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utahimeow · 1 year ago

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“kenma?”

“hmm?”

he doesn’t take his eyes off the tv screen where he shoots at enemies left and right, but his ears are all yours.

“who was your first kiss?”

it’s become a habit of yours to watch his fingers move on the controller, long and thin and dexterous, wondering how he manages to move them in such a swift manner that to you seems impossible.

“didn’t have one,” he says, blunt.

“ever?”

“ever.”

“how?” you ask, both surprised and not—though now that you think about it, through all the years you’ve known him, he probably would have told you if he had.

“all i did in middle and high school was play volleyball and game. didn’t have time to kiss anyone. also didn’t care about it,” he admits.

you suppose if he wasn’t with you or kuroo, he was at home, playing video games. but there was that little obsession of his with shoyo hinata… so you guess it wasn’t a crush after all.

there’s only an ounce of hesitation behind what you say next, because yes, kenma’s your best friend and this could change the trajectory of your entire relationship with him, but also it’s kenma. kenma who you’ve shared a bed and clothes with, kenma who’s seen you at rock bottom and who’s wiped your snot and tears away when you were at your lowest, kenma who you’re attached at the hip with.

“what if i was your first kiss?”

kenma doesn’t falter at your words, not even for a second as he plays on expertly, nonchalant as always.

“uhh, why?” he asks, and you’re triumphant. if it was a ‘ew, no, what the fuck?’ then that’s how you’d know you fucked up. but it’s not.

“it kinda makes sense for me to be your first. also, i just wanna know what it’s like to kiss you,” you admit, shrugging your shoulders.

the next few moments are full of nothing but controller sounds and the music from the video game on the tv. in the faint glow that radiates from the screen, you make out a tiny dusting of pink on kenma’s pale cheeks.

eventually he gulps. then, “can we drink first?”

your mouth falls open with an insulted gasp and you have half a mind to smack him over the head.

“if you think i’m ugly you can say that, kozume,” you pout, crossing your arms.

“it’s not because i think you’re ugly, dumbass.”

“then why do you need to be drunk to kiss me?!”

kenma is silent again. he doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re staring at him utterly indignantly.

“because i’m too scared to look you in the eyes right now.”

oh.

now you get it.

kenma kozume is such a virgin. and you want him so incredibly badly. in fact you have to restrain yourself from jumping into his lap and kissing him until he can’t think straight.

instead you slide off the couch and head towards his fridge, grab two bottles of asahi and the bottle opener from the utensil drawer before padding back over to the couch, sitting an inch or two closer to kenma than you were before.

you click one bottle open for him, then one for yourself, then without a hint of hesitation you take a confident swig until you’re near chugging the drink.

“chill,” kenma says, side-eyeing you after taking a swig from his own bottle. “don’t want you pulling a himeno on me.”

you let out a noise that’s half-scoff and half-laugh, smacking at his arm. “don’t joke about that. that scene was traumatic.”

two bottles of beer later, kenma’s in-game reflexes start to waver. he’s no longer as sharp as usual, though his tipsy state still trumps the skills of an average player. meanwhile, your head floats with the buzz of alcohol—well, it hovers.

“kenmaaa,” you whine, shaking his arm, when all of a sudden his character is shot to death and the screen pauses as if to deliberately rub his defeat in his face. you stifle a giggle while he runs his hands over his face, though you’re pretty sure it’s not because he lost.

“what?” he asks, but he fails at conveying any real irritation towards you. his voice is small, frail almost.

“i wanna kiss you,” you say. your fingers still cling to the fabric of his hoodie sleeve. kenma’s entire body burns from it. he’s so fucked.

“okay, fine,” he says, turning his body to finally face you and criss-crossing his legs on the couch. “this feels awkward though, how are we-”

and you’ve waited long enough for this, and the alcohol that buzzes through your system makes you throw all your morals out the window, and you’re grabbing him by fistfuls of his hoodie and dragging him towards you until your lips smash—literally—together, and finally he shuts up.

you’re not sure what overcomes you, but you’re kissing him like you’re hungry, not quite ravaging him, but years of yearning deep inside of you bubbles to the surface and fills you with desperation.

also, you’re tipsy.

it’s not long before you come back to your senses a little and remind yourself that this is just his first kiss. go easy on him, maybe?

you move away, slowly, as though trying not to startle him, to find a pair of golden feline eyes blinking back at you. they’re swimming with something unintelligible, something akin to… need? you think you must be seeing things. you’re tipsy, after all.

the silence that hangs over the pair of you is heavy—too heavy. it hurts your shoulders. you laugh so that it goes away, covering your face as though kenma’s timidness was contagious and has now spread to you.

eventually, when you peer back up at him, he’s grinning almost… triumphantly. despite the blush that covers his entire face, he looks victorious. his face replaces any words he could say, and he turns back to his game without a word.

you, however, struggle to keep your thoughts to yourself.

“can we do that more often?” you ask, leaning your frame against his, nuzzling your face into his warmth.

“yeah, we can.”

#kenma x reader #kenma kozume x reader #kenma x you #kenma imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfic #hq x reader #꒰ lovers. ꒱ — kenma

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cressidagrey · 12 days ago

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Family Traditions

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Lando finds out about a Piastri family tradition.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando had expected Miami to be loud. He hadn’t expected it to feel quiet beside Oscar Piastri.

The city was buzzing with race weekend electricity—neon signs blinking against glass, palm trees lit up from below, the distant pulse of music weaving through the air like static. Most of the drivers were either holed up with their engineers or attending overpriced sponsor dinners at rooftop bars.

They were supposed to be heading to one of those dinners.

Instead, Lando was standing outside a kitschy tourist gift shop, watching Oscar inspect a faded pink t-shirt that read I Survived the Miami Heat under a cartoon flamingo in sunglasses.

Lando blinked. “You’re not actually buying that.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. He flipped the tag, checked the fabric like it mattered. “It’s 100% cotton. She’ll love it.”

“She—wait. Bee?”

Oscar nodded, already moving to grab a smaller size. “I get her a shirt in every city.”

Lando stared. “Every city? Like—since when?”

Oscar shrugged, distracted as he sifted through the kids’ section with the ease of habit. “Since last year.”

And suddenly, Lando saw it—how naturally Oscar moved past the mugs, magnets, and tourist bait. How he honed in on the children’s rack like his brain had filed the store layout by instinct. He paused at a glitter-print top, muttered something under his breath about how that’ll flake in the wash, and kept going.

Lando followed him, still stunned. “You never talk about this.”

“It’s not for talking,” Oscar said simply. “It’s for her. Just… something small so she knows I was thinking of her. Even when I’m far away.”

And something about the way he said it—so quiet, so matter-of-fact—settled behind Lando’s ribs like weight.

Oscar finally held up a pale blue shirt with a little beach scene and a smiling sun. “This one. She’ll like the dolphins.”

Lando watched as he paid, folded the shirt so precisely it could’ve come from a boutique, and tucked it into the bag like it was made of glass.

Outside, the Miami air hit them with a wall of heat. Traffic blurred past. Laughter floated down from a rooftop bar. But all Lando could think about was the bag in Oscar’s hand.

“How many does she have?” he asked.

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-eight, I think? I lost track when she started organizing them by fabric content.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Of course she did.”

“She’s got a whole drawer just for them,” Oscar added, glancing down at the bag like it held a secret. “Felicity says we’ll need vacuum bags soon.”

They walked for a bit in silence. Lando kept sneaking glances—at the gift shop fading into the background, at the way Oscar cradled the handle of the paper bag like it was tethered to something deeper.

And suddenly, Lando didn’t see Oscar the way everyone else did.

Not just the reserved one. The quiet one. The sharp one who never cracked under pressure.

He saw it all differently now.

Oscar didn’t brag about being a dad. Didn’t post curated fatherhood moments on social media. But he carried Bee with him everywhere. In every tiny routine. In the care with which he picked out a souvenir shirt. In the way his voice softened when he talked about her.

He didn’t talk about his love.

He wore it.

They walked in silence for a moment.

Lando cleared his throat. “You know… I always think of you as, like, the calm one. Logical. You do math mid-corner. You’re composed even when you’re about to throw up in your helmet.”

Oscar snorted. “Appreciate that image.”

“I’m serious,” Lando said, laughing. “You’re chill. Private. But I didn’t see it until now.”

Oscar slowed a little as they passed a gelato cart. His gaze flicked to the flavors—mango, strawberry—and Lando could almost hear him thinking, Bee would’ve picked both.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Oscar said after a pause. “I just never needed anyone else to see it.”

Lando frowned. “Don’t you want to share that, though? Show the world how much they mean to you?”

“I do,” Oscar said. “Just not loudly. I’m not trying to win points for being a good dad. I’m trying to be one. For them. Not for Instagram. Not for a sponsor highlight reel.”

He lifted the bag slightly. “This? It’s just for Bee. She’ll get it when I get home. She’ll squeal like it’s made of gold. And then she’ll wear it to kindergarten and tell everyone dolphins are her favorite animal. Even though last week it was frogs. Then she’ll fold it and put it in the drawer. Maybe one day, when she’s older, she’ll look at all of them and know—really know—that I was always thinking of her. Even when I wasn’t there.”

Lando swallowed past the lump in his throat. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Oscar smiled, soft and certain. “She had me the second I heard her heartbeat.”

And Lando—who had known Oscar for years, who had raced with him, laughed with him, endured endless simulator hours and team debriefs—suddenly felt like he was seeing his teammate clearly for the very first time.

Not just as a driver.

But as a compass. A man who carried his love not like a burden, but like a map—guiding him back to the people he loved, no matter how far away he went.

“You’re gonna make me cry in the middle of Miami,” Lando muttered, sniffling. “It’s disgusting.”

Oscar chuckled, and they kept walking.

The city roared around them—bright, loud, alive—but between them, it was quiet. The bag with the tiny blue shirt swung between their strides like a soft echo of something much bigger.

And somewhere—half a world away, in a house filled with stars, frogs, and the warmth of soft-worn cotton—a drawer waited.

Ready for a new shirt.

Ready for another piece of proof that love doesn’t have to be loud to be unmistakably present.

***

The house was dark when Oscar got home.

It was nearly midnight, and Miami still clung to him—sand in the cuff of his jeans, humidity in his skin, the thrum of race day still humming through his bloodstream like a second heartbeat. His body was sore in the way that came from too much sitting and not enough rest. The flight had been long. The layover longer. But it didn’t matter.

Because he was here. He was home.

They had the win. Lando had his first win.

Oscar had stood back and watched the moment unfold—watched the confetti fall, the photos flash, the jokes fly in press conferences and interviews. He’d clapped Lando on the back and meant every bit of pride in it.

But now… now it was quiet. And Oscar had finally made it back to the only finish line that mattered.

He let himself in quietly, the soft click of the door unlocking sounding louder in the stillness of the hallway. He dropped his duffel by the entryway, shoulders slumping under the weight of the weekend and the travel and the emotional high of watching someone he’d grown up with claim a victory they’d both dreamed of.

The scent of lemon soap and vanilla laundry softener hit him the moment he stepped into the living room—familiar, comforting, home. There was a soft golden glow spilling from the corner lamp, left on like a lighthouse waiting for a sailor to return.

And there, on the kitchen counter, propped up neatly beside the fruit bowl, was a note in Felicity’s looping handwriting:

“She tried to wait up for you. Made it to 8:42. There’s banana bread in the kitchen. We love you.”

Oscar stood still for a moment, the kind of still that only came when your body stopped but your heart didn’t.

He reached for the paper bag next. The same one he’d carried through Miami like it held something delicate. The one Lando had teased him about in the gift shop while tourists took selfies with flamingo mugs and tank tops.

He pulled the tissue aside gently.

The tiny pale blue t-shirt was still folded perfectly inside. The smiling sun, the cheerful dolphins, the quiet promise stitched into every thread: Even when I’m far away, I’m thinking of you.

He set it down beside the note, as carefully as he would have placed a trophy.

Then he moved down the hallway, socked feet silent on the floorboards, the rhythm of his steps unconsciously slowing as he reached the door to Bee’s room.

He pushed it open just a crack.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of the star-shaped nightlight near her bed. She was curled up under her favorite blanket, the one with little constellations on it. Her pajamas glowed faintly—tiny stars twinkling against soft cotton. Button the Frog was tucked beneath her chin like a loyal soldier, and her curls had exploded in every direction, a wild halo of sleep and safety.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe and just watched.

Her chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Her little hand twitched once, reaching for something in a dream. And his heart ached—not with sadness, but with fullness.

This. This was the part no one saw. Not the finish line. Not the press photos.

Just this: the quiet joy of coming home.

He stepped in and adjusted her blanket gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead and smoothing one rogue curl from her cheek.

She stirred, barely, but didn’t wake.

He whispered, “I brought your dolphins.”

Then slipped out of the room, closing the door with the care of someone who knew exactly how to keep the hinges from creaking.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and cut a slice of banana bread, leaning against the counter in silence. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt held. Full of all the little things that made a life.

The shirt sat there beside the note, ready for tomorrow.

Ready for Bee’s excited squeal. Ready for her to declare it her favorite, until the next one.

Oscar smiled to himself, soft and tired.

He didn’t need fireworks. Didn’t need a podium.

He had this. He had them. And that was everything.

***

The next morning was a blur of cereal, milk drips, and tiny sock negotiations.

Bee tore into the kitchen like a whirlwind, hair halfway brushed, dragging Button behind her by one leg and already mid-sentence about how she definitely didn’t need help squeezing her own orange juice.

Felicity was at the sink, mug in one hand, quietly laughing at the chaos while Oscar leaned against the counter, bleary-eyed and barefoot, watching his daughter with a sleepy sort of awe. She really was a force of nature, even at 6:18 a.m.

He slid into the seat beside her just as she climbed into her booster, and without a word, placed the folded paper bag in front of her plate.

Bee gasped—gasped—like he had just handed her the Holy Grail. Her little hands flew to her mouth. “Miami?” she whispered.

Oscar nodded, resting his chin in his hand, watching her with barely-contained amusement.

She opened the bag like it was made of velvet, slowly peeling back the tissue paper and pulling out the dolphin shirt like it might float if she let go.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed. Her voice had dropped to a whisper, full of reverence, as if the dolphins themselves might hear her. “They’re smiling at me again, Papa.”

Oscar felt his chest pull tight. Every mile, every race, every layover—it was all worth it just for that sentence.

“You like it?” he asked softly.

“I love it. Thank you, Papa,” Bee clutched the shirt to her chest like it was a treasure map. “I’m going to wear it forever.”

“Maybe not forever,” Felicity chimed in from the sink, though her voice was warm with laughter, and her phone was already in her hand, camera open. “But at least until you outgrow it and Papa adds it to the drawer.”

Bee’s eyes widened, another gasp escaping her like she’d remembered a sacred duty. “The drawer! I need to fold it and rank it!”

She slid off her chair with a speed that defied gravity, dolphin shirt in one hand, Button flapping in the other as she bolted down the hallway.

Oscar watched her go, shaking his head, a small laugh caught in his throat.

“Snuggle rating pending,” he muttered.

Felicity crossed the kitchen and nudged his knee gently with hers as she sat beside him. “She really likes it. She really loves you,” she added, and this time her voice was quieter. Her hand slipped onto his knee, thumb brushing a circle there like she knew exactly what he needed to hear. “You know, she told me yesterday that she never feels like you’re gone. Even when you are.”

Oscar blinked. “Because of the shirts?”

Felicity looked at him like he’d just missed the point entirely. “Because of you. But yeah—the shirts help.”

He swallowed, something tender and almost fragile in the way his hand covered hers.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kitchen warm with sunlight and the background noise of Bee yelling from her room: “THE NEW ONE IS SOFT LIKE A PILLOW BUT WITH BETTER VIBES!”

Oscar chuckled. “What does that mean?”

Felicity shook her head, grinning into her mug. “You’d have to ask the pillow.”

Then she looked back at him, smirking. “You know, Lando texted me after you bought that shirt. Said he cried in the middle of a tourist shop.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “He told me it was ‘disgusting.’”

“He said, quote: ‘Disgusting. I nearly cried in a tourist shop. I want to hug Bee and write a novel about fatherhood. I’m spiraling.’”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Felicity stood and reached for the dish towel, only for Oscar to wrap his arms around her waist from behind.

“Still think I should’ve bought the flamingo one,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she replied, leaning back into him with a smile.

“Lucky,” he echoed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He looked down the hallway where Bee’s voice had now reached a new level of excited shrieking.

“AND IT’S 100% COTTON!”

Oscar closed his eyes and smiled against her hair. “I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

Felicity turned in his arms, looked up at him, and said simply, “We are.”

And somewhere, in a small bedroom lined with dreams, a frog prince plush, and the faint glow of plastic stars, a drawer clicked shut around a new memory—folded soft and pale blue, sunlit and sea-sweet, nestled right between “Baku: Fast Fast FAST” and “Melbourne: I Was Born Here.”

A drawer full of shirts. A drawer full of love.

Proof, once again, that some things don’t need to be loud to be absolutely everything.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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wispitty · 19 days ago

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(short reacts) | "you're too good to me" + one piece men

summary: you did something nice because you care, but he wasn’t ready for how much that actually meant to him.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

He walks into his office late—tired, annoyed, and already pulling off his rings.

He pauses.

There’s a fresh mug of coffee waiting on his desk. His favorite blend. Exactly how he likes it. Alongside a box of his favorite cigars. And a neatly folded note in your handwriting:

“Don’t forget to breathe today.”

He stares at it.

Silent.

Then he sits.

Wraps one hand around the mug, rests his other elbow on the desk—forehead against his hook.

After a long breath:

“…She’ll ruin me like this.”

Later, he passes you in the hallway. Pauses beside you. Doesn’t look directly at you. Just mutters:

“You’re too good to me.”

And then? He walks away.

But his hand brushes yours as he goes. On purpose.

MIHAWK

You find him reading. Again. Posture stiff. A faint furrow in his brow.

You quietly set a plate beside him—fresh fruit, sliced the way he prefers. No words.

You turn to leave, but—

“Stay.”

You glance back.

He looks at the fruit. Then at you.

“You remember the details.”

A beat.

He lifts a slice slowly. Takes a bite. Looks out at the horizon like he’s not letting you see his expression.

“You’re too good to me.”

And under his breath?

“I wish I knew what to do with that.”

MARCO

You find him patching up someone else in the clinic. Again. Exhausted. Shirt streaked with blood. Eyes too tired.

You wait till he’s done, then silently hand him a glass of water and a sandwich—both of which you’ve clearly made just for him.

He blinks.

“You didn’t have to…”

You nudge the glass toward him. No sass. No teasing. Just… quiet care.

He smiles. Soft. Blown away.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that, yoi?”

A pause.

“Gotta start being worth all that.”

But you already know he is.

ACE

He’s sitting alone on the deck after coming back from a mission, hiding the bruises he got protecting someone else.

You find him. Sit beside him.

And quietly pull out a small med kit.

He tries to protest—“I’m fine, really—”

But you start gently tending to the bruises anyway. You don’t scold. You don’t make a scene.

You just… take care of him.

He goes quiet. Watches you like he doesn’t understand why someone would want to.

“You’re too good to me…”

He whispers it. Like it hurts.

And when you finish and kiss his forehead?

He holds your wrist and says—

“Please don't leave.”

SHANKS

You find him alone. For once.

Sitting on the edge of the ship. Staring out at the sea. Shoulders a little too still.

You sit beside him. Hand him a small flask with his favorite rum—the one he always shares, but never gets for himself.

He takes it. Looks at you.

And smiles—but this one’s different.

“You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”

A pause.

“You keep this up, I might actually start believing I deserve it.”

He says it like a joke. But he doesn’t laugh.

LAW

You sneak into his medbay late at night. He’s fallen asleep at his desk—head on his arms, brow still furrowed in sleep.

You drape a blanket over him. Tuck a small thermos of hot tea near his elbow.

As you turn to leave, you whisper:

“Slow down, Law. You’re not alone anymore.”

You think he’s asleep.

But as soon as the door clicks shut, he lifts his head. Looks at the blanket. The tea. The way you’d straightened his scattered notes.

And whispers, stunned—

“…Too good to me. Too fuckin’ good, god damn it.”

Then buries his face in his arm again. To hide his face. The ache. Everything.

CORAZON

You find him sitting in your room—just keeping you company, like he always does.

It’s chilly tonight. So you drape your cutest, softest, fluffiest blanket over his shoulders without a word.

He startles. Stares at you.

You wink. Go back to work.

He looks down at the blanket. Then closes it tighter around himself.

You hear scribbling. You glance over. He passes you a note:

“You’re too good to me. Also, I’m never giving this back.”

You just smile.

“Then I guess I’ll have to warm you myself.”

You've never seen him blush so hard in your life.

#one piece reacts #sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #shanks x reader #shanks #marco the phoenix #marco x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #corazon x reader #corazon #ace x reader #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #donquixote rosinante #rosinante x reader

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halfvalid · 2 years ago

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pretty in that

ABOUT

rating: general audiences

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!monkey d. luffy | live action!nami

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

description: you have a hard time picking a dress for dinner whilst in kaya's mansion. zoro (sort of) helps!

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, confessions, no use of "y/n", special straw hat appearances (nami & luffy), soft zoro

author's note: i'm a sucker for dress-up scenes so i KNEW i was gonna write smth like this once that ep3 scene started playing. reader chooses a dress at the end; dress is non-described so you can imagine your ideal dress!

You were on Nami and Zoro’s side when it came to whatever was going on in Syrup Village. Kaya’s mansion made you feel vaguely unsettled, and stepping into the building made your heart pound quicker than you would like to admit. But if there was one thing that piqued your interest, it was the order of changing clothes for dinner. You’d been stuck in the same few outfits for weeks now, and the promise of something new—and formal—was nearly exciting, although you’d never admit it in front of Nami and her disapproving gaze.

Kaya’s kindness combined with the private guest room and bath you were treated to helped soothe your nerves. Soon you found yourself being led to the giant closet the rest of the Straw Hats were already in—Nami was trying on various different pieces, and Zoro seemed to have something in hand too.

“Ah, there you are!” Luffy said, swiveling on his heel and giving you a big grin as you entered the room. You stared in disbelief at all of the racks around you. Hell, there were even clothes hanging from the ceiling.

“Well, we certainly have a lot of options,” you said, skimming a hand over a nearby rack. There were a variety of different fabrics, but they all felt expensive: silk and velvet, damasks and brocades. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m just trying on anything,” Nami called from where she was, before stepping out from the room divider she’d been changing behind. She wore an emerald dress with a plunging neckline, the patterned silk clinging to her curves, and did a little spin. “What do you think?”

Luffy shrugged. Zoro wrinkled his nose, barely glancing up from the armchair he was lounging on. “I think it looks nice,” you offered, but Nami still seemed dissuaded.

“Ugh, these two are impossible. What are you going to wear?”

“Uh, I’m getting there,” you said with a little laugh. “It’s a bit overwhelming; I’d rather help you guys pick first. Luffy, have you found something yet?” You turned towards the man in the center of the room, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I found this!” He raised up a black waistcoat. You frowned at it.

“Um, Luffy, waistcoats are supposed to be worn with a suit,” you said, then paused, seeing his blank look. “...Never mind.”

“And I’m wearing black,” Zoro added, despite the piece of clothing slung along his lap definitely not being black. You exchanged a glance with Nami, who just rolled her eyes. They’re stupid, she mouthed, then returned to the rack she was glancing through. She worked quickly, pulling out various numbers that she scrutinized before either setting on the couch beside her or putting back.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Need me to find you some pants with that, Cap?” Nami and Zoro let out identical groans as you spoke the pet name, both turning to give you exasperated looks. You suppressed your laugh.

“Stop calling him that,” Zoro said with a tired sigh. “You’re encouraging him.”

“Kind of the point, yeah,” you said cheerfully. While Zoro and Nami were both still largely unconvinced about the whole pirate crew thing, you’d joined the bandwagon rather quickly. Zoro rolled his eyes, and you turned towards the racks to find Luffy some slacks. “Assumedly you need something other than that shirt too?”

“I’ll look later,” Zoro said passively. You watched him out of your peripheral vision. He was outfitted in a patterned kimono, his three swords slung along his lap. He didn’t seem too interested in his surroundings, though what he was doing, you weren’t sure. You let him be, turning to page through the racks of clothes again. Finally you found a pair of slacks that seemed like they’d fit Luffy.

“Here,” you said, passing them over to him. “And find some shoes while you’re at it.”

“Why does she even have clothes that don’t fit her?” Zoro murmured, sounding as baffled as he could get. “What, she just casually has clothes in all four of our sizes hanging around?”

“Rich people own things just to own them,” Nami called. She’d changed again; this dress had a halter neckline and was blush pink. Zoro motioned with a hand at it, and Nami frowned, glancing down at the dress. “You don’t like it?”

“Eh,” Zoro said. Nami made a face.

“At this point I think you’re hating just to hate.” She pulled up a few more options, narrowing her eyes as she surveyed them. Luffy was seemingly satisfied with what you’d given him, because he took the pieces off of their hangers and slung them over his shoulder.

“I’m off,” he announced. “Gonna go change in my room and do some exploring before dinner. Have fun!” With that, he left, and Nami sighed, turning towards you. She held up her final two options—a red cheongsam with delicate gold embroidery and a pastel blue dress with an a-line skirt. You gnawed on your bottom lip as you studied the two.

“I think the blue one might wash you out a bit,” you said eventually; it’d clash with her hair no doubt, and make her skin look even paler. The shade wasn’t a right match with her eyes, either. “I like the cheongsam; I think you should go with that one. It contrasts nicely with your hair.”

Nami raised up the dress again, inspecting it. “You’re right,” she said, ducking back behind the room divider to change. You started pursuing the racks again; Nami stepped out a few moments later, successfully outfitted in her new dress. “Okay, I’m going to go do my hair in my guest room. Good luck.”

“Bye,” you called, watching as she left the room. You clicked your tongue, almost alone now and with absolutely zero options of clothing. As much as you liked the idea of new clothes, the abundance of options was starting to seem a little daunting. “Okay, now that Nami’s done, it’s my turn to play dress-up.”

Zoro laughed from where he sat, and you startled, almost having forgotten he was there. He was watching you attentively, his attention having diverted from whatever it was he’d been thinking about earlier. “You like this kind of thing?”

“Well, I mean.” You shrugged, peering at a few of the pieces on the rack in front of you. You pulled out a deep green dress, eyeing the lace by the neckline before setting it back. “It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?”

“Not really what I’m into.”

“You wear jewelry, so clearly you have some fashionable instinct,” you pointed out, bending over to glance at the clothes hiding by your knees. These were all skirts or unreasonably short dresses, with so little fabric you were uncertain they would cover anything at all. “Unless the earrings are for another reason…?”

“Three swords, three earrings.”

“Makes sense. What are you wearing with your shirt?” You glanced back to see Zoro’s answer, but he merely shrugged. “Do you want me to find you some trousers? A suit?”

“You don’t need to find clothes for me. I can do that myself.” Still, Zoro made absolutely no move to do so. You rolled your eyes, but turned your attention back on what you’d be wearing for the dinner. Vaguely you wondered how Zoro would look wearing a suit. You flushed almost as soon as the thought popped into your head, shoving it into the very back of your skull and banishing it from seeing the light of day.

“If you say so,” you said instead, mostly to distract yourself from the beyond inappropriate thoughts starting to run through your head. Honestly, you barely knew your crew mates—the four of you were close to tearing each other’s throats out before you ran into Buggy, after all. And the fact that Zoro was, well, conventionally attractive—and you tried to keep your thoughts on that and that alone, anything emotional was strictly out of the question—shouldn’t be something your mind lingered on.

You picked out the first dress that looked to be your size. It was dark purple, backless with a tight trumpet skirt. Ducking behind the room divider Nami had used, you stripped off your clothes, donning the dress. There was a mirror along the other side of the divider, and you turned, trying to appraise the dress on your figure. The color didn’t look entirely right, and you were uneasy about the lack of mobility the skirt might have—Kaya’s staff were still extremely suspicious, after all, and you’d rather be safe than sorry.

“Let me see,” Zoro called from outside. You tugged at the dress, suddenly nervous, but stepped out after you couldn’t find a good enough excuse not to. Zoro’s eyes ran up and down your figure, and you did a slow circle, showing off the dress. The bare skin of your back prickled.

“You’re not going to be able to move in it,” he eventually said.

You huffed out a breath, the nervous energy that had accumulated in your chest leaving with the action. Something in your belly stirred; disappointment, maybe, that Zoro had only commented on the practicality of the dress, not how you looked in it. But you pushed those thoughts away with an angry shove. Not the time, and definitely not the person to be thinking those sorts of things about. “Yeah, that’s what I was worried about. Let me find something else.”

Zoro’s gaze didn’t flicker from your body as you started across the room, ducking between more racks to find something. “You dead-set on a dress?”

“I haven’t worn a dress in a while,” you answered, picking out a red one before remembering Nami’s choice and setting it back. “Might as well take the opportunity.” The next one you pulled was blue, all shiny and soft. The material looked like some kind of tender silk. You set it aside to try on. “Why?”

“Haven’t seen either you or Nami in a dress before.”

“Actually, you have. I’m wearing one right now and Nami tried like five on earlier,” you said, glancing over your shoulder to shoot Zoro an unimpressed look. He scoffed, though there was a smile at the edges of his mouth as he turned his head away. Your next choice was soft pink, and made of tulle that vaguely resembled a puff pastry. You pulled it up. “Think I should try it?”

“I mean, pick whatever,” Zoro said, though he seemed mildly disgusted by the amount of fabric the skirt had, all bunched up with layers like something a ballerina might wear. “What are you trying to achieve with the dress?”

“What am I—I’m trying to look nice, Zoro,” you said, stifling your laughter. You set the pink dress back, replacing it with a sage green number instead. “Not everything has ulterior motives.”

“You always look nice.”

You froze, a soft chill curling around the back of your neck. Carefully, you straightened up from where’d you been bent over yet another rack of clothes, turning to look Zoro in the eye. His eyes hadn’t moved. “Oh,” you managed out, throat all dry and tongue like sandpaper in your mouth. “Well, thank you.”

Zoro cleared his throat, a dull noise he made in the hollow of his throat without even parting his lips. His gaze flickered away. “Yeah. Go try those on.”

Wordlessly, you stepped back behind the room divider and slipped on the blue dress. It had a texture like water—it was some kind of high-end silk, flexible enough that it was near liquid in movement. The dress itself fell to your ankles, and had a simple square neckline. You stepped outside, doing another slow twirl. “Better,” Zoro said.

“Better how?”

“You can probably run in it.”

You twisted your lips, trying to suppress the urge to turn them down into a frown. “Okay. It’s not doing it for me.” You ducked back behind the divider to change yet again; the sage green one was satin, with long sleeves and a neckline you hadn’t anticipated would be that deep.

Still, upon exiting the divider and turning for Zoro again, he didn’t have any worthwhile feedback. “It’s kind of plain,” he said eventually, not meeting your eyes.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest; you had to almost resist stomping over to the racks to find something more, and spent another few minutes gathering dresses and trying them on.

To your immense disappointment, each one garnered little to no reaction from Zoro. You even shoved on one of the tiny, too-little fabric dresses you’d disapproved of earlier, but all Zoro did was scan you from head to toe and say, rather flatly, “you’d get stabbed pretty easily in that.”

Frustration bled into your nerves as you hid behind the divider again. You glared at yourself in the mirror—your skin had started flushing with how annoyed you were getting, which might’ve been funny had you not been so ticked off. Men, you thought, irritated. Was it really so hard to tell you that you looked pretty?

He’s a bounty hunter, you had to remind yourself. He doesn’t care about this kind of thing. Besides, he was the last person you should be setting your sights on anyway. You tugged at the short dress, the hem just barely grazing the tops of your thighs.

You heard footsteps approaching from outside the divider, suddenly too close as you snapped yourself out of the reverie of thoughts you’d been lost in. Zoro turned the corner, arm propped up against the divider edge as he peered in, brows furrowed. “You stopped coming out,” he said. He was still in his kimono, swords tossed over one shoulder. The shirt he had was, assumedly, left on the couch he’d finally stood up from.

“I’m frustrated,” you told him blandly. His frown deepened.

“Because of… clothing?”

You suppressed the sigh that threatened to escape your lungs. “Never mind. I’m fresh out of ideas.” You pushed past Zoro, opting to stand in the center of the room as if analyzing it from a different view would magically give you more options. Zoro turned to stare, still looking perplexed. “With so many options, it’s hard to make up my mind, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro was still studying you. “Did I do something?”

“What? No,” you said hastily. Too hastily. The words had ripped out of your throat like a hiccup, and you seriously needed to learn how to lie a bit better because now Zoro’s expression was even more confused. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, turning away from Zoro to stare at some of the clothes hanging on the wall above his head. These were too high up to properly look at, and as you stepped back, you glanced through the dresses hanging off the arch of the ceiling. You perused them without too much interest, eyes glancing over the various colors and fabrics until—

Zoro stepped next to you. “Hey,” he said, and you jolted, head snapping down to look at him. You let out a noise of irritation, then turned your focus back on the ceiling.

Your gaze flickered through the racks until finally falling on one particular dress hanging by the mouth of the room. It was somewhat hidden, tucked in a little corner beside a few other pieces, but from your vantage point it seemed about your size.

You took a step closer to it, surveying it with your neck craned. The material looked soft and comfortable but it still retained shape, and the color—even in the dim lighting of the closet—was one of your favorites. The undertone would suit your skin perfectly. And, well, you didn’t want to put all your bets on one dress you hadn’t even touched, but it was certainly promising.

Zoro stepped past you, barely exerting any effort to reach up and bring the dress down from where it hung up high. “This one, right?” he asked, and you swallowed, some of the annoyances you had towards him dissolving as he extended the dress hanger towards you. You nodded wordlessly, taking it. You stood there for a second before Zoro gestured with his head towards the divider. “Go try it on.”

You did so, retreating safely behind your wall and stepping out of the little dress. You surveyed the one Zoro had grabbed for you again, heart lodged in your throat. It really was beautiful, and exactly your style; now that you saw it up close, you could safely affirm it was your size too, but nervousness still pulsed through your veins at it.

Carefully, you slipped it on, adjusting the fabric around your hips and fixing up the neckline to rest evenly on your skin.

Zoro spoke out from the rest of the room. “So why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not—” you sighed, dropping your arms before returning to fiddle with the dress. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Is it because I wasn’t being helpful with the clothes? Because I already said that’s not exactly my area of expertise—”

“It’s not because of the clothes, Zoro,” you said sharply, cutting him off. Zoro clicked his tongue, the sound reverberating around the room and thudding in time with your heartbeat. You turned your attention back onto your reflection. “It’s just me being silly. Don’t worry about it.”

‘I’m worrying about it,” Zoro deadpanned. You sighed, adjusting the dress one final time before arranging your hair and staring at yourself in the mirror. It fit you perfectly, emphasizing all the right places and hiding all the parts of your body you were more insecure about. “Changed yet?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice limp.

“Let me see.”

You bit your lip, suddenly nervous about how he’d react. Knowing him, it’d be something like it’s okay or the color’s fine; perhaps can you even walk in that? or weird shape if he was feeling a little more critical. Still, you stepped out anyway, not meeting Zoro’s eyes as you spun for him, letting him look at the dress from all angles. When you’d finished posing you glanced up, eyes meeting him tentatively.

“It’s…” Zoro cleared his throat, ripping his gaze away from the dress on your figure to flicker up to your face. His gaze dropped again nearly as fast, like he couldn’t bear to keep eye contact. “Uh.”

“It’s what?” you prompted, turning to face the nearest mirror. Your lips twisted into a worried frown, turning to glance at the dress again. Was it really not as perfect as you’d thought originally? “Do you like it? It’s my favorite so far, I think, but if you don’t like it—”

“You look pretty in that,” Zoro blurted, cutting your rambles off with the strident, too-loud sentence. You froze, eyes flickering to meet him in the mirror. Carefully, he glanced up at you, and you could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“Oh.”

Zoro coughed, averting his gaze as you slowly turned around to face him. You couldn’t see properly with the less-than-ideal lighting of the room, but his face seemed to have taken on a ruddier complexion. “I like it,” he said, words softer than they’d been before. “It’s the one.”

There was a little rush of something through your veins, and you felt vaguely lightheaded. “Okay,” you barely managed to squeak out. “Thanks.” You stumbled back behind the divider, sucking in a deep breath and trying to regulate your breathing. God, this was actually shameful at this point.

You composed yourself quickly, gathering all the dresses you’d tried on and abandoned to return to their proper places. Zoro was still watching you attentively, and you glanced over your shoulder at him. Sparks prickled along your skin as your eyes met. “What?” you asked.

“You’re acting weird.”

“Am not.”

Zoro stood up, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his head from side to side. He glanced through the racks and, without even a minute’s hesitation, plucked a suit jacket and matching pants out from beside him. “Yeah, you are. What’s up?”

“You’re just grabbing those without thinking about it?” you demanded, eager to change the subject. Zoro rolled his eyes.

“I picked them like fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Just didn’t grab them until you were done your whole… thing. Now spill it. You’re all red again.”

You swiveled towards the closest mirror, unable to suppress your gape as you saw that your skin had indeed turned a distinctive shade of scarlet, flushed undertones creeping their way up your skin. It was entirely recognizable even in the terrible lighting. Even your skin was treacherous, now. “Nothing,” you muttered, unable to meet Zoro’s eyes as you spit it out. “I was annoyed because you weren’t telling me what you thought of the dresses.”

“I… did, though?” Zoro said, perplexed. You let out a grating sigh, cheeks flaring even hotter now that he was forcing you to confess the entire extent of your sins.

“Yeah, like, practically,” you said, wrapping your arms defensively over your chest. “You’ll get stabbed in that so easily. You won’t be able to walk. I just wanted you to tell me that—” you cut yourself off with another groan. “Don’t make me say it.”

Zoro blinked. “I have no idea what you’re edging towards, so you’re going to have to say it.”

“I just wanted you to tell me I looked nice!” you finally burst out, turning so you wouldn’t have to look at Zoro’s face. God, you were going to have to quit the Straw Hats after this. It was so entirely stupid.

“But—” There was a laugh in Zoro’s voice, and you glared down at the floor, all of your dignity having left you by this point. You had no shame left to feel anymore. “I said ‘you always look nice’. Doesn’t that insinuate—”

“That’s not the point,” you said hotly, tone almost argumentative now. “I wanted you to think I looked pretty in a dress, Zoro.”

Zoro didn’t respond for a moment, brows creasing and face taking on a baffled expression. “But why—” Zoro cut himself off, and you turned even redder, holding your breath as he finally connected the dots. A single word fell from his lips, like a soft breath of air as he spoke. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the almost whining tone your voice took on. Zoro stepped closer to you, a hand wrapping around your wrist and forcing you to look up at him.

“I said you looked pretty in this one.”

“I know,” you insisted, still all red, “which is why I’m not totally mad at you, but—”

“You looked pretty in all of them,” Zoro said. He didn’t look bashful, per se—you didn’t think Zoro could get shy—but his voice was low, all hoarse in a more tentative way rather than one of his grating remarks this time. “For the record.”

Your breath caught.

“This one’s my favorite, though,” Zoro muttered. And then he was leaning down to kiss you, the ghost of his lips just on the corner of your mouth. You gaped up at him in shock as he averted his gaze, staring at some spot about your head. “Was that—” he started, before clearing his throat and trying again with a little more of his dignity this time. “Was that okay?”

“Yes,” you blurted fervently, and before you could fix up the moment with something more, well, suitable, your big mouth ruined it for you. “But I think we’re holding up dinner. You should get changed, and I still need to find shoes.”

You bit your tongue immediately after the words had been said, but it was too late—Zoro coughed, turning away from you. You panicked, and now it was your turn to grab his arm and tug you towards him. “Wait!”

Zoro glanced down at you, perplexed, and then you leaned up to kiss him square on the mouth. He stumbled back, surprised, but adjusted quickly, hand going to cradle the back of your neck and pressing you right to him before you finally broke apart.

“You should steal it,” he started. You stared up at him in question. “The dress, I mean. You should steal it.”

“When am I ever going to need to wear this again?” you asked, perplexed. Zoro shrugged, fingers tugging at the edge of the dress's neckline.

“Dunno. Just take it. She probably won’t even notice.”

“You’re adorable,” you teased; Zoro wrinkled his nose but didn’t complain, opting instead to move away and pick up the clothes he still hadn’t changed into. “Go change. See you at dinner.”

“Yeah,” Zoro said, his eyes not straying from your figure as you ducked out of the room. Before you could fully leave, though, Zoro grabbed your wrist, spinning you around towards him.

You didn’t have enough time to ask what he was doing when he leaned around to kiss you one final time, his hands cradling your face as your lips moved against each other. It was only a moment later that he stepped away, looking rather sheepish but not very apologetic as he finally let you go.

“You look more than pretty,” he murmured, eyes sinking into yours, and your throat dried, any words you might’ve formed dying away within seconds. “You always look more than pretty. You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, and then he ducked back inside the closet to change.

#opla zoro #opla roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #reader insert #x reader #opla #one piece live action #one piece netflix #opla zoro x reader #opla fanfiction #opla fanfic #one piece live action x reader #opla x reader #kiki writes!

7K notes · View notes

kxsagi · 27 days ago

Note

Heyyyy precious. Low-key want to request reader with a underground band that is suddenly blowing up but they never told the boys. (Everyone you want but please Hyoma, Yukimiya + Itoshi dudes)

Like they had this band for a while but they never said anything and the band wasn't famous until they started making hit after hit and that's how they find out (thanks even if you don't do it 🙏)

“𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 ‘𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥”

a/n: more rockstar gf! reader? OH I AM LIVING FOR IT

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, chigiri hyoma, yukimiya kenyu, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei

itoshi rin

finds out through your spotify page.

you left your laptop open and he just wanted to queue music, but then sees you’re logged into a verified artist account with millions of streams.

stares at the screen like it personally offended him.

walks into the room like: “hey. wanna explain why you're casually outperforming the entire j-pop industry?”

he’s not mad. just deeply, emotionally confused. like “when were you doing this? we live together.”

you say “after you go to bed” and he’s like “i go to bed at 2 AM???" "... when you're at practice."

starts watching your live shows in secret like it’s surveillance footage.

sends you a single text after your band hits billboard: “guess i’m dating a rockstar. don’t let it go to your head.”

plays your songs when he thinks you’re not home. you are. you record him. he never forgives you.

itoshi sae

finds out during a random interview when the host says “your girlfriend’s band is incredible, by the way.”

sae: “what.”

sae: “excuse me.”

sae: “whose girlfriend?”

goes home, opens youtube, and finds a video titled “HOT GIRL SHREDS GUITAR WITH HER TEETH (and it’s kinda sexy)”

pauses at 0:03. it’s you.

calls you with the calmest voice ever: “is there a reason why you’re leading a cult on stage and no one told me?”

you go “i thought you’d be chill about it” and he goes “this is beyond chill. this is grammy nomination level. i need a minute.”

insists on getting free tickets to your shows even though you always offer him VIP.

ends up becoming the mysterious hot boyfriend in the crowd who dips after the encore.

lets you have your spotlight but still flexes a little when people connect the dots.

chigiri hyoma

chigiri was just trying to eat his lunch when he saw your face on a Time Out Tokyo article titled “Meet the Band Taking Over Asia’s Underground Scene.”

drops the spoon.

reads the article with the intensity of someone researching for a thesis.

calls you mid-interview, whispers: “you’re so hot i actually need to sit down. are you kidding me.”

gets way too excited.

insists on learning your setlist so he can scream-sing it in the front row.

becomes the dude holding up a “SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND” sign at your gigs.

posts after every one of your performances captioned: “dating the main character. sorry.”

makes you autograph the back of his thigh once and got it tattooed. zero shame.

yukimiya kenyu

finds out because a luxury fashion brand asked if he wanted to model with your band.

goes “oh wow, they’re blowing up fast” and then sees your face on the moodboard.

audibly gasps.

takes off his sunglasses in shock, indoors.

“love. are you a full-time rock goddess and i’m just finding out like this?”

gets dramatically offended you never asked him to take your promo pics.

immediately offers to do your PR, plan your brand deals, and get your band a skincare sponsorship.

subtly matches his outfits to your stage looks.

becomes that boyfriend who answers interview questions on your behalf: “she’s too humble to say it, but yeah, she did sell out in five minutes. queen behavior.”

introduces you as “japan’s coolest rockstar girl” at every party.

isagi yoichi

finds out when he walks in on you casually practicing vocals in the garage.

he’s like “that’s kinda good…”

then pauses.

“wait. why do i know these lyrics.”

pulls out his phone and realizes the song is already in his playlist.

you’ve been in his top 5 artists on spotify this whole time and he didn’t know it was YOU.

stares at you like you’re an alien.

“you’re my girlfriend AND my favorite artist?! am i living a fanfic?”

spirals. you’re hot. you’re talented. you’re secretly famous. you’re literally a pop punk goddess.

“so like… do i get VIP access to your concerts or do i have to cry in general admission?”

once tackled a guy backstage for breathing too close to you.

his lock screen? your album cover. his phone case? your lyrics.

calls your fanbase “his in-laws.”

kaiser michael

finds out via twitter trending.

trending topic: “WHO IS THE LEAD SINGER IN THIS BAND AND WHY IS SHE HOT???”

he’s like “who tf is this chick everyone’s thirsting ov–”

zooms in.

it’s. you.

spits out his wine.

immediately calls you with a perfectly calm, terrifying voice: “schatz. liebe. meine muse. care to tell me why the entire internet wants to lick your boots?”

you go “it wasn’t that deep” and he goes: “you were wearing leather pants and singing about dominance. it was absolutely that deep.”

watches every live show like he’s scouting you for a transfer window.

50% impressed. 50% aroused. 100% confused why you didn’t tell him first.

claps like a proud theater mom every time you hit a high note.

“i’ve decided to become your groupie. my ass looks good in fishnets.”

threatens your fans for fun.

lowkey jealous the spotlight’s not on him but deeply in love with how you take it anyway.

shidou ryusei

finds out because he saw a clip of your concert on tiktok where you licked the mic mid-performance.

immediately duets it with a thirst trap and the caption: “that’s my girl. hands off unless you’ve got a death wish 💋🔪”

comments “i taught her that tongue move btw” and gets banned for 24 hours.

facetimes you screaming: “YOU’RE IN A BAND? A BAND?? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A WHOLE ALTER EGO THAT LOOKS LIKE A VILLAIN I’D WANNA MAKE OUT WITH???”

starts tagging along to all your gigs like an aggressive golden retriever.

jumps on stage once and tries to mosh with the crowd mid-ballad.

fights your bassist in the parking lot over “stage proximity.”

buys your merch in bulk and cuts them into crop tops.

refers to himself as your “road boyfriend.”

once got kicked out of a venue for throwing a fan’s sign because it said “marry me.”

his reasoning: “that’s MY future, bitch.”

438 notes · View notes

mintyys-blog · 14 days ago

Note

I love your work, can I request invincible variants x reader who

can break the 4th wall?

HEADCANONS | mark variants with s/o who breaks the 4th wall

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS:

MAIN MARK

“So this is your character development moment,” you say, gesturing at nothing. “Cue the heartfelt speech, and maybe a swell in the soundtrack?”

Mark just blinks at you. “What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

You squint. “Huh. I figured you’d be genre-aware by now. Rookie mistake.”

“There’s… no soundtrack,” he says slowly. “Is this some kind of joke?”

VILTRUMITE MARK

“You’re acting like this is some kind of… story,” he growls.

“It is. You’re the hardened antihero from a tragic empire. I’m the wild card with unexplained powers. The shippers are gonna love this.”

His brows knit together. “What is a shipper?”

You just grin. “Exactly.”

MOHAWK MARK

“This is your edgy arc,” you say, watching him dramatically leap across a rooftop. “Moody. Shirtless. Probably doomed.”

He squints at you. “How the hell do you know what I’m gonna do before I do it?”

“Because I read ahead.”

“Read what ahead?”

You tap your temple. “The script.”

He flips you off and storms away.

SINISTER MARK

“You talk like someone who’s read my thoughts,” he says.

“No, just your Wiki page,” you say cheerfully. “Very dramatic, by the way. Love the angst.”

He goes still. “Wiki?”

“You really don’t remember the Season 2 finale? Oof. Repression is a hell of a coping mechanism.”

“What are you?”

OMNI MARK

“You always start the scene with a threat. It’s your thing,” you sigh. “Then you’ll say something about how I disappoint you.”

“You do,” he snaps.

“Boom. Called it.” You turn toward the empty air. “He’s so predictable. This is why they keep rebooting him.”

“Who are you talking to?” he demands. “What are you looking at? There’s nothing there!”

PRISONER MARK

“You ever wonder if this is all just some script someone’s watching for fun?” you ask, sprawled out beside him.

He flinches. “No… Why would you say that?”

“Because I see them.” You point past the ‘camera.’ “They’re right there. Watching us.”

He backs away, panicked. “Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t look at things that aren’t real.”

SHIESTY MARK

“You think you’re slick,” you grin. “But your arc’s been obvious since Episode 5.”

He pauses mid-sentence. “…What episode?”

“Never mind. Keep monologuing, it makes the edits easier.”

“Edits of what? What are you even talking about?”

You just wink. “You’ll catch up in the finale. Maybe.”

EMPEROR MARK

“Your empire collapses in like… six more chapters,” you say as you sip something that wasn’t in your hand two seconds ago.

He stiffens. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” You glance straight past him. “Quick, zoom in on his eyes. He’s doing the denial stare.”

“There’s no one there,” he says tightly.

“That’s what they all say.”

MASKLESS MARK

“You keep talking like this isn’t real,” he says quietly. “Like we’re… fake.”

“I’m just the self-aware love interest,” you shrug. “You’re the guy the audience cries over when you die tragically.”

His face darkens. “That’s not funny.”

“Tell that to the writers.”

FULL MASK MARK

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you muse, circling him. “Just dramatic body language. Classic.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“You’re the mysterious fan favorite. Enigmatic. Broken. Probably a walking metaphor.”

He doesn’t move. But something in his posture stiffens—like he’s starting to notice how weird you are.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, looking directly at the camera. “He doesn’t know we’re in a scene yet.”

TAG LIST: @onlybatsyy

#x reader #x female reader #reader insert #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #invincible variants x reader #invincible variants

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dorabellingham · 5 months ago

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Let's have a baby

warning: breedking but fluff

characters: jude x fem!reader

summary: when out of nowhere he decides to try to convince you to have a child with him

request: yes! (adapted)

may contain spelling and translation errors!

Jude was sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out on the coffee table as he watched a game on TV. You were next to him, a fashion magazine in your hands, occasionally exchanging glances with the screen to feign interest in the football. It was a quiet afternoon, but Jude seemed restless, fiddling with his phone and stealing glances in your direction. After a while, he let out a theatrical sigh, putting the phone aside.

—Have you noticed how everyone our age is starting to have kids?

You looked up from the magazine and arched an eyebrow.

—Everyone? Like who?

—Oh, I don’t know, my friends from Birmingham... some guys from the national team... even that influencer you like. —He made a broad gesture, as if he wanted to encompass the world. —It seems to be in fashion now.

You laughed, shaking your head.

—Babies aren’t a fad, Jude. They’re... babies. It’s hard work, you know?

Jude leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees, with a smile on the corner of his mouth.

—But it must be amazing, right? Having a mini you or a mini me running around the house…

You let out a nervous laugh, closing the magazine.

—Are you telling me you want a baby, honey?

He paused dramatically, pretending to think.

—I’m not saying I want one now, but… it wouldn’t be bad, right?

You were silent for a moment, watching the way he looked at you, with a sparkle in his eyes that made you feel a mix of nervousness and affection.

—Jude, we barely managed to organize the house after the move. Do you really think a baby would be a good idea now?

He came closer, holding your hand with both of his.

—I know it wouldn’t be easy. But, honey, just imagine… a baby with your hair and my eyes. Or with your smile.

You couldn’t help but smile shyly, even though you were trying to look serious.

—What if the baby get stubborn? Or your habit of leaving things lying around?

—Or your habit of falling asleep in the middle of the movie?

Jude replied, laughing.

You laughed together, but Jude seemed determined to keep the subject alive.

—Seriously, Y/n. I’ve always thought about it, you know? Ever since I started playing professionally. Having someone to teach, to take to games... someone to call our own.

You stayed quiet, thinking. Bellingham had a persuasive way about him, but you knew he was being sincere. Still, the thought of having a baby seemed so distant to you, with college, travel plans and the whole life you still had ahead of you.

—Jude, I know you’d be an amazing father, but... isn’t it too soon? We’re still learning to live together, to deal with life here in Madrid...

—I know. —He squeezed your hand lightly, with a soft smile. —I’m not saying it has to be now. It’s just... something for us to think about.

You sighed, but you couldn't help the warmth you felt in your chest as you imagined the scene he described. A mini Jude running around the house, with the same messy hair and that charming smile. It was a sweet thought, but still scary.

—Okay, babe. We'll think about it. But just think about it, for now, okay?

He leaned in to kiss your lips quickly, with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

—But I think we could start trying, right? Just to have practice.

—Jude Bellingham!

You said laughing as you stared at the boy in front of you.

—What, sweetie? —He said, feigning false innocence as he leaned his body over yours. —I know you like this idea as much as I do.

—Of course I do, babe, but where's the "let's think about it calmly" part?

You said, trying to stand firm with your position on the subject, but your husband's body was already on top of yours.

—Y/n, imagine our little baby here... —Jude said as he lifted your shirt and caressed your belly with his fingertips. —You're going to be the most beautiful pregnant woman in the world, babe.

You couldn't take it anymore, he talked so passionately about having a baby, the way he caressed your belly so delicately and how those brown eyes shone at you with a mischievous smile on his face.

—Then make me pregnant, Jude.

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jungwnies · 1 month ago

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lights, camera, action - lewis hamilton (2/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : lewis hamilton x fem!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : when lewis hamilton steps behind the camera for his directorial debut, the last thing he expects is to fall for the lead actress he casts.

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : tws : mild workplace power dynamics, mentions of media/press stress, brief tension or arguments, mild romantic/sexual tension ୨ৎ : wc : 579

part one | part two | part three | part four

You weren’t sure when it started to feel different.

Maybe the second week of shooting. Maybe the second time he corrected your scene pacing without really explaining why. Maybe it was the third time you caught yourself thinking about the way his hand brushed his curls back when he was frustrated.

It didn’t matter. You noticed it. And you hated that you noticed it.

Lewis was quiet most of the time. Sharp, focused, always scribbling something on a clipboard or tapping his pen against the monitor like the sound helped him think. But every once in a while, he looked at you like he was trying to figure out a question he didn’t want to ask.

And you? You’d stopped sleeping properly.

The story was eating at you. So was the way he watched your takes—like he wasn’t just directing, but studying you. Like there was something about the way you cracked your voice, dropped your gaze, exhaled between lines that felt personal.

You told yourself it wasn’t.

But it felt like it was.

“You’re rushing the silence again,” he said one night, stepping into your eyeline after take six.

“It’s intentional,” you replied, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “She doesn’t know what to do with the quiet.”

“She’s not afraid of silence. She’s afraid of being seen in it.”

You paused. “Maybe I am too.”

You didn’t mean to say that out loud. But you did.

He blinked. The crew around you moved slower than usual, like the weight in the air had trickled out into the space between cameras and lights.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he cut in, quieter now. “I get it.”

You nodded. “One more take?”

“One more.”

The take was perfect. But you still felt wrong after.

Later, when most of the crew had cleared out, you stayed. You always stayed. Watching playback was easier than sitting alone in your trailer wondering what he thought of you.

He sat beside you again. Closer this time. One of those rare moments when you could feel that something brewing between you again. The tension that hadn’t left since week one.

“That was the best scene of the day,” he murmured.

You didn’t respond.

“You’re making this film more than I imagined,” he said. “Every time you show up like that…”

Your heart kicked up in your chest. “Like what?”

He hesitated. “Raw. Honest. Unafraid.”

That wasn’t true. You were afraid.

Afraid of the way your body leaned toward him on instinct. Afraid of the way you caught your breath when his voice softened. Afraid of the moment that was coming—this moment—where neither of you could pretend anymore.

You turned to him. His eyes were already on your lips.

You should’ve stopped it. Said something. Moved.

But you didn’t.

And he leaned in. Close enough. Just enough.

Then—

“Lewis? Car’s here.”

The assistant’s voice shattered it. You flinched.

He pulled back instantly, almost too fast. His chair scraped the floor. “Yeah. Be right there.”

You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t know how.

He grabbed his bag in silence. You stayed where you were, fists clenched in your lap, still staring at the paused footage on the monitor.

Your character was crying on screen. And you couldn’t remember anymore if it had been real or not.

He left without saying goodbye.

And you sat there alone, wondering if the worst kind of tension was the kind that never actually breaks—just lingers.

Unspoken.

And getting heavier.

taglist : @lewismcqueen , @comfortbaby81 , @imjustheretomanifest (comment to be added ... bolded couldn't be tagged)

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 #lh44 imagine #lh44 x reader #𐐪♡︎₊˚ ― jungwnies #jungwnies

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pukefactory · 28 days ago

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•☽────✧˖°˖ MY LOVE, MY SECRET ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Where You Tell Her Something Vulnerable About Yourself

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcannons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

★ Requested By: Anon

☆ You tell her in a quiet moment. There’s no music playing in the Casino, no megaphones shrieking about profit margins or destiny or bloodied mannequins. You admit it—whatever it is—your past, your shame, your sore, raw nerve of a truth. And ENA… stills. Her eyes (triangles, uncertain) blink out of sync. Her voice glitches. “…Thank you for your investment.” Her Salesperson smile doesn’t fade. But her Meanie side? It twitches. Her clawed fingers tap her thigh—calculating. You just handed her leverage. But instead of using it, she stores it somewhere deep in her cubist heart. A cursed treasure in a collapsing briefcase.

☆ Later, she talks to herself. You catch fragments of it when you pass her in a hallway. “Must I report it? It’s information, not intel.” “SHUT UP, THEY TOLD ME BECAUSE I’M SPECIAL, NOT A SNITCH!!” “Right. Of course. Business is built on trust.” “Trust isn’t a deductible, you DUNCE!” You pause. You don’t say anything. You pretend you didn’t hear the conversation between her two halves debating what you’re worth.

☆ She starts offering you things. Deals. “Hey hey—confess a little more and I’ll throw in a lifetime subscription to my undivided attention.” It’s teasing. Mostly. You start to notice her red side is brighter when she talks to you. Like you gave her something forbidden to touch, and she can’t stop hovering near it. A secret. A power. A weapon. She holds it like a flower made of nails.

☆ When you’re sad, when you start spiraling because you regret telling her, ENA panics. She rushes in, yelling with her Meanie voice, “HEY! You think I’m gonna backstab you?! You think I’m just gonna BLAB and run a commercial on your TEARS?!?!” She’s waving her arms like a broken marionette, but her face is sincere. The claws don’t touch you. Instead, her mitten-hand pats your head. Once. Lightly. “…I’m glad you told me,” she mutters. “I don’t know why, but it feels like my heart got a new business license.”

☆ She keeps your vulnerability stored somewhere only she can access: A literal safe. Somewhere inside the glitchy neon apartment between two layers of dream code. She has it labeled “EMOTIONAL ASSETS – DO NOT TOUCH.” Sometimes she stares at it. Sometimes she fights herself not to open it. She’s learning what it means to have power and not use it. It makes her brain sizzle. It makes her stomach hurt. But she does it. For you.

☆ You joke about it one day. “Oh no, what if you blackmail me?” She goes still. Her triangle eyes widen. Her smile fades into something small and aching. “…I would never,” she says. Not Salesperson ENA. Not Meanie ENA. Something quieter. Sadder. You touched a nerve. One made of wire and worry. The kind of worry that can’t be monetized.

☆ When someone else figures out part of your secret—some third-party gelatinous oracle or drunk frog banker—ENA defends you instantly. “WRONG. You don’t know the CONTEXT, so STAY OUT OF THEIR FILES.” She causes a scene. She gets banned from the Casino. She tells you it was “an unfortunate networking malfunction.” But her clenched red hand? Yeah. That’s a bruise she got for you.

☆ There’s a point where her meanie side does try to weaponize it. Just once. You hurt her first—maybe you lied, maybe you pushed her away. And she shouts it. The thing you trusted her with. You freeze. Her own voice catches. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I MEANT IT, but I DIDN’T MEAN TO MEAN IT—” She stammers so badly the code splits. The world bleeds colour. She doesn’t stop apologizing for three whole hours.And then she builds you a room made of glass, so you can see her coming next time.

☆ She uses metaphors to talk about you now. “Investors trust me with soft data. I am now the holder of precious emotional stock.” Her Salesperson side says it like a joke. Her Meanie side snarls, “And if ANYONE TOUCHES IT I’LL KILL THEM WITH A PENCIL SHARPENER.” You’ve never felt safer. In the chaos. In the sales pitch. You’re her emotional portfolio. And she guards it with claws and megaphones.

☆ You wonder if she ever resents you. You ask, one night. When the stars are fake and the air smells like spilled milk and melted coins. “…Does it bother you? That I gave you something heavy?” She pauses. Then: “I’ve always wanted something heavy. Something real. Something I couldn’t sell.” Her eyes gleam like dying TVs. “I don’t want to use your pain,” she says. “I want to understand it.” And she smiles like a crooked contract. Sharp-toothed. Trustworthy. Maybe even holy.

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fictionnotfound · 1 month ago

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off script | damien haas

summary: an off script moment causes you and damien to re-evaluate some things surrounding your relationship

pairing: damien haas x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

disclaimer: I mean no disrespect to the cast and real people associated with smosh. This is written as a total work of fiction and based on how they behave as characters

a/n: I've never written for smosh before (and this is also the first post on this blog)...but hopefully you like this 💕

You hadn’t meant for the line to hit like that. And neither had he.

The sketch was always supposed to be lighthearted. A goofy "pretend couple gets stuck in an elevator and has to confess their fake love to get out" kind of deal. Classic Smosh chaos. You and Damien had been paired together—naturally. The chemistry was undeniable, anyone on the cast and crew could see it, and you’d been dancing around it for months.

But during the final take of the scene, something shifted.

The energy in the studio changed. The crew grew quiet. And Damien—he looked at you like he wasn’t acting anymore. You finished your last line with unease, before Damien spoke again.

“You make me feel like I’m not pretending when I’m with you.”

That's new, you thought to yourself. Those words hadn’t been in any of the previous takes —you would know. Because you wrote the script.

Beyond you there was a loud call of "CUT" and you and Damien broke away from each other.

The lights had barely cooled before the crew started packing up. Cameras off. Ladders clanked. Everyone laughed it off like any other sketch—but your brain couldn’t stop replaying that line.

He had to know what he was doing. Had to feel the same pull you did when he leaned just a little too close during rehearsals. When he remembered your coffee order without asking. When his hand lingered on your back a beat too long during blocking.

But he hadn’t said anything since the take. No jokes. No debrief. Not even a casual “good job today.”

So you wandered to the props room, telling yourself you needed to return the fake roses—but really, you just needed space to breathe.

The air inside was stale with fabric softener and old Halloween wigs. You stood in the dim light, staring blankly at a plastic bouquet in your hands like it held the answers.

That’s when the door creaked open.

“Hey.”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Thought you went home already,” you said, keeping your voice casual. You hated how breathless it came out.

“Yeah, well… couldn’t leave my dignity behind with the plastic sword and fake bouquet.”

A small laugh escaped you, despite the storm in your chest.

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him. Now you were alone, boxed in by old costumes, unspoken feelings, and the echo of a not-so-scripted line.

“You were really good today,” Damien said, quieter now.

“You too,” you replied, fingers still fiddling with the bouquet. “You always are.”

He hesitated. You could feel it. The way the air tensed between sentences, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite push it out.

You turned to face him slowly. Your heart thudded against your ribs.

“Was it just acting?” you asked, voice soft but steady. “What you said during the scene?”

He blinked. The question landed with force. You watched it hit him.

“Which part?” he asked.

“The part where you said…” You took a breath. “You make me feel like I’m not pretending when I’m with you.”

There was a pause. A long one. One that stretched thin like glass. “It wasn’t in the script,” he finally said.

You stared at him. “I know,” you replied

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but yours.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” he muttered. “Not like that. Not when everyone was there.”

“Then why did you?” you cut in, stepping closer.

His eyes finally met yours. Warm, wide, unsure.

“Because it’s true,” he waits for a reaction, trying to garner whether he should continue. “And I didn’t think I’d get the chance to say it for real.”

Silence cast over the two of you, one beat, two, then three. Just your heartbeat hammering in your ears and Damien standing four feet away like he’d just set something fragile down between you.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered.

He blinked rapidly, one of those cute blinks where his entire face seemed to scrunch in confusion. “What?”

You sighed. “You didn’t need a script Damien, you could’ve just told me. Weeks ago. Months, even.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well. It’s easier to pretend when there’s a camera in front of me.”

“Then let’s stop pretending.” That hits him hard, it feels real. Raw.

He reached out and gently took the bouquet from your hand, setting it aside on a cluttered shelf of old wigs and rubber chickens. Now empty, his hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know what to do with it now.

So you took it in yours.

Fingers laced, hesitantly at first—then tighter. Solid.

“I wasn’t acting either,” you said.

That’s all it took.

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for months—soft at first, then surging forward, hands cupping your face like you were something delicate he never thought he’d get to hold.

No lights. No audience. Just you and him. Off script. Exactly where you both wanted to be.

Moments pass like this, it feels like an eternity. You were so wrapped up in Damien’s hoodie and the warmth of his hands when the props room door creaked open again.

“Hey, have either of you—” Shayne’s voice echoed through the room “OH. Oh my god.”

You and Damien sprang apart in an instant. You nearly tripped over a pile of pirate hats and Damien knocked over a stack of prop pizza boxes trying to straighten up.

Shayne stood frozen in the doorway, holding a mic pack in one hand and a deeply offended expression on his face.

“...Is this why the roses are missing?” he deadpanned.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Damien blurted, voice cracking just slightly. He wasn’t sure this was something you wanted people to know about just yet. It’s not like you’d had any time to define what this was.

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Really?” Shayne scoffed. “Because it kind of is exactly what it looks like.”

“Okay, fine,” Damien said, sheepish. “It’s mostly what it looks like.”

Shayne crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe like a judgmental sibling. “I leave for five minutes and suddenly it’s Smosh: After Dark.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. “Can we please not make this a thing? It just… happened.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure.” The blonde man turned to leave, calling over his shoulder. “I’m definitely not texting the group chat about this.”

“Shayne, I swear—”

But it was too late. You heard the unmistakable ding-ding-ding of notifications going off as he walked down the hall, already typing like a menace.

Damien sighed and looked at you, wincing apologetically. “That could’ve gone worse.” He admitted.

You snorted, already laughing despite yourself. “Yeah? How?”

“Shayne could’ve taken a picture.”

Your phones buzzed simultaneously. [📸: “caught in 4K”] [Message from Shayne: “At least pretend you’re not in love during work hours???”]

You looked at each other—slightly overwhelmed but laughed nonetheless.

Damien reached for your hand again, unbothered now. “Guess we’re not really off script anymore, huh?”

“Nope. But hey—maybe this version’s even better.”

And this time, you kissed him again on purpose—with the door locked.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Bonus:

The next morning you arrived on set to find hell waiting for you in the office kitchen.

Someone—and by someone, you meant Shayne—had printed out a screenshot of the blurry caught in 4K photo and taped it to the fridge.

Written in red Sharpie beneath it: “Smosh’s Cutest Couple (We’re All Disgusted)”

Courtney was already there with coffee and a grin the size of Jupiter. She leaned against the counter, an air of smugness radiating from her.

“So… How long have you and Damien been sneaking off into tiny rooms to make out?” she asked, handing you a mug labeled with Shayne’s face as the Chosen on it. You could almost hear his mocking voice in your mind.

You groaned. “Can I get, like, one day of peace?”

“Absolutely not,” Courtney beamed. “This is the most romantic thing to happen here since Angela tried to serenade a toaster for a sketch.”

You barely had time to respond before Ian walked in, took one look at the photo, and sighed like a disappointed—but secretly proud—dad.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So... this is finally happening. You two finally confessed?”

“Wait, you knew?” you asked. Ian had always been aloof around the office. You never thought he paid enough attention to know anything about your feelings for Damien.

“I didn’t know, but I had a strong suspicion after the sketch last night when Damien improvised that line and then stared at you like you were the last cupcake at Crafty.”

You stared at him.

“...That is shockingly specific.”

“I have eyes. Also, Damien asked me if it would be ‘unprofessional’ to fall for your co-star. So.”

“IAN—”

“It was cute,” he shrugged. “Very theatre camp energy. I support it.”

Right on cue, Damien walked into the kitchen. He froze mid-step as all heads turned toward him like a sitcom audience waiting for his punchline.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Shayne, did you seriously—?”

“Hard launch, baby,” Shayne declared proudly from across the room, holding up a bagel like a trophy. “You’re public now. I’m your manager.”

“You’re fired.”

“Can’t fire me. I’ve already booked you two for a fake couple’s therapy sketch next month.”

Damien turned to you, totally red, totally flustered—and smiling anyway.

“You okay?” he murmured, just for you.

“Yeah,” you said, bumping his arm with yours. “Kind of loving it, actually.”

Just then Angela popped her head in. “SOMEONE TELL ME WHO WON THE WILL-THEY-WON’T-THEY BET—”

Courtney grinned “ME. Obviously.”

Ian rebutted, “Technically, I said they'd be official before the next Try Not to Laugh, so I get partial credit.”

“I said there would be confessions via interpretive dance. So I think I win emotionally.” Shayne decided.

You and Damien exchanged a look. He reached down, gently laced his fingers with yours, and squeezed.

“Might as well lean into it,” he whispered. “We’re officially the bit now.”

You grinned. “As long as we get our own theme song.”

#damien haas x reader #damien haas imagine #damien haas x you #smosh x reader #smosh imagine #smosh x you

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sorrowfulrosebud · 2 years ago

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Katsuki fumbled as the heavy wooden door of your mansion was nearly slammed in his face, you being the cause. Your infuriated strides didn’t stop as you reached the kitchen.

Katsuki felt his eyes burn and bile rise in his throat as he tried desperately to reach you.

“Baby, please! It was one time, and I didn’t even kiss her-,” he rambles worriedly, taking a step aback as you turn around.

Your eyes held nothing but pure fire and pain.

“Oh my FUCKING GOD Katsuki! You didn’t kiss her?! Oh that’s just wonderful, I totally forgive you for going behind my FUCKING BACK and fucking other women! That makes everything okay now!” You cry? Laugh? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Katsuki winces at your tears, pearly streaks of his own staining his cheeks. He reaches for you, heart breaking when you flinch away from him.

“Baby-,” he starts.

“Don’t you fucking DARE call me that you disloyal bastard,” you sob.

“I gave you my EVERYTHING, you son of a bitch! The nights I spent slaving over that fucking stove so YOU wouldn’t go hungry! I broke my back cleaning this fucking house, I give up my social life so we can be together, I bust my fucking ass doing stuff in bed I don’t want to do, ALL FOR YOU! I gave you EVERYTHING! So don’t you fucking dare try and have some balls now.” You sob through gritted teeth.

Katsuki sinks to his knees, openly sobbing and grabbing your hands. You tried forcing them back, but his grip was relentless. He pressed tearful kisses to your hands, amplifying your pained sobs.

“(Y/N), please! It was the worst mistake of my entire fucking life, of OUR lives. It was an act of stupidity, and if I could go back in time I would kill past me for even looking at her. It’s YOU I love, not her. It’s you, it’s always been you,” he gasped for breath, looking up at you. You paused.

“AAAAAAAND CUT! That was a great take everyone, go grab some lunch and be back in an hour to continue the shoot,” the director shouts, hopping off his pedestal.

You wiped your tears off, cursing the added tear stick as you laughed.

“Jesus Christ, that was a rough scene. How are you, baby?” You look down at him. Your smile was warm, a complete contrast to the character in the series you were acting in. Katsuki made no move to wipe his tears.

He rose slowly, before wrapping his arms around you tightly. He sniffled as he held you as close as possible, kissing the side of your face.

“Baby, are you alright? It was just a scene!” You giggle, kissing him on the forehead.

“If I ever make you sad like that, I need you to kill me. I would rather die than make you cry the way you just did,” he sniffed, wiping his nose and holding your cheeks.

“Aw sweetie. I know you’d never cheat on me. I love you so, so, so much. I guess we just did too good a job acting,” you giggle. You pull him in closer for a kiss, wiping his tears and playing with his baby hairs.

“I love you so much. Never ever forget that,” he says firmly. You nod, before squeezing out of his grip and tapping his ass playfully.

“Of course angel, now let’s get lunch. Sato made enchiladas and I’m craving them so badly,” you kiss him again. Katsuki’s phone beeped, and he checked before grimacing slightly.

“I’ll be right there babe, Eijiro’s complaining about something,” he says, squeezing your sides and sending you off.

You’re so fucking right, baby. He thought. His chest bloomed in pain. Ochaco’s bunched up tits stared right back at him in picture form, taunting him.

I did too good of an acting job.

#bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou x reader angst #bakugou angst Drabble #MHA x reader angst #bnha x reader angst #actor au #bakugou angst #katsuki bakugou x reader angst

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alive-gh0st · 6 days ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part one, part two

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

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The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

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It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

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By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

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The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

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Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

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The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

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More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

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Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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