#okay? okay; this will run for a week this is still such a spur of the moment thing for me to be doing qwq....

[mortellanarts]

I miss posting my writing and I have like a thousand different drabbles but I'm scared they all feel very samey so I'm gonna democratize the choice out of the ones that are farther along so I can pick one to polish properly feel free to ask away if you wanna know more about anything and hi yes trick question they're all still Kurashiki angst

Also trick question again all but the last one are part of that not acknowledging canon au

#I'm so in love with writing about the most mundane shenanigans honestly you want domestic hurt/comfort? I got five of those in the oven #at any given moment #also addendum for the last one it's a lot of parental issues and sigma is kind of just there phi's the one I wanted to write #the second and third one are fun because I got artsy with the formatting to match all the Feelings ™ #the first and fourth one are the messiest but they do have a larger cast even if it stays introspective because. well it me #okay? okay; this will run for a week this is still such a spur of the moment thing for me to be doing qwq.... #writing #no main tags... hm I wonder

[diddybok]

asking best friend!stray kids what you are pt.2

all characters depicted in my writing are from my own imagination and do NOT in any way represent nor reflect the people in real life :)

➩pairing: ot8 x gn!reader

➩genre(s): angst, some fluff

➩warnings: strong language, mentions of sex, some of the boys are still mean, some unhappy endings

➩wc: 9.4k (9433)

➩author’s note: i am so serious if anybody talks to you in a way to undermine, condescend or just simply belittle you and make you feel stupid, pls pls pls cut that person out of your life. even if they’re doing it as a ‘joke’. it never ends well. ily all and you deserve the best of the best, always <3

➩parts: part one

chris | 1.2k (1201) words

After the fourth ring, you swipe the little phone symbol across your screen and the time starts. You watch it go from one second, to the next, and the next, before a deep elongated sigh pulls you out of your trance. 

You put him on speaker, afraid of the way you’d react if you were to hear him so close to you in your ear. You can’t handle that right now. 

“Y/n?” His slightly distorted voice says. You don’t reply, placing the phone down in front of you as you sit and fiddle with the rings on your fingers. 

“Come on sweetheart, say something please. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Chris asks softly. Akin to a parent who would try and get their child to confess to stealing cookies out of the cookie jar. 

You run your hands down your face. You’re annoyed with him, most definitely. But you can’t deny the butterflies that start to flutter in your stomach when he addresses you like that. 

It’s not fair. 

The line is painfully silent for another two minutes. Chris patiently, or rather stubbornly, waiting for you to speak. 

“This…this is harder than I thought it’d be.” You say, your voice croaking slightly as this is the first time you have spoken in a while. 

“Okay. Try not to think too much about it. Just speak your truth, unload it all.” Chris encourages. 

You take a deep breath and run your hands up and down your thighs to stop them from clamming up. 

“You hurt my feelings. You are continuing to hurt my feelings. I feel as if I’m the only one who is missing out on an inside joke that everybody seems to know but me.” You halt, waiting to see if he would have a rebuttal. Except he doesn’t and his silence spurs you on to continue. 

“I thought we were practically dating. I thought that night would be the night that you would ask to be together as a couple. You know, exclusive?” You chuckle bitterly. “So imagine my surprise when you decide to ignore me for a week. Do you know how shitty that felt?” You ask him. 

You can just about hear his breaths. They’re soft and collected. Yet the more you wait for his response that he doesn’t seem to be giving, you are becoming the opposite of that. 

“I asked you a question.” You say curtly. 

“I can see how that would make you feel shitty, yes. For that I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I felt like I fucked everything up for us.” You think he sounded genuine enough when he said that, so you elect yourself to be quiet so he can continue. 

“I should’ve stopped it. Doing it knowing I wasn’t ready for it to happen—like that anyway—was not fair on you. I wouldn’t say that it has complicated things per say, but it has led me to think about a few things.” Chris finishes. 

You sit there, the flaps of the butterfly wings now causing the bile to travel upwards and out. You reach over and grab your water bottle from your bedside table and chug as much as you can. 

“Think about things like what?” You will yourself to say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand at the water that managed to escape and drip down your chin. 

He doesn’t reply which does not settle your nerves. Especially not after that last sentence he said. Silence is not your friend at this moment. 

“Chris—”

“I think that we should be together.” He practically vomits out. 

Your eyes widen and your eyebrows shoot up to the top of your skull. 

“What!”

“Y/n?”

You both speak at the same time. 

“Oh sorry you go ahead.”

“Sorry, you first.”

You hear a small chuckle over the line as you speak over each other again. He stays silent this time, letting you talk. 

“Are you serious? Like you really mean that? You aren’t playing me for a fool right?” You ask quickly. 

“Yes. Yes. No,” You release a silent scream. “I really do want us. I have always wanted us, but this—you—made me realise that we should’ve made it official a while ago. There were only so many more excuses I could pull out of the bag to mask me taking you out on dates as just ‘best friends hanging out doing questionable things’.” 

Of course, you knew this as you are smart. The excuse he gave when he took you to a rooftop restaurant with candlelights everywhere was certainly not ‘for practice when I get a partner’. Him having your favourite meal prepared and the playlist the two of you made playing in the background? Dead giveaway. 

“Plus it is also totally unrealistic that you as my best friend would splash that much cash on me unless it was because you lost a bet. So I had a feeling I knew something was up. Which I guess is why I got a bit too excited and jumped to the conclusion that we were already a couple.” You say scratching the back of your neck. 

“Not true! I would always buy you things.” Chris corrects. 

“Yeah but you’d always complain whilst doing so. So when you stopped complaining, something had clearly shifted.” You clarify. 

You can envision the eye roll he does paired with the sigh he releases making you laugh. 

There’s another silence that fills the space, albeit this time it is comfortable. Until he sneezes down the line and you catch yourself smiling warmly as you bless him. 

“What happens now? Do we get a level up on our relationship or something? Or do I magically spawn in your arms and you cuddle me until I fall asleep? I’m thinking that sounds like the correct thing to happen next.” He teases. 

“Of course that’s what you think.” 

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just work here.” He says in a seductive drawl. 

“You’re still very much in the dog house. Honestly, I feel it’s only fair for me to leave you waiting a week to even see me.” You speak without a hint of sarcasm. 

It goes quiet over the phone again. You look down at your rings, twisting them around your finger gently. 

“Okay…I guess that’s fair.” He finally responds. 

You release a breath you weren't aware you were holding, nodding to yourself in agreement. 

“You’re one hundred percent certain you want this? Want to be together past just best friends?” You clarify. 

“What do you not trust me already? Y/n I want to be with you. I have wanted to be with you. Our communication just wasn’t great. But we will work on it together. Okay?” Chris speaks gently down the phone. 

“Okay.” You say softly. 

Though it will take a day or two for you to get over the fact he didn’t message you for a week, you feel as though a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. 

Whatever the next step of your relationship with Chris is, you’re just relieved that you get to do it together with no more misunderstandings. 

minho | 1.0k (1032) words

You and Minho decided that it would be best for you to discuss your relationship over lunch. He even offered to pay which you certainly were not going to turn down. 

You have been hyping yourself up in front of the mirror for about twenty minutes since Minho said he was en route. If Minho texting you earlier was any indication of how this conversation will go, then you are sure you aren’t silly for practising breathing techniques and how to not make a fool of yourself on a whole. 

You’re getting your jacket when you hear his knock at the door. You know it’s him because he only ever knocks in a pattern. 

Opening the door, you’re glad to see him greet you with a smile on your face. Though that’s how it has always been in your relationship. Even when you fight, you always know to resolve the issue with a smile and to never yell at each other. 

Even though you could tell he was anxious, he was masking it well. Throughout the drive, playing your favourite songs. Even now in the café ordering you your favourite meal when he caught you scanning the menu acting like you didn’t know what you wanted already. 

Safe to say, the both of you calm each other down, which makes this conversation much easier to have. 

“So, let's address the elephant in the room.” You start, taking a sip of your milkshake. 

“I first want to say that whatever we choose to do from this point on, you are not allowed to leave me. Well, you can’t anyways because I am always going to be in your life.” He says with an unwavering smile on his face. 

You hold back your smile and nod, letting him carry on. 

“No I do mean it. I just think that we’d be better off just being…us. You know what I mean?” He says using his hands to emphasise.  

“Mmm, let’s dig a little deeper. I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. Obviously what we shared was nice and I don’t think that we should regret it, right?” You say with a tilt of your head. 

“I agree. I had a think about it whilst I drove to your house to pick you up and I don’t think it was fair of me to question what we did. In terms of making you think that I felt that it wasn’t right of us to do.” Minho explains. He looks around before leaning in slightly. “Especially since that was the best sex I have had in months.” He throws a wink your way and you have to stop yourself from taking a bow. 

Him saying that feels as though numerous weights have been lifted off of your shoulders. You were most anxious about whether he either hated it or thought it was a mistake. So you’re now glad to hear that neither of it was the case. 

The waiter comes over with your food and you thank them. You’re about to pick up your fork and take a bite of food to fuel your courage but you’re abruptly tutted at. 

“Just because we are in the midst of an important conversation does not mean we skip tradition.” Minho says, raising his eyebrow at you. 

You place the fork down and put up a peace sign as you pose. He takes out his camera and snaps a photo of you with both his and your meal in the frame. He then puts his middle finger up and poses with an over exaggerated bored expression. You chuckle to yourself before taking the photo. 

“You said that we moved too fast assuming that we were moving in the first place. Do you still think that now?” You say before taking a bite of your meal. 

He finishes his mouthful as he furrows his eyebrows and thinks about your question. 

“Well I mean, I’d be an idiot to say that I didn’t think that it wouldn’t be going anywhere. But for us right now, I don’t think we should be moving at all.” He speaks. 

The food you are swallowing seems to get a little stuck as you start to quietly choke. All the while Minho grows increasingly embarrassed at your lack of ability to stay alive. 

“Okay calm, people are starting to look over.” He says to you, pouring you a glass of water from the jug on the table. 

You take a few gulps and tap your chest.

“Damn. You shouldn’t say things like that when I’m mid chew.” You scold. 

“My apologies, from now on I shall wait until the food has made its descent to the pit of acid in your stomach.” He lightly chuckles. 

“So what I’m hearing is that all things considered romantically, we should stop. So we just continue on as friends?” You clarify. 

He nods. 

“Hit the nail on the head.”

“Right…I mean I guess that works. After all, we were friends before we got curious so I’m pretty sure we can just laugh about it and carry on.” You smile albeit quite painfully. 

“Yes of course! We were just curious…” Minho adds, a painful smile also etched onto his features. 

Can you just laugh about it and carry on? Even when it felt so natural? So…right?

There’s a silence pregnant with awkwardness as you and Minho avoid each other’s gazes and continue to eat. 

Akin to a supporting artist having a cue to interact with the leads of a movie, the waiter comes over to ask if everything was alright with the food. 

You both bombard him with praise and he seems a little taken aback and hurries away to the next table. 

You don’t lie to Minho often, much like he doesn’t lie to you. However, in this café it seems the two of you are egregious liars. Which explains the way you both see right through each other. 

You know that it’s only a matter of time until something happens again because unfortunately you have crossed the line. Let’s just hope you can go at least a month before you’re entangled in each other's arms again. 

changbin | 1.1k (1120) words

One, two, three knocks on your door. You approach it slowly, looking through the peephole to see Changbin standing in his big puffer jacket and gloves. 

You consider letting him stay in the cold a little longer, but the goodness in your heart wills your hand to open the door. 

“Come in quickly, it’s cold.” You order. 

He doesn’t dally with his movements, coming inside quickly as you shut the door behind him. It’s quiet as he takes off his shoes and coat, giving you a mildly awkward smile that was still dulcet. 

“I was just making breakfast, would you like some?” You offer, walking into the kitchen. 

“Oh, yes please that’d be nice thank you.” He says, following after you. 

The atmosphere feels a little strange and you aren’t used to it. Changbin hasn’t yelled at all since stepping foot inside and usually you would’ve threatened the duct tape on his mouth by now. 

You engage in some aimless chit chat with him whilst you cook. You figured you would ease into this conversation rather than just immediately diving head first. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Changbin admires as he looks around your kitchen. 

You turn to him, bewildered. 

“I haven’t changed my kitchen since I moved in here, bin.” You establish. 

“Really? Oh. I thought there was something different about this place in the week and a bit that I have been gone.” He says with genuinity. 

“Why would I have changed my kitchen around in the week that you’ve been gone?” You ask. 

He shrugs, stealing a blueberry from the bowl when your back is turned from him. 

“I don’t know. Some people dye or cut their hair when they’re upset. I figured since you like your hair too much, you would’ve changed the next best thing.” He solidifies, feeling much too content with the way his brian works. 

You on the other hand aren’t sure whether you’re being tested or if this is truly how he is choosing to behave.

You plate up the food and as you’re about to slide his plate over to him, you pull it back. 

“For every question answered, you get a mouthful of food.” At this, Changbin gawks. 

“This seems illegal in some form or another.” He sulks. 

You open up your phone to your conversation with him. 

“So it says here that you didn’t want to mess up our friendship, but emotions were running high and we weren’t thinking about the consequences. What consequences would that be?” You state. 

He looks at you quizzically. 

“Why do I feel like I’m in court right now? You’re reading the text messages out like evidence and I’m scared.” He says laughing awkwardly. 

“You answer the question. You get to eat.” You redirect. He clears his throat before he begins. 

“Well the consequences would be, erm, how us sleeping together will create ripples in our friendship whether we like it or not. I mean I’m not saying I regret it fully…but maybe a tiny bit?” He says fiddling with his hands. 

He opens his mouth wide as he awaits your end of the deal. You pick up the fork and scoop up some food before you feed it to him. 

For people who aren’t a couple, you sure do act like it. 

“Why is that?” You press further. 

“Because I didn’t want something like this to happen. By that I mean, if we were going to go all the way, then we should have established what we were prior. Even though our friends may think we are a couple, it wasn’t exclusively spoken about between us.” A beat. “But now I think that by letting ourselves get carried away, we missed the opportunity to settle things out with both of us clear on where we stand in our relationship.” He finishes. 

You decide to give him two mouthfuls for that answer to which he hums happily in response. 

You cannot doubt that what he said makes sense. You should have spoken about what you guys were before engaging in something as intimate as sleeping with each other. 

Yet for two people who have already gone to second base countless times before and couldn’t control the libido this time, you also understand where things got messy. 

“I think I get where you’re coming from now.” You say, eating your own mouthful. 

Changbin nods in acknowledgment before stealing a handful of blueberries. 

“But you also said that you still wanna be my best friend. Is that still true? Do you think we can get past this?” You ask apprehensively. 

Changbin’s eyebrows furrow in disbelief. 

“Of course! To both of your questions. Look at us, we’ve lasted this long. Yeah so I’ve been inside you, that’s fine! At least we had a good time, right? We can say that we’ve done it and gotten it out of our system.” He exclaims. 

You pull a face at the last sentence and he is immediately scrambling to reword what he means. 

“No, I don't see it as a throwaway act! I meant that because we had been stopping at second base because we were too scared to take it all the way, we finally reached the goal.” He stammers. 

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms. 

“No I don’t mean that sleeping with you was the goal, if anything it was off the pitch.” He tries to explain. 

A single tilt of your head was all that was needed in order for him to slam his head into his hands and mutter a ‘I give up’. 

You shake your head and slide the plate over to him as you move across the island to sit on the stall next to him. You place an arm around his shoulder as he sighs. 

“I don’t want to lose you as my best friend too, bin. Let’s just take it one day at a time, yeah? What happened, happened. Now we both know where we stand about our friendship, it’s okay.”

He lifts his head from his palms and looks over you with his big black eyes. 

“You mean that? Like actually? We’re good?” He asks. You laugh slightly. 

“Yes bin, we’re good.” You reassured him. 

“Oh thank God. Does that mean I can still call you my sweet—”

“One day at a time.” You say sternly. 

The both of you smile as you finish the rest of your breakfast. There’s a twinge of hurt that you feel for you and Changbin not going forward as a couple, but you would rather this than to lose him forever. 

So for now, you’ll cherish what an amazing friendship the two of you have and will continue to have. 

hyunjin | 1.1k (1113) words

“Y/n open the fucking door.” You mimic Hyunjin’s last text message to you aloud as you walk down the stairs. 

You were by no means rushing to get to the door, if anything, you think that standing right by it for a good two minutes or so to really irritate him would make you feel much better than you currently do. 

Hyunjin continuously banging on the door pulls you out of your stubborn demeanour. If not for your neighbours, you’d have let him continue to bang against the door until his knuckles bruised. 

Yet it seems your night couldn’t get any worse considering you’ve just taken a fist to the face. Perhaps that was your fault for catching him off guard when he was vigorously knocking as he appeared to have ‘knocked’ your face instead of the door. 

“Oh fuck! Y/n!” Hyunjin yells as he cradles your face in his hands. You appreciate the gesture, you do, he was still your best friend after all. But if this wasn’t the cherry on top of the cake then you don’t know what is. 

“Yep, good to see you too hyune.” You groan. 

You scrunch your face as your hand moves to soothe your forehead. Shrugging out of his hold, you step inside of your home, trusting that he would follow suit and shut the door behind him. 

“Y/n darling I am so sorry. I promise I didn’t mean to knock against…your forehead.” He speaks with utmost genuinity as he shadows behind you. 

You don’t say anything as you just grab yourself some frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel before moving to your living room to make yourself comfortable on the sofa as you wait for him to explain everything. 

You’re thankful that he seems to be getting the hints tonight. He takes his place beside you, worry etched onto his beautiful face. 

Damn his prince-like features…

“Explain yourself then, since texting wasn’t working for you.” You spit. He bites his lip nervously and fidgets with his hands before his eyes look from the bag of peas until falling onto your own. 

“When…when I said I didn’t want you as my best friend, I meant because we can’t just go back to being best friends after that. It would just kill me knowing that you aren’t mine even after the night we shared.”  He starts. 

You sit still and listen, switching hands since the frozen peas were adding to the chill you already had from the conversation that loomed over your head. 

“I don’t want you as my best friend because I want you to be mine. I want to be yours. I want us.  Together.”

You wince. There’s a small part of you that just doesn’t believe him. You place down the now damp tea towel that holds the slowly melting peas. 

He looks at you, trying to read your reaction, but you were giving nothing away. 

“I just wanna know what was going through your head all those nights we spent together. We may not have had sex, but we did everything else. The cuddles, the kisses—when you familiarise yourself with every inch of my body—it would make sense that I thought we were something more than just best friends.”

He breaks eye contact, his interest now on the rings he adorns on his fingers. You can tell he is trying to think of something to say, so you wait patiently. 

“I understand if you feel like I may have been using you.” He acquiesces in meeting your gaze, but he persists. “It hadn’t really occurred to me that you may have thought of us as more than best friends. Granted, instead of sitting in my uncertainty I should have just asked you. Then that night happened and it hit me. Afterwards, I just knew that I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

You feel nauseous. You can’t decipher exactly what that was supposed to mean. You look over at the now wet kitchen towel. 

“So you do regret it?” You pressed, your voice soft. 

He holds his hands out and shakes his head as he quickly refutes his words. 

“No of course not! I just meant that I know I should have asked you about us before that happened. I didn’t want it to be the case that you felt that I was not serious about us. ‘Cause having sex with someone is serious and I never wanted you to think I was playing around with your feelings.” He finishes. 

You sit there thinking about what he said. Maybe he was being sincere. Maybe he really does want what you thought the two of you had for the past couple of months. 

“How can I know that you aren’t just saying this? That you feel somewhat obligated to make us a thing because of the fact we slept with each other?” You ask. 

“Because I was too much of a coward to say this earlier.” He speaks without missing a beat. 

He scoots closer to you on the sofa, his hands providing warmth in yours. You don’t mean to dither, but you can’t help but weigh all the options. Hyunjin tilts his head to try and meet your eyes.

“I know you’re thinking about all of the things that could go wrong. About all of the things that could go right. What I could be for you in a day, a week, a month or even a year.” He cups your cheek, his thumb gently stroking beneath your eye. “But just be with me in this present moment. Think about what I could be for you now.” He says quietly. 

After some time, you lift your head to meet his gaze, the faintest smile on your lips. 

“Okay.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widened in shock and by the look on his face, you were certain that he thought you were going to reject him. 

“O-okay? You’re sure?” He presses. 

“I’m sure. I can tell you truly meant what you said and I think this would be the better outcome for us. I don’t think I could picture my life without you in it.” You admit. 

“Then I promise you won’t ever have to picture it because I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you, Y/n.” Hyunjin declares. 

You lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips. You aren’t sure whether your head is throbbing from your injury or the thrill that comes with you and Hyunjin finally being together. 

You just hope that Hyunjin is able to keep his promise that he won’t ever leave you; and that in the end, you made the right decision. 

jisung | 1.1k (1115) words 

You and Jisung sit on your sofa with a cup of tea in both of your hands. It’s been ten minutes since he has arrived and not one word has been said between the two of you. 

That’s how things usually are between you and him though. You don’t particularly need to say anything to know what the other one needs. 

However, you fear that your senses haven’t quite been tingling like they ought to be. Since what you thought was commonly shared between both parties has seemed to only be dumped into one. 

An unrequited love is always bound to end in heartbreak and you’re sure that is how today is going to end. 

“Is it just me or do things feel a little odd?” Jisung says breaking the ice, but in a way which has submerged the two of you in ice cold water. 

“Well I think I would be a little more fraught if things didn’t feel odd.” You add. 

You aren’t exactly happy with him at the moment either. In fact you think it’s in his best interest to explain just what he meant in those text messages. 

“Explain yourself then.” You say not beating around the bush. 

Jisung places his mug down before turning to you. 

“I wanna start by saying I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I worded what I was trying to say in those texts. You aren’t stupid Y/n, I promise. I’m the one that’s being stupid.” He meets your gaze and you give him a single nod. 

“The truth is, I don’t think I’m ready to have a relationship with you.” 

If your feelings are hurt, you will yourself not to show it on your face. Except your face goes pallid as you feel the knife stab directly into your beating heart. 

“Then why make it seem as if we were? Why not shut it down? Better yet, why use me to get your rocks off and make me think that I am going to amount to more than just your best friend?” Your voice croaks, unable to hide the emotion you’re feeling. 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

“I can’t give you a definite answer of why I did all of that right now.” He says quietly. 

You can’t help the scoff that falls from your mouth. 

“What the fuck Ji? Why are you even here then? What are we even doing?!” You say starting to grow more upset. 

His eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. He places a hand on your arm and is surprised when you don’t shrug him away. 

“I promise I don’t mean to vex you, I just don’t have an answer because I don’t know. I just know that us having slept together made things seem…real. Like we were actually happening. When in actuality we weren’t and never will be.” 

That was a punch to your gut so hard that your body viscerally reacted to his words and hunched over slightly. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. 

This can’t be the Jisung that you were friends with for so long. No, he would never say something so outright. 

It’s as if he hasn’t even registered what he just said because his face is that of worry as to why you are stunned silent. 

“Jisung,” he winces at the use of his full name. “What did you expect to happen between us? Be honest, don’t say that you don’t know.” You speak gently. 

He thinks for a moment, his hand slipping from your arm as he uses it to fiddle with the zipper of his jacket.

“I just expected for us to play around and not take it to the next step. I just wanted a bit of fun with my best friend. That’s not so bad is it?” He confesses, looking at his feet. 

The knife is pushed deeper. 

You honestly aren’t sure how to react. What to say or even do. So you sit in silence. 

Minutes go by and all you can hear are the hum of the electronics in the room and the breathing of Jisung. He always has been a loud breather. 

A clearing of the throat pulls you out of your trance. 

“Please say something, anything.” He pleads. You slowly turn your face towards him. 

“What would you like me to say Jisung? I have just found out that my best friend—you—has been using me for shits and giggles and being a total ignorant asshole while he does so.” You retort. 

He shakes his head as he frowns at your words. 

“No, no I’m not the bad guy here. I didn’t use you just for that. Why would I do that Y/n? You mean more to me than that.” He runs his hand through his brown locks, getting frustrated. “Look, I don’t think we should blow this too much out of proportion. We did something that we shouldn’t have and now we just have to move on.” He says. 

“You don’t mean that.” 

“You’re my best friend Y/n. You know me inside and out. Maybe I haven’t been so transparent with you lately. I just think that I need to figure out some stuff on my own because clearly everything I say is hurting you and I hate the way I hurt you. Fuck, just seeing your face now, knowing I was the cause. I can’t do this. Not anymore.” He says solemnly. 

You blink. The tears trickle down your cheeks as you take into account what he is saying. 

No. This isn’t your Jisung. Just give him some time and he’ll be back. He’ll come back. 

“What are you saying to me Ji?” He places a hand on your cheek before standing up and putting on his shoes. 

You immediately get up and follow him to the front door. 

“Jisung.” You whisper. He opens the door and steps out, stopping and turning to you once more. 

“I’m always gonna be in your corner Y/n. Okay? Always.” Jisung says as he smiles sadly at you and turns away from your door. 

Watching him leave feels like the knife is twisting uncontrollably. You shut your door, not wanting to see him in case you’ll do something stupid like run and stop him from walking out of your life. 

You’re angry, you’re hurt, you’re confused. You’re in a state of shock. Was that a goodbye? Will you ever see him again?

You cover your mouth with your hand as you sob quietly as reality sets in. You had just lost the man you had fallen for, your best friend. 

You aren’t sure if he is ever coming back. 

felix | 1.0k (1077) words

The sun is setting and you find yourself in the familiar skatepark which you and Felix frequently visit to hang out. 

This was a first, you getting here before him. It felt uncanny, especially since the skatepark is an empty void. It’s not like you’re here at the late hours of the night which is what you guys usually do, so where are the people?

As you sit atop the ramp wondering this, Felix climbs up and sits next to you. 

“Hey Y/n.” He greets. No remark about you being here before him for a change. You face him and greet him with a small smile. 

“The sky is pretty this evening. Any particular reason for why you wanted to meet at our spot earlier than usual?” He asks you. 

“I knew the sky would be worth seeing from here today. I also wanted to be able to see your face when you lie.” You deadpan. 

He audibly swallows at this which makes you chuckle and start to swing your feet. 

“I’m kidding. Just wanted to watch the sun go down.” You tease. 

It’s silent, bar the birds chirping and the rustle of the leaves as the wind dances through the trees. 

“So about what happened with us,” Felix starts. “You think that we are more than just best friends?” He asks. You hum in acknowledgement. 

“I thought we were more than best friends for a while. You know, since this whole shebang started. The sex was just what I thought was you being ready to take our relationship further. Though that was foolish of me to think and not double check with you.”

Felix, now turnt to face towards the sunset, is quiet as he takes into consideration what you have just said. 

“It wasn’t foolish.” He says ever so quietly. 

Your legs still their movement as you turn to look at him. His face is being kissed nicely by the sun right now, his freckles practically glowing. 

“Of course it was foolish Felix. Or else we wouldn’t be here now.” You smile as you tip your head back and close your eyes, letting the last of the sun’s warmth seep through your skin. 

“No. It wasn’t foolish because I was ready. Okay that’s not entirely true, I caught feelings months ago but I only became sure about them during that week I was away.” He softly speaks. 

You drop your head and look towards him. His eyes are still glued to the vast blanket of orange and yellow across the horizon. 

“But that’s not what you said in those text messages. You said that you think that boundary shouldn’t have been crossed in the first place. Yet now you’re saying this? Forgive me Felix, but I’m finding it hard to believe what’s coming out of your mouth.” You sigh.  

He finally turns and looks at you, a small scowl on his face. 

“I know what I said in the texts Y/n. I don’t go back on my word. I do think a boundary was crossed and as best friends it shouldn’t have been.” A beat. “Though that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel something towards you. That’s why I’m so confused.” He turns his head back towards the sky, the deep shade of blue starting to make itself evident. 

“Like I said, I didn’t expect to catch feelings for you and then have sex with you.” He finishes. 

You lay down, watching the dark grey clouds move. 

“Do you remember much of that night?” You ask. 

“Of course I do. How could I ever forget. I mean we are literally sitting on the ramp that it happened on.” He reminisced. 

“Remember when I told you that I was yours and you were mine? That was probably said in the heat of the moment, but I meant it Felix. I’m not the kind of person who says things for the sake of saying them. Plus, I’m not focused on anybody other than you.” You say, closing your eyes again as the cool air brushes against your face. 

Though your eyes are closed, you sense that Felix was staring at you. You hear his clothes rustle before you’re wrapped up in his arms. 

He is cuddling you. 

“Doll, I’m sorry. I didn’t just say those things because we were high off oxytocin. You really mean so much to me. I don't want us to argue, I just want us to be together. For real. No hesitations, no take backs. Just you and me living how we do, but together as one.”

You can feel something wet drip into the crook of your neck. You know it’s not raining so you figure he has started to cry. 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings Y/n. It’s not what I wish to ever do to the person I love.” He sobs. 

You open your eyes as you hear his admittance. The person he loves. The person he loves. 

“You love me?”

“I’m in love with you. I was trying to make sense of if I truly meant it over that week and I reacted like I did earlier because I know you didn’t love me back. I was embarrassed.” He confessed. 

You turn over in his arms as you grab ahold of his face. It’s dark now, but a nearby light creates a twinkle in his eyes. 

“I want you to be sure that this is what you want. You don’t have to promise me forever, but promise me that this is truly what you want until it isn’t.” You say gently. 

His bottom lip wobbles slightly as he takes a deep breath in then out. 

“I am sure. I promise. I love you, I’m in love with you. I want us to be best friends. I want us to be lovers. I want it all. I want you.” He whispers against your lips. 

You smile, wiping his tears away with your thumb. 

“Okay, me too. We’re locked in?” You hold up your pinky. 

“We’re locked in.” He connects his pinky with yours and pulls your face in to kiss you softly. 

The two of you lay there in each other’s arms for the rest of that evening until a security guard ushered the two of you away. 

As you walk hand in hand down the street, you’re just glad that you have this ball of sunshine all to yourself. For as long as time allows. 

seungmin | 1.5k (1518) words 

You were nervous. More nervous than you expected yourself to get. Which is probably how you find yourself scrambling to get your phone, sending Seungmin a message to say that you don’t want to meet up and would rather just call. 

His reply after reading your message was to immediately dial you up, leaving no time for you to think about what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it. 

You answer the phone with baited breath. 

“Why didn’t you want to meet me? You nervous or something?” He says very straightforwardly. 

Yes. 

“No. Just realised that I have things to do and I can multitask if I speak with you over the phone.” You lie. 

You hear him sigh on the other side of the line. 

“I’d rather you weren’t multitasking whilst we are having an important conversation about us. Pay attention.”

Your jaw clenches as you bite your tongue. 

“Fine. Since you want to be such an adult about this, why don’t you do us the honour and start us off?” You quip. 

“You already know how I feel about that night. About us blurring those lines between friendship and something more. We shouldn’t have. Having said that, I value our friendship too much to let something like that fuck it up.” Seungmin says plainly. 

You roll your eyes, not understanding what exactly he means by that. 

“Okay…but you do realise that us sleeping together has changed everything, right?” You say unwavering in your tone. 

“Wrong.”

You waited for him to finish what you hoped would be a longer sentence, but all you could hear was the minor feedback from the other end of the line. Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you try again. 

“What do you mean, wrong? Things can’t go back to normal after that night, shit, after everything that’s happened between us.” You exclaim. 

“And I’m not saying they have to—”

“You are absolutely not still using me as a way to blow your load Seungmin.” You interrupt harshly. 

You hear him groan on the other end of the phone to which you decide to put him on speakerphone and place him on your bed. You wipe your face with your hands in frustration as you wait for him to speak. 

“I’m not going to do this with you if you’re going to be angry for starters. Especially if you’re going to be interrupting me. Got it?” He asserts. 

You release a huff of air, choosing to stay quiet in regards to what he has just said, but you reluctantly agree. 

“Fine, sorry. Carry on.” You say as nicely as you can muster up. 

“What I’m saying is I care about you Y/n. I don’t think it’s fair that people have also been feeding you troubles about our friendship. It’s between us and not them. They don’t know what the fuck is going on and I’ll be getting on their asses for that later, but right now my focus is on you.” He explains. 

You stay quiet, noting the fact that he is now outside and walking. 

“Seungmin, you can’t seriously fault our friends for noticing something you were determined to ignore. We were doing things couples do!”

“But we aren’t a couple. That is what I’m trying to get at Y/n.” He says exasperated. You hear a police siren go by on his end of the line which muffles the last part of his sentence. 

“Then why even do all that with me? Of course I was going to catch feelings. I’d be stupid not to!” You exclaim, resting your head in your hands. 

He’s quiet. The only sounds to be heard is the distorted traffic. You sit there unmoving, wondering why he isn’t speaking. 

A loud series of knocks on your door jolt you out of your trance. 

“One second, someone is at my door.” You alert Seungmin. Putting on your slippers, you rush to the door. You open it and you feel your face run cold. 

Seungmin huddles over, catching his breath before he makes a show to end the call between the two of you. 

“I am not having this conversation with you over a fucking phone.” He pants. 

He lets himself in, your mind still boggled at the fact that he chose to fast walk over here just to have this conversation. You’re both touched and terrified. Touched because he seems to really care about talking about your relationship in person. Terrified because this is getting much more serious than you thought it was. 

It’s times like these where you wish you and Seungmin hadn’t planned to live so close together. Now you have no choice but to face him in the flesh. 

In the time that you were finally able to come to your senses and shut your front door, Seungmin had taken off his shoes and jacket and was standing behind you waiting. 

He grabs ahold of your hand and leads you to your own bedroom. 

“Seungmin, I don't want to have angry sex with you.” You blurt out. You could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle, but he’s already sitting you on the edge of your bed. 

He places his hands on your shoulders and imitates taking a deep breath in and out. 

“No, that is not what I’m here to do.” He crawls up to the top of your bed and sits resting against the headboard. “I am here to make amends and stop what shouldn’t have started in the first place.” He says calmly. 

You have to hold your stomach to try and soothe the impending vomit that is about to ascend up and out of your mouth. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you Seungmin. What you did, knowing you never wanted it to happen or go this far, was not cool. I’m not saying you’re to blame for the whole of it…but as someone who was catching feelings and seemingly thought you were as well, I genuinely thought that us continuing to be intimate with each other was because you liked me.” You finish. 

As you sit crossed-legged at the foot of the bed and Seungmin sits at the head, you start to feel this strange disconnect between the two of you. 

Seungmin sits there silent, clearly thinking of something to say in response. 

“I…I think I didn’t stop it because it felt good.” He says. 

“Good because it was us or good because you had someone to calm your sexual frustrations?” You ask. 

The way he hesitates to answer and hold eye contact with you tells you everything you need to know. 

You let out a scoff, getting up from your bed and starting to pace laps in your room. 

“I cannot believe this. You were the last person who I thought would do this to me.” You say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

“Y/n you know I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I-I care about you!” He says now getting up from the bed. 

He goes to reach out and grasp your arm but you step out of his way, causing him to stumble slightly. 

Not only are you fighting your tears, but you are battling your inner turmoil. Something like this would deem him unfit to stay in your life, no?

You couldn’t possibly still be his closest friend if he truly just used you for pleasure, right?

“Y/n please look at me.” He says, his hands now balling up besides his legs. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I want you to leave.” You speak barely above a whisper. 

“What?”

“I want. You. To leave.” Your voice cracks slightly, but you turn around to face him. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open, as if he isn’t quite sure that this is what you mean. 

Taking the initiative, you walk out of your bedroom and to your front door. You hear his footsteps behind you, murmuring a few ‘waits’ and ‘calm downs’. Grabbing his jacket, you shove it in his chest and step back. 

Your arms are wrapped around yourself for comfort as you keep your head held low. 

Seungmin silently puts on his jacket and shoes and reaches for the door handle. Yet, as he is about to open the door, he pauses midway through his movement. 

“Leave your house or leave you forever?” He says disconcertingly. 

You lift your head up, his back facing you. You assess him for only a moment. His hand that strangles the door handle shakes slightly and his other hand grasps his jacket. 

“Both.” You choke. 

He doesn’t miss a beat. Swinging open the door and leaving without looking back. 

Just like that, all those years of friendship cut abruptly due to the confounding circumstances that conspired between the two of you. 

Some could say it was rather quixotic of you to expect that you could actually have a relationship with Seungmin. 

Though you would just say that perhaps falling in love with your best friend was never the right path, but one you were unfortunate enough to take. 

i.n | 1.2k (1257) words

You can’t control the way you feel. You’re hurt. You’re beyond angry. You’re hysterical. How dare he talk to you like that? How dare he disregard everything the two of you have been through because he wants to stay your ‘best friend’?

You well and truly can’t promise that you won’t blow up on him when he gets here. That’s if he even bothers to show up. He’s already twenty minutes late and you’re sitting in the cold, on a park bench, drinking your hot chocolate.

“Y/n!” Jeongin calls out to you as he walks over to sit beside you on the bench.

“Where’s mine?” He says, his voice laden with sarcasm as he points to your drink. He quirks his eyebrow at you as he assesses your mood and it certainly isn’t one accommodating his jokes at the moment. 

Breathe…breathe…

He turns to face you, one leg crossed beneath him as his arm rests on the back of the bench, his gloved fingers tapping a beat on your shoulder. 

“Are you feeling better now? You’re gonna talk this out with me like the adults we are, hm?” He smiles.

You turn to face him, unable to mask your ire. 

“Just best friends huh?” You speak for the first time in a while. 

Jeongin stops tapping your shoulder to run his fingers through his hair. Tugging his coat closer around him to provide some sort of warmth to not only protect himself from the bitter chill of the air, but the icy look in your eyes.

“I admit, crossing those lines with you was never my intention. Being that I didn’t kiss or sleep with you because I wanted a relationship with you. I guess I was just lonely, you were available…tensions were high and we couldn’t control ourselves.”

You actually feel your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. This is not the Jeongin you knew and loved as your best friend. No, he was far nicer than what you’re currently faced with.

You are rendered speechless. The only thing you can think to do is take another sip of your hot chocolate.

It would be ideal if your hands stopped shaking.

“You get where I’m coming from though right? Like I said, I care for you. More than anybody else I know, but what we did was a mistake and that’s okay. We’ll know to never let those boundaries be crossed again alright?” He says placing a hand on your thigh.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Y/n–”

“Jeongin get your hand off of me, now.”

The smile that you used to adore, now falls from his face. His lips thinning as his jaw clenches and his gaze hardens.

“I genuinely thought that you had reason to be so pissy at me, you know, due to your work being so busy and all,” You laugh bitterly. “But you really are just a fucking asshole.”

He rolls his eyes and moves to get up before your hand reaches out to stop him.

“Sit the fuck down, I’m not done with you. I’m only going to say it once.” You say acrimoniously. 

Heeding your warning, he sits back down, his hands finding solace in his lap. 

“See, I was speaking with Hyunjin when you were supposedly too busy to talk to me and he gave me some pretty good advice.” You say finishing the rest of your drink and setting it aside. 

“What are you doing asking him for advice? He has no business knowing what goes on between the two of us, let alone an argument.” He spits.

Ignoring his disapproval, you elect yourself to continue. 

“He said that you don’t deserve me in your life. That a best friend would never, should never treat me like that–”

“Oh bull-fucking-shit! He is only saying that so that he can gets his filthy hands on you himself.” He interrupts, shaking his head as he looks beyond the lake at the horizon.

“I agree.” 

Jeongin nods his head in approval to your words. 

“You don’t deserve me in your life.”

His head snaps to yours as he sits up straight, clasping his hands together as he tilts his head.

“What?”

“I am not your little fucktoy for you to use whenever you get sick of your hand. I’m not the easy option because I’m the closest you can get to getting off without people catching on. You know because we’re best friends, right? No one will suspect a thing, right?”

You have started, gone past the point of no return as you lay into him and rightfully so. 

“I thought you had calmed down from earlier? What, did you discuss with Hyunjin all of the things to say to me before I got here? The fuck does he know? He doesn’t even know you like I do!” He exclaims, his voice raising in pitch. 

You gawk, unable to believe how he just bypassed what you said to talk shit about his friend. 

“This isn’t about Hyunjin for fuck’s sake! This is about us! Or rather the lack of.” You stand up, taking deep breaths as you pace in front of him back and forth. “You keep talking to me like I’m some fucking child. Like I can’t comprehend the words that are coming out of my mouth.”

You stop in front of him, sighing. 

“I don’t want to be in your life anymore. I’m done.”

His eyes widen as he grasps ahold of your hands, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just angry. You want me to apologise? Okay sure. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used you like that and let it get that far knowing I wasn’t ready for a relationship.” He begs. 

You feel your eyes start to well up with tears. This isn’t how you imagined a six year friendship to end, but alas, here the two of you are. 

He stands now, moving his hands to cup your cheeks, his eyes darting between yours. 

“Come on. Let’s not act rash now Y/n. It was a mistake.” He keeps trying to reassure you. 

You shake his hands off of your face as you take a step back. 

“It wasn’t a mistake for me. It never was and never will be because I didn’t just see you as someone who was available. I’m serious, I won’t be treated like shit. Not anymore and certainly not by you.” You affirm. 

He lets his hands fall to his sides, his fists clenching. 

“So this is it huh? You really wanna leave me, leave six years of friendship because you got your feelings hurt?” He asks. 

“Fuck you, Jeongin. Don’t contact me ever again. I’m finished.” You say scoffing a laugh. 

You pick up your empty cup and start to walk away, not bothering to turn back to see how he reacts. Only then do you let the tears run marathons down your face. 

Little did you know, his fists unclenched and his hands were brought to his face. He collapses onto the bench, watching your figure get smaller and smaller until he can no longer see you. 

It was in that moment, where Jeongin only just realised how royally he had fucked up. His head falls into his hands as he takes deep breaths. 

The smoke caused from the cold air and the warmth of his mouth floating along the sky. Much like you, floating out of his life and disappearing. Lost to the abyss of a forever memory in his heart. 

a/n: the plate is still full i fear because why do i hate this so much AHSGAIA SGAISBSKSVG (i apologise. i said i would deliver, but the package got lost in transit)

ʚ hope you enjoyed ^.^ you can support me by liking, commenting  and reblogging! it is heavily appreciated ᵕ̈ ɞ

i do not permit my work to be translated or reposted in any way, thank you. 

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[theidiotwhowritesthings]

Okay so like, I’ve never requested anything so I don’t really even expect you to see this lol. But likeeee, can I possibly request a Din Djarin x reader, where neither the reader or Din know Grogu has the armor under his robe that the armorer gave him, and something happens where Grogu gets hurt and they both lose their minds before getting to him and realizing little dude is just fine. Please and thank you 🥹

Ooooh this is a good prompt. Speaking of, if you've asked for one then it's probably on my to-do list, but i am slow🤡. plus, updates of AFS and a couple other things come before random drabbles.

Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k (i dont think I'm capable of writing less than a thousand words apparently smh)

AT FAULT

"don't let fear make your decisions." -Michael G. Manning

The quarry was laid on his back as a pool of purple blood began to settle in the sand under him. The twi'lek was motionless and your breathing was finally starting to calm. In one arm you held Grogu who seemed nonplussed by the violence at hand and in your other you held the still smoking blaster. When you managed to tear your eyes off the quarry's body they lifted to land on Din who stood stiff on the other side of the body.

"What the kriff was that?" Din snapped. His entire body was drawn taut like a wired rope pulled to tight. He was nearly vibrating in place and the anger that leaked into his voice was palpable. "Karking⏤ what the hell do you think you're doing out here!?"

His tone made your already irritable mood worse. You stuck the rarely used blaster back into the holster at your thigh. "Apparently, saving you! Maybe show a little gratitude!"

"Grati⏤” The word wasn’t even able to leave Din’s mouth. He stormed forward, boots passing the dead quarry, until he stood right in front of you. Close enough that the Mandalorian was forcing you to tilt your head up to look at him. You knew he stood that close on purpose⏤ he wanted to tower over you right now. “The two of you could’ve gotten killed! I told you not to leave the Razor Crest!”

“We’ve been on that ship for two weeks straight, Din!” You argued. “We just wanted a little fresh air⏤”

“I told you this quarry was dangerous, I said⏤”

“All your quarries are dangerous, Din. You⏤”

“When I tell you to stay on the damn ship,” Din grabbed your by the arm not holding Grogu, “I expect you to kriffing listen. Dank farrik, cyar’ika.” The way he spat out your usual nickname made you wince. “I told you this quarry was bad news⏤”

“And I told you that you shouldn't have taken the bounty!” You yelled and tried to yank your arm free. Din held on tight, and Grogu began to babble worriedly in your arms. “I told you we should take a break! Take a breath! We all need it, even you. Especially, you!”

You yanked your arm back again and this time it broke free. Din settled on placing his hands on his hips, but you could still feel his anger radiating off of him. Tempers had been running high the last few weeks, stuck on a close quarter ship while stressing over the Empire being on your heels, and it seemed the two of you were finally letting it come to a head. 

“It’s naive of you to think we have the time for a break.” Din seethed. “I take bounties so we can afford fuel to run, food to eat, and⏤” He shook his head, taking in a sharp breath before continuing. “You tell me to show you gratitude? Gratitude because you risked yours and Grogu’s life for me?” Din took one step toward you and you took two steps back so he stayed a foot or so away. He pointed to himself. “Everything I do, my only priority, is keeping you and Grogu safe. Away from the Empire. So, how about you show a little gratitude and stay on the damn ship when I tell you to.”

Grogu whined in your arms and you shifted him to the other in a poor attempt to console him. You weren’t ready to climb onto the Razor Crest quite yet. You weren’t done with this fight. Din’s anger and words only spurring you on further.

“You think I’m not grateful for all you do?” You spat. “Of course, I am, you ass! I just hate watching you burn yourself into the ground for us. You need to take care of yourself too, Din. That involves taking a break now and then! That’s why I suggested leaving this bounty untouched. I just want to help.”

Din nodded once then tilted his head. “Right. Yeah. Putting Grogu and yourself at risk was a lot of help. I feel much better. Thank you, cyar’ika.”

You scoffed, “You know what, Din? You are⏤”

The sound of an unfamiliar chuckle and your eyes snapped from the dark t-shape visor to the quarry sitting up with a menacing grin. It took less than a second. It happened so quickly that your mind couldn’t register the movements fast enough.

A blaster raised.

A blaster fired.

And, you didn’t have the time to spin away. The force of the blaster bolt knocked you right off your feet and onto the ground. 

You heard Din scream, the sound hoarse and raw and broken, then you heard another blaster go off. As you laid on your back, you realized you weren’t hurting. Your back was a little sore from landing on it, but you didn’t feel the sharp burning pain of a blaster scorching through your skin. That’s when your brain finally clicked. That’s when you realized. Grogu. Oh, Maker. Grogu. Grogu, baby⏤ Your eyes snapped down to see the little boy’s eyes closed and the front of his robe was blackened from the blow.

The scream that filled the air this time was yours. You felt the sound reverberate in the base of your throat, it rattled your chest, but the only noise you could hear was the racing heartbeats that pounded in your ears. You sat up, cradling him to your chest, and you could feel gloved hands pawing at your arms. Someone was trying to take him⏤ someone was trying to take him from you. You screamed once more, your body shook, and a gloved hand cupped the side of your face. Nothing registered until you saw Grogu blink his big eyes open. Your breath caught in your throat. That same gloved hand pulled aside Grogu’s ruined robe and the telltale shine of beskar stared back up at you. A mudhorn adorning the plate that Grogu wore at the center of his chest.

Grogu let out a soft mumble and smiled up at you. 

“Oh, thank the Maker.” Din breathed. “Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika? Cyari’ka!” A hand titled your face up, tearing your eyes away from Grogu who was wiggling in your tight grip. You met the dark t-shape visor of Din’s helmet. “Are you okay? Did it clip you? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head and opened your mouth, but all that came out was a ragged sob. Even after Din pulled you both into his arms, you continued to cry against his silver beskar plated chest until your own chest ached from how badly each sob racked your body. Grogu seemed content to be squashed between you and Din. 

Hours later, in the quiet of hyperspace, Din sat in the pilot’s chair with you on his lap, cradled against his body, while you held Grogu tight to yours. It seemed since the incident Din refused to let either of you go, and you had no desire to complain. Having his arms wrapped around you while you watched Grogu sleep was the safest you had ever felt.

“I’m so sorry, Cyar’ika.” Din whispered. His unmodulated words were muffled by the way he rested his face at the top of your head⏤ buried his lips into your hair to continue peppering light kisses anywhere he had access. In this position, your head tucked under his, you couldn’t see his face. “I am so, so sorry.”

You shook your head lightly. When you spoke, your voice was ragged from screaming earlier, “No, I am. I should’ve listened to you, Din. I should’ve stayed on the ship.” Your eyes began to water again. “I almost got Grogu killed.”

“No. No, that wasn’t your fault. Ner mesh'la cyar'ika, ibic hara cuyir pal'vut.” Din mumbled the end of his sentence in Mando’a. “You were right. I shouldn’t have taken that bounty. I can’t lose the two of you and I’ve grown… obsessive in trying to protect you.”

“It’s worked. You’ve kept us safe. If I had listened to you⏤”

“You’re not prisoners. I can’t lock you away from the world because of my fear.” Din cut in. You let your free hand trace down the small bridge of Grogu’s nose and he scrunched it up at the contact while staying soundly in his sleep. Nothing Din would say could rid you of this guilt entirely. If he wanted to claim the mistake he could, but that didn’t make it any less your fault as well. “Please speak to me.”

You closed your eyes and lifted your head so you could press a kiss against Din’s throat. He shuddered and sighed at the touch. “Can we just agree that this is both of our faults?”

“We can.” Din shrugged, his arms tightened around you. “But I'd rather you not take any of the blame.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately as we’ve learned, I’m not good at listening.” You mumbled.

Din chuckled. “Good. I don’t want you to blindly listen to me. Your ideas are equally as good as mind, if not occasionally better.” He closed the space to press a soft kiss against yours. It was sweet and tender. Not a declaration of lust or desire, but a reassurance that you were there. Din broke away to whisper. “But if you could at least let me know when you are leaving the ship, I’d appreciate it.”

“Only if you promise to take us somewhere pretty soon.”

“I’m already ahead of you, cyar’ika.” As he spoke, his lips brushed against yours and you had no desire to lean back away from him. Din moved his hand and you could feel his hand brush against the side of your arm every time he soothingly rubbed Grogu’s head. “Crest is on route to Naboo.”

You pressed another light peck of your lips against his before leaning your head back down against his chest. Din settled his head back on top of yours, and you felt the soft caress of his thumb against your arm from the hand that was wrapped around you. Din pulled you and Grogu a hair closer, and you reveled in the silence of hyperspace.

"Also, when did Grogu get a mudhorn beskar chestplate?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

mando'a translations

Ner mesh'la cyar'ika, ibic hara cuyir pal'vut. [My beautiful darling, this sin is mine.]

#asks #feel free to ask me about anything!! #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #grogu #angst/comfort #fluff

[cuffmeinblack]

Smile In Your Sleep

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC (she/her)

Tags: explicit | non-con | somnophilia | dark!Sebastian | delusional thoughts

3.1k words

Summary: Sebastian watches her when she sleeps, safe in his arms as she seeks comfort from her nightmares. Beautiful, perfect, and utterly irresistible; who could blame him for indulging?

A/n: *sweats* I'm so sorry, Seb. I made him completely delulu and predatory, this boy is fucked up.

When had merely watching her sleep become not enough? Sebastian pondered the question as he lay in bed, willing her to crawl in with him through some hitherto unheard of telepathy; a cruel thought, as she only ever did so when suffering from particularly horrendous nightmares. He missed her warmth, particularly on these cold Winter nights, though he was restless when she did make an appearance.

He closed his eyes, picturing her laying next to him—eyes shut, her dark eyelashes fluttering as she dreamed, cheeks flushed from the heat under the heavy duvet and those kissable lips just barely parted to aid soft breaths. His memory conjured images of the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath those gorgeous breasts that regularly featured in his own dreams. Sebastian gripped his aching length, his clothes long banished as he lay in the confines of his bed. He lingered on the thought of pushing himself into her mouth, parting those lips further as he slid down her throat. In his fantasies, she didn't react; merely lay still, statuesque, perfect as he violated her.

"F-fuck…," he stuttered as he came hard, spilling over his hand and stomach.

The shame that so usually flooded his mind had gradually dulled over the weeks, making way for a resignation that this was no passing phase. What bothered Sebastian now wasn't the activities he conducted in private—that was his own business, after all—it was the desire to act out his fantasies, growing ever stronger each time she made his way to him during those hard nights. That spurred his guilt, more so because she was particularly vulnerable in those moments, being subjected to horrors she begged him to be able to forget.

He cleaned himself up with a sigh before heading to the shower for a more thorough cleanse, though it did nothing to wash away the unease settling in his stomach. Once dressed, he walked down to the common room with Ominis, spotting her leaning casually by the window and prompting his insides to squirm. She greeted them cheerily as they approached, running her fingers through her hair to sweep it out of her face, like some sort of temptress meant only to torture Sebastian. It was no secret that he found her attractive, except maybe to the woman herself, but not a living soul knew the depths of his depravity when it came to his lustful thoughts.

As she sat across the table from him at breakfast, he felt as if she could read his mind the way her eyes seemed to scrutinise everything he did, and he silently prayed to Merlin that she wasn't a secret legilimens.

"You okay, Seb?" she asked.

Sebastian smiled and nodded, heaping porridge into his bowl and shovelling it into his mouth to avoid speaking. He was far too distracted for small talk, and besides that, he could barely look at her these days without imagining his cock in her mouth.

"How did you sleep?" Ominis asked.

"Better," she smiled with a sigh of relief. "Maybe my nightmares have stopped."

Well, that wouldn't do.

Sebastian peered over his bowl and caught her watching him, her piercing eyes seeming to want to communicate something. Would she be disappointed, too? Would she lament the fact that she no longer had an excuse to sleep next to him?

"That’s good," Sebastian remarked whilst idly stirring more honey into his breakfast.

She hummed in assent, never taking her eyes off him.

-

Not three days later, her presumption was proven false—her nightmares were far from finished tormenting her. She slid into his bed once again, shaking slightly, whether from the cold, shock or fear he couldn't tell. He bundled her into his arms as soon as she hit the mattress, curling into a fetal position as he enveloped her back in a blanket of warmth and calm.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Yes, I'll be alright. It wasn't as bad as…"

She couldn't finish her sentence, instead lapsing into silence as Sebastian stroked her hair and the last of her sobs subsided. He knew the nightmares she had alluded to; he had them too, sometimes.

She drifted off to sleep quickly, leaving Sebastian once again in an internal struggle between giving into the temptation that roared behind his ribcage, a beast waiting to be sated, and the simple duty of respecting his dearest friend. He told himself that he was disgusting, depraved, a monster, but the words meant nothing as he gazed down at her sleeping form in the dim light, noticing the gentle swell of her breasts underneath her cotton chemise. Her nipple had slipped, tantalisingly close to being exposed by the smallest of shuffles. Once again, Sebastian rationalised his actions, downplaying their gravity—he simply wanted to hasten the inevitable.

Propped on his elbow as he leaned over her, he delicately peeled the fabric down, revealing her soft, pink nipple. Saliva pooled in the well of his mouth as his cock twitched against her perky cheeks, and Sebastian suppressed a groan that would surely wake her. Just a quick touch, then he'd stop. His thumb brushed her nipple, her body responding even in unconsciousness as it formed a stiff peak at his touch. Fuck, he wanted to take it into his mouth, swirl his tongue over that perfect little mound. The thought sent blood rushing away from his head—and whatever part of his brain that was responsible for his self restraint—and straight to his cock.

Sebastian slid a hand under the chemise to gently cup her breast, her flesh perfectly filling his palm. His dark eyes flickered shut as he felt the weight, brushed the silken skin and gently pinched her nipple. Perfect. He was impossibly aroused now, his cock swelling at an alarming rate in his pyjama trousers. The only relief lay in her warm body nestled against him, and the temptation was simply too strong. His eyes opened again to watch her face, for any indication that she was waking as he rolled his hips into her backside.

She was so fucking soft. Her perfect arse moulding around his erection like it was meant for him. Still she slept as he palmed her breast, growing bolder every second with a firmer grip and a harder push of his hips. He wanted to moan into her ear, tell her she was such a good girl, but of course he couldn't; his game was one of stealth and silence. He couldn't stop his heavy breath or involuntary hitches as he grinded gently against her, but it soon became apparent that this gentle caress wouldn't be enough to rid him of his painfully throbbing desire.

Sebastian shuffled back slightly, taking the arm trapped under his body and wrapping his hand around his length with a shudder, whilst his other stayed firmly glued to her breast. He massaged her in rhythm to the strokes he gave his cock, his orgasm building so quickly from just how fucking wrong this was. Still he pumped himself, smearing the slick that dribbled from the tip down his entire length, filling the canopy with wet slapping sounds that were far too loud—but he couldn't stop, he was so close. He looked down at her face once more, eyes fixed on those plump lips so ready for the taking, and she moaned. A gentle sound, almost a breath, as she shuffled on the mattress slightly, bringing her knee higher and face pressed into the pillow.

No, Sebastian couldn't stop the inevitable, not even if he'd tried, which he didn't. He shot his load all over her clothed back, fucking his hand furiously as cum spurted in thick ropes across her pretty cotton chemise. His head was spinning, barely able to breathe from the intensity of his release. It was fucking incredible. It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours as he gasped quietly through the pleasure, but eventually he was empty, oversensitive and completely spent. He slumped back on the pillow, looking down at the mess he'd made of his hand and the sheet beneath them, his post-orgasm clarity ruining the perfect moment.

Shit. He removed his hand gently from her breast, pulling the top up to cover her still stiff nipple and groped around outside of the curtain for his wand, trying not to move too much. After an agonising few seconds of patting his nightstand, he finally found it, casting a non-verbal cleaning charm to vanish the soaking mess. It wasn't quite perfect, but he daren't utter the incantation aloud. This was his bed, as such, the slightly crusted layer on his sheet wasn't too much of a problem, but the same couldn't be said of her pyjamas. As she started to stir and the light began filtering through the gap she'd made in the curtain, Sebastian hoped against all odds that she wouldn't notice his shame smeared across her back.

-

Sebastian watched her over breakfast for any indication that she knew what he'd done, but she was apparently none the wiser, her usual self. He thought she may have lingered a little longer on his eyes as she looked at him that morning, her face a tad more flushed than usual, but she said nothing. If she had known, she had decided to allow it, which made Sebastian all the more bolder.

Night after night, she told him her nightmares had returned, though he noted the absence of any tears after a while. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, or a desperate need to justify his actions by telling himself that she wanted this, but he had almost convinced himself that it was true. He'd held back from doing what he really wanted, from truly claiming her whilst she slept, but his apprehension was melting away with every night she willingly found herself in his bed.

"Are you okay?" he asked once again as she lay curled up in his arms.

"Yeah. I'm better now."

Better with me.

She offered herself so willingly, such that the flickering flame of guilt was extinguished the moment her soft snores met his ears. Too beautiful to resist, and so responsive to his touch. His breath ghosted her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps prickling her flesh. Over her shoulder his gaze roamed and his fingers followed, the featherlight touch he employed barely registering to her nerves.

Sebastian’s ear was pricked for any variation in her breathing as he delved under her top, this time a less attractive buttoned shirt; but no matter, it was what lay underneath that counted. His hands provided and her body responded just as he’d hoped. This, he was used to now. This, was safe. He could caress her breasts and barely satisfy himself with his hand, but the allure of what lay next to his throbbing length was what kept him awake even on the nights he spent alone.

He dared to go further even as the bile rose in his throat, planting a kiss on her neck whilst his eyes stayed fixed on her peacefully resting visage. Illuminated by the strip of moonlight cascading through the gently rippling waters, she looked almost ethereal. There could be no snarky comments or irritating little habits; in stillness and silence she was captivating, absolutely perfect.

Another kiss, and another, until his brain was no longer capable of rational thought amongst the onslaught of hormones, and he licked the skin at the crook of her neck. Not a tentative dab with the tip of his tongue but a thick, wet stripe. She tasted of the tang of her perfume and partially of the sweat brought on by her night terrors; so enticingly forbidden. There was no stopping now—he was bordering on crazed, his mind addled with lust and a reckless disregard for any consequences.

His hand slid down her clothed back as he ignored his straining erection; there would be time for that soon. With gentle tugs, he worked on shimmying her pyjama trousers down, the soft skin of her cheeks that brushed his knuckles sending his head spinning. Faster he moved until she was exposed to him, and he took a moment to drink in the soft curves before cupping her behind with both hands.

What he wouldn’t give to dig his fingertips into her flesh, to leave bruises and indents along her hips. His fingers flexed involuntarily at the thought, barely pulling himself back before he acted on the impulse. He needed to be gentle, just like the steady breaths she continued to exhale. His hand glided down, slipping between her thighs where he was greeted by her slick entrance.

Sebastian could have spilled just then, messing his pyjamas from simply feeling her arousal. He took a deep breath as his middle finger gently stroked his prize before slowly pressing inside her. She had no reaction, none whatsoever—both reassuring and deeply disappointing. He was up to his knuckle, teasing her open with strokes of his finger. In the near-silence every squelch was audible, and deliciously obscene.

"So fucking wet for me," he whispered, barely audibly.

She shuddered, and Sebastian flinched and stilled his hand as his heart almost leapt out of his chest. That had been a sudden reaction to his words, not his slow and steady movements. He waited, but her eyes stayed shut and breath remained steady as she appeared to sleep on. Resuming his rhythm, he had the sneaking suspicion that she was at least partially lucid. She was letting this happen.

He slipped another finger inside her, growing steadily more reckless as he felt himself lose control over his desire. The minutes spent preparing her felt like an eternity, but once he was finally satisfied she could handle him, Sebastian was barely holding it together. As his hand wrapped around his cock to guide his way, a tiny moan fell from his lips before he could stop himself. Still she didn't stir, an invitation to continue.

He pressed his head against her dripping entrance and pushed, stopping as just the tip was enveloped in her warmth. So fucking perfect. All Sebastian could think of was filling her up completely, letting her drip his seed onto the sheets as she slept on, completely oblivious. The thought was almost enough to end him, and he willed himself to move, screwing his eyes shut in some pathetic attempt to delay his release.

He was doomed as soon as she began to stir at the first thrust. He moved slowly, gently, but he hit her deep, and those soft, rhythmic breaths became quicker and uneven. And then she moaned. Not a breathy sigh but an exclamation of pleasure that his roommates would no doubt have heard. He wished then that he could delve into her thoughts, to see what her unconscious mind had conjured in response to his intrusion. He was sure that he would see himself, pleasuring her as he did now.

"I'm so fucking close, please let me come," Sebastian whispered in her ear.

He didn't expect a response, at least not a lucid one—even if she'd given him one, he was too far gone to have processed it. The flutter of her walls around his cock was almost too much, and a confirmation that she was enjoying this just as much as he was. Every heavy breath against her neck and every shunt across the mattress brought her further out of her deep sleep. At that point, Sebastian cared very little about what might happen if she did wake, clinging to the belief that she would welcome his advances with open arms.

"Oh…wha-…?"

A confused and hoarse whisper escaped her throat, her eyes still glued shut.

Fuck.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Please say no.

"Don't…don't stop…"

Sebastian willed himself to last just a little longer, not merely seeking his own gratification but determined to have her fall apart by his touch.

"Come on, beautiful…," he encouraged with the smallest whispers.

She was so tight, her muscles gripping his cock as her abdomen clenched under his palm before she reached her climax. She writhed against him with heavy breaths and involuntary moans, the pulsing around his length enough to tip him over the edge with her. Sebastian groaned as he stilled, allowing the grip of her slick cunt to tease every drop of cum from him. The light was too dim to see clearly, but his finger found where they joined and his vision faded to black at the utter euphoria of the feel of his seed dripping from her.

Once the ringing in his ears subsided and he propped himself up on his elbow, he'd half expected her to greet him with a dozy smile, but her eyes were screwed tightly shut. Her body still twitched against him, but her breath was slowing once again, her limbs limp against the mattress. She was still asleep, and whatever words she'd uttered had been a product of her unconcious mind.

Shame washed over him once more, tempered by the knowledge that she'd been dreaming of him. He'd told himself this was the last time, now he'd been satisfied, though she looked even more angelic now that he'd had his way with her—she had a slight sheen of sweat across her deeply blushing skin that glistened tantalisingly in the light from the celestial bodies. Reining in the desire to taste her again, he let her rest, performing his cleanup ritual in silence. His spells were much more effective now, though he hesitated when he pointed his wand at the pool of cum dripping from her violated cunt. He rubbed his fingers into the damp fabric, carving the memory into his brain before it vanished.

Sebastian slept soundly that night, holding her tightly as he waited eagerly for morning.

-

She looked positively elated, if slightly abashed, and Sebastian knew why. She must remember the dream, the mind-blowing orgasm he'd given her—he could practically feel the heat coming off of her.

"What's got you smiling this morning?" Sebastian asked over the breakfast table.

"I had a strange dream, that's all," she said, barely suppressing a smirk as a blush crossed her cheeks.

"Oh? What about?"

She lowered her voice to barely a whisper, casting furtive glances around the table for anyone listening in.

"It was quite scandalous..."

Sebastian looked up at her from his dipped head with a knowing smirk, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Yeah? And who, pray tell, did this dream involve?"

"Garreth Weasley," she giggled.

The colour drained from Sebastian's face and a burning rage coursed through his veins. His mouth formed a hard line as he looked back down at the table and hoped she hadn't noticed his reaction. Oh, last night wouldn't be the last time, not by a fucking long shot—Sebastian's pride wouldn't allow it. He would have her dreams reflecting reality, until she moaned his name in her slumber.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow smut #sallow sunday

[taasgirl]

say something pt 2.

summary: although playing for the same club, pedri and y/n cannot stand the thought of being around each other. enemies to lovers for all my slow burn girlies out there - i got u

a/n: not proofread and all in english + more installments coming soon!!

read part one here!

We were sat just above the bench, watching over one of the men's games. We had to do this regularly, to show our club spirit or something. The men, however, barely ever came to our games. I swear they only came for our Champions League Final and were out of the stadium when the ninety minutes were up.

“You’d think that such an expensive team would be good.” Ingrid was not impressed with the team playing. Her face had disgust written all over it and was really not afraid to show it.

“Don’t be mean. Not everyone can be as good as us.” Salma bolstered a smile, rubbing my leg aggressively. Rolling my eyes, I kept my focus on the game in front of me. It was a tight game. Real Betis were really putting up a fight, and I couldn't help but ogle at Hector Bellerin. He was genuinely so beautiful.

"Enjoying the game Y/N?" Salma asked, making the girls around us laugh. "Yeah funny Sal."

By the time the game had ended it was a 2-1 win for Betis, a real shock to almost everyone. The boys were fuming.

We walked down to the field, players from both of teams were still there. Making my way through with the girls, I heard my name called out. "Y/N! Wait up!" I turned around, running over with a cheesy smile was Hector. Hector Bellerin.

We followed each other on Instagram, and occasionally left friendly comments, but we had never spoken before. "How you doing?" I could hear his awkward English accent. "I'm doing pretty well. Congrats on the win you guys deserved it." He smiled.

"Ah, thank you. None of us were really expecting it." We spoke for another few minutes until he was called over by his coach.

"I'll see you around, I hope that next time you watch me play, you're in a Betis jersey." Smirking, he ran back to his team while I followed the girls into the tunnel.

When I caught up with Salma she couldn't look at me. "Already cheating on class boy with a footballer." She sarcastically sighed. "I always knew you were destined to be a wag." I lightly shoved her until I felt a push on my back.

"Get the fuck out of the way." Pedri spat at me. "Talking to the fucking opposition. If you want to fuck him so badly do it after the game." He pushed the changeroom door open, following closely behind him was Gavi and Ferran who looked at me sympathetically.

"Come on don't listen to him. Let's get home." Salma's hand found my shoulder pulling me close into her. "I'm happy to sleep over at Mapi's if you want to bring a certain someone over." God I hope she never changes.

"Girl there's no way I'm inviting him over. Let him celebrate the win." I smiled at her and she looked confused. "I wasn't talking about Hector." She stuck her tongue at as we walked to the parking lot.

I couldn't stop thinking about what Pedri had said to me that night. It almost shocked me how I didn't slap him. And although I wanted to hate him for it, a part of me hoped he didn't mean it. A part of me wanted it to just be a spur-of-the-moment comment which he would regret.

"Y/N are you okay?" Alex lightly tapped me. "Huh? Oh yeah, I'm just um tired." I focused back at my teacher. School was kicking my ass, I received my assessment schedule and these last few weeks were my last moments of peace before I locked in.

Once class was over I hurried myself as usual to the door. I had to get to training asap and I couldn't afford to be late. Again.

"Need a ride?" Alex caught up to me. There was no way I would decline, I was gonna be late. "Yes please, I need to get to work." We hoped in his car and he drove me to the grounds.

"I really enjoyed hanging out with you the other day. If it's alright with you, I'd like to come to one of your games?" I laughed but quickly refrained myself. "Oh um yeah. I can try and hook you up with some tickets if you wanna bring people."

We drove through the back streets of Barcelona until we got to where I needed to be. "Do you need me to pick you up? I'm happy to hang around for a while." He pulled up kerbside. "Yeah you'd be waiting for a very long time. It's all good, Salma drives me home." He'd met Salma a few times after we'd hookup as he tried to escape my room.

"But seriously, thank you so much. You don't understand how much easier you just made my life." I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek before I left the car.

"The fuck is that?" I recognised the voice immediately, B-lining for the buildings' entrance. "Oh ok yeah very mature, just ignore me." I waved to reception as I walked down to the changerooms.

"Was that your boyfriend? Or just another guy you hook up with." I snapped at him "He's a classmate." I continued walking down the hall. "So, tell me, did you sleep with Hector." That was it.

I turned to face him and slapped him across the face. Hard. A red mark coloured his cheeks. Realising what I had down, I regretted it immediately. "Oh my god Pedri I'm so sorry." I placed my hand on his cheek. "Holy fuck I don't know what came over me." Firstly, he looked at me disappointed, then he smirked. "So I'll take it that you didn't sleep with him." I walked right past him.

"Is something up with you Y/N?" Lucy said in my ear while marking me during training. I looked at her puzzled. "You're a lot more, I don't know. You're very tense." I scoffed. No wonder I was tense, I was literally studying for my degree while playing professional football.

"Well a few of us are going to go out tonight if you wanted to join? Girls only type of thing." Actually, I liked that idea. I needed time to just chill. Preferably away from home.

"Yeah actually I'd like that. You'll send me the address?" She agreed and soon enough we were back to tackling each other.

Once training had finished, Ona and I walked to the gym. She was still recovering from an ankle injury and wanted someone to give her motivation during the workout. As we entered the gym, sets of eyes laid straight onto us.

The men's team.

I looked at her, displeased to be trapped in a room filled with sweaty men, however, she didn't seem to care too much. "I think I'm gonna get deodorant poisoning if I'm in here any longer." She dragged me over to a machine.

I took a walk around the gym, trying to find the spot with the best reception. "Fancy seeing you around." Pedri called out to me.

I didn't look at him. No bother in giving him the time of day. "Okay then." He turned back to his group, they were making fun of his failed attempt at grabbing my attention.

"Y/N can you come over here for a sec?" Gavi called out to me. I was less than willing to walk over to a slightly intimidating group of boys, but I didn't want to give Pablo the same response that I gave Pedri.

Walking over, I could feel the eyes of the boys on me. "How you been baby?" I smiled at him. He's always been affectionate towards me, but this was artificial in a way. He was trying to make someone jealous. "You going out tonight?" I nodded. "Clubbing downtown." He looked impressed. "Going with Salma? I can try and ask around for that girl to be there."

"I'm so happy that you're finally going out with me. It's been what, four months?" Salma put on one of her sexiest outfits. I told her that the girl from before would be there, to that she immediately went looking for the hottest thing she owned.

"Yeah well you're obviously not planning on hanging out with me." Since she had gone out the other night, she couldn't stop talking about this girl she met.

We got picked up in a cab and made our way downtown. Upon entering the club we realised it wasn't exactly how we had pictured it. It wasn't so much a 'casual' club as it was a 'celebrity' club.

I recognised majority of the people as other footballers and internally rolled my eyes at the idea of spending time with some stuck up male footballer. Like Pedri for example.

When we found Lucy and a few of the other girls, we took a seat at the bar and ordered a round of shots. It had been a while since I had drunk alcohol, but I promised myself that I wouldn't drink too much. And I was usually good at keeping to my word, so I limited myself to three drinks.

"Y/N, Salma's been telling me about this guy you've been seeing." Ona said, taking a shot in full. "I hope he's hot at least." I looked at Salma unimpressed, she loved telling people about my life, to the point where even the physios knew who Alex was. "He's just a classmate, I mean like we've hooked up a few times but I'm not really into him."

The girls and I chatted for at least twenty minuets before suggesting we move to the dance floor. The DJ was playing mostly Bad Bunny with a few western songs, and soon enough the alcohol hit me, and I was in my groove. I was dancing with so many different people, and I could've sworn I had accidentally grinded up on Jude Bellingham before Ingrid came over to me, telling that someone was looking for me.

I followed in the direction of where she had pointed and found myself on the outside of the floor, but next to a tall man. "Hola Y/N." Hector bent down to give me a kiss on the cheek. "Hola."

"I really think we should hang out some day." I blushed at his words. "I'd like that. Maybe you could come to one of my games? Hang up your pride and wear the jersey of your old club." I nudged him playfully as he sarcastically shook his head. "Let's dance." He pulled me by the hand into the centre of the floor.

He held my hips as we swayed together, feeling the music and each other. "I though you'd be a better dancer Y/N." I looked up at him confused. "I'm only joking Carino. You look beautiful." I dug my head into his chest as we danced.

Now did I want to hook up with him? No, not really. But you can't hate a girl for giving into some attention. "Hector." He looked at me, almost freezing. "Does Pedri hate me?" He laughed. A guttural laugh.

"I'm not sure. Why?" I sighed. "He's just been a real dickhead lately. Always up in my personal businesses and constantly trying to piss me off." Hector smiled at me. "Yeah I don't think he hates you." He continued, "If it makes you feel any better, I think he actually likes you. I mean at least when I was at Barca he wouldn't shut up about this new prodigy." Ok now I was intrigued. "Go on."

"Well I mean he would always hang around at training to watch you play. To me at least I found it a little creepy, but I think it all stemmed from a crush." Yeah what the fuck.

"There's no way. Like he actually despises me." Hector shrugged as we came to a full stop of dancing. "Well maybe something's changed, but trust me, he likes you. Or used to I don't know."

I literally did not know what to think. So Pedri has been a fan all along??? Interesting…

After leaving Hector for the bathroom I felt a presence behind me as I walked down the corridor. Turning around nonchalantly, I came face to face with Pedri. Of fucking course he’d be here.

"Having fun?" He was holding a glass of what looked like water. Of course he didn't drink. "Yeah it's chill." I went to turn around when he grabbed my shoulder. "Sorry if I've been a dick, I've just, I don't know. Sorry." He was smiling at me. Smiling.

"Oh, um yeah okay you're all good." Before I could make my way back to the bathroom, his hands clasped my face, pulling me in for a kiss.

My brain wanted to push him away, but my body wanted more of him. I kissed him back passionately before he pulled away, hands still on my cheek. "Holy shit, I'm so sorry." He looked at me for no more than a second before walking back out.

He just kissed me. I kissed him. Pedri. Fucking Pedri.

"Y/N you're on, get up." Jonatan called for me, I was cozy on the bench watching my team struggle against Wolfsburg in a tight Champions League group stage match.

I hopped out of my seat and walked over to him. "I need you to turn this around. It's looking sloppy out there." He pointed to the field, everyone was tired, and Wolfsburg would break the deadlock soon enough if no stepped up. "I need a goal. I need you to be the captain out there, ok?" I nodded.

It was going to be tough. A thousand things were running through my head. Pedri was one of them, and I knew he was in the crowd. Alex too. God why do I do this to myself.

As I walked over to the fourth official, I could hear the crowd begin to get louder. I knew I was popular amongst the Barca fans, but hearing how excited they were to see me come on, gave me a new type of confidence.

I ran onto the pitch after I was subbed on, and genuinely put my heart into it. I had a few shots, although none were good enough to get past the keeper.

I built up with Keira, and finally had a chance to bury the game. I struck the ball with my laces from a few meters outside the box. I watched it curl into the top right of the goal and the crowd erupted.

I ran to the corner post where I did a knee slide, and was followed closely behind my teammates. Everyone was cheering.

The whistle blew after an agonizingly long fifteen minutes and the stadium erupted once more. We had slid past into a comfortable 1-0 win and I was absolutely buzzing. Jonatan pulled me in for a hug, and soon enough I was being thrown in the air by my teammates.

We did a lap of the field, taking photos and thanking the fans for supporting us. I had given my jersey to a young fan, in exchange for a bag of Haribos which were delicious.

When we had reached the bench and tunnel, I made direct eye contact with Pedri. It wasn't short either. He was still in the stands, in a full Barca tracksuit, looking down at me. And then he smiled.

I smiled back at him before I almost got practically tackled. Alex lifted me off the ground, and spun my around. "You did so well." He placed me back on the ground and leaned in for a kiss, I pulled back. "Oh, thanks Alex." I looked back into the crowd to where Pedri was standing, but I couldn't see him anymore.

"Please let me take you out tonight. I have us booked in for a beautiful Italian restaurant." I physically cringed. I don't know why I have such conflicting feeling towards Alex.

"Sorry Alex, but I've got recovery and stuff. I'd love to go another day." Lieeeeee. He looked down to the ground. "Yeah uh you're all good. Well done today." He smiled cowardly and grazed my arm before walking away.

"Rejected lover boy once again?" Salma came up to me, linking her arm through mine. I hadn't yet told her about Pedri. At first I didn't even see why I should, but I really needed to tell somebody.

"I feel like I'm leading him on, but I seriously do not wanna be his girlfriend or whatever he thinks we are." We walked into the tunnel and I was pulled into an interview.

"Y/N, that was a spectacular performance. However, many fans are confused as to why you weren't in the starting line up. Can you give us some insight into that?"

"Yeah well I wasn't training to me best standards in all honesty." The journalist nodded, signalling for me to continue. "Here at Barca everyone's replaceable. If you're not performing, someone else takes your place. It's the nature of this club. It's one of the reasons why I love it so much."

"How'd it feel to get a goal? It was a real tight game there, and you seemed to loosen it all up.

"I never take scoring for granted. It's a feeling I chase. As much as I love dribbling or assisting, or even tackling, nothing brings me as much joy as scoring does."

The interview continued for another couple of minutes before I made my way to a presumably empty changeroom.

Walking in, it was exactly what I guessed. I had a shower and changed into comfy clothes. Salma was driving us home, so she was probably waiting for me somewhere. I opened the door to leave the changeroom when I was met with a group. The group being Gavi, Pedri, and Salma.

Immediately, I made eye contact with Pedri who looked away. "Come on sissy, let's get home." We began walking in twos, Salma and I, Pedri and Gavi.

"You two were on fire today. There's surely a Ballon D'or coming your way Y/N." Gavi patted my back from behind, to which I turned around and smiled. "Thanks Pablo." Salma directed most of the conversation, Pedri barely spoke. Something was up with him.

"Pepi and I were so pissed when we couldn't see you on the starting lineup." Gavi said, making Pedri blush. "He started freaking out, thought you were injured and everything." I smiled to myself. It was cute I couldn't even lie.

"That's not true." His cheeks turned a darker shade of pink. He was embarrassed and it was adorable.

"Salma I need to tell you something." She jumped over the couch and sat next to me. "Spill." She then handed me a bowl of chocolate covered strawberries.

"Ok. So I may have kissed Pedri. No he kissed me. But I kissed him back." Her jaw dropped, and jumped straight up, dancing around me. "I called it! I fucking knew it!" I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah well you can calm it down because I think he hates me again." She sat down immediately. "Well you know how Alex came down?" She nodded. "Well I guess Pedri must've seen because he's been giving me the cold shoulder. He didn't even speak to me while we were all walking."

"So do you want me to set you two up?" I smacked her. "Don't you fucking dare."

omg guys sorry this took so long. lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next part and send me reqs!!

PART THREE HEREEEE

#football #football fanfic #football imagine #enemies to lovers #pedri #pedri x you #pedri x reader #pedri fic #barca femeni #fc barcelona #barca #hector bellerin #football fic #footballer reader #pablo gavi #gavi #salma paralluelo

[stormberry-12]

Hellooo how are you this fine evening..

I wanted the ask if you could make one for jj where he does something that upsets the reader and she’s crying and sad and jj gets the silent treatment the whole week but he starts to cry hard and beg for her to talk to him and reader can’t help but comfort and hug him and give him all the love that she has and jj is all pouty and sad in the end

It’s fine if not <3 :)

didn't mean to ~ jj maybank x reader

pairing: JJ Maybank x Kook!Fem!Reader

warnings: language, angst, arguing, silent treatment.

notes: thxs for the request! Sorry I haven't posted in forever guys, im doing final exams at school rn and stuff. Also, sorry this is so short. But anyway, I loved this concept and also hated the way they solved JJ and Kie's fight in Season 4 so I tried to recreate it here with a better ending. Sorry, this took so long lol, much love!

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

"I mean, it would all blow up anyway. You know? Like... Look at you. You got your new threads on!" JJ exclaimed. "Look at me. What do I got? This? This piece of shit?" He threw something out of frustration, panting. You looked back at his run-down house, the eviction notice nailed to the front door with bright yellow police tape crossing over it.

"Getting kicked out of this place in three weeks anyway. shit, I don't even got parents right now. Why would you care? Why would you care? I'm just some loser that..."

"JJ..."

"You don't care. No, you don't!"

"I do care!" you shouted, getting frustrated with his attitude.

"No, you got parents that live in Figure Eight, you know?"

"That's not my fault."

"That's your future." he countered walking towards the water, hand running through his hair in frustration.

"Look, if you need us, we're gonna help you. I'm... I'll help."

"No- It's that right there! Okay? Like... It's so easy for you to say that." he whirled around to face you, yelling, "You know why? Because you're a Kook. You're a Kook, Y/n!"

"Yeah... I'm a Kook. I was such a Kook when I was living in a cave with you for a month! Soaking in the Kook life!"

"That's not what I'm talking about. GOD!" he exclaimed, reaching for his bike, he swung his leg over the seat.

"Jayj, don't leave." you pleaded, the engine of his bike revved and he started to drive away,

"JJ, WHAT THE HELL?" You screamed after him, tears rolling down your face, "MAYBANK!"

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

You were pissed the fuck off.

The first day after your fight you hadn't seen JJ, you cried for a couple hours, indulging in your favorite ice cream watching a sad rom-com, really getting in your feels.

Kie texted you to ask you what was up, the pogues had gone fishing that day but you never showed, to angry and sad to show your face to the world.

'Ask the blond kid,' was all you responded. you watched as her three typing bubbles flashed beneath your text.

'shit head's not here either,' she responded. 'wtf is going on,'

'fight. he called me a kook.'

'oh shit,' was all she said.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

A few days later you walked around the chateau and dug through John B's fridge, you were fully aware of JJ's presence on the couch but still continued to ignore him. It was closing in on a week since you had last uttered a word to him.

Grabbing a chilled beer you walked past JJ and to the front door.

"Y/n," he said, voice cracking.

It wasn't the first time JJ had tried to talk to you this week and once again you ignored him. You slipped your shoes on and walked out onto the porch, slamming the door behind you. You flinched at how harsh it was but brushed the feeling away as you took a sip of your drink.

You sat at the edge of JJ's hot tub, the disco lights twinkled in the water, and the beer started to make you feel nauseous. You set it down and let out a shaky breath, blinking away tears that made the colorful lights spur in all different directions.

'Oh stop it Y/n' you told yourself, you would not cry anymore over this boy, if he didn't want to date a 'kook' that was his problem.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

A long time must have passed, you had slid down fully into the hot tub finishing off your drink and basking in your own thoughts. The sun had set and the tides changed across the water.

"Go!" You heard someone on the deck grunt, you looked up to see John B pushing JJ out the door towards you locking him outside. JJ made his way down the stairs awkwardly and stood at the edge of the hot tub across from you, not getting in like he was looking for your permission.

"What do you want Maybank?" you asked quietly.

"I-uh," he sniffled and you focused closer in the dim light to see tears streaming down his face. "I made you a bracelet,"

He mumbled in the softest voice that made your heart clench and reached out to hand it to you. You looked at it closely, intricate little hearts knotted into the design, made with your favorite colors. And of course, the sea blue strings that you had told him reminded you of his eyes countless times. You didn't know what to say. Until you heard the soft sobbing coming from his lips, he thought you didn't like it.

"No, JJ..." you cooed, wrapping the bracelet around your wrist and tieing it in a crisp knot. You slid yourself through the water and stood in front of him taking in his state. He looked at you with pleading eyes and you wrapped your arms around him. He collapsed into you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. You felt butterflies in your stomach at his touch and lifted a hand to stroke his hair. God you loved this boy so much.

"I-i'm sorry," he cried, "I called you a kook, I'm such a dick, It's all my fault..."

"No, Jayj-" you whispered.

"Yes,"

"No, I am in the wrong too, shouldn't have ignored you like that," you whispered.

"But I called you a kook," he said again.

"And then I was acting like one, it was wrong,"

You stood there in silence hugging each other, you you feel his breathing slow and he recovered to look up at you.

"Please forgive me," he said.

"Always, as long as you forgive me," he nodded frantically at you causing you to giggle.

"Thank god that's over," you heard Pope say in the distance.

"Yeah, pass me one of those?" Kie said, taking a beer out of the cooler, the rest of the pogues walking toward the hot tub.

You all settle down in the warm water, JJ snuggling into your side, looking at your bracelet sweetly for the rest of the night. You kissed the top of his head, knowing what ever happed in the future you could always get through it with him.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

Tag list: @sarahskywalker-amadala @sunasro @idli-dosa @aslanvez @somerandos-world @vivian-555 @loverofdrewstarkey @totallynotkaibiased @jjmaybankisbae @fishingirl12 @antagonize-me-motherfucker @princessbl0ss0m @pank0w @callsigndiamond @brynley-a-xoxo @plk-18 @fallingwallsh @hemogloban @valentineshiftz @taintedxkisses

#jj maybank #obx #angst #jj maybank x reader #outerbaks #fluff #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank blurb

[hina-hina]

Can you do a platonic fic with Price? Price is the reader’s father? She’s like a carbon copy of her father’s personality and his habits. It’s gotten to the point where the similarities are eerie.

-🍁 anon

Hello 🍁 Anon!!! This was such a cute ask to do!! I would also like to say that, as of now, I'm only doing headcanons so I hope that's ok

(≧﹏ ≦) Thank you for requesting!!

Got slightly carried away with this one, but I hope you like it!

||Captain Price with a Carbon-Copy Child||

Warnings: some angst

Price never really imagined himself as a dad

But then, he had you and it changed his whole perception on fatherhood

He had always assumed your personality would be more like your mothers, due to you spending more time with her

But, after you got older, it became clear you were just a mini Captain Price

You had heard him once call someone a muppet and you didn't stop saying it for weeks

Once you got to your teen years, you probably tried to smoke one of his cigars

He found out and you were grounded for a month

You always miss him so much when he leaves on deployment or to go back to base

Insist he video call you whenever necessary

You begged him to take you to the base and show you around

He reluctantly agreed

When he brought you in, you were immediately enthralled with everything happening on base

When he introduced you to the other members of the 141, they could immediately notice the uncanniness

"This is Sergeant John MacTavish"

He smiled good-naturedly, "Call me Soap."

"The hell kinda name is Soap?"

Soap's face dropped as the others start laughing

Captain Price smiling proudly to your right

When you tell him you want to join the army when your older, he is not happy

He never wanted this life for any of his loved ones, but especially not you

It spurs into a big argument

He doesn't want you to join the military because it's dangerous and always thought he does the dirty work to make the world a safer place for you

Your angry, thinking that he's trying to control your life

It ends up with you not talking to each other the whole time he is on deployment

It pains him whenever he sits down for your video calls and you don't pick up

The other members of 141 would notice his change in attitude but not know how to help

He would eventually go to Laswell for advice

She would advise the two of you just talk it out, heart-to-heart

He dreads this because he has never been particularly good at talking about his feelings

But he is willing to try for you

He takes leave for a few days to come see you

When he comes home and you see him, you break into tears, your previous anger forgotten as you run and hug him

He hugs back, squeezing you tight with one hand pressed to the back of your head and a gentle kiss to your temple

"Don't cry, dear, It's okay."

You begin apologizing profusely through tears as he continues to just hold you and shush you gently

When you finally calm down, you two have that talk

He explains that he didn't ever want to seem controlling but he also wanted to keep you safe

You explain your feelings, how you were constantly worried about his safety

He had never really thought of that, apologizing for making you worry

"Now, I'll be worried half to death by it but if, when your old enough, you still want to enlist I'll support you. But you have to be careful for your old man, got it?"

You smile, nodding your head rapidly while you grab him in a hug again

"Alright, alright. Now, let's go get some ice cream or something."

#cod mw2 imagine #mw2 headcannons #mw2 x reader #cod mwii #call of duty mw2 #cod #cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw22 #cod imagine #modern warfare 2 #call of duty mwii #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty #captain price x reader #captain price #mwii #mw2 #modern warfare #mw ii #captain john price #john price x reader #price cod #John price x daughter!reader #platonic #daughter reader

[tendousfingers]

slasher | eren yeager

summary: you and your best friend + long time crush end up alone together for a halloween movie night.

warnings: fem!reader, probably ooc eren, mentions of scary movies, vaginal penetration, mentions of choking, please let me know if i missed anything! 3.1k words.

you'd frowned at your phone for the fourth time tonight, a freshly popped bowl of popcorn in your hand being placed onto the counter while your eyes skim over yet another text message from a friend, this time, connie.

'gonna stay the night with sasha, she's sick.'

you knew. jean had texted the same thing before only a few hours ago, letting you know that sasha had eaten entirely way too much halloween candy and that she wasn't feeling well. it was no big deal, you had told yourself, there was still armin, and mikasa, historia and ymir, even reiner had mentioned going a few days ago too. but as fate would have it, you would receive another text message in the group chat explaining that they were going to hit up some halloween party instead.

it was fine, really. you weren't mad; you know that no one owes you anything and that the plans you'd made last week were a spur of the moment mention anyways, once you had discovered that your favorite collection of slasher movies had been uploaded to netflix. you throw your feet up onto the coffee table as you sit down, thumbs typing out a quick 'no worries, i didn't pick up a costume so you guys have fun.'

"ill just watch them by myself.." you mumble, tossing your phone aside onto the couch cushions and grabbing your tv remote. you point it, finger poised over the button to press play on the first installment of the series, only, you feel your phone buzz with another message. you lazily drag your eyes over to the screen as it was still on, your heart immediately thumping in your chest at the words displayed in the group chat.

yeager bomb: 'ill come.'

"holy shit." you can't even contain the curse that emits from your lips, his first text quickly being followed by another, 'see you in 10'

"holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!" you repeat yourself in a panicked frenzy, jumping from your couch and immediately running to your bedroom. the cheesy halloween pj's you had been wearing are nearly ripped from your body and tossed across the room, dresser drawers yanked open with such force you weren't sure how they didn't manage to fall out. you quickly settle for a simple outfit, a black crop top and black spandex shorts. you keep on your fuzzy halloween socks with little pumpkins, said articles slipping across your wooden floors as you pace like a maniac.

you had completely forgotten about eren, somehow or another the thought of eren being the only one to show up had never crossed your mind and boy, were you fucking nervous. the heels of your hands grind into your eyes before your fingers run through your hair, your heart pounding a mile a minute. the last time you'd been alone with eren, at a fourth of july party only a few months back, you had kissed. you told yourself it wasn't anything serious— a harmless kiss made by two people who had drunk entirely too much booze.

just calm down is what you keep telling yourself, phone shaking in your hands as you type out a response. it was only a little crush, something silly you had harbored for your best friend over the last few years while telling yourself that it's not like he would like you back anyways. the kiss however, made things much more complicated; you and eren were shying away from each other at every possible opportunity.

you bite you lip, pressing send on your message, 'okay (: bring a pizza.'

by the time you hear eren knocking at your front door, you'd managed to apply mascara and lip gloss, and even style your hair cutely. he notices right off the bat, as soon as you open the door his ears are immediately flushed from how pretty you look, eyes bright and lashes fluttering as you invite him in with sweetly plumped lips. as you lead him towards the living room, he could almost swear you were swaying your hips oh so sensually on purpose.

"why didn't you go to the party?" you ask, glancing at him from over your shoulder as you collect the popcorn and some drinks from the kitchen. you can't help but wonder if he came here for a reason, the thought dancing in the back of your mind.

eren's already gotten into the pizza, gooey strings of cheese stretching from it as he pulls out a slice, "i didn't have a costume either." he admits, gazing at you for what feels like entirely too long before looking back down at the ridiculously greasy slice of pizza in his hands, lips pursing together.

it's not like he was going to admit that he wanted to be alone with you again, that ever since that night he had been pining for you just as you were for him. that he'd been fisting his cock in cold showers after hanging out with the group every single time, just from a few passing glances of your face and maybe a moment that your cleavage had shown, or you had brushed close to him when moving past.

kicking his feet up on the table, he leans back into the cushions, "what are we watchin'?" you fumble with the tv remote, pressing a random button to refresh the page from the current idle screensaver, "oh, uh scream. that okay?" you glance to him, licking your lips before swallowing dryly. eren gulps down the large bite of pizza in his mouth, pointing towards the tv with a greasy finger. "course, you remember when i dressed up as ghostface last year?"

eren remembered vividly— but not because of his own costume, but because of yours. you and sasha had dressed up as a matching pair of a devil and an angel, an entirely classic costume idea.. but the way that red mini skirt gripped at your hips and the way that pointed, heart clip on tail swayed behind you with every movement was a scene he simply couldn't erase from his mind.

you hold back a giggle, biting at the tip of your thumb, "oh yeah! you scared the shit out of armin when you came out of the bathroom." you feel your stomach swirling with excitement and nervousness all in one, as close as the two of you were as friends, you couldn't stop your heart from skipping a beat as he looked at you with beryl colored irises, tawny lips pulled into to a handsome smile as you reminisced together.

you scoot back onto the couch, swinging your legs and placing your feet in his lap with a snicker, hands fiddling with the remote in your hands. you look down to your lap, a foot pressing into his thigh. "hey, ren..?" you speak softly, the abbreviation of his name catching his attention almost instantly. he could only recall one previous time you'd called him that, your voice shaky over the phone as you had asked him to pick you up from a local restaurant after being stood up for a date.

"yeah?" he's finished his pizza by now, hands gripping one of your feet and playing with the fuzzy cotton of your sock. eren gives you his full, undivided attention, admiring every detail of your face as he waits for you to speak. your lips press together, and you almost want to say nevermind and turn your attention back to the tv, but the attentive look drawn on eren's features encourages you. "i just.." you release a sigh, wiggling your toes his his hands, "wanted to say thank you for coming. i figured id be alone tonight, but you pulled through."

there's that pretty smile eren adores playing on your lips, and he can't help but mirror it, his fingers slipping just beneath the ankle of your sock to tickle at the side of your foot. "thank me? you know i wouldn't miss it for the world, you're my best friend." he pulls the elastic of your sock, allowing it to pop against your skin, "now get over here, i'm fuckin' freezing."

ignoring the dull sting against your ankle you shuffle over towards him, pressing play on the movie and setting the remote down. it wasn't weird to be so close to eren— the two of you had done this countless times before yet, the thumping of your heart is heard clearly by both you and him. he can't help but glance over towards you as you come near, scooting until you're shoulder to shoulder.

there's a certain thickness in the atmosphere as you guide your eyes to the television, both of you wanting each other yet neither of you making a move. eren had come for a reason— your shared friends encouraging him to watch the movies with you by himself because they were all aware of the feelings you had for each other. watching the two of you avoid each other in that desperate, lovey dovey way was painstakingly agonizing for them. they'd pushed eren to cross that imaginary line drawn in the dirt that separated you two.

dully, the movie plays behind your loud thoughts, churning within your brain. you can barely focus, the way eren had smiled at you and spoken to you making you all the more flustered. you felt just as you did that summer night, when his lips had pressed against yours so deeply and the bitter taste of alcohol transferred from him to you. it ended as fast as it began, sasha and connie rounding the corner all loud and rowdy with jello shots in hand. you and eren shared a final passing glance, before melding back into the party.

beside you, eren had come to a similar consensus. with a balmy hand, he places it on your thigh, turning to face you in the dimly lit apartment, with only the tv illuminating his features. "[name], can i be honest?" you'd switched your attention from the movie towards him at an embarrassing speed, shifting in your seat just slightly to get closer to him. you don't trust your voice, so you only nod then ghost your hands over his, a fingertip tracing his rough knuckles. his hand feels hot against your exposed skin, and it makes you want to squirm.

"ever since the kiss.." he starts, and you can suddenly hear your heart beating behind your ear drums, your eyes wide and guileless as you look at him. eren feels it— when your thighs press together just slightly and this only pushes him further, his confidence growing stronger. "i couldn't stop fuckin' thinking about you." it's as if the world around you is drowning out, the movie playing yet you can't hear it, only moving pictures in your peripheral vision. "all the time, driving me crazy.."

your breath hitches as he suddenly nears closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath fan across your frontispiece. your bottom lip quivers just barely before parting, "me too.. i missed you, ren." with your every word, you nearly keen from the way his hand caresses your thigh, slowly inching closer and closer to the heat that spreads rapidly between your thighs. his fingertips meet with the fabric that shields your cunt from him, sticky to the touch already. he hums, eyes flickering up towards you with laze.

"yeah? thinking bout me makes you like this?" you spread your legs at his touch without even thinking, and eren sneers at your eagerness, rubbing his fingers even deeper into your clothed folds. even through your shorts and panties, you soak his digits, and that's enough of an answer to him. "ive barely even touched you, [name]." eren's chin juts up just slightly, that arrogant look you've known for years playing on his face.

"it's been awhile.." you admit shyly, averting your gaze away from him. eren cups your heat firmly, "then it's my job to take good care of you, isn't it?"

this time, you build up the courage to make a move, leaning forward to press your lips against his. it's soft at first, barely grazing together but eren grasps you with his free hand, long fingers spraying over your cheek and touching your hair as he pulls you in deeper, closer. you're both desperate for more, your hand gripping his shirt in a balled up fist and the other finding purchase on his bun, all his hair tied up in one spot being the perfect anchor to hold on to.

there's a quick moment when you part your lips to heave in a shaky breath, and eren steals yet another kiss from you, delving his tongue into your mouth with a low groan. you absent-mindedly tug his hair once more and eren finds himself leaning back with lustful eyes, that dull pain with each yank turning him on more and more. "you keep on doing that and i'm gonna have to teach you a lesson."

eren guides you from the couch to the bedroom with ease, knowing the layout of your apartment like the back of his hand. he can smell you on every blanket and pillow, the place where you lay your head each night.. the place where you might've even touched yourself thinking of him. eren could jump out of his clothes right now and lose himself, but he holds himself together for a bit longer while he's peeling your shorts down your legs.

pink flushes the apples of his cheeks at the sight, your plush legs spread open just for him, wetness seeping through the material of your panties and that bashful look on your face as you gaze at him. you drag your eyes over every inch of him, admiring his body even though he's fully clothed and you aren't. you stare especially long at the obvious bulge beneath his sweatpants, a pout forming on your glossed lips. you rub your foot over it with a whine as eren pulls off your panties, fingers pressed to your entrance and ready to slide in.

he pauses, glancing down to where you rub against him then back up to you, another smirk playing on his lips. "what?" eren already knows, but he'd much rather hear you say it. hear that sultry voice of yours telling him how *bad* you want him. your brows are pinched together, knees knocking into each other out of bashfulness as you look up him, eyelashes batting softly, "need you now, ren. can't wait."

eren feels his cock twitch, throbbing within his confines and he knows just as well as you do that neither of you could wait any longer. he tugs off his shirt while you work at sliding his pants down to his knees and soon his hands join yours with his boxers, cock swaying once it's free of his pants. one hand meets the plush of the mattress as he leans forward, shimmying out of his pants and letting his other hand slide up your side. there's no time to take off your shirt, so he hikes it up above your tits.

eren cups one firmly, his hips finding their way between your legs. like a magnet his glaring red cockhead presses flush against your entrance, and before you can manage to sputter out even a sound he's crashing his lips onto yours, thumb ghosting over your nipple. your fingers feel cool against his stomach as you glide them over, following that trail of hairs that lead you right on down to where you want him the most. your touch is soft, nearly hesitant with clammy fingers wrapping around his shaft and guiding it into your awaiting, inviting walls.

you both let out a sigh of unison at the feeling, your juices coating him and allowing him to slide with ease. "fuck—!" eren seethes through his teeth as he bottoms out, both hands hooking beneath your knees and folding you up nice and wide. you cry out, fingernails painting red lines across his flesh with every inch that stretches you out. your foreheads press together as the kiss ends, and eren keeps his eyes trained to where the two of you are connected, watching as he pulls his hips back just to drop them back down firmly.

the length of his cock makes you squirm, hips shying away from the way he bullies against your cervix already. eren grunts, releasing your legs to instead grab both of your wrists and pull them down flatly against your stomach. he braces down with this grip, his hips picking up a quick pace while rolling into you skillfully. you can do nothing but take it, and eren watches the way your pretty little eyes fill with tears. they spill over onto your round cheeks, and eren thinks you just look absolutely stunning this way.

to see you crying for him, with your lips gaped and brows furrowed together while you take him in again and again is enough to make him cum already, but he once more, wills himself to keep it together. he's not ready for this to end, and he intends to savor you for a bit longer.

eren jackhammers into you, and you find yourself wondering how you ever lived with out him fucking you like this up until now. how he somehow knows your body like the two of you have done this before, easily finding that spot inside of you that makes your entire body spasm, walls clenching around him sporadically, your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands as you let out a wail of warning.

eren choses to release one of your hands in order to rub against your clit with his thumb and work you through your sudden orgasm, watching with amused eyes as your body shudders and shakes. eren looks too good— and you can't help but crane your neck upwards, lips pooching towards him to ask for another kiss. with you looking like that, sweet and plush just for him he could never say no. he'd have to save it for another day because he's coming undone, leaning down to claim your lips as his.

"yes, yes" you cry out in a whisper just before his lips touch yours, legs tightening around his taut waist and your walls tightening even more. eren's hips stall momentarily as he reaches his pinnacle, only moving once more to pump you full with his release. you can feel his cock throb one last time, and this is what brings you to your orgasm once more. you whimper sloppily against his lips, holding onto his shoulders with an iron grip.

you feel your legs fall, relaxing from the position you had locked eren in. eren has other ideas however, long fingers clasping around your neck and tilting your head back just slightly to meet his gaze.

"one more time for me, yeah?"

ALL WRITTEN CONTENT BELONGS TO @TENDOUSFINGERS

#eren yeager #eren x fem!reader #eren yeager smut #eren smut #aot smut #snk smut #attack on titan smut #aot x reader #fingie.fics #the cosmos halloween collab

[shibaraki]

PENUMBRA ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: navigating life with two identities is no easy feat. falling for the underground hero known as Eraserhead makes keeping your worlds separate that much harder. it was bound to fall apart at some point.

tags: AFAB GN reader, strangers to friends to lovers, secret identity (reader is a vigilante; wears a mask; reader has a quirk), minor oc characters, morally conflicting relationships, romantic + sexual tension, cats + coffee, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence (weapons; quirk brutality; kidnapping; villain gun quirk), quirkless discrimination, criticisms of hero system, blood loss + injury (bruises, fractures, bullet wounds, reader gets stitches), mutual pining, making out + heavy petting, I promise this is fluffier than it sounds, mild angst with a happy + hopeful ending

wc: 20k

It happens between blinks. Always a forgiving, dreamless sleep. 

When you wake to the obnoxious wail of your alarm the honeysuckle sun has already unsheathed itself from the horizon. “Fuck,” you groan, smacking your lips in displeasure at the dry, cotton feeling in your mouth.

Three and a half hours was better than none at all.  You had fifteen minutes to make yourself moderately presentable — wipe away the sand from your cornea with cold water, lethargically brush your teeth, appraise the shadows beneath your eyes and twist in the mirror reflection as you try to map out any fresh bruises. 

You paint over the purples and blues, wincing as you go. Most were easily covered up by your shirt but you couldn’t take any chances; not the slip of your sleeve, or the dip of your collar. Nocturne’s remnants littered your body, and he would surely recognise them at first glance. 

Your lips shape slowly around the consonants and vowels. “Aizawa,” repeated again and again as you dress yourself. Not Eraser now, just Aizawa. Kill the latter part of yourself, saved only for the night. Don’t slip up. You tuck your rudimentary wings back into thick, woolly socks pulled up over your ankles, snug around your calves. Wearing just jeans and a sweater always feels unnaturally light the morning after a patrol. 

The key eases into the lock. You turn it clockwise, and try the handle once more before you leave. In passing you can hear your neighbours beginning to wake and get ready for their day. Hasty footsteps echo throughout the stairway as you descend it, too behind on time to even think about waiting for the lift. 

You start down the road towards the cafe and tug your jacket closer to your chest. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. Tired as you are, there’s a restless giddiness building in your chest, and it spurs you on further. Aizawa is a creature of habit — he would be there, rumpled and windswept, as he always is. 

The mundane routine wasn’t something you disliked. Not everything had to be exhilarating or dangerous for it to be worthwhile. Life was an accumulation of small victories. When the sun is up, that is when you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour; people in your community with relaxed smiles, unrestrained laughter, going about their day without the burden of worry. 

You enter through the back door of Meowtini. Waiting diligently for your arrival, as soon as they hear the click of a lock the cats are flocking to the staff room, a cacophony of yowls of every pitch. “Okay, okay! I hear you!” you laugh, pushing them away gently with the tip of your foot as you try to get to the kitchen. 

One leg after the other, you step over the security gate. “No kitties in the kitchen,” your voice threads together in a sing-song cadence, hands busy at work collecting the tubs of cat food from the pantry. “I promise it’s comin’!” 

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since your handover, Hideki, had left, and still they behave as if they’d been abandoned for weeks.  

At the cafe there are three rotations. The morning shift runs from eight till twelve. During lunch the doors would be locked, allowing the feline residents reprieve from the public. Second is the afternoon, three till six, and third is the late night shift, reserved strictly for employees able to bake and restock the display cases for the following day. 

You always took the morning shift, without fail. 

A quiet bell sounds by the entrance and all ears in the vicinity perk up. Aizawa enters at eight on the dot just as he does every Friday, still in the all black jumpsuit and weighted capture weapon you saw him in only hours ago, now with his usual work bag slung over his arm. 

You straighten self consciously and smooth down the front of your apron. His furtive stare finds yours through the second security door, peeking over top the new missing person poster tacked front and centre, slightly obscured by the dark hair curtaining his face. 

Some of the older cats slink out from their hiding spots, mewling like kittens. They’re only ever like this with him; their internal clockwork has synced to his arrival, you think. It’s only natural — Aizawa spoils them more than any other regular. 

They shuffle back as the door pushes inward, and he slips through the narrow space into the warmth of your cafe. You watch with inundated fondness as he takes a moment to breathe in the scent, those broad shoulders lifting, chest expanding with his lungs. 

Aizawa bends forward like a puppet cut free of its strings and proffers his hand to the feline closest to him. Ren, an older long haired cat with a black coat to match his own. You get a glimpse of the muscle hidden under that plain fabric, as it slips forward over his bruised collar, and you swallow thickly. 

“G’morning,” you call to him, turning to busy yourself with his usual order. A red eye — black coffee with one added shot of espresso — and a glass of cold water. You massage the ache in your knuckles as the coffee drips steadily into the shot glass, conscious of the broken skin on your third and fourth knuckle that you’d covered with concealer. 

You hear his gruff response, voice low and rough with fatigue in a way that prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s a familiar, pointed weight at your back that fades the moment you turn, his stare now set firmly on the baked goods in the display counter. 

“Want one?” his eyes flicker up, meeting your own as you set the coffee on the surface. “You can give up the bit, Aizawa. I’m already well aware you’ve got a secret sweet tooth”. 

It’s still odd interacting with him like this — as yourself, plain clothed and unmasked, voice as clear as the bell by the door. The first time he had stepped foot in the cafe you’d been overwhelmed by trepidation and fear, only to realise he didn’t recognise you at all. 

“You pick something,” he murmurs, reaching across. Your fingers are still looped through the handle of the mug, and they brush against his rough skin as he takes it from you. There’s coarse, dark hair on the back of his hand, you notice. “So long as it’s warm”. 

Pleased, you hum an affirmative, picking up the pair of tongs behind the counter and plucking one of the croissants from the shelf; crust crisp with a soft yielding centre, brushed with golden egg.

“Hard week?” 

Something indiscernible shifts in his expression. He considers you, “What makes you say that?” 

This is another of those fleeting instances that you think he may have connected the dots. Face pinched in quiet suspicion, he visibly weighs the possibilities. Your pulse throbs on the back of your tongue as the blood rushes to your ears. You warily telegraph your movements and ignore the urge to turn away from prying eyes. 

“Just making conversation,” you smile, though it is strained despite your efforts, and gesture to your collarbones. “I saw the bruises, so…” 

A beat of silence passes, and you are forced to exhale on the off chance that your quirk activated itself amidst the one sided panic. When Aizawa accepts your flimsy excuse with a lazy nod you are forced to temper the immediate relief that follows. 

“I did run into trouble. Though not the kind you’re thinking,” he continues to speak, bending to pet one of the younger cats. Suzu, judging by the broken mewl. He sounds… unbearably fond. “Just someone that likes to get on my nerves”. 

Blunted teeth sink into your tongue. The toaster oven pings behind you, startling you out of your gentle astonishment. Taking the croissant out of the oven, the hot air plumes upward to sting your eyes, and you set it onto a small plate. 

“That’s hardly distinct. I’ve heard you say that about everyone in your life,” you tease lightly. “Starting to think you enjoy it”.

“I wonder about that,” Aizawa huffs, sliding the plate across the counter and stepping around the flock that has inevitably gathered at his feet. He hugs the coffee mug to his sternum, glancing toward his usual spot. 

Despite being the only person to arrive this early, he always checks. Recently, he has also begun to ask, “Too busy to join me?” 

Weeks ago, you’d taken an early break and graded some papers for him while he slept, and he had yet to forget it. “You do a guy's work for him one time,” you laugh, head shaking amusedly. No doubt there were enough poorly written student essays in that worn leather bag to fill your skull with cotton. “I have to feed the cats”.

Do your own job, Hero. The comment sits right at the tip of your tongue, and it takes conscious effort to smother it, pressed up against the back of your teeth. Too much like Nocturne. 

Aizawa levels you with a playful glare — playful by his standards — and his nose wrinkles above the ribbons of carbon alloy coiled around his neck. Then he sleuths off to his booth, gait heavy as if he were wading through wet mud. 

Now you’re free to enjoy the sides of him Nocturne doesn’t get to see; the man you knew as a force to be reckoned with, the voice of reason and stickler for the law, draping himself across the booth like he was part of the furniture, where he could just be; embedded into a scene that gently unfolded around him. 

Ren leaps up onto the cushioned seat, stretching her limbs across his thighs with toes spread. The pro hero slumps down and slips his fingers into her thick fur, head tipping back as the rigidity bleeds from his body. You drink in the way his throat shifts when he swallows, how the dark stubble on his cheeks shadows the underside of his jaw, and quickly cast your eyes to the countertop. 

Aizawa Shouta is unbearably handsome in all manner of ways. You’re sure he would regard you with flat disdain if ever you told him so. The unkempt, rugged appearance was all purposeful — being overlooked or underestimated was the whole point. But you liked it. A lot. 

You recall the whiplash of seeing him during a press conference all those months ago; hair brushed and neatly styled into a half up do, a youthful face freshly shaven, his suit cinching tight in all the right places. Thankfully his facial hair is as stubborn as he is, and you never needed to grieve it much. 

Paradoxically, you are far more masked standing behind the cafe counter now than you were in your gear. There was caution and forethought in every word, every movement; constantly weighing the possible outcomes came with a lot of mental fatigue. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp every version of yourself and overlay them in his mind until it painted a full picture. Look at me. 

Maybe it’s silly, with him sitting so close. But you missed him. You wanted to banter with him again, poke and prod until he got a little rough. 

Eventually a pair of friends trickle in, bringing a brief gust of cold air when they greet you. The dewy morning sun is bright as it peeks over the surrounding buildings, glittering faintly where the condensation clings to the window panes and casting dappled shadows across the floor. You serve them together and make idle conversation, sneaking quick glances at the weathered hero. He rested against his fist, squishing the fat of his cheek. 

“Thank you. Here, since you’re new, take a few bribes too,” you restrain a smile at the sight of him nodding off over his paperwork as you press a few small tubes of wet cat treats into their open palms. “It’ll help warm them up to ya”. 

When the coast is clear you gather some for yourself, fiddling nervously with the packaging and approaching Aizawa’s booth. He’s awake again now. Coffee cup empty and croissant half eaten. The man is a grazer; when he eats Aizawa will nibble around the edges and save the centre. You hear the rough scratch of his pen across paper. Spine arched and tail quivering happily, Ren spreads her toes as she pushes up into his equally heavy handed back pats. 

You know well enough that he’s aware of your presence. Subtle, his shoulders roll back, opening his chest, chin tilted toward you and hair tucked behind his ear to show he’s listening while he works, leg unfolding from beneath his body and stretching until the tip of his toe taps the opposite seat. 

That’s just how he is. Eraserhead’s intentions are largely unspoken. A test, in a way. Tuning into the body language of others and deciphering it is what kept you alive most nights. Hearing the question, the bid for more explanation, the silent praise behind his less-than-expressive expressions had been child’s play. 

Not here though. You needed to maintain a level of ignorance to keep his guard down. Standing at the end of the table you ask if you can sit despite knowing you can. He answers again by gesturing his pen over the table, never lifting his gaze. 

You slide across from him. “How’s the pastry?”

“Groundbreaking,” he concedes dryly before tearing off another bite. 

“Good answer,” you snort, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward to shamelessly read what he’s working on. The handwriting is barely legible. “What’s the assignment about this week?”

“Overlap of ethics and law. It was supposed to be a two thousand word essay on any case study of their choosing,” he bends back the corner of the papers laid out in front of him to emphasise the thickness and deadpans. “This is all from one student. Five times the word count I set”. 

“Midoriya again, I presume?”

The long suffering sigh is all the answer you need. You decidedly do not watch the slow swipe of his thumb across his mouth. His lips part and he sucks the remaining crumbs. Heat flashes through your body that almost makes your tea seem cold. 

“Should never have clarified that the word count was a soft limit,” he mutters, clicking the end of his pen twice. “Kid is terrible at cutting down his own work. I advised him to only include the key sections of the essay he said ‘but Sensei, it’s all important’”. 

“Sensei,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. “Why did you become a teacher again?”

“I regret it every day,” he replies. You can tell it’s without malice, and not just by the fondness there. He doesn’t mean it — never does. Aizawa Shouta is forthright and honest about everything but his personal feelings. 

“Sure,” your cheeks hurt with the effort not to laugh; amusement hidden safely behind the rim of your mug. The tea burns, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach as you swallow. “If you say so”. 

Dark eyes narrow in on you. It becomes another of those moments where the proverbial walls are closing in. Pushing back is useless, so you have learned to sit and wait. He’s always… surveying you. You think, deep down, his instincts are telling him things that he desperately wants to put a name to. 

“I do,” he rumbles, absentmindedly circling his pen against paper. He twirls it between each knuckle with ease, staring at you for a long while before he says: “You remind me of somebody I know”. 

Bracing yourself for collision does not lessen the impact. As expected, this is when the guilt invites itself in and replaces your fear of being caught with the nauseating shame that too often comes with lying to someone you care about. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” you ask, rubbing at that frantic, skittish thing behind your sternum. “I can never tell with you”. 

Aizawa laughs. More of a snuffed out, breathy sound than anything, but a laugh all the same. You feel it echo to every nerve ending, simmering into a pleasant buzz. He didn’t do it much, and as Nocturne you knew it was embarrassingly obvious how hard you tried to pluck the reaction from him. So much so that you’d started to suspect he repressed it on purpose. 

“It’s a good thing,” he murmurs, overturning another page of Midoriya’s work. Your heart jumps at the unfettered warmth in his tone. Then, following a short pause, he adds, “Mostly”. 

You’re semi content to watch him work. There are always questions, but you’re afraid of what he might see in you if you ask. Forgetting yourself would lead to a lapse in control. Disturbance in the deception might not create an immediate break, but restless, inquisitive Eraserhead would not be able to keep his nails from picking at the frayed thread until the tapestry fell apart. 

Names do not often come up in conversation, only ever by accident. Mostly, he refers to the majority of his class and his daughter with half-baked terms of endearment. You already knew many of the students at UA — albeit not personally, but it was clear that maintaining a strict level of anonymity for his kids was important to him. 

So you dance around the lines he had so boorishly lain, flirting with them a little, but only if you can’t help it. It’s a repetitiveness you’ll never tire of, it’s scripted exchanges and the subtle coaxing until he’s there, in your magnetism. You liked how he’d smile as he receives the tube of cat treat, even if it is a private exchange with the cat in his lap and not you. 

How’s work, how’ve you been sleeping, did you shave again? 

Work is work, sleeping hours should be longer, do you often pay attention to my shaving habits?

People filter in as the time passes. You return to your place at the counter soon enough, kept in place by one of the newer, clingier kittens, Suzu, sprawled on the top of your right shoe. 

You call out to Aizawa as he saunters toward the door. Once again, his stare lingers for longer than necessary on the missing person poster you had tacked to the window. He slouches further into himself at the volume, hands deep in his pockets when he turns to squint with displeasure. 

Wearing a sheepish grin, you wave the little powder blue stamp in the air. When Aizawa leaves his face is flushed and hidden behind the sturdy material of his capture weapon, yet another ink impression of a cat on his pink point card. 

Exhaustion catches up to you near the end of your shift.  Your coworker, Saeko, a young woman fresh out of college, had arrived miraculously early. She gave you a playful, disapproving once over, smiling til a crooked tooth peeks from between her thin lips. 

“Senpai. With all due respect, you look worse than I did during my final exams last year,” she snorted, jaw rolling as she idly chewed a fresh stick of gum. The teasing jab is fermented with fresh mint. “You can totally dip, if you want. I got it from here”.

“Are you sure?”

A wet smack of her lips. She shucked off her coat with a shrug, untucking the ends of blonde hair caught in the collar. It fell just below the hemline of her skirt, and you saw a faint ladder stretch in her dark tights when she stretched to hang it in the staff room. “Yea, it’s cool. Unless you’re still stickin’ around to wait for Melatonin-san? Thought he usually came at the ass crack of dawn”. 

“That’s not his name and you know it,” you laughed, bundling yourself back up with a passing glance to the back window. Trepidatious, dark clouds make your little concrete world a smidge duller. “But no, I’ve got nothing left to do. Aizawa already stopped by”. 

“Aizawa,” she recites, brows wiggling suggestively. “He asked for your number yet?”

“No, Saeko”. 

“Want me to get it for you?” she pressed the tip of her index finger to her left eye. There’s gold tinted circuitry in the sclera paving toward the iris. It is vivid orange, without a pupil, and it appears to pulse like the lense of a camera. “On the house. Maybe if you get laid you’ll actually be able to sleep”.

Jacket wrapped close to your chest to brace for the incoming gust, your hand tightened around the door handle. “No, Saeko,” you repeated with feeling, as though you were chiding a toddler. “I mean it. No illegal data syphoning at work”. 

Her voice carried through into the side alley, all the way onto the bustling street. Suit yourself, she cackled. The glaring implication that Aizawa could be interested in anything beyond pleasantries fed yarn into that ever-present knot of anxiety in your gut. 

As Eraserhead he entertained Nocturne just fine, but that relationship was more akin to that of a kitten latched to his pant leg than anything else. 

Even if it was a possibility of something more, that flame would be diminished as soon as he found out who you were. 

You rub your hands together, creating heat with the friction and massaging it into your cheeks. The cold bites at the tip of your nose. Falling back into your normal route is natural. Sewn into muscle memory, your legs carry you back home and the thoughts wash over you. 

The apartment seems less welcoming when the sun is up. You thought it might be the clutter, or the sound of your upstairs neighbours slow dancing in the kitchen. Creaky floorboards groan under your feet, above your head, as you find no reason to avoid the weak spots. There were things that needed to be done, and little time to do it. 

Redress the wounds which have not scabbed. Throw some food into the air fryer and scrub your gear clean while it cooks. Eat well, press on all the areas of your body that feel tender and decide to take a painkiller. Plug in your phone and your mask, turn on the TV and listen to the news report as you stretch. Check your costume on the clothes horse, spend close to an hour examining for tears or concerning damage before laying it out on the end of your bed. Nap. 

Blearily, you wake in a dark room, remnants of the day barely visible where it has slipped beneath the horizon, and wash your cotton mouth down with a glass of water. The news cycle is repeating, a red banner rolling bright across the lower half of the screen with urgency. Sidekicks from the Endeavor agency had pursued a villain from the Shizuoka border to the Meguro line on the Shuto Expressway, effectively destroying, in part, one of the main arteries into central Tokyo. 

Not your jurisdiction. Not theirs either, if you think about it. Typical. You pat around aimlessly for the TV remote, lowering the volume to a whisper with a heavy sigh as you scoot toward the edge of your bed. 

Unsteady on your feet, you amble toward the pinboard kept on your accent wall. An oeuvre of loss. You run your fingertips along the pins until they stop on one particular thread. Ono Mizuki. There are others — lines of every colour, yellow, blue, green, orange, interwoven and connected, overlapping from point to point until the pattern becomes clear. 

Tonight you’d patrol further east of the prefecture. There’s one specific neighbourhood in which all the threads crossed. This area was the only other similarity between the victims aside from quirk status, or lack thereof. 

Shadows pleat across your floorboards. The room is always a bit stuffy after you’ve squeezed into your gear. The kevlar strapped securely around your torso beneath the layers of clothing is weighted, and you’re quietly comforted by its sturdiness. 

Strapping on your utility belt is the fun part. Three pouches secured either side of your hips — tucked into each are a basic first aid kit, flash bombs, smoke bombs and a few nightsticks. In the holsters is a granite baton and a small combat knife. Cuffs confiscated last week, all you have righ now are zip ties. You sniff petulantly. Eraserhead’s fault.

Even on the nights you don’t run into him during a patrol, Eraser’s presence is ubiquitous. A veritable shadow. He could be anywhere, could be anyone, and it was comforting in an odd way. You supposed that is what made him such a renowned underground hero. The possibility of being caught by him was enough to deter most criminals. 

That sentiment was not unlike the legacy left by All Might, yet comparing the two — comparing him to any other daylight left an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Less bitter-sweet, more bitter-resentment. 

By definition, heroes are not supposed to be human. Humanbeings are multifaceted. Messy. Heroes are scrubbed to the bone, puritanical, manufactured to symbolise something bigger. A bright, special kind of person in a black and white landscape; an iron club wielded by the voices of the people; the displacement of their personal responsibility. 

To be a hero is to be the penultimate. A moment of choice, gestures of grandeur against one great foe that unites the people. They answer fears, like a God would. 

It’s theatre. 

You found solace in Eraserhead’s own translucence. His stubborn humanity set him apart. You had the unique opportunity to see Aizawa from other angles, to observe the ways in which he illuminated the facets of his soul. He was not all that dissimilar to you. 

The lackadaisical man openly bore his heart on his sleeve only to convince you it’s a trick of the light. A hero that could shoulder accountability and admit fault. He’s well meaning and rough around the edges to ward off those he deems intolerant. Quiet when he knows to be with the memory of a fox — the ears of one, too. Carelessness wouldn’t be easily forgiven. 

Thoughts of him carry you across a grey landscape, towering rooftops and buildings that dwarfed you. The sound of your feet hitting the gravel barely echoes. It had taken months to learn to lighten your footsteps, and even longer to know where to put them. Eraserhead wasn’t the only person that liked to remind you that your fighting stance needed work. 

Dropping into the narrow alley below, you begin to weave through the prefecture's interconnected veins, senses attuned to your surroundings and prepared; any sudden noises, a shift in atmosphere, an item out of place, your breathing came to a stand still. 

Something prickles under your skin as you approach the singular street where all the victims had once been. There is the innate feeling that something wrong has happened here — the kind that beats against your breast bone and begs you to turn back. At first glance the area isn’t overtly suspicious. Some of the buildings are boarded up, broken into or covered in anti-HPSC graffiti, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag. 

More often than not, areas that received less government funding tended to receive fewer patrols from heroes, and when they did, compensation for damages was rarely offered. It would need to go through the courts, and every day people did not have the means to fight a branch of government when they were busy with mouths to feed. Causation aside, their anger was natural, understood. 

The true source of your discomfort comes from a warehouse at the far end of the road. A big, hulking structure, outer paint peeling to reveal varying layers of sun baked hues, encircled by fire escapes fastened firmly to each floor that gave it an almost skeletal appearance. Creaking in its decrepitude, you hear groans echoing throughout the empty rafters. That unnerving emptiness follows you in, finding a wide empty space entrenched in shadows. 

Except, it feels strangely lived in. Touched by something. Light filters through the window panes enough to outline the tall pillars, looming and evenly spaced. Rubble has been swept into the corners, faint lines from the bristles in the dirt, and tread marks left by the wielder. 

There’s an elevator in the back that you daren’t risk using. You apply some of your weight to the floor and it yields as though it would plummet. You come across a trash bag full of beer bottles and food tubs, which upon closer inspection, are mostly filled with needles and bloodied fabric. 

Tipping the contents onto the floor would only alert someone if they returned later. You wanted to rummage through it piece by piece, maybe bag some of it up to hand off, but as thick as your gloves are you didn’t want to chance being pricked or contaminating something. 

Your shoulder sag with a deep sigh, the sound crackling through your voice changer. One thing that does catch your eye is a bracelet — or what was once a bracelet. The chain has snapped and most of the beads are lost, but a few remain caught by the thicker part of the clasp. They’re speckled like granite and warm coloured, brown, green and orange. You can make out some kanji script etched into the beads. It is not a name you know, but an instinctive urge encourages you to keep it. 

The bracelet is bagged and heavy in your utility belt as you peruse what’s left of the space, passing various rusted machinery covered in tarp. There’s a vice fixed to one of the work benches. The wood is stained dark, smatterings of dried blood dotting the lever. You try not to think about it. 

Tension slips notably from your muscles as the distance lengthens between you and the warehouse. Heading back west, this route winds through the busier parts of the city. People of every shape are weaving around one another in every direction, filing out from the clubs and bars in a chorus of raucous laughter. Non locals might call this the heart but you know the heart lies in where they’re going — home. 

You stick to the rooftops to maintain a vantage point. The air is thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and street food. Vendors made good money on nights like this; you feel your stomach twist in hunger, mouth watering at the sight of browning yakitori sizzling just below. 

A woman stands off to the side, picking off the morsels of meat from her little stick, visibly unstable on her feet. The glow of satisfaction on her flushed face dims with discomfort when her foot narrowly misses the curb, and she bends to rub where the strap of her heels crosses over her ankle. 

Your attention is magnetised to the figure near her. Unremarkable at first glance. The two stand out clearly, both immovable against the tide of civilians stumbling toward Futoura station, much further up the road. He’s watching her intently. Beady focused, unblinking. You notice another pair above his— no, a mimicry of them. Eyespots blending into a close-cropped head of hair. 

His movements are carefully telegraphed as he begins to follow her. In turn, you do the same. The pace picks up when she nears a corner, mostly vacant, forking off into an alleyway that leads to the back of a club. Quicker than you could’ve expected, he throws a look over his shoulder before crowding her into the shadows.

The arch of your boot meets the ledge. You take a deep, deep breath. Desperate and obstructed by a large hand, her frightened yelp is cut short by the abrupt freezing of time. 

You fall through it. The sensation is odd, as if you can feel every atmospheric thread breaking around you like spun sugar. Gravity is merciless. Untouched by your quirk, you drop hard as a stone, and you exhale. 

Everything resumes. The dissonance of stepping into a frame and suddenly being written into it is hard to explain. You buffer and snap forward like a band into the maw of the alley. Startled by the impact, the pursuer swings his elbow back and reaches you first. They often do. Your quirk was good for gaining an advantage or getting away, but it did nothing to enhance your own speed. 

Your balance is terrible, Eraserhead murmured blithely in the back of your mind. Ground yourself. Keep your upper body aligned over your lower. 

“Fuck—!”

Blood is pumping frantically through your veins. Every pained grunt rings loud in your ears, tuning out the muffled cries coming from behind you. There’s a tenderness blossoming across your left side, and it throbs by the fifth and sixth rib. 

While you might be well adjusted to fighting in the dark now, you’re still human. Living, breathing, feeling. Your body and your mind must be split at times like this — two creatures on your shoulder, one that begs to run and live, another that wills you to fight. 

The assailant dives forward in one sluggish motion, rewarded with the sharp chink of your armoured glove as his fist connects with hard steel. He reels away in pain, cradling the injured hand to his chest while the other frantically reaches into his coat pocket. 

Polished silver glints in the moonlight. Your boot meets the hilt of his knife and it pirouettes into the shadowed alley, skidding across the gravel. A look of pure rage crosses his face and his mouth splits open. Fangs. You’re ready when he charges, arms flailing heavily, a roar pushed from deep in his gut. 

Your lungs bloat, and again, you hold. Everything freezes in time and the sound cuts out. A large hand caked in dirt hovers only a hairsbreadth from your nose. His skin smells of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. You step aside and draw your arm back. 

Exhale. One fast, hard punch to the man’s unprotected jaw and his head whips to the right, body arching sideways as all his momentum snaps backward like a rubber band. Time resumes and you power through the sudden sensory overload as his body collapses to the floor with a weighted thud. 

The lack of movement doesn’t deter you from dragging the knife forward with your foot, eyes focused on the unconscious stranger as you crouch to pick it up. A sharp sensation shoots through your muscles as you twirl the weapon between your fingers. It’s clearly new and not well kept. His stance had been entirely amateur. 

After tying his wrists together with multiple zip ties, you turn your attention to his victim. “Are you physically unharmed?” you ask with a gentle tone that still bleeds through your voice changer. 

The woman he'd pinned to the brick wall is curled up by the dumpster, knees tucked protectively to her chest. She has her phone held to her ear with a shaking hand, the fear visibly wracking through her form, stuttering her words. 

“Yes, I— are you—,” she stammers, tears spilling over her pink cheeks. There’s an insistent, tinny voice coming through her mobile speaker, but she appears unaware of it as she appraises you, her eyes wide with what looks to be gratitude. “Are you a hero?” 

“Not really,” you smile at the question and hope she can see the assurance in the happy squint of your own. 

Flipping the knife to pinch the blade, you beckon her to take the hilt. Sirens wail in the far off distance. Shuffling closer in careful, considerate movements, you murmur encouragement as she takes the weapon from you. 

Blue and red cut through the darkness, flashing interchangeably and obscuring her vision. As you move to leave the scene you tell her, “Ask whoever’s on dispatch Nocturne said to send Eraserhead. He’s the best hero I know”. 

Inhale, hold, flee. You are gone from the canvas before anyone can blink. 

The night is alive with a muted bustling. People on all walks of life filter out into the neon lit streets, worn by the day and rushing home to their warm beds. A sense of calm settles around your bones, bleeds into the ache left by old wounds and quietens the restlessness that you permanently house in your body. 

You’re teetering on the precipice of an old office building — a publishing house, if you remember correctly. The cement beneath your boots shifts like a loose tooth as you lean forward, heart reflexively crawling up your throat at the drop, pulse rocketing in your ears. 

Here, you are simultaneously burning and at ease. There’s a satisfaction that comes only when you are standing exactly where you belong. Freedom tastes like three minutes to midnight; crisp air and the faint scent of oncoming rain gathering in the dense cumuli above. 

You smile behind your headgear, adjusting the straps drawn tight around your masked hood with thick gloved fingers. The carbon fiber is an extension of you now, a permanent part of your skin, leaving behind a phantom pressure face even when you have stored this part of yourself away. 

That yearning for self is constant and comes with the setting sun. You exhale and feel the warmth of your breath stick to your cheeks. Swaying against a gust of wind, steadied by a practiced hand, your arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace. 

Like every night before, you whisper to the place you grew up in: “I’m home”. 

Amidst your reverie, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Barely audible footfalls. Boots scuff against loose gravel. The new presence clouds your senses, as if it has physically reached out to strum the dipole between you and him, and you’re turning before his feet make contact with the rooftop. 

Poppy red eyes scan drag over your form. The clothing you wear is padded and loose fitting for concealment, but still you find yourself conscious of the shape of your body. Humming under your skin is the urge to cock a hip, maybe tilt your head in a manner that is coy, to close the distance between you. 

“Surprise?”

“Hardly,” he drawls. “There’s really nothing I can say to stop you from bothering me on my patrol, is there?” 

“You catch on quick,” you reply with a grin. He may not see it behind the mask, but he hears it. “Only took you… what, six months?” 

He looks rightfully exasperated, “Seven”.

Stepping down from the ledge with barely a sound, your hands clasp against the small of your back and bouncing on your toes despite yourself. “You’ve been counting? That’s cute, Eraser”.

Warmth trails behind him and plumes into the air as he exhales tiredly. You follow his movements as he comes to a stop at your side, hand flexing into a fist and out, overlooking the busy streets below, much like you had. “The woman you saved earlier asked me to extend her gratitude,” he returns, ignoring your teasing comment. 

His words temper the playful atmosphere. A quiet bud of pride begins to bloom and your smile wanes into something bashful. Saved, he’d called it. As exhilarating as fighting was, the most fulfilling part of being Nocturne may be receiving gratitude. 

The gleam in Eraserhead's gaze wasn’t so bad to be on the receiving end of, either; half lidded in a way that suggested he was at ease, the scar cutting over his eye and another across his cheekbone, slightly curved. “She wasn’t injured, was she? I didn’t get the chance to check her over,” you fret. 

Another chill dances across the roof and he tucks behind his capture weapon, comically burrowed into the nest of cloth and thick hair. “No, just shaken up,” he reassured. Watching closely from the corner of his eye, he adds, “Refused to tell the detective which direction you ran, though. Quite intent on protecting you”. 

You don’t like the suspicion bleeding into his tone — not that you can blame him. Still, “You think I’d ask a civilian to cover for me?”

Eraser sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “No. But you know it doesn’t matter what I think,”— it does, you want to insist, staring as his fingers spread to rub roughly over his closed eyelids — “the victim insists they don’t recall you using a quirk, so you’re in the clear. But you need to tread carefully. The guys at the precinct aren’t happy”. 

“Then they should do their job better so schmucks like me don’t need to step in. Didn’t they receive a pay increase just last year?” you respond bitterly. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Eraserhead. I need you to help, because you’re the only one that ever does”. 

The steel toe of your boot meets the ledge with a dull thud, chipping off some of the old brick, and you cross your arms defensively over your chest. You release a hiss as a painful throb pulses through your knuckles where they’re tucked into the crook of your elbow. 

There’s no hiding it. You flinch as he catches your wrist in one quick movement. Struggling is fruitless, you know that better than anyone, but still you like doing it for show. It has the grip reflexively tightening, keeping you in place with a bid for compliance, authoritatively murmuring come here. 

You enjoy it when he touches you. Maybe more than you should. He’s careful, uncharacteristically gentle as his fingers slip beneath the cuff of your glove. Anticipation zips through you and settles in your stomach like a fluttering kaleidoscope. Fingertips brush your palm and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious act. 

Inhale. Exhale. Each greedier than the last. The temptation to draw out this moment is too great. You wanted his hands on you for a little longer.

The night air bites at your skin. Aizawa turns your wrist over in his grasp, delicately tracing the ley lines stitched into your frigid hand, rubbing over the faded bruising by your third and fourth knuckle. 

“Seems like the fractures healed nicely,” he stated. “Still should’ve rested it longer”.

You can’t look away from his face; softened like wax to a flame, his frown smoothed out in a way you rarely get to see with the mask on. All of that subdued concern and care directed at the point where your bodies connect — at you. 

You reel yourself in. “I am capable of looking after myself, you know,” his tired eyes lift to pin you with a sceptical stare that has your hackles rising. “I am!” 

“Right,” he drawls. His touch lingers on your wrist after he lets go, and you cradle it to your chest. Before you’re able to retort, his eyes dim and he steers the topic to something sombre, “Have you heard anything more about the missing civilians since I last saw you?” 

You rub idly at your pulse point and it beats rhythmically under the skin. You can still feel him. Even when reminded of such sobering circumstances you can’t help but wish, in the deep recesses of your mind, that he had kept his hands on you. 

A young couple stumbles down the lamp lit street. They are hand in hand and sharing unabashed laughter. It’s the sound of freedom; loud and ugly in a way that is wholly human. They stop in a circle of concentrated light and you smile as one man spins the other, their improvisation sloppy in a way that’s heartwarming. 

“A young woman by the name of Ono Mizuki disappeared two days ago. Her father is in fits about it,” you shift your weight between each foot, shoulder bumping against him. Eraser doesn’t move. He listens to you attentively as he watches the very same couple dance with one another, and when you think you feel him leaning into your warmth, you decide to put it down to imagination. 

“She’d been on her way home from cram school when she was taken. He reported it to the police that night but she hadn’t been missing long enough. They said she probably ran away”. 

Eraser releases a heavy breath. “Quirkless?” he asks. 

“Yeah”. 

“Thought as much”.

You shiver, instinctively seeking shelter from the cold, and Eraserhead lets you press to his side. As the couple walks out of sight, the unattainable image of you bundled up in his arms flashes unbidden through your mind. Hastily, you continue to speak, “I followed her usual route home a few days ago and found her rucksack tossed in the trash with her ID and such. Took it to her father”. 

“That’s good,” he murmurs. You try not to preen at what sounds like genuine praise. “Anything unusual at the scene?” 

“No,” you step away to turn and face him with resolve. “But I’m going to keep trying to find her. And the rest of them”. 

Above your heads, the plume of cloud is severed into two, crisp moonlight spilling through the fissures. Eraserhead hums as he lifts his chin to survey the everchanging canvas and you find yourself following his line of sight to a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a scorpion. 

“And what’ll you do when you find them?” he says after a few beats of comfortable silence. There’s a teasing intonation to his words. “Will you restrain their captor with another zip tie you found at the hardware store?”

You play along, scoffing as he dodges an elbow to the ribs, “You’re making fun of me. You, the reason why my newest pair of cuffs were confiscated in the first place? Who cares what I use. It did the job, didn’t it?” 

Eraserhead does not like heroes without potential. Those who act thoughtlessly; who do not know their own strengths and weaknesses; who put others in danger with their insatiable greed. Quirks may have birthed a new world, but power or not, humans would always be the same. Special power, not special people. 

Which is why his sudden lightheartedness felt so significant. Eraser trusted you, in his own way. If he didn’t you would’ve found yourself on the receiving end of another tiresome lecture. In the early days he’d even cited one of his young students' quirk law essays, dubbing you ‘more troublesome than a fourteen year old’. 

“He was over six feet tall with a strong arachnid quirk. It only worked because you managed to knock him out cold first”. 

It’s hard not to preen as he appraises you from his periphery, almost proudly. You let yourself grin; concealed, yet so wide that it’s obvious, “Correct, I apprehended a guy three times the size of me —

Slowly, you exaggerate your point further by winding up your middle finger, and waggling it in his direction in time with the mocking punctuation of your voice, 

— And I didn’t even need a fancy scarf to do it”.

His hand wraps around the offending finger and gently pulls it back, applying just enough pressure to cause discomfort. “A little respect goes a long way,” the threat falls flat, his voice entirely amused and lacking malice. “I could easily break this again”. 

You exhale a breathless laugh, still making no move to get away from him. “It can’t be much worse than dislocating my shoulder”. 

Bingo. Abject regret flits across his features and he lowers his chin behind his capture weapon. “I’ve already apologised for that,” he grunts. 

It sounds as if he’s pouting. His grip pulses once, like he couldn’t help himself. 

“Actually you reset the bone, handed me an ice pack and threatened to arrest me if I got in the way again,” you recount fondly, your smile widening as he retreats further into his carbon alloy cocoon. “Then you said sorry”. 

“That’s what happens when you jump into a fight without announcing yourself,” he mutters, loosening his grip on your finger. Distracted by the new, gentle rub of his thumb into your knuckles, you almost miss it as he tacks on a quiet, “Troublesome”. 

Laughter bubbles in your chest, partially conjured by the nerves as he cradles your hand, “You act like I do it on purpose. My body just—”

“—moves on its own,” he interrupts you, finishing the sentence with a light shake of his head. You mourn the loss of heat when he lets go of your hand. The arm falls limp at your side and you feel him tense as it brushes his hip. “You really didn’t use a quirk against the suspect back in the alley?”

“Who knows”. 

The topic of your quirk came up every so often — though lesser now that you’d formed some sort of camaraderie. You evaded answering each time he asked. At first it was a matter of trust; your meta ability was rare and easily found in the quirk database should he focus his search on your prefecture. Now it’s purely for security. 

As an underground hero Eraserhead played nice with vigilantes, most of the time. There were others, like Knuckleduster, a grievously-injure-first and ask later kinda guy, whom he wasn’t a fan of. But he never tattled on anyone or turned them in, to your knowledge, as long as they abided by the law. If he knew you’d been using your quirk, he was then still legally obligated to report it. Eraser had a lot to lose by keeping secrets on your behalf. 

That first night you met this other half of him had been surprisingly startling, because so much of him is unchanging. Eraserhead and Aizawa truly were one in the same. His expression so nonchalant and frayed with exhaustion, eyes narrowed and red rimmed, the incredible manner in which he carried his body — somehow simultaneously lazy and graceful, like an old cat. 

Suddenly being wrapped up in white lengths of metal alloy and sent careening into the concrete had been another surprise, albeit less pleasant. The reminder makes your shoulder ache. You recall how his knees straddled either side of your hips, one large hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other bent your uninjured arm at an awkward angle. He’d leaned forward, the full weight of him, hair draping over his shoulders and falling into your vision like a black curtain, mouth rough against the shell of your ear. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You revisited that particular moment a shameful amount. It was as if his voice had rewritten the memory into one of fondness, and somehow the immense pain you’d endured was merely a blip in the story. Eraserheads gruff, bumbling method of apologising had only endeared him to you more. 

Then came the hunger. Voracious, you would finish your less-than-legal nights of patrol with a twisting sensation in your stomach beside the kindling satisfaction. You weren’t willing to seek him out. The Aizawa you know wouldn’t respond well to such an intrusion. Rather, you broadened your routes into the next district over — an area you knew he frequented — and prayed it would play out naturally.

“You’re being quiet”.

You blink out of your stupor as the memories retreat, “What?”

“You’re being unsettlingly quiet,” he repeats. “What are you thinking about?” 

The whole of his face is visible now. In the time you were reminiscing he had tucked his hair behind his ears and risen from the confines of his capture weapon. Outlined by cool moonlight, casting a shadow of his lashes against pale cheeks and exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes. 

Plainly, “I think I’m realising I'm in too deep”.

Your success at worming into his good graces can only be attributed to your persistence. It helped that you already knew most of his tells— 

Exasperation slips from his expression in favour of subdued wonder. His eyes burn red, and you thought if he stared any longer you’d be reduced to nothing but ash.  

You hold his gaze and purposefully exhale. His jaw shifts as he swallows, and the air around you is unbearably thick. The pager on his utility belt sounds off once more in staccato beats. 

All heroes available within a five kilometre radius please attend. 

“Go,” you chide with a wry smirk, “do your job, Hero”.

He grits his teeth and abruptly reaches for his capture weapon in preparation, motions stilted as he glances back at you once more. 

“We’re tabling this for later,” he insists firmly, teetering over the weathered rooftop edge. You nod and offer a complacent wave as he leaves, all too relieved that your disappointment is hidden by the mask. 

—and kept him unaware that he, too, knew many of yours. 

Fatigue wears on you through the night, and you find yourself ambling home at around three in the morning with aching permafrost chipping away at your bones. You wondered if the world fell silent might your joints audibly creak, straining under the weight of your self imposed responsibilities. 

Your thighs protest as you leap over to the next building, heart squeezing in anticipation as your lack of force shortens the distance of the jump. Landing hard with a haphazard roll, your body unravels itself and you lay spread out as you catch your breath. 

There’s a question you’ve been asked many times by both civilians and public servants alike: Why you? 

As you pass yet another missing persons poster, Ono Mizuki’s young, heart shaped face smiling back at you, the only answer left to give is: If not me, then who?

The stairwell leading down from the roof is only slightly warmer, illuminated by a single stream of moonlight from a small broken window. You keep your eyes closed as the door shuts behind you with a resounding slam, blinking them open slowly as your vision adjusts to the darkness. 

Piloted by your subconscious, you can hardly recall reaching your apartment, keys held between your trembling knuckles. It takes three tries before it slots into the keyhole, turning with a resolute click. The familiarity of home lowers your inhibitions with such abrupt immediacy that you could collapse. 

The protective gear you wear works so well because it is armoured, padded, layer upon layer of protection sewn to fit you perfectly. While you’re grateful, you hated how difficult it was to take off. As you lumber further down the hallway you peel away the clothing bit by bit. Mask left atop the shoe rack, boots kicked off haphazardly after a weak attempt at untying the buckles, your soiled jacket left strewn across the living room floor. 

“Shower…,” you mutter aloud, your unaltered voice still foreign to your ears. The police scanner is nestled beside the television and habitually, you turn the volume in passing, overlapping tinny, static voices echoing throughout the space. You enter the bathroom and tug at the string light, flinching when you’re blinded by the cheap fluorescence. 

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the reflection in the mirror. Left only in your thermal under wear, you look as tired as you feel. The impression of your mask curves over the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks. You trace it lightly with the tip of your finger. 

Stripped naked, you stand beneath the spray and let the sharp pressure unravel the knots in your spine. It’s hot against your cooler skin. Soon the rhythmic pitter patter dwindles into numbness and you urge yourself to get out despite the protest from your muscles. 

You fall onto your half-made bed wrapped in an old bath towel, hair still damp, fighting a losing battle to keep your eyes open. Your consciousness blurs as soon as your head hits the pillow; you find yourself pulled into the recesses of sleep, ever sinking. 

The week passes with disturbingly little fanfare. Not wanting to abandon your regular patrol routes, specific days are allocated to observing activity in the far eastern parts of Musutafu. No other people have been reported missing, thus your pinboard remains unchanged, and the investigation stagnant. 

Eraserhead offered no new information, and could sense some pent up restlessness in you. Suddenly your roles have been reversed, and he is seeking you out frequently with the sole excuse of keeping you in line. He begrudgingly allows you to assist him in smaller takedowns; public quirk usage, purse snatchers, drunken brawls. Tasks for fingers much greener than your own, but placating his concern was more important than pride. 

Your abject indulgence in his company feeds the guilt hollowing out your bones. He felt better having you in his sights, that was clear. You are brittle, weathered by his appreciative glances and quiet praise, slipping away whenever you get the chance before he can see the cracks. 

It’d be simpler if you could tell him everything. About yourself, your quirk, the warehouse, the blood, the bracelet. Eraserhead had taken part in numerous trafficking raids, and that experience is invaluable. But understanding and leniency didn’t mean the rules that bound him were miraculously undone. 

He would be required to inform the PD and hand over any evidence. Your involvement would be revoked, and his report would likely be shucked to the bottom of the pile, ‘quirkless individuals’ typed bold and underlined in red pen. 

Six were already missing, and those were just the people you were aware of. There could be more out there. Other families left wondering, unanswered grief persisting. You had the ability to meddle before you were shut out, and bring them closure. 

Losing an underground hero's tail was a uniquely difficult task. He remained in your periphery in the nights leading up to Friday. His presence was poignant, beguiling in a way that demanded your attention. If the wind changed you could taste him. There was no doubt — for reasons unbeknownst to you, you had escaped capture all this time because Eraserhead chose to let you leave. 

“Gotta admit, you’ve been a bit annoying this week,” you accused. He presses something into your palm in lieu of a response and exhales a short, snuffed out little noise that might’ve been a laugh, or close to one. 

You peer down at the small box of salmiakki and pout as you weigh it between your hands. Salty licorice. “Is this supposed to convince me not to put out a restraining order? I’ll be honest, it’s doing the exact opposite”. 

Aizawa clicks his tongue. His profile is outlined in soft, dewy moonlight, egregious yellow goggles pushed back into his hair. “Salmiakki is good. I like things a little bitter,” he griped. 

You watch him push a piece of the licorice from his own box and tear at it gracelessly with his teeth, strong jaw shifting as he chews. There’s a dry itch in the back of your throat. Averting your gaze to the moon breaking through the stretches of cirrus cloud, you said, “I bet you add extra espresso to your coffee”. 

There’s a shift in tension and you instinctively hold your breath. He’s staring at you, and the intensity seems to worsen the longer time is frozen. Fleeting, you wonder if his quirk makes him sensitive to the use of others. You’d never needed to activate it in his presence before. 

Exhale. Unaffected, Aizawa blinks slowly from the corner of your vision. “My regular is a red eye”.

“Not a dead eye?” 

He hums, “That’s not as on the nose”. 

You laugh just like you did the first time he ordered it, reflexively tucking your chin to hide the surge of affection despite being concealed. You roll the licorice between your fingers before bringing a piece up to your mouth. It thunks deliberately against your mask, once, twice. 

“Guess I’ll have to save it,” you spin on your heel to leave, pausing when he follows close behind. “Gonna stalk me home, too?” 

“You’re up to something,” he insisted solemnly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of impulsive people. Jump first, think later. You’re going to get yourself killed”. 

“I’m not one of your students, Eraserhead. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. Unless…” the hero doesn’t move when you take a step towards him, then another, “you’d miss me?” 

The teasing intonation doesn’t translate well through your voice changer, a strangely eldritch quality to it. You think he hears it all the same. His expression pinches into a tired glare, but he doesn’t refute your comment and it pleases you; warms you from the inside out.

Quiet befalls you. You worry your lip and tug at the velcro around your wrist. The sound rips through the silence. When it’s loose enough you pull the glove off, hissing under your breath at the sudden chill. “Okay,” you falter, lifting your pinky finger into a hook and holding it out between your bodies. “I’ll pinky promise to try and be careful, then”. 

Despite offering, you’re still a little breathless when Aizawa reciprocates. Cautious, finger twitches at first, before slowly wrapping around your own. His skin is expectedly rough in comparison. You’d seen the scar tissue and callus build up before, uneven on his broad palms, a little dry on foggy mornings. 

He gazes softly where you connect then back up from beneath half lidded eyes and emphasises his next words with a firm squeeze, “I’m holding you to this. Behave yourself, because if you keep meddling you’ll end up with more than just fractured bones”. 

You return the pressure to solidify the promise, bending your wrist slightly until the heels of your hands kiss. A new ache spreads throughout your wrist that you dutifully ignore. I promise. 

There’s no purposeful intention to break it — but he speaks like his word is law, and when have you ever adhered to that? 

Friday morning starts gradually. You struggle to pry your eyes open, the forces of gravity exerted on you from all directions, keeping you pinned like a butterfly to the mattress under your thick winter duvet. The sun is barely out of bed herself, dusky horizon bludgeoned with hues of orange and pink, a glow bleeding around your curtains, filling the room with warmth. 

Everything is palpably insipid. Exhaustion dulls your senses, vision barely focused as you pull up a pair of loose pants, only realising they are backwards when they bunch up awkwardly between your thighs. 

The lifeless reflection in the bathroom mirror glares back at you. Running a cloth under cold running water, you press it to the swelling around your under eyes until the puffiness lessens. You haven’t taken a single break this week, too fixated on all the things that could happen if you did, and your body was paying for it. 

Meowtini is a welcome sight. Being greeted at the door by a gaggle of excitable, nagging cats would never get old. Suzu, five months old, demands to be held and doesn’t settle until you’ve tucked her into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“Better hope we don’t get any surprise health inspections,” Hideki smirks, nodding pointedly at the inconspicuous smoky blue lump. Rarely do you cross paths, but admittedly you’re a little late, and you’ve caught him on the end of a long night. 

“I’ll put her in one of the hammocks and wash my hands before I handle anything,” you huff, hanging your coat up in your locker. The stretch draws your sleeve to your forearm. “Fuck”.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. Actually, can you hand me some of the disposable gloves?” 

Suzu yowls in complaint as you gather her up and set her on the cool tiled floor prematurely. Hideki sidles beside where you are standing, examining your bruised hands under the fluorescent light, and hisses sympathetically. 

“Didn’t know you threw hands in your spare time, Senpai,” he comments with genuine curiosity, tilting his head, pink framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose with the movement. “Ah. Hiding them from your boyfriend out there, s’that it?” 

“Not my boyfriend,” you mutter reflexively, eyeing his palms face up where they wave in surrender. You snatch the gloves pinched between his thumb and forefinger, pausing as his words finally register. “Fuck, is he out there already?” 

Hideki’s face wrinkles with the effort of keeping his amusement concealed. Restless, he tucks the silvery springlets of hair hung over his eyes back behind his ear, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Got here early, actually. And you’re kinda late, so he’s grouchier than usual”. 

Pulling on an apron, you tie it into a sloppy bow at the back of your neck with stiff fingers, then repeat around your waist. Rushing to the kitchen sink with careful steps around the gathering felines, you call over your shoulder, “Did you serve him?“ 

The water is soothing over the tenderised flesh. It isn’t your knuckles this time — the bruising is obviously new, and begins from the side of your pinky, past the heel of your hand to the bump by your wrist. 

“Course not,” Hideki answers genially from the doorway, perched on the balls of his feet and swaying slightly as he tries to stroke every cat within reach. “The coffee I make tastes like piss compared to yours”. 

“He did not say that to you,” you laugh, tugging the polythene gloves on one hand at a time, fingers wiggling until the material sits comfortably. 

“He did. With his face,” pushing his glasses up to sit on his crown, Hideki’s features flatten into a blank expression, devoid of emotion, and he stares at you unblinkingly with an air of disdain. 

“Come on, that doesn’t mean anything. Aizawa always looks like that,” you try not to grin, biting the soft inside of your cheek between your teeth as you bend to flick his frames back onto his nose. 

It wrinkles as he pouts, pushing up to stand and brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, “Not with you”. 

You head out onto the main floor. Cats and kittens alike tottle over on their paws, coiling their bodies up and around your calves, fur clinging to the dark material of your pants. To prolong the inevitable, and stew a little longer in cowardice, you dip to individually scratch under their chins in greeting. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Ren’s pupils are needle thin, her big eyes blinking up at you as she registers the whisper, blunt claws kneading your thigh like dough. “You’ll help soften him up for me, won’t you?” 

She’s about as impressed as he is, you’d say. 

Rather than ask, you speed straight to the coffee machine. Aizawa glances over from the corner of your eye. Memory guides your hands — you needn’t think twice about it, having made this drink more times than you can count. Still, your movement stutters under the blatant intensity of his stare.

The gloves pull uncomfortably at your skin and irritate the bruising. You tuck a surreptitious grimace into your shoulder, self conscious of how your shape changes under the cheap recessed light; whether you can’t shake your own shadows, no matter how hard you try to conceal them. 

Approaching sheepishly, you feel the hot cup sting against the pads of your fingers. He has pointedly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, pen tucked between his knuckles and flicking back and forth. It makes you think of a cat’s tail. 

“Morning,” you say, apology clear in your voice as you set the red eye down beside him. Ren is under the table, curled up in the space between his ankles. Her lacklustre effort is appreciated. 

A grunt in return. Aizawa taps the ballpoint to paper, leaving a speck of red ink. Beneath it are hastily written characters, something illegible about the overarching qualities of justice and virtue. He spares no glance to the coffee percolating beside him. Instead you are caught in a leaden snare, his eyes sharp as they skim over your form. 

They linger on the pair of powder purple gloves. “Did something happen?” 

“Aside from oversleeping and almost forgetting to brush my teeth?” you reply bemusedly, allowing some of your fatigue to bleed through. Lies are easier said when there’s a little bit of truth in them. “I’m alright. Made it here in one piece”. 

Now that you’re looking, the lines around Aizawa’s eyes are more pronounced. His skin is pallid as if he’d bathed in moonlight. It is common for Aizawa to be tired but this is different. Worn, there’s a distinct tightness in his shoulders where they knot beneath his ear, flesh and bone brick and mortar, woven with his stubborn concern. 

Casting a quick glance across the empty cafe, you slip into the seat opposite. “Are you?” he peers up through windswept, unkempt bangs. A thick strand is draped over the small bump in his nose. An old break. Sunlight refracts through the grey in his right iris, bouncing against flecks of artificial red.

“You look more exhausted than usual, and that’s saying something,” you continue lightheartedly, hoping to whittle at his exterior. Tap, tap, tap. His knee bounces restlessly beneath the table. A long breath of contemplation and the first chip flakes off when your eyes meet once more. He looks as tired as you feel. 

“People from this prefecture have started going missing, one as recently as two weeks ago. I’m sure you’re aware,” Aizawa murmurs. There’s something underlying those words. Your mind flickers to Mizuki’s poster in the window. You remember how her father had bumbled, shrouded in palpable grief and nails bitten blood-black. 

It clicks, “You thought I might’ve…”

The tension briefly pulls taut, as though bracing for whatever impact came alongside the mere thought of you being missing, and then it drains from his body. You ponder, is it possible to be jealous of yourself? 

Little feet pad across the room. Suzu leaps onto your lap and her light weight anchors you. Gloved hands kept away from her fur, you lean further forward onto your forearms, shortening the distance. He watches your fingers flex toward him — pinky extended, wilting, returning to the cradle of your palm. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, apology unsettlingly sincere; it is overarching, overreaching, large enough to cover every minute from the first time you’d met him to the very last. Sorry for what you had done and for what you would inevitably do. 

Aizawa doesn’t so much shrug as he does visibly let go of the resentment. The underground hero looks somewhat diffident at his own pettiness. “As long as you’re being careful,” he says. 

“I am”. As good a time as any, you take the opportunity to pry with both hands, “Is that what you’ve been working on the past few weeks?” 

“You know I can’t share that information”.

“Right”. 

He brings the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing a mouthful without bothering to cool the surface. From behind the rim, he relents, “Yes. I was brought into the investigation just over a month ago”. 

Suzu kneads at your stomach, giving a muffled mewl as she rolls adipose tissue between her paw pads. Your mouth curls into a small smile only to thin with melancholy, “Ono-san asked that we put Mizuki’s poster up in the window not too long ago. Had it not been for him, I think most people in our community would still be unaware of the other five missing”. 

Aizawa weighs his response carefully, slouching until he is fully ensconced in the booth cushions. You feel the briefest of touches beneath the table as his thighs spread. “The relationship with the local PD is pretty poor, I assume?”

You offer a rueful grin, “If by poor you mean non existent, then yeah”. 

He exhales thoughtfully through his nose, ruffling the hair curtaining his cheeks. While he did always listen to what Nocturne had to say, it was almost as if he needed to feign suspicion to disempower your claims. With you, here, his expression is one of genuine frustration. 

“Why do you think that is?”

Answering his question in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion could be hard. You glance toward the large window, spanning the front of the cafe floor. There are various cat trees and shelving fixed across the clear pane for passers by to see. Beyond that is the main street — overcast by a passing cloud, world a little greyer — and a bus shelter directly opposite Meowtini. 

A large digital billboard flicks through the latest advertisements of Mt. Lady, her latest hair product now covered in iridescent cracks branching from a fist sized hole in the glass. 

Mount Lady has never even stepped foot in this part of Musutafu. 

“Y’know, I read that before the sudden appearance of quirks, public servants were usually labelled as heroes,” you absentmindedly snap the glove against your inner wrist to quiet your nerves. “Serve and protect, same shit HPSC peddle now, but with no special abilities”. 

Aizawa is entirely silent. Even the felines littering the cafe have fallen decidedly quiet. It accentuates your voice, and feels as though you are carrying something much bigger than yourself. “This area is known for petty crime, assault or drug dealing — mostly. Not the type of stuff that brings notoriety. That’s why heroes rarely pass through here anymore”. 

You continue, slow spoken in an effort to properly articulate yourself. “But I think a lot of the police force harbours hidden resentment for those same reasons. Not to suggest they’re… upset by a lack of villainy. But the current hero system has created a hierarchy for crime. There’s no recognition, funding or gratitude working here, so they only really exert themselves when it’ll get them a good headline”. 

Aizawa’s gaze falls on the papers laid out in front of him, a deep wrinkle in his brow. “A serial kidnapping case wouldn’t do that?”

“The victims are quirkless,” you reply, because that was all that needed to be said. He sighs in defeat and you know that he understands. Tentative, you shift your feet, knee knocking his own. Neither of you move away. 

Just as you are debating returning to the counter with his empty cup, he asks, “What about vigilantism?”

You swallow air and strain with the effort not to choke on it. “What about it?”

“Do you think positively of them?” he clarifies, hunching forward to rest his forearms on the table, mirroring your position. The change sees his knee slide along the outside of your thigh, close enough to feel his natural body heat. “There are a few I’ve dealt with who are local to Shizuoka”. 

Heartbeat loud in your ears, you are far too fixated on the press of thick muscle against your right leg to think about the consequences of toeing such an irreversible line. “They’re quite well loved. At least in these parts they are,” you mused, wringing your fingers together. Soreness radiates across the heel of your hand. “I liked The Crawler, back when he was more active”. 

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s brow arches. “He saved my life, once”. 

You sit up straighter. “Really?!” 

Low, he hums an affirmative and you feel it reverb into your chest. All the while he’s watching you carefully, that invasive stare always coming back to your eyes. He holds and tells you, “Most recently it’s been Nocturne pulling my pigtails”. 

Spluttering, you repress a noise of embarrassment with the press of your hand, “That’s how you’d describe it?”

He snorts. “How else can I? They follow me around the city like we’re in a playground, do things to get my attention and disappear into the night”. 

Your dignity might’ve folded itself into a paper crane if it were not for Aizawa’s gaze softening imperceptibly. The wrinkles by his eyes smoothen, sinew relaxed under the skin, life returning to his cheeks; his expression is one of far off affection, as though his thoughts had strayed to you despite himself. 

“Irrational and impulsive,” he adds, notably warm. “Above all, they’re irritating”. 

“Hate to have to tell you, Aizawa, but your voice completely gives you away,” you pose, canine teeth sink into the corner of your mouth, afraid you might smile so wide your cheeks will split. “Admit it, you’re a little fond of vigilantes”. 

“Shut up,” he mutters indignantly, and you laugh. Too loud, too giddy, Aizawa’s lips react to the sound by pulling into a grin, all teeth, that he quickly tucks to his sternum. 

Ren and Suzu startle in tandem when you gasp, crossing your arms and leaning into the teasing atmosphere, “When you said I remind you of someone, was it…?”

He pointedly does not look at you — pointedly does not speak. The tip of his index finger slides the empty cup in your direction, an unspoken request for more as his pen returns to paper. 

“Not even going to talk now?” 

The hero makes a twisting motion against the seam of his mouth. Lock and key. Your voice completely gives you away. You cradle the coffee cup to your chest, surprised by the adrenal shake, your heart rumbling as though the interaction had created a tectonic shift. 

Two plates converge closer. He liked you enough, bipedal creature of the night; you had felt your identities overlap and saw the possibilities it could foster. If you told him everything it might wipe away the emotional constipation from his face.

Then again, it may also make it worse. 

So you brew his coffee again, this time plucking one of the freshly made tarts from the display case and setting it onto a plate to sate his sweet tooth. He eyes you perceptively, eyebrow lifted in question, but then a group of college students is stumbling in through the security door, arms interlocked and giggling as they run from the sudden onslaught of rain, saving you the trouble. 

Aizawa remains in his spot for longer than usual, unashamedly staring. You can taste the acrimony. Your excitable thoughts have soured, and again you can only wonder what he’d do once he finds out the truth. Nebulously, you know he wouldn’t have you outright arrested, you’re too careful about quirk use. But the knowledge will burden him enough to tighten his leash on you. It wouldn’t ever be the same again — and that was the best case scenario. 

Reality is rigid. There are expectations, clear borders and assigned roles. Anything outside the confines of right and wrong is looked upon with contempt and misshapen to fit one or the other. Fantasising about Eraserhead is exhilarating, a secret world kept safely between you and I, but more importantly it isn't real. 

You forget yourself. He’s still a hero, and there are is too much at stake for you to be distracted by the intricacies of your relationship. 

The night is daunting in a way you cannot put your finger on. Black as a chasm, not a star to be seen, covered by another blanket of dense rain clouds. There’s petrichor in the air, crisp as you breathe in, puddles splashing up the inside of your boots. 

Retracing your steps, you’ve made your way back to the warehouse. It stands eerily in the distance. You circumvent the surrounding buildings with ease, pace quickening at the undeniable flicker of light through the broken windows. 

Just additional reconnaissance. Nothing more. 

But there’s somebody inside this time. You stick close to the shadows and wait with bated breath at the slightest of sound, conscious of the broken bracelet tucked in your zip pocket. At-su, they read; neat kanji lovingly inscribed onto each remaining dainty bead. 

You count three guards circling the entrance and exit. Their steps are leaden, deliberately loud as the gravel crunches underfoot, and you watch their movements until a pattern forms. They mustn’t expect anyone to pry; notably lax, stopping together in alcoves to bum a smoke, laughing about whatever it is they did that day. You are grateful, in part. It makes slipping by much simpler.

Navigating the fire escape is a challenge in and of itself. The thing has been corroded beyond belief, left to fend for itself against the elements, loose at the hinges and too loud for your liking. Even so, you land in one sinuous movement and exhale a shallow sigh of relief when the structure accepts your weight with a meagre groan of complaint. Your gloves are covered in flakes of rust, abdomen still coiled tight to brace for the possibility of falling. 

You wait silently until the muffled voices continue, unperturbed by your arrival. Could’ve been worse, you reason internally, glancing up the ladder steps toward the source of conversation. 

There’s a narrow, tilt and turn window left ajar on one of the higher levels. You curl up beside it and peek down into the warehouse floor. The angle causes strain behind your eyes, obscured by the bulk of your mask. It appears empty, just as you’d found it. 

Distantly, “No… call me in… fucked… First Atsushi, now… Mizu...” 

Atsushi? At-su, maybe? You lean in closer and slow your breathing to listen, instinctively feeling for the accessory in your pocket. The sounds soon sharpened and coalesced into words, frighteningly calm despite the obvious fury lying beneath them. 

“…I told you to be careful. Look at what you’ve fuckin’ done”.

“Sorry sir,” a meeker voice replies, tone sheepish rather than apologetic. “Y’know I can’t help it when they start squirmin’! It pisses me off—!” 

An abrupt yelp is caught, the reply bubbling in his throat until the man is wheezing for air. You can’t see a thing, but you imagine he’s being choked. “Ya feel that, Morita? Your body fights instinctively, just like theirs do,” a chill frissons down your spine at the genuine vitriol echoing through the rafters. “Leave any more marks on them and I’ll put both your arms in the vice, got it?” 

���Morita’s’ strained acquiescence is barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. Theories and assumptions filter through your thoughts, flipping through pages of a book, every new possibility too unthinkable to put your finger on. The needles, the blood, the tattered clothing— the bracelet. Bodies, he’d said. Not products, but people, and more than one. 

You’re shaking. You step back, reaching blindly for the rail. Dread swoops through your stomach when it groans loudly and starts to bow under your grip, like it were about to give. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

“Oi!” 

There is a hulking figure running across the rooftop towards where you’re hunched. You were careless. Their gait is heavy, movements slowed by the weight of their arms, silhouette unnaturally thick and bulging. For survivals sake you assume it is to do with their quirk and duck when they swing their arm in your direction. 

Something zips past your cheek, then. It is so fast that it whistles through the air like a bullet, and lands unceremoniously on the concrete behind you when it loses momentum.  Oh. You inhale sharply. It is a bullet. Ivory white, slightly knobbled, shaped like a pellet. 

You fall into a crouch with a dramatic inhale and scoop it up into your hand, breath held. Afforded time to glance back at the pursuer, you find him closer than before. Uncomfortably so. Close enough to see the tips of his five fingers unscrewed, hung by a thread, exposed like the barrel of a gun. 

He shoots again. And again. 

Your lungs burn furiously as you leap over the railing and run, the sensation spreading wildly through your chest to your oesophagus, urging that you exhale. Blood thunders in your ears, you can feel the vessels sweltering under the skin of your cheeks as tears gather along your lash line. There’s pressure behind your eyes — bloating, fervourently pushing at the bars of your rib cage. 

Using all the strength in your thighs, you catapult yourself from the next ledge. Your pulse rockets at the momentary loss of stability, held suspended in the air for a fleeting few seconds. 

Your right foot meets the next roof. The impact ripples through your body and forces all the air from your lungs. More guards are converging in the alleys below, chasing. A bullet whips past your shoulder. Cold dread washes over you as the frost dances over your skin, causing you to stumble. It had torn open the sleeve. 

This is your black ice. The weaker ankle that twists, the skidding of a dull tire, the loss of control. For a fleeting moment, you have no edges. Swallowed by darkness as you careen into the stomach of the city, there is a nauseating moment of surprise in which your body tries to readjust. Your heart thunders as your subconscious spins out and you think, this is it. 

“You won’t get far, little mouse,” the voice booms through the night, dripping with vitriol and promise. Your bones rattle as you scramble to move. “We’ll find out who you are!” 

There’s no time to consider the abrupt flare of pain in your hip. You need to keep running. You need to regain control and use your quirk, but the gasps keep coming; fast bids for air hiccuping in and out, refusing to slow. Bated breath activates and the world around you pauses in short, staccato beats. 

It’s enough to increase the distance. More and more until the landscape changes. Despite that, your body maintains a state of flight, blood pumping forcefully throughout your veins, legs moving even as they ache and tear. You’re bleeding, undoubtedly. Heat is pouring out, saturating your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin as it congeals. 

Thoughts filter frantically through your mind in search of a safe place to go. You weren’t often injured enough to warrant a visit to the clinic — technically unregistered with a much appreciated no questions asked policy — but tonight you’d strayed too far, unable to get there before you inevitably passed out. 

But Aizawa— Eraserhead had two places of residence. For the sake of convenience he now spent most, if not all, of his time in the UA dorms; stays at his old studio were improbable but not impossible. Like reading from a celestial phone book, you mentally called to every deity that tonight was one of those unlikely instances. 

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

In the thick of your lightheaded, bleary eyed attempt at clinging to consciousness, you see a dim glowing light from the fourth floor of the next building's quaint balcony and stumble with relief. Your fingers are wet, leaving behind smears of red where they slip along the window sill, the squeeze into the open crack made easier by fresh blood. 

“Sorry,” you whisper into the absent night, feeling tendrils of guilt in your gut at the mess you were making. There’s really no time to consider the loss of your voice changer, or the broken mask hanging askew around your jaw, or how you are barely inches away from revealing yourself.  

The window itself is aged, wood splitting under your fingertips, the kind that expands more with every winter and lets in a cold draft you can never quite find. It jams on the first try, loosens a little on the second rattle. Your body protests as you try to lift it open. 

When the pane slides up it is sudden and with far too much ease. The abrupt loss of resistance jars your balance, careening forward into a graceless fall as you roll onto the living room carpet, yelping like a pup, only to be met with the sharp end of a knife at your throat. 

Hand fisted tight in the material of your hood, Eraser’s face is thunderous. Anger unrestrained and dark in a way you’ve rarely seen, an expression you have never been on the receiving end of. His cheeks are slightly ruddy, quirk blazing as his hair stands on end. He forces your head back and mercifully, you are too out of it to be ashamed by the sound you make. 

The blade lowers when he freezes in recognition, the tense atmosphere dissipating while he keeps a tight grip on the hilt. You move with him as he yanks you upright, noticeably gentler than before. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes are drawn to the tendons flexing in his forearm. There’s a swath of pale skin by his hip where his waistband has slipped. You’ve never seen him in such comfortable, casual clothing before. The black sweatpants are loose with an egregiously neon print of Present Mic’s signature slogan down the side of his right leg. If memory serves you correctly, an exclamation of ‘yeah!’ should be splashed in blocked lettering across his ass. 

“Hey. ‘Raser,” blood loss must’ve contributed to your lack of brain to mouth filter. The words are slurred in your ears, thick with amusement as you point at his lower half and try to whistle. Your hand is trembling with the effort. “Turn around for me f’r a sec”.

Aizawa’s jaw shifts as he takes a long, deep inhale. Broad shoulders rise, expanding with his ribs, your mouth drying at the steep dip of his collar where it falls just above his pecs; his muscles defined enough to create a faint shadow of cleavage, darkened by his chest hair.

You’ve changed your mind. He shouldn’t turn around, not at all. 

Then he exhales, drawn out and slow. The exercise does nothing to lessen the irritation woven into his expression, “How did you find this apartment?” 

A hot, sticky sensation is spreading through the layers of thermal underclothing. Fatigue has draped itself around your bones. You press the heel of your hand harder against the open wound, biting back a pained hiss. Faux bravado prevails even as you are bleeding out on his living room floor. 

“I followed the smell of black coffee and despair,” you rasp, licking away the dregs of copper lingering between your teeth. “All perfectly legal”. 

Blinking away the frustration, his eyes flicker from your bloodied mouth to your shoulder. The fabric is darker, a disquieting shadow spreading through the threads as it soaks up the weeping wound. “You’re injured,” he notes with a quiet curse. Being bundled up in his arms isn’t so bad, you think. Eraser helps you on your feet then, a hand resting at your waist as he takes most of your weight. 

The apartment is quaint. Small. Not enough to feel closed in, just enough to be described as cosy. It is deceptively bare. At first glance you might’ve made a teasing comment about him being a minimalist — but then you look again, eyes racking over the homely touches and trinkets. A pair of old slippers with worn cat ears, cacti kept in matching orange spotted pots, an open book laid face down and full of sticky notes, a framed picture drawn with crayon hung in place of his high school diploma which has been left on the small desk to collect dust. 

“…So cute”. 

You’re jostled at his side as he reaches over the back of the couch with the click of his tongue to pull over a threadbare blanket, covering both the cushions and another notably nicer, newer blanket that soiled fingers should not touch. 

He manoeuvres you in his embrace and circles your lower back, cradling the nape of your neck to lower you with unerring care. “Focus,” you hear him say. “Keep your eyes open”. 

Had they been closed? 

Two fingers are clicked an inch from your nose, startling you into blinking. The world moves without permission; suffusing into a blur of mosaics, bloating with vertigo that sparks a chilling sense of dread in your chest. Starkly warm blood is saturating your shoulder. “I’m leaking,” you croak, breaths coming quicker. “‘Raserhead. I’m— leaking”. 

“Yeah. All over my couch,” he returns. “And I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit still. Can you do that for me?” 

There’s not really any choice in it. Your motions feel lethargic as you recline against the cushion, sinking further. Your body flinches, perceiving it as free fall, and Aizawa smooths the flat of his palm over your unwounded shoulder. “I’m going to cut away your gear and stem the bleeding,” he begins. 

“No…” you groan at the dryness in your throat, swelling, like your stomach has pushed its way up into your oesophagus. Your cognition rolls to a stop. Suddenly, spoken word is not within reach. All you can say is, “Not… Not the mask”. 

At mention of it, his gaze skims over your poorly concealed face, lingering on the oval shaped device tucked under the fabric where it nestled beneath your jugular. The voice changer had devolved into broken static somewhere between being shot at and being found. Had you been able to keep a conscious grasp on your thoughts, you might’ve known to shut your mouth, all too recognisable. 

“Not the mask,” he concedes. Mercifully. A large pair of scissors glides through the padding around your middle. You can feel the weight of Nocturne peeling away, tepid air meeting damp skin as the sharp blades nick on your thermal wear, right above your breast. 

No longer are you a shadow within a shadow — your formless body takes shape. Bumps and curves and imperfections. Scar tissue, old and new. Aizawa’s fingers brush over a new bruise, collarbone purpling, unspooling a tender whine where it sits in your chest. 

“This next part is going to hurt more,” he warns with genuine regret. A little breathless underneath it. You aren’t paying much attention; there’s cloth soaked in antibiotic ointment swiping over the open injury, washing away the dried blood. It cracks like mud, splits into uneven flakes, and creates downstream pathways as the wound overflows. 

You hiss at the sting and force yourself rigid, ignoring the urge to squirm out of his hold. The graze runs through the side of your arm, tissue torn into a natural curve around your shoulder. “You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” Aizawa mutters. His brows are drawn tight, dry bottom lip pinched between his canines as he reaches for something to dress the wound with. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cold settles in your bones but there’s heat curling in your belly. That same feeling after you get a taste and find yourself craving more; you’ll go home and think of this between seconds, when your mind isn’t crowded with lies and excuses. Selfishness is such a human trait. It reminds you that pro heroes are expected to be anything but. 

The pads of his fingers are hot, rough yet purposefully gentle. You lean into the touch and hope that they’ll cut through you like smooth, warmed butter. “I think,” there’s saliva pooling beneath your tongue and you wet your lips in hopes it’ll cushion your next words. “I think one of the bullets got my hip”. 

An embarrassing noise slips from your mouth when he pulls away. He’s hot even when he’s scowling, you think. Oh, now he’s blushing. Can he read minds? Hey, Eraser. Can you—?

“Stop. Talking,” Aizawa fumes. The order comes through clenched teeth. He rocks back onto his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does. Continuing under his breath, “You got shot at. Shot. God knows what I did in a past life to deserve this”. 

You pout, “Most of them missed, actually”. He could at least praise you for that. “I saved one. Think they were made of bone. How cool”. 

“We’ll get to that later. Shoulder’s done. Push your pants down,” he sighs, ignoring your dazed comment. The various bottles, packets and containers clank together as he rifles through the first aid with haste. It stops when he zeroes in on you, and your lack of movement. You are told with gritty authority: “Now”. 

You bite your tongue and swallow the suggestive comment waiting idly on it. Trembling, you unbuckle the straps around your waist and open the clasp of your belt to tuck your thumbs under the waistband. There’s an obvious slash through the material, mapping out the bullet's path. A lot of the blood has dried and is sticking to the inflamed skin, pulling at the soft hair on your thighs. 

It is as if you’re tearing off another layer of yourself. Jostling the deep wound, fresh blood trickles over the curve of your exposed hip. Aizawa soaks the cloth again, rinsing the exposed tissue then offering quiet instruction to keep it held there as you squirm. He ducks into the kitchen. Your eyes wander at the sound of running water, desperate for an adequate distraction from the disquieting, restless discomfort building in your chest.

You don’t mean to croon out loud. He returns, catching you staring at the framed picture. Stick figures drawn in crayon; depicting him, long black hair scribbled around his large, misshapen head; a small girl at his side coloured in silvers and pinks, waving around what looks to be a candy-apple; green, a boy at her side with a beaming grin, to large to fit his outline.

“It’s good,” you rasp. Aizawa glances between you and the picture, a ephemeral, fiercely protective look passing over his face as quick as it came. “Even drew your scars and eyebags. I love... the commitment to detail”. 

He softens. “I’ll let her know you like it”. 

And you nod happily, satisfied with that, incognisant of the sterilised thread he is looping through a needle. “Breathe,” you hear him say, feeling the cool press of the forceps once he pulls back the cloth, “Looks like you’ll only need three stitches. I’ll make this quick, alright?” 

“...Yeah,” your answer comes shakily, senses already flooded with adrenaline as your body reflexively braces. 

It is unlike any pain you’ve experienced. You cry out at the piercing, burning sensation spreading through your left side. Nausea washes over you, overcome by dizziness as your vision litters with black spots. His voice anchors you; uncharacteristic rambling, jaw set in determination, steady hands working. 

“Almost done. Deep breaths, just one more to go”. 

Words form but they aren’t aired. You are swimming in the depths of your own consciousness, vision wavering, his concerned face duplicating into three. The timbre of his voice probes the sea, familiar vibrations bypassing your ears. 

“Hey. Look at me,” and you do, head lolling onto your shoulder. “You with me?” 

All that’s left is an unpleasant tenderness. Hip throbbing in time with your heart, the nausea gradually recedes. Aizawa accepts your hand around his wrist, overturning until your fingers entwine, and he squeezes. 

Eventually, you croak, “That fucking sucked”. 

“It did,” he concurred, equally weary. Three dull taps to the mask barely guarding your mouth, loose on its hinges. He wants to take it off, you realise. The now-jagged ridge has cut into your swollen cheek. 

Fear prickles cold over your scalp. “I—I can take care of that myself,” you frantically demur, the remains of your confidence slipping. There are pleas cloying in the back of your throat. We can keep pretending. Let’s stay ignorant. But he waits, he knows— he has known, and he isn’t as generous as you wished he’d be. 

Cautious, his thumb slides over your cheekbone and back, tracing the lower curve of your eye socket. It doesn’t hurt, though you think it should. The swell is enough to somewhat obscure your vision. But there’s no pain when he loosens the straps cinched around your hood, no discomfort with the abrupt loss of pressure.

Aizawa pulls down the lower half slowly. The cotton stuffed into your sinuses isn’t enough to dull the anticipation of being seen. You wondered if he hadn’t already heard your voice, would he have known you just from the shape of your lips. Did he ever look long enough to notice?

A part of you hoped that he had. 

Everything is heightened. You can feel every spring and divot impressed against your back, his breath stirring in your hair. The sofa dips under him. Chest to chest, his lungs expand with a deep inhale, pushing up against your breasts. 

Cautious, his chin lowers, fingers sliding from your temple to your cheek. Your skin pulls. Further still, his touch ghosts over your ear. Infuriatingly slow with it, as if he wanted to discover and memorise each individual reaction. Your fingers tighten at his waist, and he isn’t saying anything. 

The light refracts dimly in his irises, still a glimmer of red where it bends, glowing as he looks at you. Aizawa is always suffused with brilliance despite his avid attempts to appear apathetic. Like an old oil lamp turned to low, his gaze is soft and warm, and you’re inexplicably drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

He angles his head. Your mouths could align, and his eyes are murky. You think that he might— 

“That should be enough to stop the bleeding,” he says. There are butterfly bandages on your cheek, now, applied amidst his distraction. Layers upon layers of armour can not hide how his voice resonates through your body. 

“Oh,” you breathe, awe visible as it dances in the cold night air. “You… weren’t going to kiss me just now”. 

Eraserhead’s expression is schooled into something carefully blank. His tongue reflexively dips forward to wet his dry bottom lip and your eyes follow the movement. Exasperatingly, he says, “No, I wasn’t”. 

You’re still close, enough that you really could kiss at any moment, feeling a little dazed and justified for it. The anticipation of being touched urges you to chase when he rolls back onto his haunches, legs straightening to stand, but the sharp pull at your shoulder stops you in your tracks. 

Aizawa is half bent, tilted to meet your gaze. He’s flushed. The intimate moment is broken instantly at the call of your name. A surprising wave of relief follows as you are doused in the harsh, cold reality. You resurface and scramble for some semblance of control, hold out your upturned wrists and sigh with forced bravado to cover your earlier faux pas, “Put me in cuffs, chief”. 

Aizawa snorts, batting you away to present the sterilised bandages in his grasp. You watch the fluid motions of his fingers as he unrolls them, “Not even going to attempt to lie?”  

You are half naked. The overlaying waistbands of both your thermal wear and your pants draw tight around your thighs — you’re ensconced in the plush couch cushions, practically splayed out for him, letting him reposition you to wrap your stitches. A strained sound bubbles from your chest that was definitely supposed to be a laugh, “I’m too tired for subterfuge right now, Eraserhead”. 

“Shouta,” he corrects. Calloused knuckles knock against your temple, fist unfurling until fingers brush over your crown, hesitant to hold before returning to dressing your wound. “Might as well use my name, now, if I can use yours”. 

None of this makes sense. In the many outcomes you had accounted for, this ambivalent kindness wasn’t in any of them. Shouta, above all, is a rational man. A logical man, not known for being led by his emotions, and yet, “I don’t understand why you aren’t…”

“Angry?” he supplies tiredly. “Do you want me to be?”

You push through the balls of your feet when he coaxes you to lift your hips, “Obviously not!”

“I want to understand why you’ve been doing this before I waste any more energy,” he says, focused on tying the bandages. They sit tight, like a second skin. A third. “Why didn’t you just get your licence? You’re clearly capable”. 

“Because I didn’t want to be a hero, Shouta! I just wanted…” your burst of frustration tapers, words steadily lose confidence, thoughts scattering and making your voice unsure. “There are always lines you say you won’t cross. But then you cross them, and everything you do becomes a little grayer”. 

Your brow furrows, unable to meet his eyes, “When you know you can cross, it becomes easier to do it. Over time, that clear black line starts to fade, until it isn’t there anymore. I can’t go back anymore”. 

He gazes at you in quiet contemplation. You feel your defences soften when his fingers brush along the dip of your waist. “I wanted justice for my community. Nobody was doing anything so I… I did it myself”. 

“And what is justice to you?”

“Justice is fairness,” you blink at the unexpected question, and your tongue feels unnaturally swollen in your mouth. “That doesn’t always mean a happy ending, but it— it means you had a chance. Same as anyone else. I don’t… care if you think it’s too idyllic. People deserve that much. To feel safe, and to have a community they can depend on”.

He hums. While monotonous, it’s his genuine attempt to listen that silences your frustration, “Then, do you think anyone should be able to commit vigilante acts so long as it works in their favour?” 

“Obv—obviously I don’t,” you mutter blithely. Such a broad statement allows for too many loopholes; ones easily weaponised. “But there’ll always be situations that require immediate action. I exist because our… current system doesn’t account for that. People slip through the cracks too easily and they’re forgotten about”. 

“So you are the one exception?” 

The corner of his mouth twitches. He does a poor job of flatten his voice, even still it drips with warmth until you’re soft with it; sounding suspiciously like respect. Aizawa glides his fingers across your navel. You shiver, soft hair raising. 

“Now you’re just being annoying,” you huff. Talking shouldn’t require so much exertion, but it’s enough to distract from the searing pain at your hip. Aizawa works fast, fingers tearing the end of the bandages to knot it above your hipbone. “The law isn't always a clear indication of what is good or bad”.

“No?”

“No,” you emphasise with a heavy nod that knocks something loose in your skull. Suddenly, everything blurs together into long streaks of light, edges softening and diffusing until you aren’t sure where one thing ends and another starts. You flinch and force your eyes shut, face twisted into a grimace. 

Over the incessant beat of your heart you hear a low, concerned murmur, “Careful. I’m not done interrogating you”. 

You groan, “You’ve got shit bedside manner”. 

“Never said otherwise,” he replies plainly, rising to his feet and setting a knee on the cushion beside you. The sofa dips with his weight, and he takes your jaw into the cradle of his hand. You nuzzle into his touch, ready to employ the excuse of delirium.

He says your name again, pauses for a fraction of a moment, “You mentioned the pre quirk era, back at the cafe. What’d you mean by it?” 

You huff heavily through your nose as the scabbed skin pulls under his fingers. “It’s just— with quirks, Pro’s became another kind of a bandage on an open wound, right?” his eyes are half lidded, lazy as always, sharp with interest. “People act as if they can fix everything. But ordinary things are what keep us all together, quirk or not. Everyday people who, despite their own hardships, would stop to help another person, are real heroes. To me”. 

The warmth of his touch lingers as he pulls away and you quell the urge to chase it. “And Pro Heroes can’t be that?” he asks. 

“Being a Pro Hero has been bastardised. It’s like a big celebrity cop game show. I do the same thing they do, and you don’t see me advertising bottled iced tea with my likeness, or plastering my ass on billboards”. 

Aizawa clicks his tongue. Your blood has dried under his fingernails. “Not iced tea. You’d probably be on some fizzy drink that gives me heartburn”. 

“And I’d sooner see your face in a one hundred yen store,” you grumble, turning up your nose to stare at the ceiling. “Bet you’d do well advertising grubs”. 

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk. “And you were behaving so well for me until now,” he murmurs, then reaching forward and slowing with contemplation. Clasped gently around your forearm, you let Eraser guide it under your shirt. After slipping your arm back through the sleeve, he tugs it into place at your wrist. That small gesture should not charm you as much as it does. 

“I like this”. 

Aizawa hums in response, a bid for clarification. You focus on the space between his brows rather than his eyes when you mumble, “This. I like it when you pay attention to me”. 

“Yeah?” his face twitches, as if he were repressing a reaction to your words. “Is that why you enjoy making my life harder?” 

You laugh breathlessly in lieu of a response, and Aizawa settles properly at your side, drawing you into him. There’s a bloodied half-hand print staining the blanket behind his shoulder, air still tinged with a distinct copper smell, forgotten at the first hint of his cologne. 

“You know,” he intones wearily, soft spoken and enunciated as though he were picking each word with care, “I have my own dislikes for how the current hero system works. Justice shouldn’t be profitable, and something does need to change. But it’s also true that heroic acts, even when done under false pretences, leave some good in the world, too”. 

“I have hopes for my students,” he continues. “This is the only full class I’ve ever had make it through an entire school year”. 

“Even with Stain, the League and everything?” 

Tousled hair slips forward over his shoulder as he nods, tickling your cheek. “They've been exposed to a lot more truths than most graduated heroes I know. It’s…” 

The pride in his voice wanes then, rough with guilt. “It’s been rough on them,” he says. On all of us, you hear. “Bettering society shouldn’t require so much blood shed. They’re just kids”. 

Your façade feels brittle, whittled away. Lips pursed thin and pulled into a sad smile. There was so much he claimed responsibility for — fretting about things out of his control, just like any parent would. 

“It’s inevitable that changing the world will come with some growing pains,” before doubt creeps in, you reach up to cradle his face in your palm and skim the scar tissue surrounding his right eye as it closes. He accepts the touch and leans heavily, like he hadn’t realised how much he needed the comfort of another.

“You’re a good teacher, Shouta. You’ve more than done your part”. 

“And your part?” he monotoned. He’s teasing you in his own way, peering through one half open eye. “I have more grey hairs now than I did an hour ago”. 

Your abdomen jumps with your short laugh, getting caught in your throat as you suddenly hiss. “Ah. Sorry,” you wheeze, air filling your cheeks. His finger pokes at the swell and they gradually deflate, breathing through the throbbing pain. “I didn’t plan on coming here. Honestly I can barely remember— I just ran to the nearest safe place”. 

“I can’t believe it was you all along,” he mutters. His head cocks, stubble rubbing against your skin. “No, I can. You had so many obvious similarities but I could never put my finger on it”. 

“You even mentioned my coffee order. Brat”. 

Fully spent, you recline against his chest with an apologetic hum and look up. You’re surprised he lets you, heart stuttering when you find him watching you with a glimmer of intrigue. 

For a moment it’s just the two of you. Blood pumping, beating like a swans wing; in your ribs, your pelvis, the crook of your neck. Those worn eyes flicker down to your mouth. It’s almost physical, the way they trace over the unique dips and curves of your lips. Instinctively, you feel them part, wet, a coy attempt at holding his attention. He doesn’t stray as he murmurs, “It felt awfully one sided”. 

Nose drawing across the bridge of your own, breath ghosting skin. “I’m sorry,” you echo, wedging closer. “Would you’ve preferred not knowing?” 

You’re not afraid of his silence. Knowing him, knowing you, he isn’t thinking of a way to let you down gently. Aizawa Shouta is honest, maybe a little too honest — though his tongue is less sharp these days. 

Rather, he is entangled in his own reasoning and weighing the trouble of telling you. Pink splotches are spreading up his throat. His upper lip curls. “It’s a relief to know I don’t need to pick between one or the other”. 

“Oh,” you whisper in awe, tilting as he is drawn forward. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Anticipation coils hot in your belly when his mouth grazes your own. Tongue dipping to wet your lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver as they move, forming his reply.

“No”.

A whine is pulled from the depths of your being when he moves away with a toothy grin. You fall onto his shoulder and turn into his throat, “Why not?” 

“Tell me what you were running from first,” he says. 

“What I was—Oh!” he startles at your outburst. You pat frantically around your pockets, producing the bullet and the bagged bracelet. You hold them out to him, “I got some intel”. 

Frustration wrinkles between his brows. “And why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was literally bleeding out when I got here and then you got all handsy,” you protest, continuing through the affronted glare he gives you, “It is not my fault you look so cute in Present Mic’s merch”. 

“Give me those,” the baggy and the bullet are taken from your grasp with unnecessary force, driven by Aizawa’s obvious embarrassment. He squints at the beading. “At-su?”

“I think it belongs to someone named Atsushi,” you begin. “Are they on the missing persons list?”

Mind no longer a foggy cacophony of unfinished thoughts, every detail comes pouring out into the open. All the things you held close, tucked away in the recesses of your brain, reluctant of who could be trusted with it. He gives you a sheet of paper and you map out your pinboard. You are still shaking from the fatigue, but he doesn’t comment on the janky lettering as you write the warehouse coordinates. 

He knows names, better still he wants to hear them from you and more; asks for your theories and hypotheticals, picks through them, gives each one equal consideration. “I know what I heard,” you insist, circling the address over and over until he’s stilling your hand, covered by his own, the other thumbing away at his phone screen. 

You can feel the two lives you had cleaved clotting back together. Strings of connective tissue, taut and thickening. Like any scab, you’re tempted to pick at it, to see if anything lies underneath. You weren’t expecting him to take to your identity so quickly — to be treated as though you were an equal. 

“I’ve sent the information to a detective I trust,” he states, glaring at the phone until the backlight automatically blinks out. You follow his movements as he pockets it. “That No Name’s gun quirk rings some bells. There’s a group Fourth Kind was keeping an eye on a while back that disappeared. Could’ve moved prefectures”. 

You’ve worked tirelessly to find the answers he’s freely giving you; yet the second somebody accepts the weight you’d been carrying, you feel your knees buckle, and all you can think about is kissing him. 

“Good. That’s good,” you answer dazedly. “There was a lift in the warehouse. Maybe they’re being kept underground?” 

There’s a determined look on his face. You can see the undertones of excitement beneath it. Glowing, hard demeanour turned gauzy and warm. True, you weren’t made to be a pro hero. Aizawa is excellent at that — denying himself the things he wants. You're not. It’s a perfect fit. 

When he sets the device down alongside a sigh of relief you take a chance. His chest expands under your hands as you rest them against his collar. Slow, they slide up over his shoulders, then back around to toy with the short hairs on the nape of his neck. 

He shudders, but lets you guide him down. You don’t want to disturb the stitches, so he goes willingly, shapes around you as he ducks into your space. Finally, laid in the crook of his arms like a bouquet, your heart is full of him. 

Aizawa is all rough edges and purposeful touch. He’s gentle when you need it, teasing when you don’t. The kisses start by your jugular and you’re bereft by it. You can feel a grin broadening against your throat. Mouthing at your pulse point like it could kiss back.

“Shouta,” you whine, nudging your nose into his hair. It’s softer than you expected it to be. He leaves a trail of wet pecks in his wake, following the curve of your jaw to your ears, kissing the delicate shell. It scratches and you tremble, a warm feeling diffusing throughout your body. 

The baritone in his voice rumbles through you as he murmurs, “Yeah?” 

You bury into his scalp, fingers curling insistently. Seeking more of him your leg moves to hook over his hip, to which he stills, holding you in place. You’re certain the hot impression of his hand splayed over your bare inner thigh will linger for days. 

“Can you just…” worse, it moves again, tantalisingly slow. You’re soft between his fingers. His thumb grazes the hem of your underwear while he turns to press an innocent kiss to your cheek. “Don’t do this to me”.

“Do what?”

The air is stifling. His touch dips under the fabric, too quick to register. Your thighs flex beneath the palm of his hand as you pulse. “Fuck. Stop being unfair,” you feel it as he smiles, pressed to the corner of your mouth. “I know you aren’t going to do anything to me while I’m like this”. 

A drawn out, pleased sound rumbles in his throat. Almost as if leaving you teetering on the brink was the point, he takes your words as permission to pull your pants back up — both pairs, stretching the waistband carefully over your wound. 

You are disturbingly endeared by it and pouting all the same. Giving a warm laugh, knuckles brushing along your cheek, Shouta angles himself just so, and brings you into a kiss. 

The seam of your lips part to meet his tongue and he sighs languidly into your mouth. You fist the fabric of his shirt with a sharp inhale, feeling the firm muscle behind it. He kisses you again and again. Chasing, wanting; an ode to your cat and mouse relationship. 

Heat prickles over skin. Between breaths, you mumble, “Want you”. 

The soft pressure of his hand to your lower back brings you closer. You wanted more. Light handed fingertips walk the length of your spine, murmuring appreciatively as it bows, arching into his chest. 

“I’ve wanted you,” he echoes, leaning until your foreheads press together. You watch his eyes fall shut and hear the sotto voce remark, “We shouldn’t be doing this”.

If not for the amused, sanguine tone in his voice, you might’ve started to panic. But he kisses you again. Soft and chaste and shorter than the last. 

“What now?” you smile feebly. The adrenaline is tapering off and you can no longer ignore the ache radiating throughout your body, nor the reality of what you are doing. 

“Now, you need to take it easy,” he instructs with finality, thumb smoothing over your kiss bitten lip. “I’ll get on the phone with Fourth Kind and see if he’ll cooperate”. 

“And the rest?” 

Everything is there, in the small, covetous slant of his grin. All the patience, affection, respect and desire. He chooses all of you, said so himself — you’re fine as you are. 

“The rest comes after”. 

#bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader #it should go without saying this is not a meta fic. all fun TY!!

[digitaldiarystuff]

False Hope pt.2

hii! i’m back with pt2 hope you enjoy it and if you want a third lmk pleaseee💕💕

————

pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x Y/N

summary: you’re close friends with Pedri and pretty much in love with him, pretending you’re not you went to comfort him but he seeks the comfort in a different way than you would’ve expected

genre: suggestive but not quite, angst

————

It’s been a week since Pedri made out with you and apologized and you still haven’t seen him. You left after his breakfast was on the table to run your imaginary errands and he tried talking to you but to no avail.

He tried reaching out after that to probably test the waters and you tried your best to remain cool. You didn’t want to let him know it meant so much more to you than it did to him, you were embarrassed and you didn’t even do anything.

Today was one of those days, he texted you in the morning saying he had to go to the training camp to get some tests done and he’d be free for the rest of the day and wanted you to come over to watch a movie but you just made up another excuse. He didn’t say anything back and you feared you were adding salt to injury (literally). You knew he needed you and quite frankly, you needed him as well but he was never going to be what you need and as much as you tried, you could never be what he asked for, just a friend. So that’s why you weren’t in the mood for some alone time with him and decided to ditch classes and watch Harry Potter. That turned out to be a very bad idea, Pedri Potter always on your mind.

Just as Hermione said ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ your doorbell rang and you were confused, you weren’t expecting any deliveries. Annoyed, you walked up and opened the door without checking from the peephole and saw a distraught Pedri standing there with some takeout.

“Pedro” you whispered confused.

“It’s Pedri to you, you know that” he shyly smiled and held up the bags. “I brought food”

You couldn’t even muster anything and he came in the house.

“I thought I told you I wasn’t available today.” You didn’t mean to sound harsh, just didn’t know what to do.

He finally looked back at you still standing by the door and let out a sigh.

“Look Y/N, I can’t tell you how sorry I am if you don’t let me see you. I don’t know what came over me that day and I don’t want to lose our friendship. I really care about you.” he concluded and you just heard everything you’ve been dreading to hear.

Everything was just a spur of the moment, he wanted to apologize so everything can go back to normal but you couldn’t even remember what normal was anymore. The second you felt his lips on your skin and lips, you were done pretending and you didn’t think you could go back to what it was before.

“Pedro, I…”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked annoyed, you weren’t even doing it on purpose, it was just you didn’t feel as close anymore. Actually you felt even closer to him but that didn’t matter.

“Pedri, I know you didn’t mean any harm and I understand everything you’re saying.”

“So can we please go back to how we were now?” he asked a coy smile playing on his lips.

“Okay” you said defeated. You could never say no to him especially when he’s down.

You sat down on the couch leaving a respectful space between you two after getting some plates and glasses from the kitchen. He made himself comfortable like he always does but once you sat down his face fell a little.

“Everything okay?” you asked seeing his frown.

“Yeah, yeah everything’s good.” It certainly didn’t look like it but decided to drop the subject.

You ate without any words, just the movie playing in the background. You didn’t realize how many meals you passed until you started eating. You were so hungry that didn’t care when the sauce was running down the side of your mouth. Pedri saw you and giggled reaching for a napkin nearby, you were about to thank him and grab it but he decided it’d be better if he wiped the corner of your lips himself. He slides impossibly close to you and cleaned your face while holding you by your neck with his other hand and you felt like you couldn’t breathe again.

His effect on you was so powerful you couldn’t even say no to him, you knew you should’ve picked the napkin from his hands and used it on yourself but as soon as he came close to you it was game over and you hated yourself for it. You were too weak for him.

He looked up at your eyes after he’s done but still didn’t let go of your face while you were trying your best to avoid looking at him. He looked back at your lips and suddenly licked his lips but you decided you couldn’t handle his intense gaze anymore and leaned back on the couch.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything back but didn’t go back to his side of the sofa either, just stayed where he was legs touching you. This was the actually normal way for you to watch a film, you even cuddled a few times before but now you just felt uncomfortable with the emotions every time he was close to you. They were unbearable and Pedri looked like he couldn’t tell at all, or worse he didn’t care that your breath hitched and your cheeks blushed every time he touched you.

That’s when you decided you had to either tell him how you feel or let go of your feelings for him because he’s made it clear he doesn’t want you like you want him. Was your friendship enough or were you just going to have to take a step back from him and hope time heals you?

When you thought about not seeing Pedri anymore again, you felt an overwhelming gut wrenching weight on your heart, not seeing his face or hearing his voice was too painful in your opinion and you knew the best course of action was to put everything you feel for him in the back of your mind and move on. You slowly relaxed after making a choice and leaned on his shoulder to watch the rest of the movie but you didn’t miss how he let out a breath after you did so. He smiled a little and put his arm around you thinking everything’s alright and you promised yourself you’d do anything to make it happen. You couldn’t lose him like this.

It had been a week since he came to your house and your friendship was back on track. You knew you had to go out and blow off some steam soon but given all your close girlfriends in Barcelona were out of your life now, you had no choice but ask Pedri if he wanted to go out with some friends of his.

“You know I’m not into clubs.” he pouted as you were on Facetime but he soon caved after your expression turned sour.

Now you were at a prestigious club with Pedri’s friends from the team and some of their girlfriends and you realized how much you actually needed this, drinking and singing at the top of your lungs, laughing and dancing. Pedri really wasn’t into any of this as he sat in the booth chatting with Ferran the whole night occasionally checking up on you and Sara. You were actually having a great night and thanked him multiple times.

“I’m just happy you’re enjoying yourself.” he smiled and pressed a kiss on your temple going back into the booth and your heart fluttered with just a simple gesture.

No, you’re not going down this rabbit hole again. You’re here to have fun as a single girl and you’re not doing anyone any favors being fixated on your best friend. Just then you felt a tap on your shoulder and looked back to see a tall and handsome guy smiling at you.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he flashed a perfect smile and you looked at Sara.

“I’ll be in the booth.” she grinned and let you do your own thing and you looked back at the guy and smiled.

“So, about that drink…” you said after he didn’t move and he came to his senses immediately leading you to the bar.

You and James were sat down at the bar for what felt like a few hours talking about your lives and what you did. It was a bad environment for a serious getting to know someone conversation but it had to do since he was just here to visit some friends and had to go back in a few days, you cursed your luck for giving you man either not attracted to you or lived in other cities but he was really fun to be around and you decided it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy yourself. You talked so much that you didn’t even realize it was past the time you promised Pedri you’d head out, only when Ferran found you to tell it’s time to go you knew.

You looked at Ferran and then James, he was looking at you with a sad look and you decided you wanted to see where this is headed.

“I think I’ll stick here for a while longer, you can go Ferran. Tell Sara I’ll see her on Sunday.” you smiled but Ferran looked terrified.

“Y/N are you sure, Pedri’s waiting.” you stopped when you heard his name but he didn’t even come get you himself. You remembered all the times you went out and he ditched you for a girl he just met.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, Pedri has my location on anyway.” you shrugged and turned your attention to James again who looked excited by your decision and Ferran left soon after.

You didn’t see them leave, Pedri didn’t even want to come say bye so you decided not to dwell on it and leave with James to his hotel, this wasn’t like you at all but the conversation and the vibes were there so what’s the harm in having a little fun?

The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel and you and James went into his room, he ordered a bottle of wine and went in the shower to freshen up and you were sitting on the bed looking at the beautiful Barcelona view when your eyes caught a black Porshe parked outside. You knew there were a million of them in the city but given Pedri has one of them you couldn’t help but wonder if there’s a possibility that it’s him. You tried getting a closer look at the plate but the street was dark and the windows were tinted so you couldn’t figure it out.

This is stupid, you thought. Why would he be outside of this random hotel at this hour? You felt James’ hands wrap around your waist and he left a few kisses on your neck when you leaned back against him. Just as you gave him more access, your phone buzzed indicating a text.

“You should check it” he smiled giving you up.

“Let me make sure it’s nothing urgent” you said and went into your purse.

Your eyes scanned over some unimportant notifications until you reached the most recent one:

‘I’m outside, come out’ -Pedri

————

#football imagine #football #football oneshot #football x reader #football x y/n #football x you #football blurb #football one shot #fc barcelona #football fluff #football angst #pedri angst #pedri x y/n #pedri blurb #pedri one shot #pedri x you #pedri x reader #pedri imagine #pedri #pedrito #pedri gonzalez #pedri fanfic

[chvnnie]

Bro, fkn made me tear up while I'm in my PMS week Lawd have mercy.

Your response was so sweet,

Okay but what would happen if they reunited years later when he has had children?

Would that spark be there?

Would he avoid her?

Would she not want to see him with another woman?

Will they enjoy one final night together?

Decisions, decisions 🤔

do you guys enjoy seeing me suffer like—

blaming you for how much I love this fucking couple and the way I couldn’t stop writing this!!! AND I TRIED!!!

it’s long. im apologizing now.

SMUT — MINORS DNI

You never fell out of contact with Chan.

Well, maybe for a few months. When everything was still fresh. It hurt too much to even see his name in your contact list; talking to him would have shattered every atom inside you.

Everything stops hurting eventually. When he called you one day, exactly five months and three days after the world ended, the pain was almost numbed. As your phone vibrated in your hand, you realized it wasn’t what you were that you missed. It was him. Chan. Your best friend, even long before the two of you became one.

You answered. And suddenly the atoms started to bounce together, the world rebuilding from scratch.

The years passed. The planet flourished. Not a day went by without a word shared between the two of you. Weddings were held — Chan’s, insistent that you were always meant to be by his side. Begging you to be his “best woman”.

“You were always meant to be at my wedding.” He said after you denied the request over and over, a little tipsy on the bottle of wine you were sharing at his engagement party. “Please. It can’t happen without you.”

The thought was shared, but never spoken. Off to the side isn’t where either of you pictured your place in it.

Yours. A spur of the moment decision, overwhelmed from planning a party that neither you or your husband really wanted. A quick search proved that tickets to Vegas were far cheaper. A bottle of shitty champagne was shared over fast food burgers that really weren’t that filling.

Or, you tell yourself it was the burger.

Your best friend almost passed out at your monthly double date night. After the shock wore off, and after he chugged a glass or two of bourbon, he smile at you from across the table.

But it looks a little sad.

“I guess you can’t help your wants, huh?”

Other milestones passed. Big birthdays, new jobs and promotions, two babies for Chan, a dog for you. All was well; the sun shining, flowers blooming, the world finally stable again.

The first earthquake came the day of the youngest’s third birthday party.

You’re in Chan’s kitchen, digging through the adult cooler for the seltzers you brought. Did somebody drink them all? Ugh, you knew that fucking bitch from across the street was being a little too sneaky with her beverage. Wait until you hit her with that cash request after the party—

The backdoor opens quickly, two sets of feet rushing inside followed by a loud slam. You jump, quickly hiding in the pantry before they can make it into the kitchen.

“Will you just talk to me?” It’s Chan.

“How many times are you going to ask me about it?” His wife. “Fuck, can you just drop it—“

“I just think it’s pretty convenient that your boss brings up another business trip, just the two of you, today.”

Silence. A drawer slams.

“Are you really going to ruin your son’s party like this, Christopher?”

The snicker Chan gives raises the hairs on your arm. “Are you really going to keep pretending like you’re not fucking your boss?”

You have to clasp a hand over your mouth to silence the loud gasp that escapes you. It’s not like it was any secret that they’re having problems; he confided in you months ago that things have started to get rocky. Never, ever, did you expect this, though.

She storms out, saying something under your breath that you can’t hear. Door slams. Chan sighs into the empty kitchen, probably running his fingers through his hair if had to guess—

“I know you’re in there.” He sounds defeated. “You left your phone on the counter.”

Shit.

Slowly, you crack the door open, peeking out of the dark pantry. Your friend is leaning against the sink, arms crossed across his broad chest. There’s a small smile on his pain stricken face, eyes crinkling at the outer corners. Age treated him well.

“I wasn’t listening.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

You step out of the pantry fully, walking slowly up to your friend. There’s enough space next to him for you, which you take. Leaning side by side, staring out the large window at the party. It carries on; children laughing, eating cake. Parents chatting, chasing kids. All this joy on the other side of the thin glass, completely oblivious to the trembling beneath their feet.

You speak first. “How long have you known?”

“A while.” Chan takes a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders. “I had hoped when she switched departments it would stop but…yeah.”

Outside the window, the curly haired boy turns in a circle. His little eyes are wide and bright, searching the crowd of grownups for a familiar face. His mom’s back is turned, he doesn’t see her. Though you’re sure he’s actually speaking, all you see is his mouth move.

Dada?

When he can’t find him, another name comes from his mouth. Scanning the sea of people for you.

The second quake comes three months later.

Chan and his wife are in therapy, and though all appears well, the cracks are deep. Wide. You can see right through the facade.

It’s cold outside. Even through your thick jacket, you can feel the heavy winter breeze. It freezes your nose, numbs your lips. You walk quickly, dog trotting alongside you in the same rush. The little boots he wears protects his paws, yet he still whimpers.

When was the last time Christmas Eve was this cold?

There’s a fire crackling when you open the front door, your dog barely off the leash before she barrels to it. Jumping on her little boots, trying to warm up.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” You curse, shedding the many layers you wore. “I literally thought I was going to get frostbite.”

Your husband doesn’t give more than a hum in acknowledgment, nose in his book. Plopping on the couch next to him, you lean in to give him a kiss.

And he moves away.

“All good?” The concern is heavy in your voice.

Nothing. Just a hum.

“Can I have a kiss?”

“I’m busy.”

“Reading. The same book you read every winter.”

It’s harsh, the way he slams the book shut. When he looks up at you, you can help but recoil. Scooting just a bit back from him. The look in his eyes is so…different.

“Can you just give me some fucking space? Please?” He doesn’t raise his voice, and that makes it all the more concerning. Scary. “God, you’re so clingy all the time.”

Oh. Your eyes drop, lips pressing into a thin line. Jeez, why does this cut so deep? It’s not the first time he’s said it to you.

“I guess—I just thought, since it’s Christmas—“

“Eve.” He’s annoyed. You awkwardly adjust yourself on the couch, bringing a sweater clad hand to your face to wipe the tears you can’t help. “Oh, please, stop crying. It’s not that deep.”

There’s a tree on the planet. It’s tall, home to leaves that change colors. Usually, it’s day by day, depending on the waves and the weather and the stars. All day they’ve been a sparkly light green. Peace. A good color.

But they’ve started to bleed, something dark taking over the peace just as the ground begins to break.

Your husband picks the book up. Not another word to you. Heart in your stomach, you head towards the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”

He doesn’t look up from the book. “Take your fucking dog with you.”

The most impactful quake comes a mere three weeks later.

You’re sat on the living room floor, a brush handled by a five year old girl roughly running through your hair. It stings a little, but there’s no point in stopping her. She’s too stubborn to listen.

“Why don’t you wear braids?” She asked in her little voice.

“Never thought about it.” You shrug.

She sighs as if this is the most awful thing you could’ve have told her. “But you would be a princess if you wore them!”

You turn your head slightly, looking up at the girl. Her eyes are her father’s, along with the exasperated look she’s giving you.

“Shit, really?”

You cringe at the word choice, but the little girl doesn’t even flinch.

“Yes.” She sighs. “Turn around, I help you.”

Can’t really argue with that. Right as you think she’s taken at least half of your hair, Chan comes into the living room. Headed straight for the front door.

“Alright, the youngest is asleep.” He’s reaching for his coat, checking his watch obsessively. He’s late. “Pizza is on the way, don’t let the monster stay up too late.”

Finger guns to his daughter, who just ignored him. Not amused with his stupid joke.

“I shouldn’t be long, maybe three hours tops.” Chan says to you. “Changbin has kids to get home to, so I’ll be back before you can miss me too much.”

You flip him off. The daughter follows.

“Okay, don’t like do that at school or anything-“

“We’ll be alright.” You say, trying to get him out the door. Things have been more tense that usual lately; it took all of Changbin’s energy to convince him to get a drink with him. Nothing is going to keep him in this house. “Don’t have too much fun.”

The smile he gives you is so genuine. Real happiness. It’s been a while since you’ve seen that.

The pizza? Mediocre at best. The movie she picked? You hate how invested you were in that storyline. It’s like you blinked and it was time for bed, helping the little girl into her bright blue sheets.

She picks the book for you to read. Four pages, and she’s snoring.

You’ve never liked kids. Never really wanted them, either. While you still hold these sentiments, it’s hard to not like her. Her brother. There’s something about them that’s different, tugging on your heart so hard you think it will pop out of your chest.

Kids are awful. But Chan’s? You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of.

She’s been asleep about thirty minutes. Mindlessly, you click through the tv channel, trying to decide on something. Barely nine in the evening, and there’s nothing to watch? That seems like a scam—

Bang. Thunder. Flashes of lightning. The world shaking harder than it has since it’s birth about ten years ago. Chan storms inside his home, the heavy footsteps making you jump.

“Fuck!” You cry, holding a hand over your heart as you try to catch your breath. “You scared me—“

“She’s not on a trip.” He’s tearing off his coat, kicking off his shoes. Slamming the keys and wallet on the coffee table.

The wheels are turning slowly, but when they click, you feel cold. A blizzard tumbling through the planet. “What?”

Everything was fine. Chan was happy, talking with Changbin and sharing shitty wings over even shittier beer. For a second, he forgot. Forgot about his wife and her affair, the therapy that he honestly felt was a waste of time. The divorce papers in the top drawer of his office, already signed and ready to be present when his wife gets back.

He just needed to pee. Walking towards the back of the crowded bar, he saw a set of eyes he knew too well. It brings him to a halt, looking right at his wife. Who is staring right back at him. With the arm of her boss around her shoulders.

“How many times has she said she was going to be gone, just to stay in town with him?” Chan asks, his voice rising as the storm gets heavier. “Does she not give a shit about our children—“

“Who are sleeping.” You add, grabbing your friend’s biceps and squeezing them tightly. He’s getting too worked up. The feelings he had for her are long, long gone. Buried so deep they’ll never be found.

He’s not mad about the cheating. He’s mad about how she’s abandoned the children.

Chan nods before he sits on the couch. Head hanging in his hands, nails scratching his scalp. Exhausted. Lonely. Broken.

“Why did I fucking marry her?”

You take a seat next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder. Your best friend, your everything. Soulmates always seem like an unbelievable concept, until you met Chan. Without a doubt, he is one of yours.

Though, the universe still seems torn on the kind.

“She wasn’t always like this.” You reassure him. “Remember how hard you fell for her? It was really cute; you couldn’t stop talking about her. Nobody expected this, Chan.”

“I did.” When he looks at you, his eyes are dark. Wide. Solid, serious expression not waving even in the intense winds. “I always knew. She never loved me like I loved—“

The sentence isn’t finished. It doesn’t need to be.

Like that, the rain has stopped. Thunder silenced, sky dark. Time has been paused, standing still as you stare at each other in the dimly lit living room. It doesn’t feel like you’re breathing. Like anything is happening.

Except for a teeny, tiny spark. Rock against rock. Fire being invented once again.

Time resumes as Chan pulls you into his lap, lips colliding intensely. His tongue is heavy on yours, deeply kissing you as if to consume you. To make up for all the kisses that should have been.

This affair isn’t driven by hurt, by the agony caused at the hands of both your spouses. It isn’t jealousy, it isn’t hate. It’s a love that always was, always will, and was always meant to be at the core of the universe.

Even the apocalypse couldn’t destroy it.

Ten years. Ten years and Chan still knows how to touch you. The little place on your collarbone that turns you into jelly. How you love when he bites roughly on your nipples, the teasing of his fingers hooking under the waistband of your jeans.

“I hate that you got married in Vegas.” He says in a growl, lowering you onto the coffee table. “I hate that you didn’t fucking tell me until you got back.”

He yanks your jeans down, taking the soft cotton panties will them. Body bare for him once again.

“I hate that I wasn’t there.” The buttons become loose as he roughly takes his shirt off. He watches as your eyes travel, following his hands to the belt he’s pulling off. A familiar awe.

It’s cute. Sets his heart on fire in the best way possible.

Grabbing your chin, he tilts your head so you’re looking at him again.

“Pay attention to me when I talk to you, baby.” He says with a smile, wetting his lips before capturing yours again. “Don’t you want to know why I hated that so much?”

You blink slowly, giving a brief nod.

Hips against hips, the head of his cock works it’s way up and down your silt. A beautiful moan, a cold shiver. Everything falling into place as he lines himself up.

“Because I was going to say no.”

He doesn’t linger. Quickly, Chan buries himself inside you, fucking you with a passion you haven’t felt in years.

“How dare you-“ hands on either side of your head, he grips the coffee table for support. “—marry someone who isn’t me?”

You’re breathless. Jaw dropped, clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. It’s like no time has passed; fucking you like you need, like you deserve. Something only Chan has ever been able to do.

“You’re my girl, remember?” He grunts, eyes rolling back slightly when you clench around him. “How could you forget that?”

Shaking your head, your head rolls back. Full, wonderful moans like music to Chan’s ears.

“N-never did.” You admit, chest shaking with heavy breaths. “I’ve always been y-yours, Chan-“

When he kisses you, the world splits in two. Existence finally starting to make sense. Teeth and tongue, he loves you in the best way anyone ever has. Bodies becoming one, forces beyond your own making you whole once more.

He looks at you. Your heart skips a beat.

Has this world always been full of life, or is it all brand new? Could life exist without the two of you?

“Good.” Chan’s smile is like home. “Because I’ll never stop wanting you.”

#skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #chan smut #bang chan angst #chan angst #chvnnie thots

[wisteriagoesvroom]

hello hello! Are you still doing fluffy prompts? If so may I please ask for cuddling in a bathtub or something?

I'm not annoning I have no shame or dignity left

so your idea spurred another idea. it is tangential, but i hope it still delivers on the Soft Vibes. thank u for prompting 🫂

don't take too much (off of me)

📝 1.3k words 💟 lestappen 🟢 rated G 🔗 also on ao3

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not.”

Charles twirls the scissors between two fingers, hoping that his posture is authoritative enough that Max will quit squirming in his chair. They are in the middle of lockdown and neither is sure when their tentative friendship turned into this – at first it was innocuous knocks on the door to play FIFA, then it was to borrow a jar of pesto here and there. Then, trampling into each other’s apartments. Max knowing to wipe his shoes on the carpet, Charles helping pick up cat food on his regular run to the grocery store (in line with lockdown mandates, they’re only allowed to go to the store twice a week.)

And now they are here. Max sitting on a dining room chair, leaning back, a makeshift cowl around his shoulders that Charles had stolen from his maman’s salon. Max tries not to twitch or move, knowing that the process of hair cutting is a delicate process. Sure, he has sat for a haircut many times before, but never under the hands of this erratic ball of energy that is Charles Leclerc, who is currently brandishing a blade like a child would a spork.

“Do you trust me, or not?” Charles says. Indignant.

“I’m here, am I not?”

“Unhappily, it seems.”

“Kerel. You have wavy hair. You look like a Disney prince. Me? One wrong move of the scissors and there will be memes in my name.”

“But it’s kind of fun when they are making the memes about you. No?”

Max glowers. “It is when they’re nice ones.”

Charles makes a noise between a snort and a guffaw. Charles perched on a stool behind him, so he can’t see the other man’s expression. But when Max looks to the corner of his living room, Max can see Charles’s face in the reflection there. Just a sliver of his face, in profile. Max expects to find Charles’s eyes crinkled, maybe teasing. Max is used to it, after all. Being the an easy target, a convenient villain. Because a lion never roars back. Not outside of the track, anyway. Even if he sometimes hides in his apartment with his cats and licks his wounds instead.

Max’s shoulders tense, hackles up. But Charles’s eyes are very soft. The punchline never comes.

“Well. I think you very handsome, Maximilian.” Charles says.

Oh. Max’s throat bobs. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s been called many things in the past. Handsome isn’t necessarily one of them. And somehow it has a greater weight, a different bearing, when it comes from Charles. Because Charles is someone he’s begun to acknowledge that he cares about, perhaps a great deal.

“And now! We are doing the short at the sides and long at the top, oui?” Charles says. Snapping straighter in his makeshift hairdresser’s stool, energy whipping through him like lightning. Changing the topic as if he hadn’t just confessed to Max the very same thing that Max has been thinking about Charles for weeks – or if he’s honest – years, now.

“Whatever you do, make sure it’s tidy, yeah?”

“Come on mate. I am always careful.”

“Like you were when you drove into the Copse wall.”

“That was an isolated incident. Due to a combination of unexpected mechanical factors.”

“Pfft. Okay. Save that response for Sky.”

“You’re nearly as annoying as them, sometimes.” Charles says, frown gentle before he lifts the scissors again. 

Comfortably back in their banter-y element, the chatter continues. Charles is careful about his work, the blades moving slowly and carefully. And what Charles lacks in finesse he makes up for in social skills, clearly inheriting this from his parents. Talking and filling the silence comfortably, wandering from topics as diverse as sailing on the Monaco coastline, to David Guetta’s recent bizarre fundraiser video, to the latest model of automatic cat feeder that has become available on the market. Charles’s fingers brush his jaw occasionally to adjust the angle, scissors glinting in the afternoon sun. Max deliberately avoids eye contact, only glimpsing at him occasionally to share a laugh. 

At the end, Charles uses a towel to brush the loose hair off Max’s neck. They both get up to stand at Max’s living room mirror, surveying Charles’s handiwork. Their reflections loom large, shoulder to shoulder at the same height. Besides, Max isn’t really looking at himself, and neither is Charles, either.

“It’s good, yes?” Charles says. Low, conspiratorial.

Max’s grip tightens on the towel that he’s holding. His pulse etches up. The whole afternoon has been gentle touch, contact that aches because the pandemic has made him even more pathetically wanting than usual. Contact that he’s been trying very hard not to think about or keep for more nefarious purposes later. 

The other man's gaze is warm in the mirror. Max thinks of fresh cut grass at Imola, his favourite corner in Silverstone.

“Yes.” Max says. It’s good. The haircut, him, them. This strange rhythm they’ve found together. The quiet space of each other’s apartment, each other’s company, temporarily safe from the world. The trust offered to one another: enough to let them run you into gravel and trust that it was worth the fight. Enough to hold a blade in your hand and only let one other person in the world come near you with it. Risk, and promise.

Then he’s turning towards Charles. Charles mirroring him. The light is bright and the sky blue in the window, but all Max can see for a moment is Charles’s face, his half open mouth ripe like a plum. The scent, this close, of Charles’s carrefour laundry softener and woody aftershave.

And they’re leaning towards each other, a boundary they might finally cross, let the cards fall where they fucking may, when—

A yowl. A screech. A mighty crash. 

“Sassy!” Max says, practically jumping out of his skin.

Both men whip around at the source of the noise. Sassy’s frozen on a shelf, a beige mass with yellow eyes. Paw half up, looking guilty – if a cat could look guilty– at a trophy that he has just knocked off a counter. Jimmy, on the other hand, is absolutely nowhere to be seen, already having escaped the scene of the crime.

Max groans into his hands. But then Charles is laughing, an asthmatic penguin noise that Max has really come to like. It melts the fire in Max a little, amusement tempering his frustration. (The trophy is not the source of Max’s current frustration, but Charles does not need to know that.) 

“I shall get the broom.” Charles says.

“Thanks.”

So the moment passes. They clean up. On their hands and knees, near, but not touching. The broken trophy is the one he got for his overtake on Nasr in his first year in F1, and offers a chance for them to reminisce about their races. For Max to joke a little about whether Charles will get his first WDC when the pandemic is over, both of them excited about the future, a future with both of them in it, still trying, still racing each other to the brink. It’s much easier to do this, than to talk about the almost-kiss, or break the seal on this moment that they know won’t last forever.

Debris cleared, and the cats shooed into the study, Charles mentions that he should go return his equipment to his mother. They stand at the doorway for a moment that stretches too long.

Max doesn’t know how long they have. Of this, of each other. Of being left alone, of the world not encroaching with cameras or demands for explanations or labels for what they are. Of getting to know each other not as competitors, but on their own terms, in their own time.

But for a long time, Max will always remember this moment. The two of them, a dining chair. His crazy cats, Charles’s toothy smile. Their partial reflections in the mirror, an afternoon unfolding with potential.

A warm hand on his back to let him know he’s cared for, and looked after.

#lestappen #f1 rpf #max verstappen #charles leclerc #3316 #1633 #drabble #f1 drabble #prompt fill #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #fluff #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #formula 1 fic #ficlet #formula 1 rpf #f1 fic #wisteriawritesstuff

[thetriumphantpanda]

HAS ANYONE SENT THIS ONE YET I'M SORRY IF THEY HAVE BUT - “I love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don’t get to have you, but i do.” wiiiiiiith Frankie please ily

HANNAH YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE WHAT HAVE YOU DONE 🫠 you agree the first to request and I am happy to deliver but GOD ALMIGHTY IS IT HOT IN MY ROOM OR WHAT?! I LOVE YOU. THANK YOU FOR SUCH A GOOD REQUEST. I hope you like this 🫶🏼

Pairing | Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Word Count | 1K (THESE WERE MEANT TO BE QUICK AND EASY DRABBLES WTF)

Warnings | Soft!Frankie (He needs his own warning), loss of virginity, unprotected PiV sex (Seriously, don't do this kids) and just general fluff.

This is part of my 500 followers celebration. If you want to request a 500 word Drabble, check out this post and head into my ask box. The more the merrier. 

Main Masterlist

 You can feel the nerves coursing through your bloodstream as Frankie stands at the edge of the bed and takes his shirt off. You’re trying to catch your breath, and failing miserably, after he’d teased two orgasms from you with his mouth within half an hour. He’d kissed all the way up your naked body, soft and wet open-mouthed kisses until he was pressing his lips to yours and you were tasting yourself on his tongue. All of this was new and whilst you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, you couldn’t settle in yourself that there was still plenty of time for it to all go wrong. 

Frankie had never been planned like this. He’d been your friend, first and foremost, but somewhere along the line things had changed. He’d flirted back with you; he’d started buying you drinks and making excuses to see you on your own without the rest of the guys around. Then, a week ago, he’d kissed you. You’d pulled away almost immediately and for a second, he thought that was it, rejection and the end of your friendship, until you took his hands in yours and told him the real reason. You were scared because no-one had kissed you before. Scared because that meant no-one had touched you either. Scared because surely that made you weird, right? 

Frankie had softened immediately, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug before placing a kiss to the crown of your head. He promised to not pressure you, promised to let you do this on your terms, when you were ready. He wanted so badly to make you feel good, to show you how much you meant to him, but only when you were ready. 

“Are you sure, hermosa?” He whispers to you now as he crawls up your body, just as naked as you are, “You sure you want me?” 

You cradle his face in the palm of your hands and bring his lips to yours in a kiss as your hips widen to accommodate his frame between your legs, “Yes Frankie,” You whisper, almost as quietly as he did, “Please make me feel good again.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He runs his fingers through the seam of your pussy, gathering the slick that he’s drawn from your already onto his fingers before he’s using his fist to spread it over himself, he wants to make this as easy as he can for you. You hold your breath as the tip of his cock nudges your entrance and he’s looking straight through your eyes and into your soul. 

“Relax baby,” He breathes into your ear, “Just breathe for me and it’ll be okay.” 

You let out a deep sigh and watch his face as he slides himself in. He’s got one hand gripping the curve of your waist where it meets your hip whilst he’s leaning on his other hand which is placed next to your head. It’s uncomfortable, but you curse all the romance books you’d read in your life up until now for saying it would hurt, because despite Frankie’s size, there’s nothing painful about this. 

His thrusts are slow and he’s searching your face for any signs of discomfort. When you throw your head back and moans your name, he knows you’re okay, he knows he’s giving you everything you wanted, and he’s spurred on to move faster, just enough that whenever he pushes his cock back into your deliciously tight heat he’s pulling a moan from you, or your fingernails are digging into the skin of his shoulders, and then eventually you’re moving your hips to meet him. God, you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

He leans down and presses soft kisses to the corner of your mouth because he doesn’t want to drown out the sounds he’s pulling from you, “Are you okay baby?” He asks, “Is it okay?” 

Your hands are back on his face again and you manage to breath out, “Ohmygod, yes Frankie, it’s so fucking good,” Your turn your head to his and kiss him, “Is it okay for you?” You ask. 

He thinks it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever heard. He’s the first man you’ve ever had sex with, and you’re worried about him enjoying himself? God, where did he find you? 

“I love it baby,” He growls into your ear as his hand moves between you, rubbing at your clit, he’s sure he can get you to come again, “I love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you,” He can tell from the frequency of your moans and the clench of your pussy around him that his fingers are so close to bringing you over the edge again, “They don’t get to have you, but I do.”

All of a sudden, you’re arching up into him, his name is shouted from your lips and your pussy is fluttering so hard around his cock that he has to still himself in you whilst he works you through your third orgasm. 

“Good girl,” He moans into your ear as he starts to move again, “Such a pretty girl when you come for me like that.” 

He could say anything at this point, and it wouldn’t matter because all you can focus on is how it feels like he’s set you alight. There’s pleasure in every inch of your body, your skin is hot, you’re overwhelmed but it just feels so good. It’s takes very few movements for Frankie to bring himself to his own orgasm inside of you. His hips still and you can feel him filling you up. He’d asked if you wanted him to buy condoms before he came over that night, all you had to say was that there was no need, praising the lord for your birth control pill. 

He collapses on the bed next to you, dragging you into his arms as tears prick at your eyes. You bury your head in his chest and try and hide the soft sobs, but he’s always been a clever man. 

“Are you crying?” He’s moving your chin with his hands to look at him, “Did I hurt you?” 

You shake your head, “I’m just happy Frankie, you were perfection.”

He’s wrapping you up in his arms again then, pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head, whilst his hands are rubbing soft patterns on your skin, “Sleep hermosa,” He whispers, “Sleep, and then I’ll show you what else you’ve been missing.” 

#panda 500 #Frankie Morales #Frankie Morales fic #Frankie Morales fan fic #Frankie Morales fan fiction #Pedro pascal #triple frontier #Frankie Morales smut #frankie Morales x you #Frankie Morales x reader #Frankie Morales x female reader #Frankie Morales x f!reader #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales

[livingintheupsidedown]

why didn’t you call???

Steve Harrington x Reader

[1.2k] - Steve forgets to call you.

Warnings - feeling neglected, steve being a bit of an ass without meaning to,  just all round kinda sad i guess?

A/N - i heard this song for the first time the other night and was inspired to write! this is completely based on the song “why didn’t you call???” by Saint Harison, lyrics have been used as a reference and are marked in bold. set in season 4 although the timeline may not be accurate. 

You’d had a pretty stressful week, work was kicking your ass. It had been non-stop, every time you thought you’d get a break another customer would come in with a stupid question, another rude remark. Your manager didn’t like you, which you already knew, but they were especially cruel recently. Picking up on any slight mistake and making you stay late to do things you could have easily done the next day when you just wanted to go home and see your boyfriend. All you needed was to hear his voice, maybe rant to him about your week and have him rant back. The last time you saw him was when you stopped by his work on your day off.

The bell above the door announced your arrival, although Steve already knew you’d be coming, as you stepped through the threshold. You had a love-hate relationship with Family Video. You loved the colours the place had, it gave it a cosy feeling that you adored and obviously the ability to rent out movies was always useful. You hated it for stealing your boyfriend from you. 

You found him behind the counter, along with Robin, Max and Dustin. You didn’t know the kids would be here, but you didn’t mind. You weren’t as close as Steve was to them but you adored them nonetheless. 

You worked your way around the store to the counter to hear them all muttering softly to each other, you peered around Dustin’s head to ask, “Who’s Rick Lipton?” 

Four heads simultaneously whipped around at the sound of your voice, all wide-eyed and mouth’s parted. You raised an eyebrow in response, clearly taken aback by their expressions. 

“No one!” Three of them shouted at you while Steve stared, no words leaving his mouth while he clearly tried to find something to say. He’d learnt pretty early on that he can’t lie to you, often he finds he just has to keep his mouth shut. 

“Steve come on we gotta go,” Dustin announced while picking up all his things and already making his way back around the front of the counter. Max followed while Robin hesitated slightly, momentarily thinking if they can leave one person to run the store. However, Steve didn’t move. 

He knew this meant he wouldn’t be spending his lunch break with you and he’d probably miss date night on Friday, which he really hoped he wouldn’t, depending on how things with Eddie went. But he also couldn’t tell you the truth, couldn’t get you involved, couldn’t lose you. 

“Now, Steve!” Max shouted which seemed to spur him into action. 

He grabbed his keys before turning to you, “Baby, i’m really sorry and i’ll explain everything later.” He placed a kiss against the swell of your cheek. “I’ll call you, i promise!” He left you there, stunned, as both employees ran out of the store. 

And now here you were, by the phone, still waiting for that same call. 

“Why didn't you call?

Are you away?

Are you okay?

I'm sat by the phone..”

You rested on the floor in your hallway, leaning against the wall. The phone sat in its holder on the wall as you willed it to ring. The soft pitter-patter of the rain outside kept you grounded as you tried to make sense of the situation. You hadn’t seen or heard from Steve in 3 days when he left you standing confused in the video store before Keith came out and insisted on staff only behind the counter. 

You couldn’t help but quietly chuckle to yourself, you imagined you looked pitiful right now. The radio playing softly in the background, candles lit as his dinner sat cold on the table while you ate yours where you were, although you seemed to have greatly lost your appetite. Popcorn and movies upon the coffee table, along with his favourite sweets you’d gone out and got specifically for him. 

Fresh sheets fitted on your bed, the extra blankets you use folded and put away because you knew Steve ran hot, a pair of his sweatpants and old Hawkins High t-shirt sat washed and dried for him to change into. 

Now you wondered if you even should have bothered. 

“Did you get into a car crash? …

God forbid, did somebody die?

There's just no way I slipped your mind”

Steve never missed date night. Unsurprisingly, it was his idea in the first place, and without much convincing, you agreed to do it once a week. “It’ll keep things interesting,” he’d said “and besides, it means i have an excuse to buy you flowers every week.” As you replayed the memory you turned to the kitchen, last week’s flowers sat wilting in a vase on the window sill. Your heart cracked at the sight, knowing you wouldn’t be getting a replacement pair anytime soon.

Your worry has definitely started to set in by now. Was something wrong? Did he need your help? Where the fuck was he? 

Maybe he’s stranded, you thought, broke down and he’s trying to find a way back. That seemed reasonable enough, if he had to walk to your house he’s expected to be a few hours late. Although… Hawkins is considerably small.

Maybe he crashed the car, you keep trying to reason with yourself, maybe he was driving back and someone crashed into him. But as his parents are hardly around you’re his next of kin, if he was hurt and in the hospital, you would’ve heard by now. 

Things just weren’t making sense.

“And you might be asleep

Dreaming of me

I know I'm just guessing”

Steve was exhausted. As soon as one problem began to solve itself another one started. He could feel himself slowly losing it, “barely sleeping for 72 hours will do that to a man,” he thought to himself.

And now, as Lucas agreed to stay awake with Max he could finally shut his eyes, could switch off even if it was just for an hour. His mind wandered to you and to how he felt bad the second he left you, guilt had been settled in his stomach for the past three days.

He thought about how he hadn’t had a chance to call you, how he’d definitely missed date night by now and how he felt like an awful boyfriend. He’d give anything to be wrapped up with you in bed, light snores softly filling the room while he admired you. 

He wanted to tell you how much he loved you, to whisper sweet nothings and promises of what's to come into your ear.

He wanted to feel your hands roaming under his shirt, foreheads touching and lips pressed together while the sound of heavy breaths fill the room.  

He wanted you to tell him that he’s doing the right thing, that this will work and everything’s going to be okay. 

The kids needed him right now, but he needed you. 

“This isn't like you

There's just no way I slipped your mind”

After accepting the call wasn’t coming you went back into the kitchen, pouring the leftovers into a container although you know it probably won't get eaten. 

Steve wasn’t forgetful. In fact, he may be the most organised person you know. How could he just forget about a date night?

“This is ridiculous,” you wondered aloud as your throat started to burn and tears filled your eyes. You realised it wasn’t the date night that he’d forgotten about, it was you. 

Steve had forgotten about you. 

“Why didn't you call?”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic

[sunshine-jesse]

It wasn't okay.

Someone gave me the idea to write an analysis in the form of a fanfiction, so this is what I coughed up.

I haven't written a fanfiction in 10 years, so bear with me. There is also no smut here; sorry to disappoint. Maybe once I become more confident in my fanfic writing lmao

Ashley almost thought it'd be okay.

"Yeah, I'm dating Julia now."

Ashley thought she'd be able to handle it. But she knew better. She's always known better. And Andrew did, too. It's why he took so long to tell her. She's never been able to keep her fucking mouth shut, but why should she? He's the one who lets her down. He's the one who tries to distance himself from her! He tries and he tries and he tries but he fails, every time.

But now, she's not so sure.

"WE HAD AN AGREEMENT, ANDREW!"

Her words seem to fall on deaf ears, but his gaze never diverts from her eyes. She can see it plainly in his face- his anger, his exasperation, his frustration. She's always been so good at reading him, and now is no different.

"So why? Why do you keep doing this?! Why do you keep trying to distance yourself from me?! Am I not good enough?"

"Ashley…"

"I've always been the only one you can rely on, Andrew! The only one you can talk to! So why?! Why do you keep trying to find other people?! And why Julia, of all people?! Why her?!"

"Ashley."

"What is she giving you that I can't?! Why can't you just be happy with me?!"

"Ashley!"

"No, Andrew! Your excuses aren't good enough! Nothing I do is ever enough! You always want MORE!"

Ah, how close she was to being right, yet how distant she was from the reason.

He has to be dating her out of pity, right? Ever since __ died, Julia hasn't been able to keep that knife away from her arm. She wears arm-warmers now to hide them, but Ashley knows better. Everyone does. And maybe now, Andrew is trying to make it right.

"It's out of pity, isn't it? You feel guilty over what happened to that bitch, and-"

Andrew closes the gap between the two of them, his gaze growing significantly more dire. A lump appears in Ashley's throat. She doesn't know what it's from, and can't process just how much danger she's really in. She could read Andy just fine, but the Andrew that was starting to surface was a different story entirely. But Andrew stays his hand and walks away, never once breaking eye contact with her until he walks out of the door.

Ashley is left alone, confused and afraid. She thinks the fear is from the thought of Andrew leaving her for good, but it's not. All she knows is that she is afraid of getting hurt again, no matter what kind of hurt it is. It's all the same to her. But this fear doesn't get any better over time; it gets worse. As Andrew is out, the sinking feeling in Ashley's gut and the cold grasp she feels over her heart grows more and more profound. Her breathing grows labored. He's going to leave her for good, isn't he? No matter how much she breathes, she never feels satisfied. Every thought spurs her to gasp for more air:

Why is he doing this? Why is he dating her? Why can't she calm down? Why did he still seek comfort from Ashley in the dead of night this past week, despite having been dating Julia for that long? Why can't she calm down? Is there something Julia can do that Ashley can't? Why can't she calm down? Is it the fact that Julia can fuck him but Ashley can't? Why can't she calm down? Is it him trying to distance himself? Why can't she calm down? Is it him trying to be normal is it him trying to forget is it him trying to make up for Nina or is it him-

"WHY CAN'T I FUCKING BREATHE???"

The icy cold grip on her heart turns into a sharp pain in her chest, a stake being driven right through it. What little breath she had left was stolen from Ashley, her hands growing numb.

Her course of action becomes clear:

She has to break them apart. She HAS to.

Ashley runs towards the phone and goes to dial the number. If Julia knew the truth about Nina, if she knew what they did, there's no way she'd still like Andrew. There's no way they'd still be together. She'd have to break up with him, and then Andrew and Ashley would be stuck together forever. She goes to dial the number.

But she freezes.

She feels her throat close up, words unable to escape her mouth. She agreed to never speak of it to anyone else ever again, and that oath was being enforced. But by whom? Why did she feel like she was being watched? Her parents were gone, and so was Andrew. So who was watching her? Why were they watching her?

With every number she dialed, she feels weaker and weaker. She feels like she's going to pass out. And when she finally calls…

"J-Julia! I need to tell…-"

…luckily, they were still home. Every word Ashley spoke was punctuated by a desperate gasp of air. And at the last moment, rather than revealing the truth, she changes her mind. She needs her Andy back. But she needs to get him back without breaking her end of the agreement. After all, that's the least she could do, isn't it?

The least Ashley could do was stay committed. That's all she has going for her. Her love, her dedication, her commitment. If she couldn't at least offer that, does she even deserve Andrew, no matter how much she feels she needs him?

She wouldn't, because that's all she thought she could offer him: Herself. But now, she was starting to wonder whether even that was enough.

"Andy. I think-… I'm having…"

She forces out her last few words…

"…a heart attack."

Before collapsing on the ground, a loud THUMP echoing on the other side of the phone.

It doesn't take long for her beloved Andy to come home after that. He looks terrified, but Ashley smiles, and grabs the bump on her head.

"Took you long enough, asshole."

Andy was less than pleased, but at least she knows that he still cared for her. It calms her down so quickly and abruptly that it looks like she was faking it. She even thought she might've been. But as long as her Andy was back, everything was okay. As long as she knew she could do something for him, everything was fine.

Andrew still slept in Ashley's bed that night, despite what happened. He still sought her comfort, no matter what. Julia wasn't good enough for him. She'd never be good enough. And yet as long as she still existed, Ashley would forever feel herself growing distant from Andy. Andy was lying to himself. He had to have been. There's no way he could want to be away from Ashley while still seeking so much from her, right? Julia had to be dealt with, she had to be taken out of the picture. It didn't much matter how. And so, the next morning, when Andy is away, she picks up the phone, dials Julia's number, and-…

… …

It feels like it's been so long since then.

So distant from the way things are now, that you feel like an entirely different person; like you're watching a performance.

When the dream ends, you shoot up in panic. You look down to your side, and see Andrew, sleeping. You look upon his back, and see your scratch marks still there, and you can't help but smirk. Ah, you really got into it, didn't you? You never saw yourself as that kind of person, but it makes sense, now that you're so much less afraid of losing him.

You know you're awake now, and in a time and place where things are much better, and yet, some of your past still lingers. You can't help but still feel afraid that he'll leave, just like everyone else has. And worse, you fear it'll be your fault. But now everyone is finally honest with themselves and what they want. Now things can finally heal. Now things can finally get better.

Now you can finally dream. Now you can finally hate what you see.

Now you are finally the one who needs to be held at night.

#andrew graves #ashley graves #the coffin of andy and leyley #gravecest #tcoaal #gaming #this is a smut free zone #tcoaal essay #fanfic

[a-libra-writes]

do you have any romantic headcanons for rocky rickaby from lackadaisy? 👀

sweats ...yeah uhh yeah i got a whole lot so this may be long-winded and not particularly organized.....

Shout out to @pomegranate-pen and @lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit for also doing Rocky posts that gave me more food for thought and helped me solidify some thoughts 🤔 i def recommend their blogs as well

Firstly, this is a whole-ass crush-at-first-sight. Infatuation, even, because "crush" feels too light a word. The feelings just hit Rocky and he starts wanting to talk to this person more, or at least see them. This has happened many times in his life and the people almost always tell him off or just avoid him. He's aware of how he can ... be, so being brushed aside and outright rejected isn't new. But this person is talking back! And seems to want to?

In that case, he really can't help himself. He wants to be in their good graces, and learn more about them, and impress them! Oh, he'll do so much for you. Anthing, really, he'll run himself ragged, especially if it's something you really need done. You won't even realize how much he went through, you'd puzzle it together based off his beat up appearance and the state of the car and Freckle grumbling about something as he tries to hide the blood on his coat. Don't let him go so far, and make sure he rests.

Once the relationship is more official, Rocky may still feel the need to keep doing so many things for you, to make himself "useful" to you even if he already "has" you. It's a bad habit of his that's deeply ingrained and rooted in insecurity that you'll be tired of him or realize how burdensome he is and be done with him. It's better to channel his energy into helping with simple things, like fixing your car or getting some groceries or just keeping you company while you finish up work. Still, given his exuberant energy and clumsiness, even those simple things can get a little ... much. But perhaps that's part of the charm. He really is trying.

But hey, there will be endless poems and songs for you. Some spur of the moment, some words and phrases he's turned over and over in his head for a week and they all just spill out as soon as he sees you. Rocky probably isn't aware how sweet and romantic it is unless you spell it out, and that only encourages him further. He hums and taps out little melodies that remind him of you, then grab his violin and string them together. If you like theater, even better, he'll recite romantic lines and stanzas until the sun comes up. More than once you two have had an impromptu reenactment of the Balcony Scene, much to the Lackadaisy crew's annoyance.

Oh, and the pet names, they are endless. There's fairly normal ones like "angel" and "sweetheart" then some that are just ... A long string of poetic references to your eyes and smile and general being. "Don't run out of adjectives, dear," You've said more than once.

He's so disgustingly in love, it drives them a little batty, however at least you sort-of-kind-of keep him out of trouble? Or at least, you ground him a bit ... Okay, not really, but you patch him up afterward and he's more likely to take his nervous energy to you, not the bar. But if they have to hear about how the light sparkles in your eyes one more time --

(Mitzi really hates to get you involved with the business, but if you've got a steady head and can handle a gun, well ... I mean, if you can handle Rocky, maybe you're a good person to keep around ...)

And on the topic of patching up, good lord have you had to do it many times. If you weren't experienced in first aid before, you learn it quick. The black and purple bruises are the least of it, there's cuts and abrasions and don't even get started on the concussion. Sometimes, he's still surprised how upset and angry you get when he staggers up to the door and looks like he was put through a wringer. He'll try to be more careful for your sake, but ... well, he tries.

And tries and tries ... Are you noticing a pattern? When it comes to dates and nice things, Rocky really isn't experienced, but he wants to try, because it's for you! He'll get all sorts of advice from Ivy and Mitzi (he asked Viktor but ran off before he got the response) and does his best with it. It's tough if you're clearly from a well-off family, or used to the finer things ... But in the end, you both have the most fun with simple things. Going out for a fast drive in the country, or playing music together, or just chatting endlessly about everything until the sun comes up. He really, really can't remember the last time he was with someone for so long and so happy - except, maybe when he was staying with his aunt and Freckle? But there wasn't nearly this much talking and laughter. It's like a dream, or being drunk, or being endlessly inspired, or -- aaaand he's off waxing poetic again.

It's not just all the music and poetry, it's all the affection! Rocky soaks it up like he'll die without it, and, well ... He really went so long without such company and affection, perhaps that's true. He wants to be held, he wants to lean on you, he wants you to take his arm, he wants kisses and attention! It's just so affirming and reassuring and comforting, if you two have to go a while without seeing each other, he finds himself getting antsy and lonely. He travelled along railroads for years by himself, and suddenly being away from you for a few days is hurting this badly?

If you're someone who dislikes or is uncomfortable with physical affection, it'll be very tough, because he wants it so badly and he just does it without thinking. He'll rush at you for a big hug instead of saying "hi", or brush shoulders and lightly entwine your tail with his while he pests you about what you're working on. He wants to be considerate of your personal space, of course, so it'll take time and a lot of reminding him what is and isn't appropriate for you. Sleeping next to him means you will get cuddled and it's tough to peel him off once you wake up. At least he's a bit better about it in public, and at the bar, because Viktor can peel him off.

(An important caveat is if you're male or present as such, he's obviously far more careful in public, even if he's obviously on pins and needles for when it's safe to hold you again).

Another thing is the co-habitation, this being the 1920's and dependent on your family situation or upbringing. This may already be a "line" you both have crossed, since Rocky often shows up at your doorstep battered and ends up crashing on your couch, or you just say screw it and let him crash there after going on a run together. Actually sleeping in your room or, even more shockingly, moving in is something he has a hard time with. It's almost nerve-wracking. On one hand, isn't this what he wanted? Doesn't this prove you really, really want him around? But on the other hand, actually having that is somehow scary. Having a proper roof and a warm bed and food right in the fridge is .... a bit of a change from the living arrangements he's had for the past 5+ years. It takes some adjusting and easing into it.

Long story short, he is just a bundle of affection and adoration and quite a bit of insecurity and a little mania. Just ... a bit. Don't worry about it.

#'your song' from moulin rouge intensifies!!!!!! #i wont apologize for this i am obsessed with these fucking jazz cats #lackadaisy x reader #rocky rickaby x reader