Niva Eloré

about me ✦ name: niva elore ✦ pronouns: she/they ✦ occupation: writer / professional sleeper interests ✦ mythologies & obscure folklore ✦ ambient music and rainy soundscapes ✦ digital journaling & moodboards ✦ staring at the moon like it owes me answers vibe check ✦ ENFJ-T ✦ 90% daydream, 10% trying to respond to messages

It started with a group project. Because of course it did.

You weren’t even looking when the professor said his name. You were too busy praying to be paired with literally anyone else in your class.

Then you heard it: “Soobin Choi and Y/N L/N.”

You looked up. He looked over.

And the eye-roll he gave you could’ve knocked a bird out of the sky.

“Ugh,” he muttered, shoving his laptop into his bag like it had personally offended him. “Of course.”

“Trust me, I’m just as thrilled,” you snapped, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

The thing about Soobin was: he was good at everything, and he knew it. Top of the class, always raising his hand, always correcting people, always giving you that smug little smirk whenever he beat you on a test score.

You weren’t even rivals on purpose—it just happened. Like some unspoken academic blood feud. And now, you were supposed to work together?

God hated you.

The first meeting was chaos. He showed up late. You brought notes. He didn’t even read the syllabus. He said your research question was “too dramatic.” You said his was “painfully boring.”

“You think you’re so smart,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“I am smart,” he replied, biting into a piece of tteokbokki. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

You glared at him over your iced coffee.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re dramatic.”

But the thing was... you kept showing up.

And so did he.

Somewhere between the late-night study sessions, the bickering over formatting, and the shared playlists sent out of spite (“here’s something actually good to listen to while editing”), something shifted.

One night, you were sitting side by side in the library, typing silently. Your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you moved away.

Soobin glanced at you, brows furrowed, like he was about to say something stupid. Something dangerous.

“I don’t hate this,” he murmured, barely audible over the sound of your keyboards.

You looked at him. “Working with me?”

“No,” he said, smirking like he was trying not to, “you.”

Your chest tightened. “Don’t start flirting with me now. We still have one presentation left.”

“I’m not flirting,” he said. “I’m just being honest.”

You rolled your eyes—but you were smiling.

By the time the presentation ended, and the applause echoed faintly around the room, Soobin looked at you like the sun had just risen for the first time.

And when you were packing up your things, he leaned close—closer than he ever had before—and whispered,

“So now that we’re not partners anymore… can I take you out?”

You blinked.

“What happened to me being dramatic?”

“You are,” he grinned. “But I like that about you.”

You stared at him for a second. Then:

“Fine. But I’m picking the restaurant.”

Soobin laughed—soft, disbelieving—and held the door open for you.

“Deal.”

It started with a group project. Because of course it did.

You weren’t even looking when the professor said his name. You were too busy praying to be paired with literally anyone else in your class.

Then you heard it: “Soobin Choi and Y/N L/N.”

You looked up. He looked over.

And the eye-roll he gave you could’ve knocked a bird out of the sky.

“Ugh,” he muttered, shoving his laptop into his bag like it had personally offended him. “Of course.”

“Trust me, I’m just as thrilled,” you snapped, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

The thing about Soobin was: he was good at everything, and he knew it. Top of the class, always raising his hand, always correcting people, always giving you that smug little smirk whenever he beat you on a test score.

You weren’t even rivals on purpose—it just happened. Like some unspoken academic blood feud. And now, you were supposed to work together?

God hated you.

The first meeting was chaos. He showed up late. You brought notes. He didn’t even read the syllabus. He said your research question was “too dramatic.” You said his was “painfully boring.”

“You think you’re so smart,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“I am smart,” he replied, biting into a piece of tteokbokki. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

You glared at him over your iced coffee.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re dramatic.”

But the thing was... you kept showing up.

And so did he.

Somewhere between the late-night study sessions, the bickering over formatting, and the shared playlists sent out of spite (“here’s something actually good to listen to while editing”), something shifted.

One night, you were sitting side by side in the library, typing silently. Your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you moved away.

Soobin glanced at you, brows furrowed, like he was about to say something stupid. Something dangerous.

“I don’t hate this,” he murmured, barely audible over the sound of your keyboards.

You looked at him. “Working with me?”

“No,” he said, smirking like he was trying not to, “you.”

Your chest tightened. “Don’t start flirting with me now. We still have one presentation left.”

“I’m not flirting,” he said. “I’m just being honest.”

You rolled your eyes—but you were smiling.

By the time the presentation ended, and the applause echoed faintly around the room, Soobin looked at you like the sun had just risen for the first time.

And when you were packing up your things, he leaned close—closer than he ever had before—and whispered,

“So now that we’re not partners anymore… can I take you out?”

You blinked.

“What happened to me being dramatic?”

“You are,” he grinned. “But I like that about you.”

You stared at him for a second. Then:

“Fine. But I’m picking the restaurant.”

Soobin laughed—soft, disbelieving—and held the door open for you.

“Deal."

Gojo Satoru x fem!reader | Fluff & Humor

warnings : mild suggestive content, parenthood + child dialogue about "the noises"

You were peacefully sipping your coffee at the kitchen table when your daughter came bounding in, cape trailing behind her, holding a crayon drawing of what appeared to be two stick figures in a very aggressive hug.

“Mommy,” she asked, dead serious. “Why were you and Daddy wrestling last night?”

Your hand froze mid-sip.

“…Wrestling?”

“Yeah! There was thumping and yelling and then Daddy said something like—uh—‘Oh god, baby, yes’ and then Mommy said ‘Satoru shut up!’ and then the bed hit the wall like BANG BANG BANG!”

You choked on your coffee.

Gojo—conveniently walking in at that exact moment with no shirt, just sweatpants and a smug aura—froze when he heard the tail end of that.

“Ah,” he said, setting the cereal box down slowly.

“She thinks we were wrestling,” you said under your breath, still coughing.

Gojo cleared his throat and crouched beside your daughter. “Sweetie, remember how I told you Mommy and I are superheroes?”

She nodded seriously. “And I’m gonna be one too when I’m big!”

“Exactly. Well, sometimes superhero moms and dads need to do… secret special training at night. Very loud training. To stay strong.”

She blinked. “But why does Mommy always tell you to shut up during training?”

You silently clapped your hand over your mouth to keep from losing it.

Gojo kept a straight face—barely. “Well, that’s because Mommy’s… very focused. She’s a strict coach. Y’know, for strength and agility and—core control.”

“I HAVE CORE CONTROL!” she shouted proudly, dropping to the floor and doing a wobbly plank.

You mouthed “core control?” at Gojo. He winked.

“See?” he whispered, “she gets it.”

You shook your head and muttered, “You're never touching me again.”

Gojo stood, grinning. “That’s what you said last night.”

Your daughter looked between you both. “Are you guys gonna do secret training again tonight? I wanna learn too!”

You both froze.

“…No,” you and Gojo said at the same time.

She huffed. “Ugh, being little is so lame.”

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader Genre: Angst Warnings: Injury, blood, panic, mild language, hurt/comfort

The forest was too quiet.

You should’ve known something was wrong the second the group split up. The flashlight in your hand flickered once, then again, before it gave out completely. You smacked it with the palm of your hand, frustration bubbling in your chest.

“Great,” you muttered.

Somewhere deeper in the trees, you thought you heard movement. A twig snapped. Then silence.

You turned, heart in your throat. “Steve?” you called out. “Guys?”

But no one answered.

Seconds stretched too long. And just when you thought maybe it was just a raccoon—

Something rushed you. A blur. Sharp pain tore through your side as you hit the ground hard, breath yanked from your lungs.

You gasped, trying to move, but your body was too heavy, too slow. Blood soaked your jacket. You couldn’t even see what it was—just claws, too many teeth, and then gone.

Then a voice.

“____?” It was ragged. Panicked. Footsteps crashing through leaves. “____, where are—oh my God.”

Steve dropped to his knees beside you, hands shaking as he touched your face.

“Hey, hey—look at me. Look at me.” His voice broke on the second ‘me’. “What happened? What the hell happened?”

You blinked up at him. “I... didn’t see it. It was fast.”

Steve’s hands pressed hard to your side, and you screamed. He flinched like you hit him, tears springing to his eyes.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I have to stop the bleeding, okay? Just stay with me.”

You managed a weak nod, pain radiating from your ribs.

“God, you’re so stupid,” Steve whispered, half to himself. “Why’d we split up? Why’d I let you go off alone?” His voice cracked again. “I can’t—I can’t do this without you.”

Your hand found his wrist, weakly squeezing. “You’re not gonna have to.”

He looked at you, really looked, and for a second you saw something like fear on his face—raw and open, no sarcasm, no bravado. Just Steve.

“I’m not letting you die out here,” he said. “You hear me? Don’t you dare.”

You smiled faintly, blood on your teeth. “Bossy.”

He let out a wet laugh, brushing hair from your face. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta be.”

Behind him, flashlights cut through the trees—Dustin’s voice rising in alarm, Robin swearing, someone calling for help.

But you only looked at Steve.

“I didn’t get to tell you,” you whispered, throat tight. “I wanted to tell you…”

Steve leaned closer. “Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you.”

Steve’s breath caught, eyes wide.

And then your eyes fluttered closed.

“____!” His voice tore through the woods. “____! No—stay awake. Please, please, I love you too, just—don’t close your eyes—”

Hands pulling at him. Voices. Light. Someone yelling they found you. Dustin crying. Steve still holding on like he could anchor you here, like if he held you tightly enough, nothing could take you away.