given an hour for your signature, and you’re going to need all sixty of those minutes if you have any hopes of presenting a finished product.

It doesn’t register at first.

It doesn’t register at second or third, either.

In fact, you’re sure you’re hallucinating when you open the oven door to pop the sponge inside and you aren’t hit with a blast of hot air. Room temperature. Perhaps a bit on the cooler side, if you’re being honest.

And that can’t be, because you know you preheat your oven. It was the first thing you did, because it’s always the first thing you do. It’s just… automatic, like opening your mouth to eat or washing between your toes in the shower. Instinctual. Not something that needs to even be considered, because it’s always the first thing you do.

No, this cannot be. Forgetting to preheat the oven is a rookie mistake and you’re not a rookie.

…Could it be?

Perhaps you were so caught up in the lights and buzz, the thrill of returning to the tent, that it had slipped your mind? Perhaps you’d pressed the wrong buttons and turned the wrong dials? While it’s not likely you’d somehow bumped into the oven and turned it off, nothing is impossible, so… maybe?

“Shit,” you hiss through your teeth. The producers are not going to be happy about your swearing. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Everything okay up there?” Minghao asks from behind you. When you turn, he’s got a flour-dusted towel thrown over his shoulder as he nurses a cup of tea, and his composure in the face of your hysteria has your head spinning.

Your mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Minghao is drinking tea without a care in the world and your oven isn’t even halfway to the temperature you need. “I—yes? No? I don’t know. I could’ve sworn I preheated the oven, but—”

“Don’t panic,” he offers, his top lip catching on the rim of his mug. “You got this. Work on something else while you wait.”

Something else. Right, you can work on something else. Both the filling and the frosting still have to be made, and quick mental math tells you there should just be enough time to get everything done if you’re efficient. Of course, that’s a big if, but that’s why you’d chosen a yule log, after all: sponge cake doesn’t need that long to bake, and anything can happen (and go wrong) in this tent.

So, you get to work on something else. Measure out a sheet of parchment paper, dust it with cocoa powder, and set it to the side. Decide to get to work on the frosting, because if one thing has already gone wrong, you don’t trust the universe to let you temper chocolate correctly.

The chocolate is halfway melted when the oven dings. A small harrumph of victory and you’re finally good to go, setting a timer for twelve minutes. Minghao offers you a discreet thumbs-up, fingers covered in something sticky you assume is marzipan.

Time flies after that. You get both the frosting and your filling made, and it’s only through divine intervention that your sponge cake comes out perfectly and with enough time to score and cool. When you dare a look around the room, everyone seems to be in a similar position as you: frazzled and covered in powdered sugar, making frantic trips to and from the refrigerators, chucking seized-up caramel into the trash and starting over for the third time with a pained expression.

A holiday special—it was supposed to be more laid-back, more for the vibes and festivity than actual competition, but it looks to you like everyone’s taking it just as seriously as your first go-rounds.

“Fifteen minutes!” someone calls, and your competitors fade out of focus. You’ve got a yule log to ice and fondant to roll out.

You make it by the skin of your teeth.

It isn’t perfect, of course, as few things on this show ever are, but it’s more than acceptable. It looks great and tastes even better which is all you can hope for. Much to your dismay, Tim also gets top marks, but it’s Minghao that shocks you all. His stollen wreath earns him a handshake and a lot of clandestine, private glares, but he’d been kind to you earlier, helped untangle that knot of pandemonium, so you return the thumbs-up he’d given you earlier with a smile that feels akin to getting away with murder.

Something is wrong.

On its own, this is not necessarily surprising. Gingerbread, tasked with bearing the weight of an entire house, can be fickle. On any other day you wouldn’t blame it if it wanted to rebel and go sideways, but the thing is—you’ve made gingerbread before. Tons of times. Another thing you could probably make in your sleep if you absolutely had to. So it doesn’t make sense when you look down in your mixing bowl and it just… doesn’t look right.

You tell yourself it’ll get better when you knead it. Maybe the color just looks off because it’s underworked, and a few good punches will set it straight.

But it doesn’t. The dough sits at your station like a sad, formless lump, giving you no indication it intends to become anything at all. Which is, admittedly, a problem. Your technical challenge is to build a gingerbread house—one complete with little windows and golden-toned nightlights, a scalloped roof dusted with powdered sugar to look like fresh snow, a working door!—and you’re far from an engineer, but you don’t think you can have a gingerbread house without gingerbread.

You sneak a peek at Tim’s station, where he’s well into measuring an immaculate-looking dough with a ruler. The contestant in front of you is in a similar place, too, so it’s with an oh fuck I’m doomed sigh that you turn around and hope to find a comrade in Minghao again.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. “Does this look right to you?” You jerk a thumb in the direction of your dough-lump. Minghao, bless him, looks around you and tries his best to hide his grimace.

He does not succeed.

“Um. Well, no.”

You sigh. Place one flour-dusted hand on your waist and pinch the bridge of your nose with the other. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I’ve made gingerbread a million times.”

“Looks pale,” he offers. Of course, this is the exact moment he dumps his own dough—his beautiful dough, flawless chestnut brown—onto his station to knead it. “Was the sugar right?”

A strangled, disbelieving laugh escapes you. Was the sugar right—of course the sugar was right! Dark muscovado sugar. Everyone knows that's what you use for gingerbread, so of course the sugar was right because no one, both in their right mind and at this stage of competition, would use anything else.

Before you can respond, Minghao’s pointing at your jar of sugar. Your jar of pale, producer-supplied sugar, which even a blind person could tell does not resemble dark muscovado sugar.

A million thoughts race through your head at once, but it boils down to instinct, you think. Your brain had seen flour, butter, and sugar and went into baking mode, not stopping to take in the color of anything. Maybe a smarter, more perceptive person would put two and two together and get sabotage, but you don’t have enough time to play detective.

“Here, here,” Minghao says, hurriedly handing over his (correct) sugar. “It’ll be close, but you should have just enough time to redo the dough.”

You’re going to throw up.

In the end, a chunk of chocolate buttons is missing from the roof and the piping around the edges is far from your neatest work, but it’s passable. You already lamented your loss during the signature bake, because anything less than perfection was not going to win you much of anything, and you’re now 0-for-2 on showstopping, unbelievable, awe-inspiring confections.

Just like the devil, your fall from grace will be studied.

Overthinking isn’t going to get you anywhere, but you can’t help it.

You collapse sideways into a chair, immediately face-planting into the catering table. Everyone else buzzes around you—animated conversations that have your head spinning, words that jumble together and start to sound like nothing at all—but you’re a million miles away. One mistake is out of character for you, but two? It’s unheard of. Something you would’ve said was impossible if it didn’t happen to you just a few hours ago.

This is something you need to file away for later so you can think about it just as you’re about to fall asleep, horror and embarrassment there to keep you company when it keeps you awake until the wee hours of the morning.

A chill runs down your spine.

“Hi. Do you mind?” You startle. Bang your knee on the underside of the table. “Sorry,” Minghao apologizes, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. You shake your head. Gesture to the empty seat across from you as if to say it’s all yours. “I brought you some tea,” he continues, setting it in front of you. “I find it’s easier than coffee when you don’t know how someone takes theirs. Less chance of getting it wrong.”

You smile. Wrap your hands around the Styrofoam cup and delight in the warmth. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

“Seemed like you had a rough day.”

Groaning, you try to wave away his words. “Please don’t speak of it.” Minghao jokingly salutes you before miming his lips sealed. “Anyway. Let’s talk about something that is not reality television or baking or a reality baking competition.”

So, you do. Most of the talking comes from you, to be fair, but Minghao is a good listener: nods along, chimes in when appropriate, keeps the spit in his mouth where it belongs. You talk about your hometown and what made you apply for the show the first time. He tells you about growing up in Haicheng and all the things he grew up baking with his mother. You swap stories from your respective seasons; Minghao shares anecdotes with a straight face that have you clutching at your stomach.

Hours pass this way, and you end the night feeling like you’ve made an honest-to-god friend.

Xu Minghao ends the night feeling the guilt weigh him down like an albatross.

In retrospect, it is probably a bad idea to make another sponge, but no one can accuse you of learning from your mistakes.

“It’ll be a patterned joconde sponge with two mousse layers—chocolate and raspberry—and a raspberry jelly. Then I’m going to attempt to top it with chocolate and raspberry decorations.” The judges blink. Are you sure that’s a good idea? you know they want to ask, but this is a holiday competition for charity, so they’re trying not to be pessimists. “Anything is possible through holiday cheer,” you tack on, hoping your smile doesn’t look crazed.

They nod. “Right, right,” they say in unison. “Well, good luck!”

And then they’re off.

Determined to nail this, you triple-check your oven, which is preheating to a crisp 400 degrees; you double-check all your ingredients and confirm they’re correct; when you can spare the time, you watch your refrigerator like a hawk, making sure no one tries to sneak their own work in there and displace yours when you aren’t looking, but everyone’s engrossed in their respective showstoppers.

Tim’s planning a shadow box of sorts, with blown-sugar baubles and isomalt fire. Someone else is stressing over their three-tiered cake, asking the presenter if they think they’ve taken on too much. From what you can piece together, Minghao is making a three-dimensional house, also made from cake that he imported special pistachios for.

“Special pistachios?”

“Mm, from Iran. They have a better color.”

“Iranian pistachios! Can you believe it!”

But you don’t have time to worry about Minghao and his special Iranian pistachios. You have so much to do and not enough time to complete it. Your paste is in the freezer and the sponge is in the oven, but you’ve still got two mousses to make, a jelly to infuse, and little chocolate trees to create—and all of this wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t pointless, but you don’t want to disappoint the cats by half-assing it. They deserve your whole ass, and your whole ass is what they’re going to get.

The result is stunning—not necessarily in stature, but rather craftsmanship and effort. This is what you’re capable of. This is why you came back to the tent. For all your complaining and wanting to put your head through a concrete wall, there’s nothing like seeing the judges ooh and ahh when you present your work to them. There’s nothing like the ego boost of someone taking a bite and watching their eyes light up. There’s nothing like carrying your cake back to your station feeling proud of yourself.

“Great job,” Minghao says, a genuine smile stretched across his face. He also exceeds expectations, of course. Must be those special pistachios, you think, but your congratulations are also sincere.

Production makes a spectacle of judging, much like they always do.

The set is decorated to look like a winter wonderland, even though you’re still in the midst of autumn: a giant Christmas tree in the center decked to the nines with garland and baubles; warm, golden bulbs strung from every awning they could find; all the participants bundled up tight in festive sweaters and scarves all the way to your chins, cheeks and tips of noses dusted with red-pink blush to mimic the cold that’s nowhere to be found. Fake snow falls from the sky, and it doesn’t feel real, but it does feel magical.

One of the hosts catches you by the elbow, asks who you think is going to win. “Oh, I’d have to say Minghao,” you answer, because you’d rather die than give Tim the satisfaction. “His showstopper was incredible, but he was really great the whole competition.”

In the end, however, neither of them wins—it’s Jeon Wonwoo, three-tiered cake guy, who comes out of nowhere to claim first place. He’s bashful as he accepts his prize and says he’s going to donate the prize money to an organization that provides underprivileged kids with video game equipment. No one has a whole lot to say about that.

Once most of the hubbub dies down (and you give Tim a half-assed you did great, so sorry you didn’t win), you find Minghao near the refreshments table. He’s frowning around another mug of tea. “Alright?” you ask, helping yourself to some cider.

“For some reason, I’m no longer feeling very festive,” he replies, which is a very funny thing to say while wearing a hat with a little pom-pom on the top.

You roll your lips to keep from laughing. Sidle in a little closer and knock his shoulder with your own. “Ah, I know how you feel, but you really did do great. You were my pick to win, for what it’s worth.”

“Please don’t tell me that. It only makes me feel worse for losing.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “Would’ve been nice to donate some money to the cats, but shit, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn some dark force was sabotaging me. Like, come on—forgetting to preheat the oven? Using the wrong sugar? Not even a kid would’ve made those mistakes.”

Two things happen in rapid succession: beside you, Minghao goes very, very stiff, and you realize you had been sabotaged. And not by some dark, evil force, either. You were sabotaged by the very man standing beside you—the man you shared thumbs-up with and thought was your friend. The man whose cake you complimented and picked to win. The man who is now standing ramrod straight, as tense as a corpse, and the thought of sabotaging someone in a charity baking competition is so ridiculous and unbelievable that you just—

You just laugh.

At first, it’s a bark of stunned laughter. Then, the more it sinks in how absurd, how nonsensical all of this is, you can’t stop. Tears are rolling down your cheeks. You gasp for breath as your stomach begins to ache. People are staring, including Minghao, who sort of can’t believe what he’s seeing, but none of it does anything to deter you.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “I can’t believe it was you—”

Minghao groans. “In my defense, it was for the cats!”

This was not the answer you were expecting. It makes you laugh harder. “What do you mean it was for the cats?”

He swallows. Removes the mitten from one hand to run it through his hair as if that one tic was enough to distract you from everything that’s happened in the last sixty seconds. (It is.) “Listen, you told me you were going to donate the money to a cat charity if you won and I just—so was I, was the thing. I was also going to donate the money to a cat charity if I won—”

“Okay, but which one, though?”

“The Cat’s Paw-jamas.” Much to Minghao’s horror, this sets you off again. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Minghao,” you try to choke out, but you can barely breathe around the cramp in your stomach. “Minghao, that’s the charity I was going to donate to. Oh my god, you sabotaged me and I was going to donate to—to the same fucking place. Jesus Christ, this is some Gift of the Magi shit.”

Your saboteur, who has gone deathly pale, is quiet for a very long time. Every now and then he’ll open his mouth like he’s going to say something before it snaps shut again. When he does manage to speak, what comes out are mangled apologies that sound like gibberish, and you wave all of them away. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“I—I really don’t think it should be?”

“Minghao, it’s fine, trust me, this was just for fun—”

“No, I really insist.”

You sigh, good-natured and exasperated. Something about the fake snow has you feeling romantic and a little bold, so you turn, grab him by the lapels of his coat. “Please tell me if I’m misreading this, but if you insist, maybe you can start by taking me to dinner…?”

This was clearly not what MInghao was expecting you to say. Dazed, he recovers quickly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a half-smirk. “Dinner, hm?” You nod. “I think I can manage that.”

You smile. “Great. How do you feel about cat cafes?”