#mimowrites

Strangers to lovers, fake dating

Masterlist | Ch.1 | Next

author’s note: Sae does NOT run his own twitter that bitch dgaf about social media.

Also, despite being a volleyball player I have no idea how pro club works, much less soccer, so pls bear with me. I was super inspired by @rhindou <3

Sae Itoshi x Volleyball Player! reader

Strangers to lovers, fake dating

Prev | Next

author’s note: it is SO hard for me to write believable-ish Sae POV parts because realistically he is the least chronically online person ever and he’s also probs a dry-ass texter. Giving up a jacket irl is definitely not enough to generate a dating scandal unless it’s a kpop idol but…suspension of disbelief idk guys

taglist: @heatedflower @ashrxses @mjfr @saesaegull

Strangers to lovers, fake dating

Prev | Next

Taglist: @hanaenim @arkaires @heatedflower @ashrxses @mjfr @saesaegull

Author’s note: fake dating tag relevant soon trust. wc 1.6k

Neither the dim hum of fluorescent lights nor the snappy chatter from the camera crew was nearly enough to distract you from the biting cold of the warehouse-turned studio. 

The enormous, sterile-white cyc walls taper downward to present the set’s focal-piece—a beautifully sleek sports car, all expensive curves and glinting finish, the windows tinted lightly to reveal an equally sophisticated leather interior. Even without much interest in cars at all, you had to admit it was stunning. Luxurious. Precisely the sort of car you’d never be able to afford with your current, relatively fresh Jackals contract. 

Well. Not without the money from this sponsorship, anyway. When your agent had forwarded you the contract, the stipulated payment was enough to make you gasp aloud. Way, way more than five times your salary, even with the performance bonuses you’d been earning (pretty frequently, as of late) and the Playmaker of the Year payout. Needless to say, it was a no-brainer to accept the sponsorship, Sae Itoshi be damned.

Salt & Pepper

Jason Todd x gn!reader

A subway delay, a late night walk by Crime Alley, and emergency calls. A resuscitated man aids in resuscitation. 1.9k

You had almost made it home from work without incident.

After trudging through the streets in the biting Gotham cold, you’d made it to the subway in one piece. Alas, any hope of making it home at a semi-reasonable hour burst like a hypotonic-surrounded cell. Old Gotham—Delay, read the little sign in mockingly bright letters.

Now, sitting on a dingy, creaking subway seat at 12:54 am, you thumb at the keys stuffed in your pocket. The pepper spray key-chain clickclickclicks as you twist the safety on and off. It’s logical that the subway is near empty—no one with an ounce of wits is out so late in Gotham. Unfortunately, the only thing to do now is pray there’s no Arkham breakout scheduled for tonight.

The tunnel lights bend and flicker across the mercifully empty subway. It’s quiet enough that some of the perpetual tension leaves your posture, giving way to marrow-deep exhaustion. You let your head loll against the cool metal of a pole, resigned to the whims of cruel fate (subway traffic control).

You stay there till the thrum of the tracks slows to a halt. The PA chirps: “As you exit, please mind the gap between the platform and the train.”

Adjusting your bag, brisk steps lead you out of the subway and towards the streets near Old Gotham. The fluorescent lights harshen the shadows, the brick buildings greedily grasping at the cloudy sky. Your eyes dart, alert and wary. There’s the occasional passerby—your index twitches against the pepper spray in your pocket—but they mind their business, just as eager to escape the dim night.

An older man exits the dingy corner shop. You sidestep, expecting him to go the opposite way—but he walks the same way you do. Unease prickles at the base of your throat as you quicken your pace. He might not look to be following you, but you duck by a different street regardless. You won’t give a stranger a Waze navigation of your route home.

You can feel the terrible tautness overtake your shoulders as you assess the situation. Strange man too close for comfort. You’re near your apartment—but just as close to Crime Alley. Pepper spray. Safety off. Finger on the trigger.

He’s behind you now; you can see the vague shadow of him on the asphalt before you. It moves with dragging footsteps and labored breathing. Much too close.

There’s a vague noise behind you, a pathetic mumble of an “‘scusem,” before the shadow reaches out.

You brandish the pepper spray and whirl around, ready to paint his face capsaicin red.

His arm falls. And then he does, crumpling in a graceless heap.

There’s a beat. You stand there warily, staring. Fingering the spray trigger. Is this some slick new mugging setup you haven’t heard of? Pretend to collapse and then pounce? Surely your WhatsApp family group chat would’ve forwarded a warning chain message by now.

Gingerly, holding the pepper spray level at his eyes, you shuffle forward. “Sir?”

No response.

“Sir, are you alright?” you say, crouching. His thorax isn’t expanding. Your fingers find his carotid. No pulse beats against the skin. God, of course this happens to you in a dark street with no one else around, much less a defibrillator.

You dial emergency services, place it on speaker. “911,” a smooth voice says, “what’s your emergency?”

“A man’s collapsed,” you huff, hands already finding the sternum of the man in question. “Maybe 40 to 50 years old? He’s not brea—he’s in cardiac arrest.”

Dimly, you register the operator ask for your name and location. You puff out a response in between compressions (has it been 30 yet?), effort making your skin prickle with heat despite the night cold.

“Stay on the line, please,” comes from over the speaker, and keep administering compressions. We’ll send an ambulance right away.”

“Okay,” you huff, “okay, I will.”

You forget that it’s far too late, and that it’s a dark street near Crime Alley, and that your pepper spray has been set aside in favor of attempting to save this man’s life. A dangerous lapse.

Your stomach sinks as you register another shadow by the wall, tall and menacing. Your bag had been cast aside in haste: easy pickings for any petty thief. Regardless, attempting to fight or make a scene would risk the life of the man under your hands. His ribs groan in protest at the piston pressure. Shit, you’re going to get mugged, aren’t you? This is what you get for playing hero.

Brisk, booted footsteps make their way towards your bag, lying open on the floor—and you.

“Take the bag,” you say, deliberately avoiding the urge to look up as you continue compressions. Your back strains with effort. “There’s cash in my wallet. Please—huff— just let me keep my phone for the ambulance.”

You hope your would-be robber is taken with your, quite frankly, impressive display of altruism and decides to have pity.

There’s a creak of metal as the shadow coruches next to you, broad and dark. “I’m not going to rob you,” it says, heavily modulated.

You glance up, motions stilling in shock. The red of a metal helmet stares back at you.

“Red Hood,” you exhale, a fraction of dread drained from your mouth.

He signals at the man under your hands with his chin. “Compressions,” he prompts.

You startle into action, finding the rhythm again. He must find them unsatisfactory, because after a few seconds, he nudges you away and takes over, the muscles of his upper back and arms flexing with effort, “How long have you been at this?”

“A few minutes, maybe? EMS said an ambulance is on the way,” you manage in between heavy breaths, whilst tilting the unconscious man’s head back and lifting his chin.

The white lenses of the Red Hood’s mask focus on the motion for a second before returning to the man between the two of you. “Good,” he says.

As if on cue, the distant wail of an ambulance becomes audible.

Another cycle of compressions. “Switch,” you say urgently. He looks at you, white lenses narrowing, and then relents. Your hands replace his leather-gloved ones above the man’s sternum. One. Two. Three. Four.

The cycles blur, you and Red Hood working in tandem until the sirens and EMTs arrive.

“We’ll take it from here,” says a smiling EMT, “Thanks for your help. Must’ve been rough administering CPR alone.”

“I wasn’t—“ Look around. Red Hood has disappeared. “Yeah. Of course, no problem. Hope he’ll be alright,” you say, watching as they wheel the patient into the ambulance, already hooking him up to the ambulance defibrillator.

You watch dumbly, as the ambulance wails away, and you turn back to the street. Your bag is like Hood, is nowhere to be seen. Did someone take it while the ambulance was there?

‘Another win for Gotham’s petty thieves,’ you think, defeat settling heavy on your shoulders.

“Hey,” says a modulated voice by your shoulder. You jump, reaching for pepper spray in a bag that isn’t there. Red Hood’s mask is expressionless, but he tilts his head in what might be amusement. “You left your stuff.” Your bag dangles from his outstretched finger, along with your keys and pepper spray.

“Thank you,” you say, taking it. “And thanks for your help.”

“‘Course.” A pause. “Did you know the guy?”

Your brows furrow. “You’re making it sound like he died,” you say, “something we both were just attempting to prevent. And no, I don’t know him. Just happened to be here.”

Those unnervingly bright lenses study you curiously. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, gloved fingers resting on defined biceps. “Technically, he did die.”

“From a cardiovascular standpoint, I guess. He’s not brain dead. Hopefully,” you say dryly.

He snorts. “Good thing you were here then, Doctor.”

“Yep,” you say lamely, stepping back. “So, um. Yeah. Thanks. I should get going.”

“Wait. Let me walk you…home? I’m guessing you’re going home, seeing as it’ll be two am. Else you have a very early morning shift and I pity you.”

You blink. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, stopping heinous crimes?”

“I can multitask.”

“Of course you can,” you mumble under your breath. “Please walk me home, then, Mr. Hood.”

He huffs a laugh at the title. “Lead the way.”

The two of you walk in the tonic cool, the knot of dread which had formed by your sternum at the prospect of walking out so late slowly loosening. It’s hard to imagine any small-time criminal will bother you with the Red Hood walking in step by you, after all. He’s all stolid presence and broad muscle and, truly, if you were a petty rouge in Crime Alley, you’d despair at the prospect of having to scrap with him. Despite living so close to his turf, you’d never had the (mis?)fortune of interacting with him. At least you hadn’t gotten robbed or trafficked or fear-gassed, or murdered or something.

He glances at you sidelong. “Are you a doctor or something?” Hood says, breaking the silence.

“Or something,” you echo distractedly.

“Enlightening and specific,” he says wryly.

“What?” you say, glancing up at him.

The vigilante continues. “You knew what you were doing back there. A lot of civilians panic. Or just administer aid incorrectly. You were, y’know. Competent.”

“Ah,” you say, cheeks heating despite the relatively lackluster compliment. “I’ve had training. Never had to use it outside of work, though.”

He hums thoughtfully, looking at the keys in your fingers. “Like your pepper spray?”

“What about my pepper spray?”

“You’ve haven’t had to use it,” he says.

“Not this one, no. Thankfully.”

“Makes sense,” Red Hood says. When you eye him curiously, he elaborates: “The brand you have isn’t great. Probably wouldn’t last more than one use.”

“Can’t ask for much, considering I got the cheapest one I saw,” you remark, idly toying with the keychain spray in question.

“You shouldn’t skimp on something that might keep you safe,” he says seriously.

“Mm,” you reply. “You’re probably right.”

“I am right,” he insists.

You shrug, continuing the walk to your apartment. There’s only about a block left now. The built up stress and adrenaline of the night coalesce into utter exhaustion, dragging your steps.

Red Hood’s presence next to you is making you quite overconfident; despite the fact your tendons are made of jelly and your shoes of lead, you’ve never felt less afraid walking home. His heavy footsteps are steady—each time you slow the pace, he adjusts to stay in step.

“It’s here,” you say once you finally arrive at your apartment complex. “Thanks. For the assist. And, y’know, walking me home.”

He tilts his head again, the polished red metal gleaming beneath the street lamps. The white lenses of his mask fix on your face before he steps back. “No problem.”

“Take care of yourself,” you murmur.

He laugh-exhales again, harsh through the modulated helmet. “Yeah, you too. Bye, Doc.”

You close the door, make it up to your apartment, and promptly crash on the couch.

The next morning, you wake to three things—a ghastly crick in your neck, and a new can of pepper spray on your windowsill, along with a note: —R.H.

hi, welcome!

multi-fandom writing blog.

i’m mimo! not a minor, full time college student

Masterlist

There’s not a lot on the master list yet, but it’ll grow slowly and surely. I’ll probably write mostly for haikyuu & blue lock as of now…

Requests are open, as are dms for writing prompts or just for a chat!

Thanks for stopping by!