julian

now playing – crush by ethel cain

[jagged-stag]

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄

𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬:

KATSEYE [1 file saved]

Riley Hart [1 file saved]

Yellowjackets [1 file downloading]

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝:

i’m not in love.mkv

rolling right into your heart.mp4

s marks the spot.mp4

𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞:

[🎞️].mp4 — typically shorter oneshots

[🎞️].mov — longer oneshots (usually 1k+ word count)

[🖼️].jpeg — imagines

[💾].mkv — smau (socmed au)

💽 / miniseries / to be transferred soon…

[mbruben-stein]

MHA Girls' Dating Male S/O who has the Personality and quirk/powers like Spider-Man would Include?

~Ochaco Uraraka~

Ochaco would find your nimbleness, agility and spider-like abilities really impressive. She'd love watching you gracefully swing around using your webbing. Your incredible reflexes and spidey-sense would amaze her.

She'd relate to your humble, down-to-earth personality despite your amazing powers. Like her, you don't let your quirk/abilities go to your head. You both believe in using your gifts to help people.

Ochaco would admire your scientific smarts and how you invent your own web fluid and gadgets, kind of like how she works hard to improve her quirk. You inspire each other.

With your shared sense of humor, you two would constantly be laughing together and playfully bantering. Ochaco loves how you can always lighten the mood.

In training or combat, your spidey-sense would help alert you when Ochaco or other allies need assistance. You have her back.

If you got injured using your powers to protect others, Ochaco would worry a lot and insist on nursing you back to health. Your selflessness means a lot to her but she doesn't want you taking too many risks.

Ochaco would blush like crazy if you teasingly shot a web to pull her in close to you for a surprise kiss. Your abilities can certainly spice up the romance

Most of all, Ochaco would love your caring heart and how you always try to do the right thing with your powers, just like her and Deku. You're the type of hero she admires most.

~Mina Ashido~

Mina would find your spidey-sense both impressive and amusing. She'd jokingly call it your "Y/N tingle" to playfully tease you about it, like "Is your Y/N tingle going off again?" when you sense incoming danger.

She'd love swinging around the city with you, laughing gleefully as you use your webs to propel you both through the air. Mina's carefree, thrill-seeking personality would make her the perfect partner for your high-flying adventures.

Mina would constantly praise your incredible agility, flexibility and acrobatic moves during training and hero work. "Wow babe, you're so bendy! Guess I know why you're such a great dancer too!"

Your shared goofy sense of humor and love of witty quips would lead to tons of banter and inside jokes between you two. You'd egg each other on trying to one-up each other's clever comebacks.

Mina would think your scientific smarts are super attractive. She'd watch in admiration as you invent gadgets and marvel at your ability to improvise solutions using science under pressure.

She'd find your moments of awkwardness and stammering utterly endearing. Mina would give you an affectionate peck on the cheek anytime you get adorably flustered around her.

Whenever you get injured doing hero work, Mina would fuss over you and insist on treating your wounds herself, even though your enhanced healing factor means you don't really need it. She just wants to take care of her Spidey.

Mina would be your ultimate hype girl, always believing in you and cheering you on, whether facing school challenges, mastering a new move, or taking down villains. Her enthusiasm would be a constant inspiration to you.

~Momo Yaoyorozu~

Your spidey-sense would often tingle when Momo is nearby, alerting you to her presence even before you see her. You'd get a warm, fuzzy feeling whenever she's close.

Momo would be fascinated by your powers and constantly want to analyze your web fluid and understand the science behind your abilities. You'd geek out together over chemistry and physics.

With your shared intellect, you and Momo would have intense study sessions together, challenging and motivating each other. You'd make a formidable academic duo.

Momo's calm and confident leadership style would complement your more quippy and improvisational approach during hero training. You'd strategize well together.

Your enhanced agility and reflexes would allow you to pull off incredible combo moves with Momo in battle. She'd conjure tools and weapons for you to creatively utilize.

Whenever Momo doubts herself, your unwavering optimism and faith in her abilities would lift her back up. You'd be her biggest cheerleader.

Momo would worry about you throwing yourself headfirst into danger without thinking. Your spidey-sense would have to work overtime to avoid her lectures.

You'd love to show off your acrobatics and web-slinging to impress Momo, even if you sometimes get tangled up or slam into walls. She'd patch you up while giggling.

Momo's proper and polite personality would be flustered by your constant wise-cracks and pop culture references, but she'd secretly find your dorky charm endearing.

With your shared sense of responsibility, you and Momo would take your hero work very seriously, pushing each other to be the best heroes you can be - while still making time for study dates and fun outings just the two of you.

~Tsuyu Asui~

Your spidey-sense would constantly be tingling around Tsuyu, but not because of danger - rather because your senses are so attuned to her presence. You always know when she enters a room.

Tsuyu finds your quippy one-liners both endearing and exasperating. She rolls her eyes but can't hide her smile when you make silly science puns during training exercises.

With your enhanced agility and Tsuyu's frog-like jumps, the two of you are an incredibly mobile duo, springing and swinging across the battlefield together in perfect sync.

Tsuyu appreciates how even though you have amazing powers, you stay humble and never let it go to your head. Your strong sense of responsibility resonates with her.

Study dates often devolve into you eagerly explaining complex scientific concepts while Tsuyu listens intently, finding your enthusiasm absolutely adorable.

When you get lost in your own thoughts, muttering to yourself while working on tech upgrades, Tsuyu gently ribbits to bring you back to earth, knowing you sometimes need a little nudge.

Tsuyu admires your bravery in always doing the right thing no matter what, even when it's difficult. But she's also the first to call you out if your heroic instincts veer into recklessness.

Your spider-reflexes come in handy for catching Tsuyu's tongue when she shoots it out playfully to mess with you. It usually then turns into a light-hearted wrestling match between you two.

With your shared sense of loyalty, strong moral compass, and desire to help others, you and Tsuyu make a great team, both in your relationship and as future Pro Heroes. Your powers complement each other perfectly.

[onelonelygoldfish]

whenever i’m thinking of story ideas about class 1a, mineta literally does not exist. i think i blocked him out

[granddaughter-of-shaokahn]

↳ ❝ [Being Momo Yaoyorozu's S/o] !! ❞

Summary: I love her, one of my lesbian fantasies. Being her partner

Type: Romantic, Headcanon

Warning: none?

══💞══╡°˖✧💌✧˖°╞══💞══

I've been in love with this woman since 2020.

Your most common dates would be in libraries, science museums, or quiet cafes, where you can read or discuss theories.

She would constantly surprise you with curious facts or ingenious solutions to everyday problems, from fixing an appliance to planning the most efficient travel route.

She would encourage and help you study or prepare any project with the patience of a natural tutor. In return, you would be her emotional support, reminding her how amazing she is when she doubts herself after a setback. You would help her see that her worth lies not only in her intellect but also in her heart.

Jiro would be a key confidante and probably your "ally" for organizing surprises. With Shoto Todoroki, there would be a quiet and comfortable respect; perhaps you would study together in groups occasionally. She would greatly appreciate it if you treated all her classmates with respect, especially her closest friends.

Going out with her always means carrying high-calorie snacks (energy bars, chocolate) in your pocket, in case she uses her Quirk and needs to quickly replenish her energy. You would learn to recognize the subtle signs of fatigue (shaky hands, paleness) and intervene with food in time.

Although she comes from a wealthy family, she's not pretentious. Her tastes may be refined (she knows about fine tea and classical art), but she equally enjoys simple activities like a picnic in the park or watching a movie at home. Public physical contact would be discreet (perhaps taking your arm while walking), but in private, she would enjoy long, comforting hugs. Her gifts would be incredibly thoughtful and personalized, often created by her to address a specific need of yours (e.g., a thermos that keeps coffee hot at exactly your preferred temperature).

Her biggest challenge would be her tendency to take on too much responsibility (studies, training, duties as vice president). You would help her by setting healthy boundaries and reminding her that taking breaks isn't a failure. You would be the one who helps her "unwind" with relaxing plans.

If you don't come from a privileged background like hers, there might be some initial awkwardness when meeting her family or at formal events. However, she would never make anyone feel inferior because of it and would make you feel valued for who you are. Her family, seeing the genuineness of the relationship, would eventually accept you.

She needs logic and clarity. In an argument, she would respond better to reasoned arguments than to explosive emotions. She would learn to express her feelings with words, and you would learn to give her the space to process things rationally before a deep conversation.

Her room/workspace would be a balance between academic neatness and an inventor's workshop. Impeccable shelves with books arranged by decimal system coexist with a table where half-finished prototypes, diagrams, and tools that only she understands lie scattered. You would learn not to "clean up" that chaos, because each piece has a mental place in her creative process.

Cooking with her would be a lesson in applied chemistry. She would follow recipes to the letter, but she would also improvise with whatever was on hand to create nutritious, high-calorie meals to replenish her energy. She would always have an "emergency snack" (a bar with a perfect balance of nutrients) in your backpack, just in case.

The nights before important exams would become a tradition of studying together. She, with her portable whiteboard, would explain complex concepts with masterful clarity, and you would act as her guinea pig for her teaching methods. The atmosphere would always end with hot tea and a brief moment of shared silence, exhausted but satisfied.

Every time she went on a high-risk mission or training exercise, there would be a palpable tension in the air. You wouldn't hold her back—it's her dream—but you would develop a goodbye ritual (a firm hug, a safe word) and a reunion ritual (her favorite meal waiting for her). You would learn to read between the lines of official U.A. press releases to soothe your unease.

Your role in her development: You would unwittingly become her "human situation simulator." She would present you with complex hypothetical scenarios ("How would you calm a group of trapped civilians if villain X attacked?") not to test you, but to refine her own rescue and communication strategies, valuing your common sense and empathy.

As her potential as the future Number 19 Hero becomes more apparent, you would deal with the increasing media attention together. She would ask for your advice on how to handle interviews or maintain her privacy. Your greatest support would be reminding her that, to you, she'll always simply be "Momo," not the sensation in the headlines.

Her love is shown by proactively and discreetly solving your problems. If you casually mention back pain from your bad desk chair, the next day you'd find an ergonomic lumbar support she designed, along with a note about the importance of posture for long-term health.

Her displays of physical affection would be optimized for emotional comfort. A hug wouldn't be just any hug: it would be the exact pressure and duration she knows soothes you, based on her meticulous observation. She would greatly appreciate it when you initiated contact, as it confirms her emotional calculations are correct.

[loserlesbiancoded]

✑ yes, professor?

✑ pairing: lottie matthews x fem!reader

✑ additional tags/warnings: no crash, nsfw, college student!lottie, professor!reader, alcohol use, student/teacher relationship, age gap relationship, ooc lottie

✑ word count: 5.2k

✑ summary: you're a college professor, and lottie's always been a bit of a teacher's pet.

The door to your office clicked open mid-afternoon, and you didn’t have to look up from your laptop to know it was Lottie.

You already knew the rhythm of her steps at this point. The soft click-clack of her Sambas on the floorboards, slow and tentative — not because she didn’t feel welcome, but because she liked to take her time watching you when she got in. She’d hang at the door longer than necessary, back and palms flat against wood, mischief all over her eyes. You pretended not to notice, giving her what she wanted, playing her game. That’s what this had always been — putting on a show for each other, fitting the roles assigned for the both of you way back before this even started, when your interactions with Lottie consisted mostly of questions she pretended not to know the answer to while you pretended to believe it.

Today wasn’t different. You were grading someone’s essay when she walked in, shoulders tense, bored out of your mind. The words were starting to scramble like eggs on the screen, but you persevered, gladly playing it up knowing you were being watched. Once Lottie’s eyes fell on you, your jaw was set. Your glasses were on the tip of your nose and you let out a soft, overworked grunt. In your mind, you thanked yourself from a few minutes ago for having felt the need to pop open the first two buttons of your blouse — Lottie liked that. In hindsight, maybe you’d done it for her, unconsciously hoping she’d walk through the door in that ridiculously short skirt and save you from whatever pretentious bullshit some rich kid had typed out in the half-assed essay you were currently forced to read.

Her fingers found the key once she’d finally had enough of watching, the thrill of it just as strong as the first time you saw her do it. The lock turned once, blunt and delicious, and you were already gone. A smile reached your lips before you could stop it, the whole impenetrable professor image you tried to convey crumbling just a bit, but she didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, actually — she matched your expression, strutting across your office with that glint of devilishness in her eyes, dropping her bag on the leather couch because she didn’t need any distractions.

“Matthews,” you said, stern even if you didn’t mean it, knowing she saw right through it. “Don’t you have an essay to work on?”

“That’s why I’m here,” she batted her eyes, stopping just across from your desk without sitting down. “Figured you could help me out, Professor.”

You chuckled, finally looking up, your suspicions confirmed — she was wearing that fucking skirt.

“Help you out?”

“It’s still office hours, isn’t it?” The smirk on her face wasn’t at all discreet, she wanted you to know what she was there for. “Or am I too late?”

Your smile widened despite yourself, though you didn’t exactly try to fight it.

“Just missed them, actually.”

“Even better,” Lottie circled your desk, and you turned your chair toward her like it was automatic, knowing what came next. “I learn more with private lessons anyway.”

Before you could say anything, she steadied her hands on your shoulders, climbing onto your lap without caring that the chair was probably too small for the both of you. She’d done it before, the world wasn’t going to end — though if it did, you probably wouldn’t even notice, not with how her fingertips sank slowly into your hair and her lips met the side of your throat.

“So are you gonna help me or not?” She whispered against your skin, hot on your neck.

“Depends,” your hands found her thighs, aching to move further up but you decided against rushing it, “what do you need help with?”

Lottie shifted so she could straddle your thigh, grinding down slowly, hands meeting your own and bringing them both up to her hips.

“I guess I just need some guidance.”

You smirked, taking the hint, guiding her hips as she unceremoniously picked up the pace. She was ready, that much you could tell. It was all over the way her hands squeezed your own on her hips, willing you to grip her tighter. It was in the way she leaned her head on your shoulder and let out shallow breaths against your shirt, undone before you barely touched her. It was in the way she leaned up, swiping her tongue on your earlobe one torturous time before whispering:

“I need more.”

You smiled, fucking delighted, proudly taking control of the situation.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” you countered, feeling on top of the world.

Lottie let go of your hands, bringing her own up to the hem of her skirt and lifting it, showing you just where her bare skin met your slacks, already ruined beyond saving, no hint of anything underneath the pleated fabric.

“There,” she whispered, forehead against yours, looking at the same spot you did, “how specific is that for you?”

You gasped, audible and unexpected.

So much for being in control.

“Jesus Christ, Lottie,” you muttered, hypnotized as you watched her move, the damp spot on your thigh growing by the second, “have you been walking around like that all day?”

She shook her head.

“Took them off before I came here,” she leaned forward, pressing a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth, “for you.”

In that moment, you knew you didn't stand a chance. Lottie put you up to this push and pull and, as usual, you lost.

Though it was hard to take it as a loss when you looked up at her face, beautiful, scrunched up in pleasure and victory as you finally brought a hand between her legs.

Lottie, who knew just how to get under your skin.

“Lottie,” you called, no, warned for the fiftieth time that morning, back against the mattress, pinned down by the weight of her body. “We're gonna be late.”

You could easily break free if you wanted to, but that was neither here nor there. If telling yourself that she was the sole responsible for the tardiness you'd definitely be facing now was what it took to rid your conscience of the extra guilt, so be it. You'd promised at the very beginning of this arrangement that you would under no circumstance let it affect your performance at work, and maybe you'd actually believed it when you said it, but by now it was clear that you should have known better. Like all things that involved Lottie, this morning only served as evidence that you were no longer to be trusted when it came to discipline. Obviously you weren't in control of your willpower anymore.

Plus, like you'd thought, you could break free if you wanted to — the problem was you didn't. You doubted anybody would in your position. Naked in bed, hearing the rain fall outside, Lottie Matthews’ bare skin warming your own as she grazed her teeth against your neck, soothing the bites with the tip of her tongue, all up in your space. Her hair was messy, both from the pillowcase and from having your hand buried in it just minutes earlier, forcing her to look at you as you made her come first thing after she woke up.

To be fair, it should have crossed your mind that she’d want to come back for seconds — Lottie wasn't the type to settle for less than she thought she deserved, not when it came to you. So in hindsight, maybe this was all your own fucking fault.

“It's your class,” she licked a strip up your neck, all the way from your collarbone to the spot below your ear, making you shudder. “Call in sick or something.”

You let out a gasp, half at her audacity, half at the feel of her lips on your skin.

“You know that's not how it works.”

“It is, though,” she challenged, pulling back just enough to look at your face as if she knew your resolve was paper thin. “Your class, your rules. And it's pouring out there, I'm sure no one will mind.”

“I'll mind,” you somehow insisted, softening the rejection with a brush of her hair, “and so will the people who sign my paycheck.”

“Ugh,” Lottie groaned in frustration, not leaving her place, sinking her head into your shoulder. “You’re no fun.”

“I'm very fun,” you pressed a kiss to her temple, chuckling in amusement, tempted to just give in and do what she wanted. “But I’m also really fucking late right now, Lot.”

She sighed, at last rolling off of you and onto her back, and you were almost surprised at how easy it’d been for her to give up.

“Fine,” she huffed, eyes stubbornly set on the ceiling. “Can't force the stamina into you, can I?”

And there it was. The dig. The implication that you were leaving not because you had to (or you might lose your fucking job), but because you couldn't keep up with her. You had to hand it to her, she was good. She knew exactly which buttons to push, willing you to take the bait even though you knew about the hook underneath.

“Excuse me?”

Lottie shrugged, watching her own fingers as she absently toyed with them.

“I get it. Go… get ready or whatever. Not everybody can keep up.”

The absolute nerve on this girl.

“You're joking, right?”

She didn't budge.

“You're older than me. It's okay, it happens.”

“I'm—” You sighed, annoyed that it had taken no effort for her to get to you this much, even if you were aware it was all a test. “This is ridiculous. I'm not that much older than you, Lottie.”

You weren't, not that it mattered right now, but you felt the need to reinforce it. You weren't exactly her age either, but still — you were the youngest professor in your department, and it wasn't like it made any of it okay, but to have her basically tell you you were too old to keep up? That you didn't have the stamina to give her what she wanted?

It made your blood boil.

It didn't make any sense, you knew it, you had a whole career at stake and you definitely shouldn't be taking shit from a 22-year-old, but you couldn't help it. Suddenly, the low ticking of the clock on the wall didn't matter anymore. You didn't care that you'd have to come up with an excuse in front of eighty fucking people when you walked into the lecture hall thirty minutes later than usual, it was raining anyway, you might as well blame it on traffic.

“Look, just go. You have your work to get to, Professor,” the word left Lottie's lips like a calculated jab, the smirk on her face proof that she didn't even care about hiding her true goal. “I can take care of myself.”

You had enough.

Before you could give her a chance to protest, Lottie was the one pinned to the mattress now, a gasp leaving her throat, your hands tight around her wrists. Her eyes met yours with intensity, lips parted for a brief moment before curving into a fucking smile.

“I thought you didn't wanna be late.”

“Shut up,” you grunted, parting her legs with your knee, to which she showed no resistance. “You're such a fucking brat.”

“I'm just saying,” Lottie was practically singing at this point, clearly amused with herself, and you wanted to slap the grin off her mouth just as hard as you wanted to kiss it. “You were all worried and now you're—”

“Shut up, Matthews,” you repeated, grinding your knee against her center, not surprised when her hips jerked at the motion. “Don't you know when to stop running your fucking mouth?”

You let go of one of her wrists, quickly replacing your knee with your hand, figuring you wouldn't give her a chance to argue back.

Naive take when it came to Lottie.

“If this is what I get,” she sank her nails into your shoulder, pulling you closer, leaning up to whisper into your ear, “I don't think I ever will.”

Lottie, who wasn't crazy about the idea of sharing you.

“Hey,” you nudged her foot lightly under the desk, but she didn't look up from her laptop. “What's going on with you?”

Lottie sighed for the tenth time in the span of half an hour. She'd slipped into your office as usual, just fifteen minutes after three o'clock, but this time it was different. She didn't linger at the door, she didn't watch you with heat in her eyes, she didn't find an excuse to kiss your lips or straddle your lap. Instead, she just walked to the desk with her shoulders lower than usual, taking the chair across from yours, for a change. I just needed a quiet place to work on my essay, she’d explained, uncharacteristically flat. My roommate's kind of an asshole.

But she looked like her mind was anywhere except for the words on the screen. She kept sighing, huffing, barely writing anything — while still refusing help when you offered it, which was weird. Lottie was normally all for hearing your ideas, especially when it meant being handed material to impress her other professors without having to dig for it.

When she leaned her elbows on the desk and you caught her staring through her laptop instead of at it, you finally felt like it was time to ask.

“What?” She muttered, just irritated enough to cut through the nonchalance. “I'm fine.”

“If you say so,” you shrugged, still not quite ready to let it go. “Though you have been huffing like a bull ever since you got here, so…”

“I'm just…” she paused, eyes still on that screen indicating she clearly didn't feel like looking at you right now. “Struggling with the essay, that's all.”

“I told you I'll help you if you want. Have you tried looking into—”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N, I don't want your fucking help,” she snapped, finally setting her gaze on you, which you weren't sure was a good thing anymore. “I got into this school without you, didn't I? I can do it myself.”

You pulled back a bit, stunned at the sudden change. You'd never seen Lottie mad before — frustrated yes, annoyed even, but this was a first.

“...I didn't say you couldn't,” you offered back, not really knowing how to react. “It's just you came all the way here to write it so I figured you'd want me to—”

“You figured wrong,” she interrupted you, sharp. “I told you, I just needed to be somewhere quiet.”

Bullshit, you wanted to call — because what was the point of doing it in your office if she was looking for quiet? Why not go to the library or the study hall or anywhere else that didn't include your constant typing and answering phone calls and students knocking on your door even though office hours were over?

But you didn't say it. Instead, you simply nodded.

“Okay, then. Guess I'll leave you to it.”

“Good.”

Lottie's eyes fell on her laptop again for a grand total of five seconds before she cut through the silence.

“Are you fucking Jackie Taylor?”

You frowned immediately, confused, absolutely blindsided by the sudden confrontation.

“What?” You snorted at how absurd the question was.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me,” she exhaled, half-sharp, half-insecure. “Just tell me. It’s a simple yes or no question. You're a smart woman, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

You fixed your face, shaking your head.

“I’m not—” You leaned your forearms on the desk, eyes set on her. “I’m not laughing at you, Lottie. I’m just… surprised, this came out of nowhere.”

She sighed.

“You still haven’t answered.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised that she thought you would, taking a second longer to process the absurdity of the accusation.

But Lottie didn’t have a second.

“I know we’re not— serious or anything, but for you to go and fuck Jackie Taylor of all people is just seriously—”

“No,” you cut through the speech, finally catching up. “Where did you even— I’m not… sleeping with Jackie, Lottie. I don’t know why you’d even think that.”

Lottie bit the inside of her cheek, not bothering to hide her frown now, looking at your face as if questioning whether or not she should believe you.

“I saw you two,” she rasped like it could ever make sense. “I saw her here, all over you, touching your arm like she'd done it before.”

Oh.

You weren't stupid, you weren't naive — and you weren't blind, either.

You knew what Jackie Taylor had been doing. You’d known it from the start of the semester, ever since that day when she’d stayed behind to ask you all the questions you'd already answered after a lecture. Jackie would sit at the front row, laugh a little louder than everyone else when you made a joke, press against you if you leaned down to look at something on her laptop. She'd come to your office hours at least once a week, touching your arm and twirling her hair, never seeming to have any real questions — at least not ones that went beyond “so, how did you know you wanted to be a professor?”.

And it was exactly because you weren't stupid that you hadn't put a stop to it.

Jackie's father was none other than the head of a department very close to yours, and you knew getting on her bad side would probably be just as dumb as giving in and sleeping with her already (not that you would, for fuck's sake, you weren't some serial student-fucker like, rumor had it, some of your older peers). Plus, it wasn't like she was going to do anything about it anyway — you'd gotten familiar with her strategy, bark but no bite, lingering for as long as she could at your office while waiting for you to make a move you never would. Given your limited array of options, you figured tolerating her was your best choice.

Today hadn't been different. Jackie had strutted into your office at two-something in the afternoon, carrying all those books and pens you knew she'd only brought for the sake of the performance. At this point, she didn't even bother touching them anymore. She'd leaned close to you, circling your desk under the guise of showing you something on your own laptop (she'd accidentally forgotten hers), hand meeting your arm like, as Lottie very accurately pointed out, she'd done the same thing before.

Lottie must have seen it, you concluded, that must be what sent her over the edge — because even if you were pretty sure Jackie wouldn't actually be bold enough to try anything, it was better to be safe than sorry, so you always kept your office door open from 1 to 3, when students had the freedom to walk in and out as they pleased.

“Lottie,” you said, calmer now, finally feeling like you'd fully grasped the situation at hand. “I’m not sleeping with Jackie.” And then, just because you felt the need to explain yourself a little further: “I wouldn't.”

Lottie hesitated, face unreadable.

“You wouldn't?”

You shook your head firmly.

“What, you think I'd just…” You sighed, recalculating your line, trying not to come off too defensive. “No. I wouldn't.”

I'm not that kind of professor, you wanted to say, but you decided against it — the irony of it being said to the student you'd been fucking for months now wasn't lost on you.

Lottie cleared her throat, softening quicker than you assumed she would.

“Why was she touching you then?”

You took a deep breath, shoulders slumping as you licked your lips, not in the mood to go over your questionable methods.

“I…” You started, not sure where you'd end up. “I'm young, Lot. I'm approachable. Students get confused.”

The discontent with your answer was clear on her face for a split second, and you knew she expected something more, but it quickly went away.

“That's…” She let out a small chuckle, not exactly amused, and you could practically read the words where do I fit into that written across her forehead. “Fine, then. Sorry I assumed.”

“It's okay,” you nodded, eyes drifting back down to your laptop because you suddenly didn't know what else to say — because everything had gotten too real too fast, and this girl you'd sworn not to get too involved with was now here, silently asking for answers you knew you couldn't give, no matter how much you might have wanted to. “Don’t worry about it.”

Lottie, who was well aware of the risks, but still liked to test how far you'd bend.

It had all started with a glance, one fucking turn of your head toward the bar area, and suddenly you couldn't think of anything else anymore.

You were at one of the most traditional college bars near campus, half buzzed on beer, celebrating somebody's birthday or tenure or retirement with your peers when all of a sudden you saw her. Lottie. Standing at the bar with her friends, two fingers held up as she spoke to the bartender, wearing that oversized leather jacket with the short shorts and the ankle boots that had definitely been all over the floor of your apartment at some point.

Maybe it was the outfit, maybe it was the beers, maybe it was the fact that you hadn't gotten her alone in over a week with the fucking days you'd been having lately — whatever it was, the sight of her made your head spin. Especially when you thought back to the text she'd sent you last night, that evil little miss you with a picture of her in white lace attached. And now here she was, close enough for you to see, yet painfully out of reach with all these people around.

You shifted in your seat, pretending to laugh at something a woman twice your age said, trying not to stare too blatantly even if every muscle in your body told you to do so. But Lottie didn't seem to notice. You didn't know what was worse — sitting there without her attention, craving it even if there was nothing you could do with it at the moment, or the idea of her looking back, well aware of what she was doing to you, smirking your way just like she did in the picture you'd sneakily saved to your camera roll the night before.

You persisted for about twenty minutes before it all got too much and you started worrying about how obvious you were, which was probably the alcohol talking, but you wouldn't take any chances. You stood up, muttering something about needing the restroom, knowing all you needed in order to recompose yourself was some water on your face and a few minutes alone.

The bathroom was upstairs, right next to a janitor's closet and an empty hallway space, thankfully quiet enough for you to have a moment to yourself. You walked slowly, trying not to look drunk in front of the students before you went up the steps, staring at the bathroom door like a light at the end of the tunnel.

Once you were finally upstairs, you let yourself sigh, pushing the door open in pure relief, glad you were at last about to—

“What the—” You muttered, exasperated, back clashing against the door as you somehow found yourself inside of the restroom already.

“Fucking finally,” Lottie Matthews — who'd apparently been sent up here by whatever saint listened to your prayers — grabbed the collar of your blouse, pulling you closer, not giving you time to hesitate.

Her lips crashed messily into yours, and the cool taste of vodka on her tongue told you all you needed to know. Lottie was eager, that was no secret, but drunk Lottie? Ready to take you then and there apparently, if not from the way she rolled her hips into nothing, from the way her hands were already moving to the buckle of your belt.

You wanted to do it. Let her sink her hand into your panties and watch her face as she felt the mess she'd been responsible for causing. Do the very same thing to her, teasing her when she fell apart with just one touch. Get on your knees and taste her like you hadn't in a fucking week, seven days too long without the feel of her on the tip of your tongue.

But you knew you couldn't.

“Lottie,” you breathed, steadying your hands on her shoulders as you half-heartedly tried to push her away. “Not here.”

She didn't care.

“I can't wait,” she dipped her head into your neck, licking and kissing the spots she knew drove you crazy, careful not to leave any marks that would be incriminating when you returned. “Here. Please, here, I need it.”

As if your resolve wasn't already dangerously thin, hearing her beg did absolutely nothing to help your case.

“I— There’s people waiting for me, they're gonna notice I'm—”

Lottie grabbed one of your hands and shoved it down her shorts herself, making you gasp when you felt just how worked up she already was.

“Another reason for you not to waste time,” she mumbled breathily, leaning her head against your shoulder, fingers tightening around the back of your blouse. “Fuck, right there—”

And so you moved, on your own this time, knowing you were past the point of pretending you didn't want this just as much as she did.

Well. You couldn't really argue when she had such good points, could you?

Lottie, who slowly became a part of your life in more ways than you’d like to admit.

At first, it was just sex.

After a few weeks, there was the occasional sleepover. It was better than letting her get an Uber back to campus in the middle of the night, right? It didn't make it serious. You were just looking out.

Then the little things started here and there, so subtle you didn't think you had to analyze them — she'd borrow a book from your collection, she'd stay for breakfast on your free mornings, she'd hang around the whole weekend after you said she was going to end up coming back again at night anyway.

And now here you were, back against the mattress, playing with your intertwined hands as she let out a lively laugh against your chest.

“I'm serious,” you muttered, the smile audible in your voice, free hand tucked under your head like you had all the time in the world. “You wouldn't have spared a second look at me in college. I was a total dork.”

“I don't believe you!” She pressed a kiss against your bare shoulder, still red from when she'd grabbed onto it earlier, a nice contrast to the previous roughness. “You must've been so cute, all professional, sucking up to your professors.”

You chuckled.

“Wow. Charlotte Matthews wants to talk about sucking up to professors,” you teased, earning you a light nudge. “The hypocrisy.”

She laughed at that, bright, unguarded, vibrating against you in a way that made your whole body shake.

“Sucking up is one way to put it,” she joked. “Though I would've gone with something a little less crude.”

“Well, crudeness is in the eyes of the beholder. Or the ears,” you shrugged, pulling her closer. “Either way, it was completely innocent when I said it.”

“Sure,” she happily settled against you, hand leaving your own as her arm now circled your waist. “Because what we've been doing all night's been oh so innocent.”

You let out a little chuckle.

“Again, not what I said. And we're getting off track here. I was telling you all about how much of a nerd I was before I blossomed into my full potential.”

“Oh, yes,” Lottie turned her head upward, chin against your chest, eyes on your face. “Do tell.”

“Like I said, disaster. Way too into study groups. Deathly allergic to all nighters.”

She laughed.

“I don't know. I feel like I would've noticed you.”

“I was a total teacher's pet, Lot. Like, full-on kiss-ass.”

“Now that's some common ground if I've ever seen it,” she joked with a knowing smile. “Teacher's pet? That's me right there. And don't even get me started on the ass kissing.”

“Asshole,” you nudged her gently, no heat to it. “I wasn't that kind of teacher's pet. I just meant I asked a few too many questions, I didn't…” You gestured vaguely at the both of you, naked under the covers, tangled against each other. “You know.”

“Come on,” she shifted, leaning both arms on your midsection as she lifted her head to get a better look at your face. “You gonna tell me you never fell for a professor before?”

Lottie’s laughter faded, throat bobbing once with the weight of what she was apparently sure you'd noticed, if the change in her expression gave you any clue.

The thing neither of you had said, at least not until this point, the thing you'd both been dancing around for God knows how long now.

Fell for. Not had a crush on, not kissed, not slept with.

Fell for.

Deep down, you knew it. You'd known it ever since the first time she'd stayed past sunrise, maybe even sooner. Maybe you knew it before it even started. Maybe that had been the reason why you'd been so quick to bend your rules for her, maybe that had been the reason why you'd ignored all the stop signs and slowly let yourself move past the point of no return.

Because no, you'd never fallen for a professor. But you had, as it turned out, fallen for a student.

You leaned your head forward after a long moment, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, guiding her head back against your chest.

“I didn't,” you muttered, voice lighter than the silence deserved, but for once you weren't worried. “But then again, a lot changed after I graduated.”

Lottie's breathing seemed to steady, arm tightening just slightly around your body.

“Sure,” she whispered, comfortable against you. “And the horrible taste in music? Was that around back then or is it something that came with your full potential?”

You chuckled lightly.

“You're impossible.”

“You like it.”

You didn't argue. You couldn't.

The silence settled around the both of you, not heavy this time, just filled with recognition for the words you still hadn't fully said, but desperately wanted to.

You'd always known you weren't good at setting boundaries with Lottie. Late night promises you'd made to yourself of just one more time had turned into this, joking around with her glued to your side, proof that that hadn't changed. And you still had a while to go. Months of pretending, of half-truths, of acting like your heart didn't race every time she reached for you in her sleep.

For now, you'd settle for the warmth of her skin against yours.

And tomorrow? When your eyes met hers across the lecture hall and you had to act like you hadn't stared into them all night?

Well.

You could always wait until she graduated.

[jagged-stag]

0:04 | new no. 1 opp / oh boy ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮

when the vocalist for y/n’s music production-101 assignment suddenly cancels on them right before their scheduled recording session, they’re left desperate for a solution.

INT. DAY: Hybe High’s cafeteria

“i guess the vending machine is my only option..” you mumbled to yourself, grabbing your bag and heading for the exit.

despite Hybe High being a gigantic school, there was only one vending machine for student use; the big hunk of a safe guarding your beloved snacks was located in the senior study hall. luckily for you, as a senior, you had all the access you could ever want.

lo and behold…

“here we are..” you thought, eyes scanning over all the options. chips? no. a red bull? you weren’t in the mood for a spike of energy. it takes a few minutes for you to decide before your eyes spot the mini protein chocolate chip cookies. jackpot — just as you were craving for something sweet. plus, the protein would help hit your goals for the day!

“thank the lord.” you sigh in relief, grabbing a bunch of bills from your wallet to insert. it was going good, until.. the coils that held the item stopped turning. “transactional completed” says the lcd screen to the right. what the fuck?

“bro… this can’t be happening.”

you groan in annoyance. you almost had it. well, that was 5 bucks down the drain…

fuck, why were you so unlucky today?

“pfttt” a muffled giggle came from behind you. sophia was holding in her laughter, breaking into a smile that made you flush (either from embarrassment or sudden shyness, you weren’t sure) when you finally turned around to face the one person who witnessed your moment.

she quickly cleared her throat. “sorry, you just looked so.. defeated. by a vending machine.” you gave her a pointed look.

“i should probably get the student council involved to create a designed help line for malfunctions and stuff.” sophia says sheepishly — her adamant ambition to care and stand up for others was one of the things you loved about her. despite the rift that befell the two of you right after she and leon started dating (due to unrelated issues), it seemed that some things about her would never change.

“i guess i’d be the first customer.” you remark, feeling feint from hunger and from going through the five stages of grief in one minute (rip chocolate-chip protein cookie).

“you okay? you seem pale.” stop being so sweet. you might just break my heart again.

“lightheaded.” you mumble, “and starving?”

“woah.” she steadies you when your body wavers for a second, “c’mon, i’ll get you something from my locker.”

oh boy.

0:03 ↻ << inil.mkv >> skip to 0:05

[before-it-felt-like-a-sin]

Yewowjackets

[miffymadness]

Nat Scatorccio saying you little bitch awakened something in me holy fuck I am so gay

[doctrowho]

i’m glad we don’t have to hunt for our food anymore.. i don’t even know where Sandwiches live 

[harvesterofmoons]

hot take about yellowjackets apparently?

i don’t think eating jackie was as much of a bad thing to do as most people make it out to be. obviously cannibalism is wrong in a regular day to day context, however, when you’re with you high school soccer team in the middle of winter in the canadian wilderness, your coach is missing a limb and depressed, you’re running out of your only food source that your schizophrenic teammate killed in the weirdest way possible; is eating a person, who is already dead, truly that unethical? i also don’t think that eating jackie was when the yellowjackets started becoming objectively bad people (it was watching javi die).

maybe this a hot take but i’ve seen a surprising amount of people act like eating jackie was the most deranged thing they could’ve done.

sorry if this is terribly written, i’m drunk as hell.

[laterkiss]

angel on my shoulder and devil of my shoulder fucking really hard is the reason i have shoulder pain

[fairycosmos]

the issue with growing up in the 2000s and 2010s was like there was this really big push toward "accepting your weirdness" overall but they meant like idk wearing mismatched socks or something not being tangibly beyond the norm in any way shape or form

[reverie-starlight]

fem!reader, no physical description, you’re basically her PR person. pro hero!momo, in my mind you're both in your twenties.

secret mutual pining, kinda fluffy, maybe the closest thing to angst you’ll get from me for now <3

pining for momo yaoyorozu and not realizing it’s mutual.

you’ve known her for years, now. you didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her in high school, but she often mentions how much closer she feels to you than anyone who did.

you work for her behind the scenes, help her with her social media, book talk shows and interviews… but maybe more importantly, you’re someone she can rely on.

a friend.

you’re not sure exactly how you came to be so close, but you certainly don’t mind at all. you remember being at her side from the start of both of your careers, so you’ve truly grown together, in and out of the workplace.

a best friend.

you’re also not sure exactly when you begin to fall for her, but you don’t dare question it. in fact, you try your best to push it down out of fear you’ll ruin the best thing you’ve ever been a part of.

she’s spent so many phone calls with you singing your praises and thanking you for all of your support, unknowingly causing butterflies to erupt within you.

she cries in your arms when the days just get too much to handle, and then you're soothing her to sleep, letting her rest in your bed, getting in next to her. these are all things a good friend would do, wouldn't even think twice of. you watch her breathe, press your cheek to her hair and continue to stroke up and down her back... you play pretend for a moment and it's so very clear...

there's no way you could ever see her as just a friend.

one night, weeks later, you dream of leaning your head on her arm in the backseat of a car. you’re laughing together and she’s talking about something you can’t register because dream-you is too busy making note of the warmth of her toned arm. even from years of hero work, her skin is silky smooth. wounds endured have now faded into pale scars, bumps and bruises have disappeared for the time being.

the following morning, you’re barely able to look at her without thinking of the kiss you shared and the loving words you both whispered.

that same day, she comes back from patrol with new scrapes and bruises, but you notice that instead of heading to the infirmary she had been so adamant on adding to the floor plans of her agency’s building, she comes right to you.

and you gladly patch her up, even if it’s clumsy and not nearly as good of a job as the nurses could do. you apologize and she just smiles and thanks you.

neither of you say anything about your clasped hands or how you’re running your thumb over hers.

and poor momo doesn’t understand what’s happening to her. she’s not so unaware of her own feelings that she doesn’t know she’s falling for her best friend, but she’s conflicted.

do you feel the same? would you be disgusted with her for having feelings for someone who is still technically her employee and coworker? no, she’ll push it down and try to forget about it.

it’s safer that way, she reasons.

she’ll do talk shows and brush off any questions about her love life, subconsciously letting her eyes flicker to you for a moment. she hates the interviewer for asking her that with you in the room, not really understanding why she feels guilty when you’re not even together.

even her friends from high school have begun to comment on how close the two of you seem, teasing her about how she gets starry eyed when you’re close by.

one night she dreams that you’re cooking with her in her penthouse apartment, stealing kisses and cuddling on the couch. her dream self does her best to memorize every second of it- the feel of your hands on her with a sort of gentleness she’s never felt from you before. the smell of your perfume, one she remembers your dream-self saying she picked out just for your date.

she can’t look at your properly the next morning without remembering how you looked twisted so comfortably in her sheets under different circumstances than you normally would be.

later that same day, she decides to go straight to you after patrol, praying to whoever would listen that you’d patch her up and she could feel your hands on her again. no matter how brief and how cold in comparison to what she had experienced in her dreams, she'll take it.

because she's pining, and anything is better than nothing.

and you'll continue to do it for the same reasons.

neither of you will say anything yet, out of fear of changing something that's healthier than any other relationship both of you have ever been in, so strong, so good, despite not even being together.

but maybe one day you won’t just be dreaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hmmmm idk folks, I hope it didn't get confusing at any point. I'm trying a whole bunch of different styles, so I figured this would be interesting at best. and I desperately needed to write for momo, she's my everything <3

(I am so open to expanding on this in the future btw, I'm a sucker for fluffy bnha girls)

[stellar-quirks]

fake happy ✴︎ yaoyorozu momo x reader

after weeks of pretending that everything is fine, 1A's top student finally breaks down during a test. thankfully, you're there to pick up the pieces and bring her back together. details: hurt/comfort┊platonic/romantic┊not sure where this fits into canon... let's assume 3rd trimester of year 1?┊~3.7k words┊gn! reader┊based on the song "Fake Happy" by Paramore┊part of @d1strict99's echoes & verses event

Aizawa-sensei had left his seat at the front of the classroom, walking past you until he reached the back.

You hadn’t thought much of it until you heard a faint, “What’s wrong?” followed by a series of stifled sobs.

Immediately, everyone’s heads whip around to see none other than Yaoyorozu Momo crying. Aizawa-sensei glares in response, a silent reminder for everyone to mind their own business and continue taking their test.

You quickly glance at the others. They’re clearly dumbfounded, seeing the top student in class in distress during a test.

“Do I have any hope?” You hear Kaminari not-so-quietly whisper to himself, but thankfully, it goes unnoticed by your homeroom teacher.

Though you try to focus on the remaining items, you really can’t help but listen in, Hero Regulations be damned.

“Are you feeling unwell? Don’t bother lying.”

“I’m just overwhelmed. But, I’m not sick,” Momo whispers.

“Alright. Still, you have the option to retake the test another time.”

“No. I-I’ll continue, Aizawa-sensei,” she whispers, punctuated by shaky breaths.

Aizawa-sensei sighs, although you don’t sense annoyance. “If you’re sure, Yaoyorozu. Focus on calming down and breathing in the meantime. I’ll give you an extra ten minutes.”

“Yes, Aizawa-sensei. Thank you.”

You hear another bout of sniffles before your homeroom teacher’s footsteps echo throughout the classroom. “Everyone, continue focusing on your test. You still have twenty minutes.”

For the rest of the time, you go over the multiple-choice and free response sections before returning to your unanswered fill-in-the-blank segment. With a frown, you stare at the page. Understanding laws was one thing, but memorizing the details was preposterous (verbatim, too!). 

You silently curse whichever teacher decided this was a great idea. Aizawa-sensei would never. Even on paper, you knew he cared more about application than theory. Not that his free-response questions were easy, but still. 

Speaking of theory…

Momo has a knack for mastering theoreticals, whether the lessons were from regular academic subjects or the specialized hero classes. As the minutes run out and everyone else starts to panic in silence, you wonder what it is about this test that has finally pushed her to the brink.

“Do you think that if I cry during the next test, Aizawa-sensei will let me off- OWW!”

You kick Kaminari in the shin.

Jirou snorts, nearly choking on her food. “You deserved that, Jammingway.”

“I’m just curious!” Kaminari whines, rubbing his affected leg. “Gosh, you didn’t have to kick so hard. We have training tomorrow.”

“Sorry, Kaminari. I just-” You sigh, realizing that you shouldn’t have done that impulsively; Kaminari had studied really hard for this exam after all. “Momo’s been off lately. I’m sure Aizawa-sensei noticed it too.”

“I guess it makes sense.” Mina taps her chin. “Yaomomo hasn’t offered to lead any study sessions for the last two weeks. Iida stepped in, and we were all stressed out…so I didn’t really think much about it. Oh man.”

“Mhm. But also, Yaomomo is the last person we expect to cry during a test,” Uraraka adds. “Not that she isn’t allowed to, of course, but she must have been carrying a lot more than we expected.”

You nod in agreement, and the table grows silent for a while. Then, someone starts the conversation again, but at this point, you’re not really listening anymore. Vaguely, you recognize them discussing plans to cheer your vice class representative up, but all you can think about is that you should talk to her. Alone.

It’s a product of personal guilt, you suppose. You’ve caught on to the signs earlier than everyone else probably did. 

When you caught her staring at a blank notebook page in class, you asked if she was alright. Of course, Momo waved you off, saying she was fine. (Sure...nothing concerning about five minutes of empty staring. Maybe she had zoned out—even Midoriya does it once a day.)

On another day, you had asked her for personal help with a topic. You figured her easy-to-understand explanations would help you progress with your review, but she had uncharacteristically declined. Warning bells rang in your head, but Momo said she didn’t have a good grasp of the topic, as she hadn’t reviewed the assigned readings enough. 

Even at your suggestion to review together, she had politely refused—she still had an essay and other assignments to catch up on. You couldn’t do anything after she greeted you goodnight and closed the door. 

Then, she gradually stopped leaving her room outside of class hours, unless it was for an important class meeting or dinner. You overheard how she’d turned down invites from the girls to do miscellaneous bonding activities. Apparently, she had confidential internship paperwork to deal with.

No one could really question that. This was her first internship, which required her to take days off during the school week. It made sense that she needed to catch up on more work. 

Despite the uneasiness settling in your gut, you assumed she needed the rest and the space. She spends enough time with everyone throughout the day, and it’s another thing entirely to get your class in order, even with Iida’s help. (No wonder Aizawa-sensei calls 1A his problem children.)

But now that she’s starting to crack, there was clearly more to this than you thought. Maybe Midoriya and Iida were right about how “meddling in another’s business is the essence of being a hero.” You should really intervene before it gets worse.

Soon enough, Momo appears by the entrance of the cafeteria, and everyone rushes out of their seats to greet her. You lag behind the group a little, letting them go first. Your classmates voice their support and good wishes, and she thanks them sincerely. 

“I’m okay,” she smiles with her teeth, her best attempt to ward off everyone’s worries. But you don’t believe her—not when her eyes lack their usual sparkle.

Later, when everyone walks to the dorms together, your classmates are trying their hardest to keep their conversations light and normal, for Momo’s sake. However, there’s still an undercurrent of worry and concern.

Initially, they complain about how tired they are from the second day of hell week, and you notice how they avoid saying anything about today’s test, or any other upcoming ones, for that matter. Nothing about Ectoplasm’s mind-boggling math assignment. Nothing about Present Mic’s upcoming quiz on verb conjugations and vocabulary. Nothing about the midterm practical exam with the entire faculty—and you can only pray that you don’t go up against Principal Nezu. 

Momo nods and pouts along in sympathy, but you can see how hard it is for her to keep up her typical demeanor. It’s as if she realized there was no point in trying to do that when all eyes and ears were on her now.

So, you ask Midoriya about his thoughts on what Amajiki-senpai could do if he ate a lemon and a bunch of other foods, and the green-haired boy goes on chattering nonstop about the possibilities. Kirishima excitedly shares his own input, too.

Eventually, the conversation grows more natural. They start sharing internship experiences, driven by Kirishima’s hilarious tales during patrol with Fat Gum, Tetsutetsu, and Amajiki-senpai. Jirou and Shouji share about the time they overheard Gang Orca fawning over some heroes-in-training, much to Bakugou and Todoroki’s disbelief.

You glance at Momo, who is more than content to listen to her classmates. The grin on her face looks more genuine, if her small giggles are anything to go by. That’s when you truly realize that there is a clear difference between time spent in the classroom and the time spent outside of it. She’s been going through it alone this entire time. 

“Oh, Yaomomo! Any exciting stories from your internship?” Mina tosses a question to her, and Momo freezes. But before you can say anything, Tsuyu cuts in. “Unless it’s confidential information, of course. Ribbit.”

“Ah,” Momo scratches the back of her neck. “Yes. Unfortunately, that is the case. Most of my work involves private investigations, given the nature of the agency.”

“Right! It’s so cool that you get to work with Sharpedge!” Midoriya exclaims. “She’s really good at what she does. They usually credit the police more for the media releases, but from what I’ve heard from Tsukauchi-san, she has huge roles behind the scenes.”

“Oh! It’s kinda like what Fat Gum used to do! He knows lots of things about the black market and stuff!” Kirishima adds.

“That’s cool! Well, if you can’t share the investigation details, what’s she like as a mentor, Yaomomo?”

“Oh! Sharpedge?" You don’t know if the others notice it, but for a fraction of a second, her breath hitches. “Well, she is as sharp as her name suggests. Intelligent, cunning, resourceful…a little strict, even.” She laughs nervously. “She has high expectations for her sidekicks and team members.”

“And me,” is what you think she fails to mention. 

“However, it’s all for good reason!” Momo clarifies. “We all know how dangerous things can be when information hasn’t been maximized well enough for strategy creation. She knows that risk very well; it’s precisely why she has ‘edge’ in her hero name.”

“Oh! I don’t think she has publicly discussed the origin of her hero name!” Midoriya rambles, pulling out one of his Campus notebooks. “I mean, Sharpedge has always seemed like a fitting name for her, but I had no idea there was a specific reason she had ‘edge’ in it! What did she say?”

“‘Edge’ signifies how she strives to gain the advantage over her adversaries. So, under her agency, everyone is trained to develop and use their intellect to achieve their goals and objectives.”

“That makes sense!” Midoriya scribbles a few more words into his notebook. “Hero name creation is truly a fascinating process.”

“No wonder you were invited to her agency!” Uraraka compliments. “It’s the perfect internship for you. Maybe she might invite you to work there in the future!”

“Ah, I suppose so.” Momo scratches the back of her neck, looking at the ground. 

Luckily, 1A’s arrival at the dorms saves her from further questioning; from the front, someone cheers loudly at the chance to finally crash on the couch. Your other classmates agree, drawing the attention away from the previous topic. 

Regardless, your mind drifts elsewhere—the puzzle pieces have finally come together.

As usual, Bakugou takes charge of the kitchen for dinner preparations. He still complains about Kaminari and Kirishima’s bickering over task assignments, but you’re just grateful he’s not criticizing Todoroki’s chopping skills-

Never mind, Sero tried to sneak a bite of some ingredient.

With chaos slowly erupting in the common area and kitchen, you notice Momo taking her chance to slip away. She walks to the elevator, and luckily, no one else follows her but you.

“Going up, too?” You stand next to her, waiting for the elevator to go down.

“Yes. I am rather tired. There’s more work I need to do for the exams this week. Then there’s my last day of internship on Saturday. I was assigned a post-mission report, which I…haven’t made much progress on.”

The elevator doors open, and the two of you enter. “That’s fair. I’ve been struggling to keep up with the coursework, too,” you comment.

“It’s not usually this difficult,” she sighs, pressing the button to the fifth floor. “But, I guess that is to be expected with everything happening at UA.”

“Yeah. I don’t think any middle school would have prepared us enough for UA. Hero work and academics are truly tough things to balance.”

“I suppose- Wait.” Momo glances at the floor indicator, which displays a three, and now a four. “We just passed the second floor. Why haven’t you gotten off?”

“Um…Momo?” The bell dings as you both reach the fifth floor. “Could you spare me just a few minutes of your time to talk?”

“Talk? About…oh, was this about what happened to me in class earlier? Ah, that was nothing. I…”

She drops her gaze to the floor, making no move to leave the elevator when the doors open. You grab her wrist gently, guiding the two of you towards her dorm room.

“Momo, honestly, it’s not just about the test earlier. This is about how you’ve been the past few weeks.”

After she grabs the door key from her pocket, she pauses for a moment, gently biting down on her lip.

“It’s…” She sighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all there is to it. There’s no need for you to worry this much. Everyone is working hard to get through this week. It will pass soon.”

“I believe that you’re tired, but I know there's more to it.”

She snaps her head to face you. The resigned look in her eyes makes your heart clench painfully.

“So, can I come with you inside? Please?”

Momo looks conflicted, but nods anyway, giving you room to walk in. As she shuts the door, you sit at the edge of her large bed, the way you normally do when you visit. She takes a seat next to you, avoiding eye contact.

You turn to her and open your arms wide. The effect is immediate—she slowly leans in and lets you embrace her. It’s not long before she starts sniffling and wiping at her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking.

“You don’t need to apologize. Your feelings are valid.”

Gently, you remove her hair tie, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. You comb your fingers through the strands in soothing patterns.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Momo frantically states. “I just…there’s so much I don’t know. ”

“Well, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who knows everything. Besides, we’re what, fifteen to sixteen? Even the adults don’t have it all figured out.”

“But, I should be better than I am now…”

“Better in what way? Did someone tell you that?”

“Sharpedge,” she chokes out in the middle of ragged breaths. “She-she’s great, but she told me I had so much to work on.”

Something unpleasant coils in your gut. 

“What exactly did she say?”

Momo inhales deeply. “During our last mission, we had a team debriefing. I presented my plan, but she said there were lots of things I failed to consider. She pointed everything out in front of everyone and I couldn’t even answer most of her questions.”

“Huh? Is that some rite of passage thing people go through at her agency?”

“Rite of- I don’t know. The others were just looking at me. But everything she said was right. I guess it makes sense that she would nitpick, especially when lives and mission success are on the line.”

“Well, I guess, but you’re just a beginner when it comes to all this hero stuff, Momo. Of course you can still grow and become better. And even then, you're already one of the best in class when it comes to planning, leading, and delegating. There's so much we learn from you every practice mission-"

You don’t know what it is about your statement, but it causes Momo to sob into your shoulder.

“Oh, Momo.” You rub circles on her back. “I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. I mean that.”

“I-I know-” She cries. “I know everyone says I have amazing strategies, but I’m always afraid they’ll fall apart. Even when I pass or win, I always worry about next time. That I’ll make a big mistake and people will see I’m not that great after all and they shouldn’t have expected so much from me-”

“Momo…”

“And maybe Sharpedge saw that? She knew I got into UA by recommendation and that I ranked highest in class, so she said she was looking forward to seeing me demonstrate my skills. But it looks like I just let her down because she had nothing good to say about me.”

Momo wraps her arms tighter around you. With the way your heart drops, you’re thankful for the sensation to ground you.

“Wait. Nothing good?” 

“No.” The hurt in her voice nearly brings tears to your eyes. “I still lack quick decision-making, I’m not that efficient, I didn’t plan far enough to counter the opponent’s advances, I’m not that good at complex pattern deduction, I-I’m not-”

“Alright,” you cut her off, holding her tighter. “No more of that. No more of whatever Sharpedge said-”

“And now, there’s so much to do and remember! The practicals are coming up, and I’m already worried about what we’re expected to do and who we’ll be up against and what if I actually fail this time? I can’t study for it, but I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not because I studied hard for the heroics test earlier but couldn’t remember important things and-”

Momo coughs and gasps for air, but before you can tell her to take a moment, she continues rushing through her thoughts.

“I don’t know if I’ll pass anything this week. I can’t even answer my parents’ messages about how school is going. I don’t know what to tell them or anyone because nothing is going well for me right now, I can’t tell…I don’t know- I’m- I’m just-”

All that comes out of her mouth is a jumbled mess of words and sobs. 

“Momo, darling. You’re spiraling.”

“Sorry. Sorry,” she chokes out.

“It’s alright. Don’t apologize.” You squeeze her shoulders gently. “Can we try breathing together?”

“Yes. Okay. Yes.” She shakes in your hold, but she pays attention as you try to guide her.

“Inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.” Momo attempts to follow you as best she can. “Exhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.”

The two of you spent the next ten minutes working on steadying her breathing. Momo gets a little frustrated at the beginning, but eventually, she manages. She’s still sniffling, but you’re not worried that she’ll work herself into hyperventilation.

“Thank you,” Momo says softly, playing with the end of a hair strand. “Thank you for being here. For listening.”

The two of you now lie on her bed, side-by-side.

“I will always listen to you when you need me to, Momo. You’re always listening to everyone else—1A would return the favor in a heartbeat.”

“I…I’d like to hope so. It’s just difficult to, um…it feels like adding another burden on other people’s shoulders. As a hero, I really shouldn’t be doing that.”

“You are the hero Creati, yes. But, you are also Yaoyorozu Momo.” You take one of her hands in yours. “You’re human. It is impossible to do it all on your own, no matter how much you want to.”

Momo looks up at you. “I know that, logically. But, it’s just that I’m scared of…”

“Scared of?”

“People realizing that I’m not good enough,” she huffs. “I don’t know how to trust myself right now. It’s like there’s a voice in my head, criticizing my every move. I feel like people are constantly watching and judging me.”

“I can understand that, considering how much expectations people tend to pile on you—rather unfairly, if I’m honest.” You hum to yourself. “Did this feeling worsen during your internship with Sharpedge?”

Momo thinks for a moment, before nodding. “I think so. Even after my loss at the sports festival, or our team’s loss against 1B in the joint training class…I’ve never felt this bad about myself before.”

“I see. Honestly, I wanted to give you space, but I had a hunch that it was starting to take a toll on you.”

“Yes. I was looking forward to learning at Sharpedge’s agency, but over time? I started to dread going,” she admits.

“It’s so insane to me,” you complain, rubbing slow circles on her hand with your thumb. “She really didn’t try to compliment you once? No ‘great work’ or even a smile?”

“No. Just criticism. Constructive, but well…” Momo shrugs. 

“For someone so intelligent, I can’t believe she hasn’t analyzed how unreasonably high her expectations are.” You make a disgusted face, which makes her giggle. “Also, isn’t her intellect related to her quirk?”

“It is. Her brain has developed in such a way that her neural impulses travel incredibly fast.”

“So, she was born like that! Of course, fifteen-year-old Sharpedge would’ve had much faster processing speeds compared to you. You’ve literally spent your whole life studying and honing your talents, so right now, you’re operating to the best of your abilities. It is so unrealistic for her to demand so much from a first-year.”

“I suppose that’s true. But, she really is amazing.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I agree that she’s a good hero-investigator, but I wouldn’t say she’s a great mentor. Sure, we all have room for improvement, but I think there are better ways to go about it without killing a student’s self-confidence.”

Momo hums, trying to process it. “I guess so. Thank you for that. I was worried I was overreacting.”

“No. I don’t think you are. The things we do are stressful enough—even I wouldn’t know how I’d manage in your position.”

“You’re doing pretty well, though.” Momo smiles at you. “You probably could.”

“I can’t say either. But, whatever the case,” you look at her directly, “you’re so much tougher than you think, Momo. You always show up and try to take initiative, even when it’s hard.”

“Oh, well…”

“Also, the opinions of one person won’t always reflect what everyone else thinks about you. You’re worried about what the others think? The other day, I overheard Aizawa-sensei and All Might talking. They agreed that you played such an essential role in the success of our practice rescue mission two weeks ago. They had so many good things to say.”

“They did?”

“Yeah!” You perk up. “And 1A? How could we not love you? You’re so generous with your time. You help the class arrive at important decisions or explain a lesson we’ve been struggling with. Iida wouldn’t be able to handle our ruckus of a class alone. He needs you. We all do. Even…even I need you. You're a friend I don't think I could live without."

“Oh,” Momo gasps. Her eyes get glassy again, but you know it’s not because she’s sad.

“So, please believe me—for all that you are truly expected to do? You are enough. Everyone here believes that.”

Once more, you bring her into your arms. 

“When you need help or someone to talk to, please don't fake your happiness anymore, Momo. We will always be ready to support you as you are.”

masterlist

[sleepingdeath-superlight]

how they text you hcs ; my hero academia (pt. 4)

‘how the listed characters would text their significant other, the reader’

mina ashido / momo yaoyorozu / ochako uraraka x gender neutral ! reader insert

mina ashido

perpetual multitexter and proud of it. if she has something to say then she’ll say it, damn it, even if it takes her like twenty messages in a row to do so — because nine times out of ten when she spams your phone it is the juiciest gossip you’ve ever heard in your life so, rest assured, it really is worth the endless notifications

sometimes gets so excited or shaky from adrenaline after a fight that she spells words so incorrectly that her phone’s autocorrect fully just gives up on her — thankfully you’re usually able to figure out whatever the hell ‘veioqjwos’ was actually supposed to say, but still…

has a seemingly endless supply of memes and reaction images — many of which she’s sourced from the likes of denki and company — and she uses them liberally

sometimes texts you when she absolutely shouldn’t be on her phone — like in class, during meetings, during patrols, and such — and usually when she does this it’s just to complain about whoever she’s with, or to ask you when your next break is so she can meet up with you

absolutely the type to keyboard spam when she’s particularly into a topic of conversation — all capitalised too if she’s really amused by whatever’s being said

prefers to use the skull emoji over the laughing emoji, but will use them relatively interchangeably if the mood calls for it

momo yaoyorozu

she does relax about this the longer you’re together, but early on she had a habit of texting you like she writes emails and essays. perfect grammar, perfect syntax, complex sentence structure, overly polite tone, full punctuation, and so on and so forth. she still tries to keep her texts grammatically and syntactically correct for the most part, but these days she’s a bit less strict about her formality and punctuation when she’s talking to you

the only emojis she uses with you are the red heart emoji, the blushing smiley face, and the regular smiley face. mainly because she only uses emojis with messages that are not that serious and thus has no real reason to use any crying or angry faces at all (she just feels like they cheapen the message she’s giving — plus if she’s upset or angry she has no reason to perform that emotion over texts with you; she can just tell you)

checks in with you throughout the day, sending encouraging messages or starting up short conversations at various consistent points: when you both arrive at work, during her lunch break (which she tries to align with yours), when you finish work and during your journey home, and when she’s finally about to clock out after patrol

she much prefers calling over texting so if you’re messaging back and forth it’s either because the topic of conversation isn’t super important (e.g. what you two should have for dinner tonight, when she’ll be getting home, where you should go for your date this weekend, etc.) or because she doesn’t have the privacy to call you (e.g. she’s in the middle of the agency and needs to let you know she’s been called out for a mission and won’t be home until tomorrow)

will sometimes send you pictures of random things she sees out and about in town — like a cute animal, one of your friends she’s bumped into, or something in a shop she thinks you might like and wants to buy for you

doesn’t always respond to your messages immediately (though she would if she could!), but seeing your contact name pop up on her screen always brightens her mood and brings a smile to her face

ochako uraraka

generally speaking she just kind of texts like you would expect a girl her age to text — maybe a bit more formally (in that she usually doesn’t shorten her words and will use proper punctuation if she’s sending a longer message), but that’s like the only real difference and even then it’s really not that noticeable

uses emojis and emoticons pretty interchangeably depending on what emotion she’s trying to portray — for example, she’s very firmly in the camp that the classic ‘:/’ just hits different to its emoji counterpart and, yes, she will die on that hill

sends you very sweet and encouraging messages throughout the day when she’s studying or working with her agency — as well as reminders about things you need to do or that you both agreed on (e.g. double checking that you’re still up for takeout today before she clocks off, reminding you to take your meds or checking in to see how an appointment went, asking you to check the fridge to see what you’re out of before she goes shopping during her break, etc.)

uses gifs sometimes too, but she saves them for when she’s celebrating something (like your birthday, a promotion, or something else along those lines)

if she sees you when she’s patrolling she’ll snap a picture and send it to you with a sweet or funny caption — she does the same for any of your mutual friends she stumbles across, just with a slightly more basic message attached to said photos

not super bad about it but she does tend to send multiple texts in a row — at most only three or so — but, again, it’s not too bad and if you’ve known her for long enough you’ve long since gotten used to her doing it so it’s no big deal

[theapollochronicles]

PUNKROCKER.ᐟ ⎯ NATALIE SCATORCCIO

✧ summary — ‘cause i’m a punkrocker, yes i am.ᐟ’ the world is falling apart, you and natalie argue about the real meaning of being ‘punk rock,’ and van stays a menace.ᐟ 📻

tw — mentions of real world problems, mentions of abusive past life, not much else. basically skater!natalie (+ skater!yellowjackets) 🛹

author’s note — (credits to @hyuneskkami for the dividers!!) i haven’t seen the new ‘superman’ film but this song is such a banger and the representation of it in the film was too close to home to pass up—supergirl: woman of tomorrow 2026‼️ [taglists : @kjiscrawlingbackformore ]

It starts with a record.

One of Natalie’s — something old, worn, barely still playable. You’d pulled it off the shelf without thinking, slid it from the sleeve with careful fingers, and set it spinning. The first track crackled to life, distorted and raw in a way that felt both intentional and accidental.

That perfect kind of messy.

You sat back on your heels, arms folded over your knees. “This was your favorite, huh?”

Natalie, perched sideways on the couch, her legs slung over the arm, gives a nod without looking up from the joint she’s lazily rolling. “Poly Styrene’s the reason I dyed my hair green the first time.”

You smile faintly. “That must’ve been a sight.”

“She was chaos. Pure chaos. God, I wanted to be her.”

There’s a lull after that — the song buzzing under the silence — until you shift a little and say it without really meaning to start anything:

“I think punk’s kind of changed, though.”

Natalie’s eyes lift.

“Changed how?” she asks, cautious but amused.

“I don’t know. It just feels like… now it’s more about the image than the actual message. Everyone’s got safety pins in their ears and spiked collars but still treat people like crap. Like… what’s even the point anymore?”

Natalie snorts. “Jesus Christ. That is such a you thing to say.”

You tilt your head. “A me thing?”

“Yeah,” she says, lighting the joint and taking a drag. “You get this weird holier-than-thou tone when you talk about people being performative, like you think you cracked some universal code.”

“I’m not—”

“I mean, come on. Punk’s always been about attitude. About not giving a fuck. That’s the point. It’s loud. It’s rude. It’s not supposed to be nice.”

You stand, brushing off your jeans, and walk toward the couch where she’s lounging like a cat in the sun, lazy and sharp. “See, I think that’s where you’re wrong.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

You nod. “I think being kind — being radically, genuinely kind — is the most punk thing you can do now.”

She stares at you like you just spoke in another language.

“…What?”

You lean back against the wall across from her, arms crossed. “Think about it. The world’s so mean. Everyone’s pissed off, posturing, pretending they don’t care about anything. But you look someone in the eye and care? Not in some fake, superficial way — like really see them, give a shit? That’s rebellion.”

Natalie takes another drag, blowing the smoke out of the side of her mouth. “That’s not rebellion. That’s therapy.”

You laugh. “No. Therapy is rebellion too, but that’s a whole other conversation.”

She exhales hard through her nose. “Okay, Gandhi. You’re seriously trying to convince me that giving someone a hug is more punk than, I don’t know, setting fire to your high school’s flagpole?”

You smile faintly. “Kindness doesn’t mean softness. It’s not weakness. It’s actually way harder than just burning everything down. Anybody can destroy something. It takes real guts to build something. To care enough to try.”

Natalie looks at you for a long moment, jaw flexing like she’s fighting the urge to argue just for the hell of it.

“…You know,” she says eventually, “when I was fifteen, I thought punching my dad in the face made me punk.”

You don’t interrupt. You just nod for her to go on.

“But it didn’t fix anything. It just gave me a black eye and got me kicked out for two nights.” She flicks ash into a chipped mug. “You know what actually felt punk? Sleeping on my friend’s floor and waking up to her mom making pancakes like I was normal. Like I mattered.”

You blink, taken aback by the confession. It’s not like Natalie to hand you something like that so freely. Not without armor.

“That’s what I’m saying,” you murmur. “Being angry makes sense. It’s earned. But it can’t be everything. There’s gotta be more than just rage or apathy.”

She looks at you for a long beat. “I grew up thinking love made you weak.”

You swallow. “And now?”

“…Now I think maybe it just makes you vulnerable. Which is worse.” But her voice softens like it’s not quite a threat anymore.

You step forward — not closing the space entirely, but enough to feel the air shift. “You know vulnerability isn’t a bad thing, right?”

Natalie meets your eyes. There’s something cautious flickering behind hers. “Yeah, well. You try growing up like I did and not turning it into a goddamn weapon.”

“I’m not asking you to put your heart on a platter, Nat,” you say. “I’m just saying… maybe the new punk is giving a shit about people. Maybe it’s not who can scream the loudest, but who can sit still and listen.”

She shifts, staring at you like you’ve cracked her open without touching her. Her voice drops, almost dry. “You’re seriously the sappiest person I’ve ever met.”

You shrug. “Still got better taste in music than you.”

“Lies,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile curling at her mouth.

And then it’s quiet again, just the static from the record player spinning something scratchy and old and true. You stand there, not needing to say anything else. Natalie watches you, eyes flickering over your face like maybe she’s memorizing it in spite of herself.

“…You really believe that?” she asks, finally. “That kindness is punk?”

“I do.”

And for the first time all night, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes or push back just to feel the pressure.

She just nods once. Barely. But it’s enough.

Finally, she sighs. “You’re so annoying when you’re right.”

You grin. “So you admit it?”

She stands up, closing the space between you — not threatening, not quite flirtatious. Just present. “No. I said when you’re right. Not that you are.”

“But I am.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again.

“I know,” you say, voice softer now. “That’s the punkest thing about you.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”

You bump your shoulder into hers and walk back toward the player, flipping the record to side B. The next song picks up where the first left off — loud, messy, the sound of rebellion, sure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel so angry this time.

It feels honest.

And for Natalie, that’s enough.

The sun’s at that sharp angle that makes everything gleam just a little too bright. Sweat sticks to skin, shoelaces are fraying, and half the crew’s been nursing the same drinks for the past hour like they forgot how thirst works.

The skate park is old and half-broken in the way that makes it good — warped ramps, patchy graffiti, concrete smooth from years of wheels carving it down to something clean. The speaker someone rigged from a backpack’s been shuffling through a mess of playlists: some crust punk, some shoegaze, even a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Phoebe Bridgers track someone forgot to skip.

Natalie drops into the bowl again, her board thudding softly underfoot. She doesn’t try anything flashy — just cruises along the curve, leaning into it, weight settled in her knees. Every now and then she glances over to where everyone else is spread out like lazy cats in the shade: Taissa in a folding chair with her sunglasses halfway down her nose, Lottie stretched out in the grass next to Shauna, who’s chewing absently on the end of a plastic straw. Van’s circling the smaller ramp on a longboard she refuses to give up, and Travis is just now arriving, a bag of gas station snacks tucked under one arm like it’s a baby.

“You’re late,” Natalie calls as she skates past him.

“You’re early,” Travis fires back, mouth already full of sour straws.

“You’re both annoying,” Taissa adds, not looking up from her phone.

Natalie slows her board to a stop and walks it over, flipping it up with the back of her heel and letting it settle beside her. She tosses herself down onto the bench like gravity’s a suggestion and rests an arm behind her neck.

She’s been thinking about it for days now. Ever since that conversation with you — the one that caught her off guard, the one she pretended didn’t make her think as hard as it did.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe you. She just… hadn’t considered it before. And now it wouldn’t leave her alone.

She kicks a rock near her foot. “Alright, group poll.”

“Jesus,” Van mutters from the other ramp. “Already?”

“Just answer the damn question.”

Shauna tilts her head, mildly intrigued. “What’s the question?”

Natalie eyes the group like she’s sizing up whether they’ll take this seriously or not. “What does ‘punk rock’ actually mean to you?”

There’s a beat of silence — not judgmental, just unexpected.

Lottie squints toward her. “Did something happen or are we just doing philosophy hour?”

“Just answer it,” Natalie says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

“Thinking,” Travis echoes. “Dangerous territory.”

Natalie throws a piece of gravel at him.

“Anyway,” she goes on, “I used to think punk was just… being pissed. Loud. Messy. Flipping the bird to the system and anyone who tried to put you in a box. But now I’m not so sure that’s it. Not really.”

“Wow,” Taissa says dryly, “this must be serious. You’re opening with a monologue.”

“I’m making a point,” Natalie says, unfazed. “I was talking to someone the other night — and she brought up this idea that maybe punk isn’t about being chaotic for the sake of it. Maybe it’s about care. Like, real care. Empathy. She said it takes more guts to build something than to destroy it.”

Van drops her board and walks it over toward the bench, interest piqued. “That sounds kind of beautiful.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know I was dating a poet,” Natalie says, smirking.

Taissa glances over the top of her sunglasses. “Wait—this is the girl you’ve been hiding from us?”

“Not hiding,” Natalie corrects quickly. “Just… buffering.”

“You’ve never said the word buffering in your life,” Shauna mutters.

Natalie ignores her and keeps going. “Anyway, it messed me up a little. Not in a bad way. Just made me think.”

Travis finishes digging through the snack bag and shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it can still be both, right? Like, caring about something and setting a couch on fire if it feels right.”

“That’s your solution to everything,” Van says. “Setting things on fire.”

“Not everything,” he grins. “Sometimes I just run.”

“I kind of get what she’s saying though,” Lottie chimes in, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. “I think punk should mean freedom. Like — being allowed to be angry, but also allowed to be soft. To feel stuff and not have to apologize for it.”

Shauna nods slowly. “I used to think it was about being different. Just different for the sake of it. Like, wear weird clothes, listen to bands nobody knew, act out. That kind of thing.”

“And now?” Natalie asks.

Shauna shrugs. “Now I don’t know. I guess I think that was kind of the point too, in a way. But it was missing something. Doing all that without knowing why just makes you a try-hard.”

Van sits down cross-legged, picks at a sticker on her board. “I’ve always thought punk was about not apologizing for liking what you like. Like, if you want to scream to Bikini Kill in the car? Do it. If you want to knit sweaters while listening to The Cramps? That’s punk too. It’s all just—whatever feels honest.”

Taissa leans back, arms folded. “Punk’s a state of mind. It’s not a look or a playlist. It’s about not asking for permission to be exactly who you are.”

Everyone goes quiet for a moment — not heavy, just… considering.

Natalie presses the toe of her shoe into the gravel. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then, quietly: “That’s what she said, kind of. That being kind in a world that’s cold is a kind of defiance.”

Van nudges her lightly. “You’re really into this girl, huh?”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“No, it’s cute,” Lottie says with a smile. “You’re soft about her.”

“God, stop.”

“She sounds cool,” Taissa offers, more gently. “You should bring her around.”

Natalie hesitates, but only for a breath. “I will. Just want to keep her to myself a little longer.”

Travis grins. “That’s punk.”

Natalie side-eyes him. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“Does anyone?”

Shauna shrugs. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natalie lets herself laugh, really laugh. Because maybe it is the point. That no one has it fully figured out, and maybe that’s exactly what keeps it alive — that refusal to be pinned down, defined, boxed in.

She leans back on her elbows again, glancing up at the sky.

It’s not that she’s changed her mind completely. She still believes in anger. In making noise when you need to. But now, when she thinks about punk, she thinks about you. About how you look when you’re listening, about the way you always seem to care harder than anyone expects you to.

And that — she thinks — might be the most radical thing of all.

The sky’s already fallen into itself by the time she knocks at your door — that late blue kind of dark that turns the city soft, muffled behind its own noise. You open it before she can knock again, barefoot, your hair a little messy like you’d just gotten out of the shower and didn’t bother to do much else. There’s a familiar look in her eyes when she sees you, one you’ve come to recognize: the silent exhale, the shift in her shoulders, the way her gaze softens before she even steps inside.

She holds up the takeout bag like it’s some kind of offering. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says flatly. “The line was insane.”

“You probably flirted with the cashier again.”

“I did not,” she lies, slipping past you. “But I could have.”

“You flirt like a wet sock, Scatorccio.” you call after her, and she just laughs — that short, rough-edged sound that always lands somewhere between amused and surprised, like she’s not used to being allowed this kind of ease.

The apartment smells like lemon soap and whatever candle you lit earlier — something musky and warm that’s burned halfway down its glass. The TV’s already on in the background, volume low, a muted anchor mouthing grim words behind a banner of breaking news: another school board under investigation for corruption. The visuals cycle through footage of shouting parents, grainy protest signs, blurred-out faces.

Natalie doesn’t comment right away. She sets the bag down on the kitchen counter, fingers already digging through it for containers, your forks, the little packets of soy sauce that always get thrown in whether you ask or not. You grab two glasses from the cabinet without asking if she wants water — she always drinks yours instead of getting her own.

But when she notices you carrying the plates over to the dining table, she follows automatically.

No couch tonight. No legs tucked up on the cushions or food balanced on her knees. That’s something she’s picked up from you, without ever calling attention to it — this quiet insistence on sitting to eat. On treating even simple dinners like they deserve a moment.

She likes it more than she lets on.

You sit across from each other, the cheap takeout boxes warming your palms. You eat in comfortable silence for a while — chopsticks clicking gently against plastic, the occasional shared glance, your foot nudging hers under the table without meaning to.

The newscaster’s voice plays low in the background, even and practiced.

“…documents reveal nearly $800,000 in misallocated district funds — originally budgeted for student mental health programs and building repairs. The superintendent has declined to comment, citing ongoing litigation…”

Natalie stops mid-bite. Her brow furrows, just slightly.

“This follows similar scandals in six other districts this year alone — prompting new questions about oversight, public accountability, and who these systems are really built to protect…”

You look up, meeting her gaze. She’s chewing slower now.

“That shit on the news,” she mutters. “You seen it?”

You nod without looking at the screen. “It’s hard to miss.”

There’s a beat, then: “It’s getting worse, right?”

You don’t reply right away. You watch the screen: a flicker of footage from a protest — high schoolers outside a district office, hand-painted signs raised above their heads. One of them reads WE’RE NOT DOLLAR SIGNS in smeared red paint. Another: WHO’S WATCHING THE WATCHDOGS?

You nod toward the screen. “They are.”

Natalie looks at you.

“Everyone thinks rebellion looks like a riot,” you murmur, “but sometimes it’s just a kid cutting up their mom’s sheets to make a banner.”

She lets that hang there.

You take a sip of water. The condensation beads against your fingers.

Natalie shifts in her seat, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “It’s getting louder.”

“Because it has to,” you say. “Some people don’t even realize it’s happening. But this — all of this — it’s its own kind of punk.”

She huffs a short breath, like she hadn’t thought about it that way. “Punk with Excel spreadsheets and court hearings.”

“Punk with purpose,” you offer, tapping your fork against the plate. “It doesn’t always have to wear chains and scream to be radical.”

Natalie leans back in her chair. She’s not smiling exactly — it’s something else. Something quieter. A shift behind her eyes like she’s storing the words somewhere.

“So… the others asked about you.”

You glance up from your food, eyebrows raised.

“They asked when they’re gonna meet you,” she clarifies, like you hadn’t already figured it out.

You smile — slow, easy. Not teasing just yet. Not until her eyes flick up to yours like she’s waiting for you to flinch.

“Let me guess,” you say, feigning deep thought. “Van said you’re not ready.”

Natalie squints. “She did.”

You grin. “She’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” Nat says, but the edge in her voice is all affection.

You reach across the table, picking at the hem of the sleeve she pushed up earlier, fingers brushing her forearm in that absentminded, knowing way you have — grounding, not clingy. “Are you not ready?”

Natalie shrugs, lips pressed together. “I mean… I don’t think it’s about that. Not really.”

“No?”

She shakes her head, letting her foot find yours again beneath the table. “It’s just—it’s not bad. I don’t feel weird about you. I just… I don’t know. I think I wanted to keep this thing mine for a little. Before it turns into something everybody has an opinion about.”

You tilt your head. “That’s fair.”

There’s nothing heavy about the pause that follows. It’s easy — a quiet understanding settling between bites and sips of water. You reach for a napkin, pass her one without looking, and she takes it like it’s a habit now.

The TV hums along behind you, some senator’s face flashing on the screen with a headline that doesn’t deserve your time. Natalie’s not paying attention anymore.

“You don’t have to rush it,” you say finally. “Whenever you’re ready, that’s when we do it.”

Her shoulders drop just a little more.

And then: “Van’s still gonna give me shit.”

You laugh, soft. “She’ll survive.”

“She won’t,” Natalie mutters. “She’ll haunt me.”

“Then you better tell her I’m the kind of ghost that organizes your spice rack and asks about your childhood trauma.”

Natalie grins — a real one. Small, teeth barely showing, but it reaches her eyes. “God. You’re so weird.”

“You like it.”

She nods, not even pretending otherwise.

You reach for her hand, the one closest to the empty dumpling tray. She lets you take it, doesn’t say anything while you trace a slow line down the back of her knuckles.

“I like that you still sit at the table with me,” you say, after a moment.

Natalie glances around. “Feels better. I don’t know. Real, I guess.”

She watches you now — like she’s seeing something she hadn’t the words for until right now.

“That’s punk too,” she murmurs.

“What is?”

“This. You. Choosing a life that makes sense to you, even if it’s not loud or messy or…” She trails off.

“Even if it’s dinner and the news and the same chair every night?” you ask, amused.

She shrugs, squeezes your hand. “Yeah. Even that.”

You lean back in your seat, letting your gaze drift back to the muted television. The protest footage has shifted now — a nighttime shot, kids in beanies and oversized hoodies, sitting in the rain outside a city hall building. No chants. Just presence. Just quiet, deliberate defiance.

Natalie looks too. Her eyes linger.

Neither of you says anything more about it.

But something in the room shifts — not dramatic, not loud — just a shared understanding that there’s a bigger world out there pressing against the edges of your quiet one. And even in here, where it smells like garlic sauce and warm soy, where she knows where you keep your forks and how you fold your napkins, you’re both watching something unfold.

It’s not always about noise.

Sometimes it’s about knowing what’s worth staying angry for.

Or who’s worth softening for.

Or what kind of rebellion starts when someone chooses kindness, even when the world keeps asking for rage.

And Natalie, who’s always believed in being a little wild, a little sharp — Natalie sits at your table and watches the world burn a little more every day.

When dinner’s done, you both stack the containers in the sink. Natalie dries her hands on the towel you leave slung over the oven handle — she always uses it, even when there’s a newer one closer by. You flick the TV off with the remote before heading back to the living room, but she tugs your hand at the last second, steers you toward the bedroom instead.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just lays down sideways across your bed, shoes kicked off, head on your pillow like it’s hers now.

You curl beside her a minute later, hand slipping beneath her shirt, resting at the warm curve of her waist.

The world outside keeps spinning.

But for now, all Natalie cares about is this: a quiet room, full stomach, your heartbeat steady against hers.

And the fact that in this small apartment — with your takeout rules and your soft touches and your deeply annoying habit of being right — she feels something almost like home.

[towabirdno1fan]

‘You were a secret to yourself, you just couldn't keep it from me.’

History professor Lottie