#I’m surprised I even had the energy to draw this at all

[queeny-v]

I couldn’t sleep for the life of me and I had a sudden urge to sketch a time skip design for Franziska Von Karma outta nowhere.

I didn’t even look up any references either I just went for it lmao.

[pneumosia]

bound beyond time (i’m forever yours) ft. mr. reca ☼ honkai: star rail

selected fandom : 崩坏：星穹铁道

xoxo, ieva ✶ @theother-victoria hiii, vic! i got you for secret santa; i hope i did him justice for you 💗

syn. in the center of every stage was you, yours was a face he couldn’t and never wanted to forget. the contrary applied to you in every life you’ve lived, all except this one. to his surprise—this time, his was the face you remembered from the times he extended his hand out to you after every performance.

In the center of every stage, there was you. From the cadence of your voice delivering every line to the precise movements of your hands emphasizing every emotion, you embodied perfection in his eyes. To him, you weren’t just a performer—you were the performance. The curtains couldn’t conceal your brilliance; instead, they framed it, accentuating the glow of your stardom with every rise and fall. It was every actor’s peak, one that he believed you were destined for.

Mr. Reca was an eccentric man, his reputation preceding him as one of the most celebrated filmmakers in the cosmos. His days were consumed by plotting intricate narratives, brainstorming ideas that pushed the boundaries of imagination, and nitpicking the finest details, all in pursuit of the masterpiece he dreamed of creating. Among the countless memories he had meticulously archived—keeping the vivid and discarding the uninspired—the moment he first saw you shone brightly in the former category. That meeting, etched into his mind, marked the beginning of something extraordinary. You weren’t just another actor; you had become the axis around which his creative world turned.

It amazed you how someone could devote themselves so entirely to their craft. Your perception of Mr. Reca had shifted over time, from initial awe to something more layered. If you could choose one word to describe him now, it would be finicky.

On set, Mr. Reca’s presence was undeniable. When he stepped into the center, a magnetic energy followed—commands spilled effortlessly from his lips, drawing immediate action from the actors and crew around him. His brilliance was as much a curse as it was a blessing. Inspiration often clouded his judgment, and you could see it in the furrow of his brow or the glint in his eyes, revealing whether he was boisterously elated or utterly dissatisfied with the unfolding scene. A lack of passion is discardable, while a hunger for new heights always reached the surface— it was the pinnacle for success.

As devoted as you were to your own craft, you knew you could never match his obsession. It wasn’t just passion for him—it was compulsion, a relentless pursuit of perfection that left no detail untouched. To stand in his world, under his scrutiny, was as overwhelming as it was inspiring.

Mr. Reca’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and unrelenting, as though he were dissecting every fragment of your soul. His eyes, dark and gleaming like polished obsidian, held a peculiar mix of scrutiny and reverence. It wasn’t a passing glance—it was the kind of look that peeled back layers, that saw beyond the surface, straight into the essence of who you were. It was the kind of gaze you’ve never grown accustomed to, yet were eagerly anticipating. Being valuable, being of use, it added a sense of belonging—as if you were born to be a performer.

(Deep down, you wanted that to be true too.)

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but resounding, filling the room with the weight of his words. “Do you know what you’ve done here?” He stepped closer, the intensity in his eyes burning brighter. “This... this isn’t mere performance. This is art, raw and untamed. Brilliant, utterly brilliant!”

The silence stretched as if the galaxy itself held its breath. Then, his voice dropped to an almost reverent whisper. “You don’t just act—you become. It’s a skill not many possess, your ability is what I’ve been searching the cosmos for! And yet... even perfection is not enough. I need more from you. Do you understand?”

“But director—”

He raised his hand, signaling for you to wait for him to finish.

He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. “But mark my words—you are unlike any I’ve ever seen. You are the center of this world I’m building. It is your time to shine!”

You barely managed a nod, his words heavy with both expectation and strange admiration. Mr. Reca’s intensity was like a force of nature, sweeping everyone in his orbit along with it. He stepped back, his hands already sketching shapes in the air, as though he could see the entire film projected before him.

“More,” he muttered, half to himself. “More than this. This is a star’s performance, yes—but it must be a supernova. I need to see every raw nerve, every flicker of despair, every shred of hope clawing to survive. Anything less is mediocrity.”

His gaze snapped back to you. “And you are not mediocre.”

The words struck you, not for their praise but for their precision. They felt less like a compliment and more like a decree, as though failure wasn’t just unacceptable—it was unthinkable. It came off as a form of pressure, weights beginning to tower on your back as you took a deep breath.

“You ask for so much,” you replied quietly, your voice steady but tinged with frustration. “But what if I can’t give you more? What if I’m already giving you everything I have?”

He paused, visibly caught off-guard by your honesty. His hand, mid-gesture, stilled in the air. Then he laughed, a sound both unexpected and startling, sharp as glass but somehow rich with amusement.

“My star,” he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair, “you misunderstand. It’s not that you lack—it’s that you don’t yet know how much you possess. My job is to pull it out of you, to strip away every inhibition, every doubt, until only brilliance remains.”

(I will break down the wall that is blocking your potential.)

His steps carried him closer, his figure looming as he peered at you with a ferocity that gave you goosebumps. “It’s not perfection I demand from you,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “It’s truth. And truth is messy, painful, glorious. Do you understand now?”

You held his gaze, unwilling to let him intimidate you, and yet there was a flicker of something unfamiliar in your chest. Admiration, yes—but also a strange yearning, a desire to rise to his impossible standards. Not just to meet them but to exceed them, to see that glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes again. It was almost tugging at your heart, desire overcoming your senses. Even if the slightest hint of doubt remained, you’d lift your chin to stare him in the eyes—for it was the only way you’d ever be content with yourself.

“I understand,” you said, your voice firmer now.

“Good.” He straightened, his expression shifting back to his usual manic determination. “Because the next scene must be unforgettable. The audience must feel the weight of your love, your grief, your longing. As if you’ve lived it yourself.”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t asking for a performance anymore; he was asking for something deeply personal, something real.

Incorporate your feelings into your voice; let it be apparent what you’re trying to convey.

Don’t let the audience “guess”, let them “know”.

It was the mantra you played in your head, several minutes before the soles of your shoes collided with the wood on the stage. The straightening of your shoulders, balanced posture, and a prayer that you wouldn’t forget any of your lines. You controlled the pitch of your voice, and the rhythm of the story you were demonstrating to the crowd. It almost seemed as if you weren’t doing a good enough job at that from his critique.

“And how would you suggest I do that?” you asked, folding your arms in apparent offense. “Pluck longing and grief out of thin air? Or perhaps you think I should have lived a dozen lifetimes to understand such emotions.”

His lips curved into a smirk, sharp and knowing. “Perhaps you have.”

The comment caught you off-guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was teasing or if there was some deeper meaning hidden beneath his words. He turned abruptly, his coat swirling around him as he strode toward the edge of the stage with haste.

“Come,” he called over his shoulder, extending a hand towards you. “We’ll rehearse until the stars themselves grow envious. I won’t rest until this is the greatest scene ever captured on film.”

You followed reluctantly, the weight of his expectations pressing down on you. But even as he barked commands and paced relentlessly, there was something in the way he watched you, his gaze softer than before, tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It caused you to allow him to take your hand, sharing the warmth and determination in his slender yet calloused fingers.

The rehearsal dragged into the late hours, the rest of the cast dismissed long ago, leaving only you and Mr. Reca under the harsh glow of the stage lights. He had become quieter as the hours passed, his energy focused entirely on you.

-

Practicing with Reca felt like an endless marathon.

“Again,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, the intensity in his eyes undiminished.

You delivered the line for what seemed like the millionth time, your voice cracking with exhaustion.

“Better,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, softer still, “You’re getting there.”

It was the closest thing to praise he’d given all night, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, it made your chest tighten.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, half-joking but half-serious.

He looked at you sharply, as though the question had offended him, but then his expression shifted. “Stopping is for those who are satisfied,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. “And satisfaction... is for the ordinary.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And what about happiness? Do you think that’s ordinary too?”

The question seemed to catch him by surprise. He leaned back in his chair, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Happiness,” he echoed. “Perhaps. But happiness is fleeting. Creation—true creation—is eternal! Once this is ingrained into your soul, you will find what you truly desire.”

You stepped closer, emboldened by the rare moment of vulnerability. “And yet, for all your talk of eternity, you seem afraid of anything that lasts.”

His gaze snapped to yours, startled, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken. Then, slowly, he smiled—a small, sardonic thing. It annoyed you greatly, but your thoughts remained unspoken. After all, the director’s words were law in the field they were trapped in.

“You have a way of cutting to the case,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

“You make it easy,” you replied, your voice tinged with amusement.

The silence that followed was different this time, less tense and more... intimate. His gaze softened, lingering on you as if trying to unravel a mystery he hadn’t yet solved. You could sense his delight through his eyes, that shined with a lovely brilliance as though the world had revealed its most precious secret.

“You are extraordinary,” he said finally, his tone low and almost reverent. “Even if you don’t realize it yet.”

For the first time, his words didn’t feel like a critique or an expectation. They felt like something else entirely.

-

Seeing you in another lifetime was something he’d never imagined was possible. Your position on set, the props, the lines you were rehearsing, he could view them in his mind as horizontal frames. The world seemed to momentarily glitch, as if the fabric of time itself had slipped, and he was stepping through a scene he was familiarized with. Is this what Deja Vu feels like?

He’s felt as though he’s done this before, standing in front of you like this—asking a question he never thought he’d ask. It was pure, unbridled curiosity—a rush of water that needed a blockage, your answer.

“Why have you decided to become an actor?”

“It wasn’t a choice, really,” you admitted. “It was... instinctual. Like breathing. I suppose it’s where I feel most alive, where I feel like myself. The stage.. feels like my home.”

He nodded slowly, as if turning your words over in his mind. “That’s how I feel about directing,” he said. His gaze drifted upward, past you, as though seeing something far beyond the theater walls. “Just as you were born to be a star, I was born to put your abilities to use—to create a revolutionary film with you as my main character!”

He is meant to control the narrative, yet often—he’d find himself oppressing your influence of turning this into something uniquely yours.

“I feel as though this is something I've told you before,” he spoke, his eyes snapping back to you, locking onto yours with a sudden intensity. “Do you remember anything?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. There was something about his words that struck a chord deep within you. A faint memory stirred—hazy and fleeting, like a dream you couldn’t quite grasp. You drew a blank, leading to your next words that carried a hint of uncertainty.

“No,” you admitted, “I’m pretty sure this is the first time you’ve said this, Director.”

“Then the lack of rehearsals is causing me to misremember, the universe is beckoning for us to get back on stage!”

“I won’t let this masterpiece stagnate while I still have time! Tomorrow, we rehearse Act Three until it sings—or until we all drop from exhaustion!”

You couldn’t help but giggle as he stormed off, already muttering notes to himself about lighting angles and blocking. Despite his eccentricities—or perhaps because of them—he had a way of drawing you in, of making you believe you were part of something monumental.

-

Under the dim glow of the stage lights, the set was transformed into a cavernous, otherworldly temple. The scene was surreal, layered with blues and silvers that shimmered like moonlight on water. Columns twisted upward into the darkness, vanishing into a false infinity. You and Mr. Reca stood at opposite ends of the stage, the energy between you crackling with tension.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice unusually soft, almost hesitant. Something was wrong. He seemed almost fidgety and it was beginning to bother you.

You nodded, unsure why this scene felt heavier than the others. The script was straightforward—a confrontation between a prophet and a wanderer, an exploration of fate and choice. Yet something about it felt... wrong, or perhaps too right, as though it didn’t belong to the film at all but was borrowed from somewhere else.

He stepped forward, his character—the prophet—looming with an unsettling grace. His robe billowed with each step, as if a phantom wind followed him. You remained still, the wanderer, your figure clad in tattered attire, a stark contrast to his grandeur. A contrast in energies paired with it.

When he spoke, it wasn’t Reca’s voice you heard, but something older, deeper, resonating in your very bones. “You’ve come far, traveler. But tell me, what is it you seek?”

You hesitated, your lines faltering on your lips. The stage around you blurred, its edges distorting like ripples in water. The script’s dialogue faded from your memory, and instead, words spilled from you unbidden, as though summoned from a place beyond thought. You could feel your words wavering, a habit Mr. Reca had forbid you several times, but you never remembered his exact words.

“I seek... clarity,” you said, your voice trembling. “A truth that eludes me. Something I feel I’ve lost.”

Reca tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering like twin stars. “Truth,” he echoed, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips. “You ask for the impossible, for truth is fleeting. It is a reflection in shattered glass. And yet, you persist. Why?”

Your hands clenched at your sides, and without thinking, you took a step forward, emboldened by the unfolding scenario. “Because it’s all I have left! A memory I can’t place, a face I can’t name... but I know it’s there. Somewhere. I feel it.”

He froze, his gaze sharpening, and for a heartbeat, it wasn’t the prophet staring at you—it was Mr. Reca. His lips parted slightly, as though he recognized something in your words. But just as quickly, he slipped back into character, his voice cold and unyielding.

The way it should be.

(The way he needed it to be.)

“Memories are not absolutes,” he intoned. “They are fabrications of the mind, stitched together from fragments of dreams and shadows. What you seek is folly.”

“No,” you shot back, your voice rising with raw emotion. “What I seek is mine! And I will tear through the heavens if I must to reclaim it!”

For a moment, he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time. His hands, usually so precise in their gestures, wavered. He remembers you.

Then, breaking the tension, he closed the distance between you with sudden ferocity. He reached out and grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes bore into yours, his next words quiet but resonant.

“Do you remember me?”

(Do you remember this scene?)

The question wasn’t part of the script.

Your gaze was illusive, attempting to recall a line— even trying to conjure one from thin air. The temple around you seemed to ripple and fade, the illusion breaking apart. The stage, the lights, even the props—all felt like a thin veneer over something vast and incomprehensible. Like mesh fabric, it wasn’t difficult to see through—only if you paid close enough attention.

By now, he would’ve uttered your line to you if you’d forgotten—but that wasn’t the case. This was real.

“I...” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

His grip tightened slightly, his gaze desperate now. “Think. Feel. There’s more to this than you understand. I’ve seen this before, lived it before—you’ve lived it before.”

The words struck like a bolt of lightning, leaving you breathless. A flicker of something surged through you—an image, a feeling, a name that hovered just out of reach. What was he talking about?

(Do I remember you?)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, your voice trembling. It was like staring at a wolf who bared his fangs, where an incorrect answer could cost you your life.

He released you, stepping back, his expression unreadable. The prophet’s mask shattered completely, leaving only Mr. Reca—his vulnerability laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. “Then we’ve already lost time,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But perhaps this time, we’ll get it right.”

The moment lingered, heavy and tense. Then he shook his head, clapping his hands sharply. “Again!” he declared, his tone snapping back to its usual commanding presence. “From the top! And this time, don’t hold back.”

A scene fueled by pure, utter desperation.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that the scene was more than a rehearsal. It was a fragment of something deeper—a connection that transcended lifetimes.

-

You didn’t remember him.

It was a devastating blow, one he couldn’t overlook no matter how much he tried. After so many lives together, only his memories remained intact—a cruel imbalance, as if the universe itself delighted in reminding him how fleeting your connection could be. It was like trying to hold water with your bare hands, watching it slip away no matter how tightly you clenched your fists. The offense he felt struck him like lightning, he could already imagine the dark clouds above his head—pouring heavy rains down his coat.

And yet, he clung to you, or rather, to the idea of you. To the fragments of the person you’d been in the countless lives you’d shared. Perhaps it was his curse, to be the only one who remembered, to carry the weight of your shared past while you looked at him with eyes that held no recognition. A cruel twist of fate, where you were always the star and the forgotten shadow trailing behind you.

This life, however, felt like the harshest punishment of them all.

He stood frozen on the street, staring up at the towering billboard where your face was plastered in bold, cinematic glory. You were radiant, even in stillness. The advertisement was for a new film—a blockbuster directed by someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

The sight twisted the knife further. Out of every life you’d lived together, this one just so happened to be his least favorite. You didn’t know him. You didn’t work with him. And, worst of all, you didn’t belong to his world anymore.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he adjusted his grip on the bouquet of flowers in his hand. The bright, delicate petals felt absurd in contrast to the weight in his chest. What use were flowers when you wouldn’t pay any mind to him?

To you, in this life, he was nothing more than a stranger—a nameless admirer who might approach you after a performance with stammered praise for your acting. Not that such an assumption was false, but it was painfully incomplete. Admiration was a drop in the ocean compared to the depth of what he felt.

He wanted to be more than that.

He had been more than that.

He ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair, his fingers trembling as they brushed against his forehead. How many times had he vowed to stop chasing after you in lives like this? To let you go and trust that, somehow, fate would realign your paths? And how many times had he broken that vow the moment he saw your face again, his resolve crumbling to dust under the weight of his longing?

He couldn’t turn back now.

Not when his leather shoes had already trampled the floors of the grand theater, carrying him to the ticket booth just to be the first in line. Not when he had spent hours rehearsing how he might introduce himself to you. God, he was an utter mess—a man reduced to shambles by the memory of a love you couldn’t even recall.

The theater doors loomed before him, an entrance to a world where you shone brightest. He hesitated, clutching the bouquet tighter, the edges of the paper crinkling under his grip. What would he even say? What could he say? Should he even approach you?

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he should leave. But his feet betrayed him, dragging him inside as though the gravity of your presence was impossible to resist even in this life.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for. A spark of recognition? A fragment of the soul-deep connection you used to share? Or perhaps just a moment, however brief, where he could bask in the warmth of your light again.

As he stepped into the theater lobby, the familiar hum of anticipation filled the air. Posters of you adorned the walls, each one a reminder of how far you’d come in this life—how far from him you now stood.

The flowers in his hand suddenly felt heavier. What use were they when he was chasing a ghost of who you’d been? When the version of you he loved existed only in his memory?

And yet, he stayed.

Because no matter how many lifetimes passed, no matter how often the story ended the same way, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping that this time, it might be different. That maybe, just maybe, you’d see him.

Not as a stranger, not as a fan.

But as someone you’d once loved too.

As he embraced the role of the spectator this once, he sat in one of the seats in the front row. Each seat is typically upholstered in rich and comfortable fabric, in a deep hue of crimson. The padding is firm yet inviting, crafted to cradle the audience through long performances.

It was almost as if he were dreaming.

He’s familiar with this scene, but his role was different in this life. He’s used to the praises from the audience for his directory work, glimmering eyes with the most reverent expressions—but this work was not his. You weren’t his.

The seats were filled to the brim, and the film was nothing short of astonishing—though he couldn’t give too much credit. There were too many plot holes that contradicted earlier events, some of the injuries looked feigned, the sounds were recycled one too many times for his liking— he could continue until sunrise if that was what it would take. The only thing that saved this film was you. In his professional opinion, of course.

It wasn’t simply films that laid buried in your inventory, but plays as well. It was an opportunity he wouldn’t miss for the world. The stage was yours, and everyone else belonged in the background—that was how it’s meant to be. As your tears kissed the tiles beneath your feet, the emotion in your voice had risen. What a wonderful sight it was.

The 25th of December, a holiday of caroling and the tearing of gift-wrappings. For him, it was only a day of solemnity.

The sight of you speaking to the other director made his heart ache, a sharp and visceral pang that tightened his chest. There you were, laughing softly at something the other man said, your hands gesturing animatedly as if you were sharing a private moment of camaraderie. He hated how natural it seemed, how effortlessly you connected with someone else in a way that used to belong to him. His fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet he carried, the soft petals brushing against his wrist, as if mocking his hesitation to go through with this.

For a moment, he considered interrupting. He could stride over, extend the bouquet with a flourish, and perhaps even say something witty enough to draw your attention away from the other man. But what would be the point? To you, he was nothing more than a fan, a stranger whose presence was as fleeting as a gust of wind. The thought stung more than he cared to admit.

Ultimately, he decided against it. It wasn’t as if he could cut into your conversation, especially not with the radiant way you were smiling. The last thing he wanted was to tarnish that expression by making things awkward. Instead, he turned toward the hallway leading to your dressing room.

The narrow corridor felt suffocating, the plush carpet muffling his hurried steps as he made his way toward the door with your name displayed elegantly in bold, golden letters. A simple yet personal marker of the star you’d become. The star he assisted you in becoming in so many lives. He cherished those memories greatly.

He hesitated as he reached the door, staring at the handle for a long moment. The bouquet in his hand suddenly felt absurdly extravagant—delicate white lilies interspersed with soft pink roses, wrapped in a sheer ribbon. Would you even appreciate it? Would you know it was from him, or would it join the countless other gifts you received daily from fans and admirers?

Still, he couldn’t leave without doing something. With a sigh, he gently placed the bouquet on the small table outside your dressing room, arranging it just so. He adjusted the ribbon one final time before taking a step back to admire his handiwork. For a fleeting moment, he imagined your reaction upon finding it—your fingers brushing over the petals, your lips curving into a small, puzzled smile as you wondered who had left it.

But even that wasn’t enough to soothe the ache in his chest. He lingered a moment longer, his hand brushing against the edge of the table as though it might tether him there, might convince him to stay. But the sound of distant laughter echoing down the hall reminded him of reality.

With a deep breath, he turned and walked away, his steps brisk but heavy. The bouquet remained behind, a silent confession he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

Little did he know, you caught a glimpse of his face before he turned on his heel.

It was a cycle. He’d leave a beautiful bouquet in your dressing room, striding off with a snarky expression as if he’d just gotten away with a crime, completely undetected. He was aware of your gaze, and the slightest glimmer of hope filled his chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d seek him out.

The sky was beginning to darken, leaving him no choice but to exit the doors of his second home—letting the snowflakes drift onto his skin.

Footsteps.

And they were yours.

“Excuse me!” you called out, rapidly moving towards him before letting out a few pants—hinting at your rushed response to him leaving.

He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat as the sound of your voice cut through the cold evening air. The snowflakes fell in slow, lazy spirals, dusting his coat and hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to move or brush them off. His focus was on you. Come to think of it, when was it not? It almost caused him to chuckle.

His heart, however, betrayed him, hammering wildly in his chest.

You came to a halt a few steps away, clutching the bouquet of flowers he’d left in your dressing room. The sheer ribbon fluttered slightly in the winter breeze, and your cheeks were flushed—not just from the cold, he thought, but from the exertion of chasing after him.

“Are you the one who’s been leaving these?” you asked, holding the bouquet up slightly as if to emphasize your point. Your voice carried a mix of curiosity and something else—was it gratitude?

For a moment, he considered denying it. It would be so easy to shrug, to claim it wasn’t him, and slip away into the snowy night. But as his gaze met yours, he knew he couldn’t lie to you. Not when you’d gone out of your way to find him. Just as he hoped. Maybe this was the chance destiny had brought him to, would you remember him?

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice steady but quiet, the word lingering in the frosty air between you. “It was me.”

You blinked, clearly not expecting the direct confession. “But... why?”

He hesitated, the truth teetering on the edge of his tongue. How could he possibly explain it? That he remembered lives you didn’t, that he’d loved you in ways words could never encompass? Instead, he opted for something simpler, something you might actually understand.

“Do you know what you’ve done here?” He inquired, his voice filled with reverence and glee. “What you’ve conjured is no mere performance. This is art, raw and untamed.”

“These,” he pointed to the flowers that your hands clutched with the smallest amount of strength, enough to keep them from being blown away—yet not enough to dim their beauty. “Are gifts from an admirer of your craft, for you—my star, have cast your glance to even the dimmest areas in the theater!”

“Well,” you said after a beat, a kind smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “thank you. They’re beautiful.”

The silence between you was only filled with the sounds of children’s laughter as they gazed at toy trains through glass windows. This kind of atmosphere suited you, he believed.

“I never got your name,” you added, tilting your head slightly.

He hesitated, knowing that revealing too much could complicate everything. But then again, you’d sought him out—maybe, just maybe, this was a step forward.

“It’s Reca,” he said finally. “Just Reca.”

You gave him an amused look. “No last name?”

“Not one that matters,” he replied with a faint smirk, his usual snark slipping through despite himself.

You laughed softly, the sound like a melody he hadn’t realized he’d been longing to hear. “I think.. I remember you from somewhere, have we met before?”

Genuine surprise filled his features at your question, he almost felt his knees go weak at the realization that you remembered him.

“I believe we have.”

It was the only acceptable answer, every fiber of his being was begging for you to hold onto that recollection.

“I’m surprised I forgot in the first place.”

“Why, am I truly that forgettable? Let me make an impression so great to make sure that isn’t the case, hm?” He suggested, extending his hand—a gesture that you could reciprocate without hesitation.

“Coffee?”

“It’s eleven pm.”

“Please?”

(I’m glad you remembered, don’t ever forget me again.)

taglist 🔔 : @snobwhimsicality @mitsvriii @papiliotao @bladism @tragedy-of-commons @thestarswhisper @meirvelle @somatchajade @gladiolus-nyx @milk-violet

[theonottsbxtch]

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐀 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Zayne

Pairing: Zayne x f!Reader

Summary: The rain ruining his plans might have been the best possible luck.

Warnings: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Oral Sex (f. receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“It’s raining.” You point out, face nearly pressing on the window as you stare outside. It was going to happen sooner or later, the dark clouds had been adorning the sky the entire day, yet the day went dry.

“Raining?” Zayne sounds surprised, as if he hadn’t been staring at the same dark sky a couple of hours earlier. He stands up, walking over to look out the window as if he didn’t trust your word. You swear you hear him sigh when he confirms that it’s indeed raining.

“Is everything okay? Is our date still on?” You look at him, worried about his reaction. He wants to say that the rain will be over in ten minutes and the plans are still on… But it doesn’t look like it’ll stop any time soon. 

“The rain is going to make things more… Difficult.” Zayne answers, not wanting to give up on the date idea just yet. There is no hope though, you can’t go stargazing when it’s storming out. You stare at him, trying to study the look on his face– A task that’s difficult since the man does a great job at suppressing any trace of emotion. “Maybe we have to change a couple of things.”

From now on he will leave the dates to you and only you, because the one time he plans something it’s ruined before it even begins. It’s what he gets for trying to be romantic, there’s a reason you’re the one that usually takes on the role. 

“Like?” You ask, and he isn’t sure how to answer. He already had everything planned out, and he put his all to the specific date so now his brain is empty. The lack of answer makes you chuckle. “So we’re staying in?”

“Unless I get a reservation in time.” Zayne reaches for his phone to look up restaurants nearby, trying to salvage the night but you snatch the device from his hands. He raises his brows, wondering what you have in mind.

“Let’s stay in. We can cook something, play a couple of games… Other stuff.” You respond, and Zayne fights back a smile. It’s great to have someone pick up his slack. “I found this new recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”

“Tell me what you need, and I’m on it.” He says, and you can’t help but smile. He’s willing to do anything when you have his attention. 

“I think we have everything, I just need you to chop up some stuff.” You tell him, and he nods in response. He’s not a great cook since he barely has the time or energy to make his own meals, but at the very least he’s great at chopping up stuff. “You can be my sous chef.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There’s a subtle smile on his lips, and it overflows your heart with joy when you notice it. You wonder why he smiles but it’s never unwelcome. Especially from him.

You kiss his cheek before telling him, “Let’s get to work.”

After nearly burning the house down trying the new recipe, you surprisingly end up with a delicious meal on your table. You’re enjoying your meal, too busy stuffing your face to keep up a proper conversation. You don’t need to talk either way, each other’s presence is enough to satisfy any need for interaction. Though Zayne can’t help but comment,

“Surprisingly it doesn’t taste burnt.” Which makes you roll your eyes. He can’t help but bring it up when you told him a million times that you had it under wraps. 

“I told you I had it handled.” You respond. “Or do you not have faith in me, Dr. Zayne?”

“Dr. Zayne?” He raises a brow, and you hum in response. He lets out a low laugh before answering, “I do have faith in you… But I am allowed to draw some conclusions when I see a flame coming from the pan.”

“That wasn’t a flame.” You argue, and he slightly shakes his head.

“Then why did the fire alarm go off?” He points out, and you puff out a breath. You cross your arms, your appetite gone because your boyfriend won’t allow you to have the last word. He never does, and it might be his only defect. He couldn’t be perfect. 

“Next time I’m leaving the cooking to you then.” You pout. He doesn’t want you to feel bad for the light fire, it could happen to anyone plus you were cooking a new recipe.

“You’re a far better cook than I am.” He responds, hoping that it’ll make you feel better. He’s staring at you, trying to decipher what you feel based on the expression on your face. You only stick out your bottom lip, clearly not happy with what he’s said.

What did he say wrong? He said all the right words, you should be gleaming not… Looking disappointed.

“Only because you don’t have time to pick up the skill, if you did then you would be saying something far much different.” You end up telling him, and he takes a moment to look at your face. He’s not sure how to answer. He ends up by telling the truth,

“Probably.” And the moment the word leaves his lips, he realizes he couldn’t have picked a worse answer. You look absolutely mortified, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“Probably? You’re not supposed to say that.” You say, and he gives you a subtle nod. He’s not supposed to tell you the truth then.

“What am I supposed to say then?” He sounds ever so serious, and one swift look at his face makes you think that he is, indeed, serious. 

“No, I doubt it. You’re the best cook ever, dear.” You end up answering, almost laughing at your own response. You see a twinge of a smirk on his face, and you feel like you’ve accomplished something. He lets himself loose around you, and often laughs at any stupid joke that you make, but it still feels rare when you actually see him smile.

“Alright then, so not the truth. Simple.” He answers, and the smirk that comes to his lips doesn’t fill you with pride like it usually does. You puff out a breath and he says, “Repeat the statement.”

“No.” Your answer is firm, therefore he won’t bug you to do it. He’ll drop the subject. 

You two continue eating, and for once he’s the one that makes most of the conversation. He should apologize, he should’ve chosen better words. 

“If it makes you feel better, the one time I plan a date… It starts to rain.” Zayne hopes that by admitting his own failures, he’ll make you feel better. You can’t help but chuckle.

“That doesn’t mean that you suck, it just means that the weather isn’t on your side.” You reassure him, face turning to look out the window. The rain still falls, much harder than before. “Plus I’m enjoying the date. Well, I was before you–”

“In my defense, I was initially complimenting the dish.” He argues, and you can’t help but laugh. A petty argument from a compliment. Though you’d argue that it was backhanded, Zayne isn’t all that great with words– Unless it’s with him coming up with a witty comeback, or of course, explaining medical terminology.

“How about you start cleaning up while I look for a game we can play?” You change the topic as you finish up your meal. Zayne immediately nods, more than willing to fulfill the task that you’ve assigned. He begins to clear the table, and you stand up to look for the games that are hidden away. Games that you’ve gotten to play with him but you’ve never had the time to actually sit down together and figure out.

You look for something that’ll make the night more fun, and also something that you have yet to play… But you still land on an old game. Something that gets both of you competitive. You end up pulling an old game that you’ve played a dozen times with him. A game that makes you want to break up with him, but when you make up it’s a memorable night.

You set up the table with the game, and wait for Zayne to finish up in the kitchen. You’d offer to help if he was doing any other task, but you aren’t going out of your way to clean up, even if it is to help your amazing boyfriend. Maybe you can take a peek at the cards as you wait for him to come back to the table.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Zayne walks back to the table, grabbing the cards that you definitely didn’t take a quick look at, and shuffling them. “Who’s going first?”

“I am. I don’t trust you while playing kitty cards.” You respond, and he hands out two cards. You frown as you look at them, knowing that you’re starting off on a bad foot. Your assist cards can help you make a comeback, so you’re only praying you get lucky with that.

“I should be the one saying that, I saw you look at the cards.” He lets out a low laugh as he gives himself three cards. He takes a seat across from you before commenting, “Given by the look on your face, you didn’t get all that lucky.”

“I’m going to win. Mark my words.”

Though you’re as competitive as you can be, luck simply isn’t on your side. Zayne doesn’t help your case, using every card that he has, against your favor. You glare at him with every move he takes, and he smirks, proud of his every move.

“Can you leave me alone? I barely have any points, there’s no point for you to null my card.” You complain, and Zayne shakes his head. 

“I have to take every possible precaution.” He answers, putting down a card that takes away your turn– And if that isn’t horrible enough, he takes away one of the kitty cards that you’ve put down. “Last time you won, I heard about it for weeks.”

“Last time I lost, you also heard about it for weeks. Matter of fact, we almost broke up.” You point out, and you watch as the corner of his lips turn. He’s trying his best to fight back a smile, and you have to roll your eyes. “And if you keep up with your act, we might actually break up.”

“It’s just a game of kitty cards.” Zayne says, which makes you glare at him. You cross your arms, a scoff leaving your lips. Just a game of kitty cards? The game becomes a very serious matter when you’re as competitive as you are.

“If you don’t take it seriously, then you should let me win.” You claim, and Zayne knows that unless he stops playing, your date will completely go sour. He just fixed matters after his unnecessary comment, he can’t let himself nearly ruin the date once again. He could try to let you win, but at this point there’s no way you can make a comeback. Plus, it’s not satisfactory for him.

“How about we stop.” He suggests, and you know you can’t win.

“Fine.” You answer, a hint of attitude in your voice just so he notes that you’re not happy with him.  

“What were we going to do today?” You ask him, beginning to clear the table. The sight of the unfair game is keeping you mad, so it’s best to clean up. Zayne joins you.

“Stargazing.” He responds, which perks up your eyebrows. Where exactly? “It’s a place not too far from here that gives a perfect view of the city, and I thought it’d be a nice date. I bought a couple of snacks to have a late picnic, but the universe isn’t on my side.”

“That is such a cute date!” You comment, eyes looking out the window to see that the rain has calmed down. “We can still do it.”

Zayne looks in the same direction. It’s not what he pictured, but it’s not a bad idea.

“Just for a minute.” He grabs your hand, fingers intertwining with yours before he guides you outside. Your anger is long forgotten when you feel his large hand lightly squeezing your own. There’s still some light rain when you exit the place, but you aren’t staying outside for too long so it’s not an issue.

“Look, there’s a full moon.” You immediately point to the sky. The clouds had been hiding the moon all night, and now you finally get a chance to glance at it. “Just look at it, it’s so beautiful.”

“It really is beautiful.” He answers, though his eyes aren’t looking at the moon. His thumb traces lazy circles on the back of your hand, as he finally looks up at the sky. Stargazing is a dumb date if you aren’t going to the countryside. In a way, he’s glad his plans were ruined. 

You look back at Zayne, a foolish smile coming to your lips. Stargazing would’ve been nice, even if you don’t get a great sight, laying next to him for a whole night is the type of date that you need. You don’t even need to talk, each other’s presence is more than enough for you to be satisfied.

“Why are you smiling?” He finally looks back at you. It’s not a complaint, he’s overjoyed to find you smiling. He just wonders what’s going on in your mind. Two fingers come up to his face, brushing away the hair that’s on his forehead before you get on your tip-toes to press a kiss on it.

“You are so cute.” You tell him, and he chuckles. Out of all words that you could’ve picked, cute is the one that he least expected.

“Cute?” He responds, and you hum in response. Nevertheless, it’s a compliment so he’ll accept it. He smiles back at you, gaze getting lost into your eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen, maybe that’s the reason he’s so desperately in love with you. “Cute. I’ll take it.”

“Let’s go inside before you get sick.” There’s a mischievous smile on your lips as you say the words. He’s the one that usually says the phrase, but the tables have turned. Zayne lets go of your hand, hands falling on your waist before pulling you closer.

“Let’s enjoy the moment a little longer, I don’t mind getting sick.” His nose brushes against yours, his eyes looking into yours ever so lovingly. His supple lips land on yours, pulling away within seconds. “It’s barely even raining.”

“Just a minute then.” You tell him, and he nods in response. However, Zayne doesn’t care to look at the sky. Apart from the full moon, there’s nothing that’s worth noting.

He loves the feeling of the rain on his skin, every droplet is a subtle reminder that this is real. He’s living in the moment. What’s happening right now is not a fragment of his imagination. The way you look at him, the way you laugh, the way your hands wrap behind his neck– It’s all real.

“Okay, we should go now. I don’t want you to get sick… And I also don’t want to get sick.” You say, and he smiles. He lets go of you, allowing you to go inside without an issue. You’re not going inside without him though. You grab Zayne’s hand and drag him inside, knowing that if he gets sick, you’ll end up getting sick as well.

“I’m going to get changed.” You tell him, and he mindlessly follows. He’s seen you naked many times, there’s no need to be shy… Except he is the one that gets shy at the mere thought of seeing you naked. He’s already flustered at the idea of you getting changed; but he still follows.

“What do you want to do now? Watch a movie?” You ask him, getting to the room. There’s a sudden increase in temperature– Or is it just Zayne? Why does he feel hot?

“A movie… Sounds fun.” He swallows thickly, watching as you begin to lift up your shirt. His cheeks turn pink at the sight of some skin, but you never take off your shirt. You notice he’s staring, and you fight back on smirking. 

“Do you have something else in mind?” You watch him step towards you, ever so slowly. He’s hesitating. Should he? He doesn’t want to turn the sweet night into something… More. But he does.

He wants to feel every inch of you, and frankly, the shirt that you have on outlines everything which doesn’t really help. Maybe he’s a pervert for the thoughts that creep into his head, but it’s hard to think differently when you look like this right before him.

Before you know it, Zayne’s lips land on yours, tongue exploring your mouth before it finds your own. His tongue presses against yours while his hands desperately try to take off the damp clothes that cover your body. Very skilled hands struggle, nerves overtaking him at the thought of feeling your body. An action he’s done many times before, but he turns into putty each and every time.

You’re not as nervous though, hands going to his belt and unbuckling it without an issue. Your hands go into his boxers, feeling him up which makes the man pathetically whimper into your kiss. He can come undone from a single move. And even when your hands are wrapped around his cock, he’s too nervous to touch under your shirt.  

You pull away, a string of saliva connecting your lips until you pull far enough that the bond breaks. You take off your shirt, and Zayne is watching you as if he were a teenager all over again. Cheeks burn red at the sight of some skin, it’s truly pathetic. It’s not just some skin though, you’re getting completely undressed in front of him.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He’s dumbfounded, it’s as if he’s never seen this before. This is nothing new to him, but it always feels like the first time… That’s a good thing, right? 

His lips land on yours again, though he takes more risks this time as his hand fondles your breast. His lips don’t last long on your mouth, choosing to kiss down your neck, before his lips land on your breasts. His lips kiss every inch of your skin before his tongue circles around your nipple. 

It’s nice, but you need more. Your body is begging to feel every inch of him. Luckily for you, it’s as if Zayne can read your mind.

“I need to taste more of you. Please.” There’s desperation behind his eyes, it’s as if he needs it. You get on the bed for him, legs spreading without a shame in the world.He stares down at you and he licks his lips. Maybe this is how he should’ve led the date in the first place.

“You’re so gorgeous.” He says as he gets on his knees. He kisses your inner thigh, working his way up. So gentle and shy, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. Doing things slowly is what makes this more exciting.

“Smells so sweet.” He finally gets to your pussy, the tip of his nose pressing against your clit before he kisses it. His lips feel so soft on you. He kisses your clit again before his tongue begins to flick it. Tastes even better than he remembered. 

Sweeter than he could ever imagine.

Low moans escape your lips as you feel his tongue work on you. The sound of your voice is perfect, all the motivation he needs to do this. It’s his reward for the night, and he couldn’t be happier. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. 

He kisses your clit, two long fingers running through your folds to gather your slick. Once his fingers are lubricated enough, he slowly pushes them in. He begins to suck on your clit and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You moan his name, pleasure already consuming you.

He curves his fingers so they hit just the right spot. You bite down your lip, feeling embarrassed at the thought of being too loud. He’s looking up at you, and the look on your face is something he wants to have ingrained in his memory.

His fingers pick up speed, and your hands grip the bed sheets. Pleasure consumes you, your climax slowly overtaking your body. You’re moaning his name again, unable to contain yourself as sex clouds your mind. 

“That’s it, baby! That’s so good.” You can’t help yourself as your boyfriend hits all the right spots. It’s music to his ears. Even when he’s been congratulated for his many achievements, this is the best thing he’s ever heard.

Your breath gets caught up in your chest, your body quivering as you finally reach your climax. Zayne pulls out his fingers, tongue continuing to lap at your cunt until he’s finally satisfied. He presses a kiss on your clit when he’s finished.

“I need you, baby. Please.” You say, and Zayne can’t afford to waste another moment. It hurts to even think with the uncomfortable feeling that’s in his pants. He walks to the nightstand to get the bottle of lube before giving all his attention to you. He gets undressed before getting on top of you.

“Are you sure you want this?” Zayne asks as he pours the lube all over his dick. Maybe he should consider some sort of protection, but he needs to fully feel you. He needs to feel every inch of your body. 

“I need you, please. Give it to me.” Your voice is enough to drive him wild. He runs the tip of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing himself into you. He bites his lip, not wanting the pathetic noise that leaves his throat to be audible. You feel so nice and warm around his cock, so fucking perfect in every single way.

“It’s so good.” He mutters, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as he feels you around him. He bottoms out, stopping to give you time to adjust. 

“Move.” You tell him, and Zayne begins to move with slow thrusts. His eyes focus on your face, watching as it contorts with pleasure. It’s hard for him to not get nervous when you look like this, so fucking perfect. 

“You’re so tight.” He says, hands gripping the bed sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, hands going to the back of your neck to push him down. Your lips meet his in a messy but passionate kiss.

You drive him insane.

“You’re doing so good, baby.” You praise him, and you hear a groan come from his throat. His thrusts pick up speed, slowly losing himself inside of you. All composure comes undone when it comes to you.

He watches your hand move down your torso, and before you can even finish your thought, his hand takes over. His fingers play with your clit, doing everything just right. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, moaning his name over and over again.

“Fuck.” He curses, a word that rarely leaves his lips. But what else can he say when you’re squeezing around him? He shuts his eyes, too overwhelmed by everything that goes on. Your hands go to his back, nails digging into his soft flesh which makes him moan– The slight pain heightens the pleasure.

“Zayne, I’m gonna–” You begin, pleasure overtaking your body as another climax approaches. Zayne hits all the right spots, he simply knows your body too well. 

“I know, dear. I know.” He’s out of breath. He’s close too. It’s just too much for him to handle. But you’re one step ahead of him. Your nails drag along the skin of his back as pleasure gets the best of you. You see white, finally reaching your high. 

“Good job.” He praises you, knowing that he’s not going to last much. You’re just too much for him, which in the context, is a wonderful thing. His thrusts get sloppy, getting more vocal by the second.

“Can I finish inside?” He asks, and you frantically nod your head, not even having the words to say yes. You pull him into a kiss, and he groans into it as he releases his warm cum into you. A dragged out sigh leaves his lips when he pulls away from the kiss. 

He stays buried inside of you, not wanting to leave your warmth just yet. He stares into your eyes for a bit, getting lost in them once again. There’s a certain spark in them, one that he’s noticed only appears when you look at him. The same spark that appears in his eyes.

“Can we cuddle?” You ask him as he pulls out of you. He lays down beside you, turning his head to look at your sweaty face.

“Clean up first.” He says, though you don’t listen and nuzzle up next to him. He rolls his eyes, but he still wraps his arms around you. “I admit, this is much better than stargazing.”

“We could’ve done that there too.” You respond without missing a beat, and his face gets completely red. He definitely wasn’t imagining that. He supposes that you could’ve, but it wouldn’t be as special– It would be even more special, it just would be indecent.

“I like it better here.” He tells you, pressing a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s warm, and there’s no bugs around.”

“You’re right.” You chuckle. “Could you imagine if a mosquito bit you–”

“How about I run you a bath?” Zayne cuts you off, knowing that the question that’s about to leave your lips is absurd. He doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Will you join me?” You question, getting off him. He takes a moment to look at you before nodding in response. 

A bath sounds nice.

[slttygeto]

SLOWLY LOVING YOU — SUGURU GETO.

જ⁀➴ synopsis: Before Yaga introduces you to the third years, Suguru is a little unsure of you joining them. And then he meets you, and suddenly his heart doesn’t know how to slow down.

જ⁀➴ content warning: fem!reader, reader gets a few cuts and faints, swearing and a lot of fluff.

જ⁀➴ word count: 4,2k

જ⁀➴ note: thank you to the sweet @duhsies for commissioning me! I had so much fun writing it<3!!

“Yaga says there’s a newcomer,” Satoru had a habit of speaking with a mouthful, which Suguru really hated. A hand is smacking the back of the white haired’s head who hisses at the contact before glaring at his best friend.

“Hey!” He protests, his sunglasses resting at the tip of his nose.

“Swallow your food.” Suguru presses, taking a sip from his drink. He had heard long ago from Yaga about this newcomer, and wasn’t really sure how to feel about it. It’s not that he wasn’t good with new people (he wasn’t), but he felt like it was a little odd to transfer someone and have them be with him, Shoko and Gojo right away. They had to have a good cursed technique, a great control of their cursed energy, otherwise they’d just get in the way of everything and—ouf, this was too negative.

Who was he to judge? Sure, a part of him was skeptical, but he was trying to awaken the other side that usually reassures him that everything will turn out just fine.

“I wonder if it’s guy or a girl,” Satoru speaks again, and this time (surprisingly) he swallows his food before opening his mouth. Suguru shrugs at his best friend, grabbing a fry from his tray of food.

“It won’t really change much, I just hope they’re good at what they do,”

“Oh Suguruuu,” Gojo whines at his friend’s negativity, pushing him but not too hard. “Don’t be such a kill joy, I’m pretty sure that they’re good. Otherwise, Yaga wouldn’t look so excited.”

“Why are you the one telling me to be nice?” The black haired male raises an eyebrow, carefully picking out a fry that didn’t have ketchup on it.

“You rubbed off on me,” Satoru wiggles his eyebrows to which Suguru rolls his eyes at.

“Don’t.” Suguru presses, but it’s too late to stop his friend’s funny joke.

“That’s a little fruity—“

“Finish your food.”

When they head back to the school grounds after having lunch, they’re pleasantly surprised when they find Yaga, Shoko and an unknown girl standing near one of the school buildings. From the looks of it, you weren’t that nervous. Sure, you were checking out your surroundings as the school was new, but nothing about your demeanor suggested that you were anxious. Not even a little.

Suguru raises his eyebrows at this, and although he tries not to stare too hard at you, Gojo is quick to notice it and nudges him with an elbow.

“Hey, think that’s the new girl?”

“I mean, it looks like it,” Suguru mumbles a response and stops walking when Yaga starts to approach them.

“You finally decided to show up,” Oh, an ass-whooping is on the way.

“The mission took us way too long,” it’s Satoru who tries his luck as his usual, and the grin on his face draws a similar one on Suguru’s lips.

“Yeah, but we managed to get it done with. That’s all what matters,” if it wasn’t for Satoru’s love to piss off their teacher, Suguru is sure that he wouldn’t bother. But it’s fun, and it gives the students something to laugh about.

You watch the scene unfold before you and you raise your eyebrows at how easy going the pair standing in front of you was. Did they not fear Yaga? You had been introduced to the man a couple of weeks ago before you were transferred to the school, and despite the comforting vibe the man had, you still felt like you owed him some sort of respect.

Something the two guys bickering with their teacher seemed to lack. Or maybe it was just an act.

Yaga gives the two guys a comical smack to the back of their heads and you hear Shoko snicker next to you. You fight back a smile of your own, until you feel Shoko pat your back, almost in reassurance.

“You can laugh, they won’t be offended.” You relax at this, and before you could even say anything in response, Yaga is clearing his throat to get your attention.

“You can introduce yourself,” oh, he’s talking to me. You’re suddenly aware of the three pairs of eyes fixated on you, and you fidget nervously.

“Hello, my name is (name) and I’m—“

“That’s boring!” The white haired male cuts you off, and your eye twitches. Well, that’s offensive. Before you could even glare at him, he’s approaching you while taking off his sunglasses and your heart stills at the sight. Those eyes felt like they were staring into your soul.

“Show us your technique, that’s a much more interesting way to introduce yourself,” your body relaxes at this, and you can see Yaga signaling you to go along with what your classmate was saying.

“Oh, okay then,”

Suguru’s eyes are cat-like as they fixate on you. You get in position to show off your technique and suddenly, everything goes quiet. He could feel the energy shift when you stepped away from them, and so he was anticipating a big show. Perhaps, you were a show-off like Gojo.

Suddenly, the air feels a little different—why is it wet? He touches his skin to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, and before he could even process things, fog had engulfed him entirely. This was new.

You were nowhere to be seen, maybe that was your technique—a little weak, Suguru thought. But it felt like you read his mind because right in front of him was standing a carbon copy of himself. A clone.

“What the—“ The clone stands still as Suguru gets into a fighting position, ready to unleash a weak curse at it, but the clone is quick to do the same and releases a different curse—the clone knew about his technique?

Before things could escalate further, he heard a snap of fingers from behind him and his eyes widen when the fog and the clone both disappear at once. You were standing right behind him. Being so focused on the fact that what was standing in front of Suguru was a literal doppelganger, he failed to notice you sneak up behind him. He assumed that you snapping your fingers was to deactivate your technique, but it was also a realization that you made him so unaware of his surroundings—and that was the beauty of your technique.

Everyone looks amused by Suguru’s confused expression. He was staring you right in the eye, and your confidence and the relaxed expression painting your face would normally sned shivers down anyone’s spine. It was awkwardly silent for a few moments before Gojo decides to break the silence.

“That was rather impressive, wasn’t it?” Shoko agrees with her classmate, clapping almost ceremoniously. Yaga steps away from the two to approach you and Suguru who was still staring at you, this time with less resentfulness. Sure, he hated having someone sneak up behind him. And the fact that you had chosen him out of the three felt a little strange, but he tried not to overthink it.

Maybe it’s because I looked like a bitch.

He immediately brushes off the thought when you flash him an unapologetic smile, the confidence you gave off a few moments ago replaced with something he couldn’t quite decipher—were you getting shy?

His lips part almost in shock at the way your cheeks are slightly pink, and you take two steps back and away from him before apologizing out loud.

“Sorry, I just thought you looked a little bored.”

Oh, not anymore.

“That to you, is a Grade 1 sorcerer.” Yaga announces very proudly. Usually, Grade S sorcerers would be the one to be introduced like this—with so much pleasure and honor. But Yaga didn’t care about that. He saw potential in you and embraced it like you were his top student.

Geto couldn’t shake off the giddy feeling in his chest. He watched as Satoru came over to your side and ruffles your hair, promising that you were going to have a good time at school because he was there. And you played along, the playful expression you wore on your face not matching the blush on your cheeks—you were just easily flustered having this much attention on you.

“What do you say, Suguru?” He snaps out of his thoughts at the mention of his name, and he finds his best friend staring at him with those eyes. He caught him looking at you, didn’t he?

“Sorry, I zoned out.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but he wasn’t going to say that you seemed so interesting that he found himself so lost in his thoughts. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like how you seemed so unaware of the fact that you were breaking down his walls one by one, and all of this happening in less than an hour of meeting you? Unbelievable.

“I said, we are all gonna get along so well, right?” Glancing at you, he notices how you seem to shift your attention back to him the moment his name is mentioned. You’re almost eager to find out what he has to say next, sparkly eyes and a tight lipped smile making you look so fucking adorable—oh fuck, no.

“Yeah, we will.”

He was officially and totally fucked.

--

It’s been a few months since you officially transferred to Jujutsu high, and things were going great. You felt like you fit in so perfectly, you were a bit nervous that you would be a burden since the trio seemed to have a dynamic of their own, being the one to ruin the dynamic—or worse, feel left out would just be the highlight of your school year. But they were so nice. Each in their own way.

While Gojo felt like a troublesome sibling with his many pranks and jokes, Shoko truly felt like a close friend. You could crack jokes with her, share food and even watch movies during the weekend. The friendship you shared with both seemed very genuine and you were so grateful for that.

And then there was Geto.

Suguru Geto, tall and handsome, with long dark luscious hair and cat-like eyes. A smile that seemed precious since it appeared way less than you would want. A voice that felt like he was purring in your ear and a personality that had your heart stuttering in your chest.

He had caught your eye the moment you saw him walk on the school grounds. You tried not to make your tiny crush on the man obvious right away, but it felt like you blew your cover when you chose him as your target when asked to show off your technique.

Things weren’t exactly bad between you and the tall male, but they weren’t that good either. There an awkwardness that always lingered when you were both left alone, your heart would beat so fast and so incessantly when you felt his eyes on you before he places a piece of his chocolate on your desk.

“Was gonna share it with Satoru, but he pissed me off today.” You’re almost shocked that he’s even addressing you when neither Shoko nor Satoru were in the classroom.

“Are you sure? He does like sweets,” you still grab the sweet treat and place it in your mouth, to which he chuckles at.

“Well, you ate it immediately. Seems like you don’t care.”

“Well, he did piss me off too today,” you’re grinning, playing with the wrap of the chocolate. Suguru raises his eyebrows at your remark and continues to tease you.

“Was it another joke about how bad his clone was? I mean he’s not entirely wrong—“

“Stooop,” you groan out, resting your head on your desk in defeat. You were too embarrassed about the recent incident, and no one seemed to want to let go of it.

Rather than being embarrassed that his clone was that ugly, Gojo’s sudden and quick realization that your clones had an immediate link to your photographic memory lit up a bulb at the top of his head. And so the teasing began.

How come Suguru’s was so accurate on day one!

Do you have something to share with the class?

It was horrible, and you remember how Yaga had to smack the white haired male in the back of his head to get him to stop. He caught onto your little crush on Suguru faster than you had anticipated, but you were glad that when asked what he was teasing you about, Satoru chose to save you the embarrassment and just say that his clone was so ugly, you needed more practice.

“I just need more practice,” you say, a little muffled from having your face in your arm. Suguru stares at you for a few moments from his seat, then he suddenly gets up and walks towards you. He crouches down in front of your desk and you quickly raise your head in question.

“Hm?”

“You don’t hate me, right?” He could’ve asked that question from his desk, he knows that. But it would’ve seemed a little cowardly cause he knows he would avoid looking you in the eyes. But eye contact was important when communicating things, and right now was one of the few moments where Suguru felt like he was going to pee his pants waiting for an answer.

“Hate you?”

“I’m aware that hate is a big word—it’s a strong feeling too, but I just need to know if you feel that way about me.” Suguru was supposed to feel stupid, maybe a little insane for asking you something like this. But he noticed how things always got quiet when it was just you two alone. It didn’t necessarily mean you hated him, but a part of him wanted to make sure you didn’t resent him for mysterious reasons.

“I don’t hate you,” you pause your words, and Suguru watches as your face slightly reddens as you avoid his eyes. “Uh, just nervous.”

Now, why did I say that? It’s one thing to know that he makes you feel this way, but it’s another when you fully admit it to him and watch as he raises both of his eyebrows, almost in shock.

“Nervous?” At first, he’s scared that the word has a bitter taste to it—but it slowly dissipates when he sees the blush on your face darken because why did he have to say it like that.

It sounded like he was saying it for the first time, carefully tasting each letter and syllable. You felt nervous around Suguru.

“You are kind of intimidating,” the small smile painting your lips eases Suguru’s nerves despite having another word describe him. But he’s heard this one before. In fact, he likes it. He likes the way it makes him feel, the ego boost it gives him when he sees people quiver in his presence.

But he didn’t want to have this kind of effect on you. You didn’t need to fear him or avoid his eyes for him to know that he was a powerful sorcerer—he wanted you to feel safe with him. He wanted to rid you of any problem weighing you down, have that smile on your lips for a long time. Whatever Suguru felt for you, he was coming to terms with it and accepting it.

Slowly that is.

“If I’m intimidating, then is Yaga like a monster to you?” Suguru teases you back, and he stands up from his crouching position. He stares down at you with a grin, his sharp eyes making eye contact with your own bright ones. A contrast like this looked so endearing.

“Yes.” You don’t hesitate as you reply, and Geto immediately bursts into laughter at this.

“Wow, you didn’t even hesitate.” Wow, I made him laugh.

“But he is scary! I mean, he’s very nice… but I don’t think I’d wanna piss him off like Gojo does,” you mumble the last part, but Suguru hears you loud and clear.

“Satoru pisses off everyone, so you’re safe.”

Having a conversation like this with Geto felt nice. It wasn’t that often that you two chatted or even had the time to sit down and give each other normal classmate updates. So to be able to talk to him like this, make him laugh until his stomach hurts before walking to your dorms felt new. But you weren’t complaining.  

--

Over the last few months, you’ve gone on a couple of missions with both Suguru and Satoru. They were all successful, and you always got done with them in half of the time.

But today was different. You were going on a mission with Suguru.

Yaga mentioned how you both seemed to work really well together, and while Suguru might’ve been stronger than you, you had so much potential that couldn’t get wasted. Suguru seemed like the perfect fit for a partner and a sort of mentor.

The mission was going to take place in another city, which is why you find yourself on the train with the tall male who was trying to get some sleep.

Sitting across from each other, you couldn’t help but steal a few glances at the guy. He looked too good from this angle, you could feel your body tingling in embarrassment.

The guy’s just trying to sleep

Over the last few months, no matter how hard you tried to brush your feelings for Suguru, they resurfaced not only a day later when he did something that would make your heart stutter in your chest. You remember him making you food when you were sick, giving you his scarf when you got too cold, suggesting to style your hair for you—how could you not fall for him?

But you were terrified of rejection. You were scared that those feelings could potentially ruin the friendship between you two, and God knows how horrible that would make you feel.

“We’re there,” you were so lost in your thought, that you didn’t feel the train stop. Only Suguru’s hand on your shoulder was able to snap you out of it.

“Oh sorry,” you stand up and make your way out of the train with Suguru following close behind.

“Did you manage to get some sleep?” He asks from behind you, and you slow down your pace to match his footsteps before shaking your head.

“Not really, I wasn’t that tired.”

“Oh but you will be after the mission, that’s always how it is.” He was referring to the many times you and Gojo would end up falling asleep on each other on the way back home, and he would secretly take pictures of the white haired male drooling on your hair to show it to you when you both wake up.

“Thank god he’s not here to drool on my hair,” you say with a hint of annoyance, but it’s harmless.

“Oh, you never know,” the playfulness to his voice makes you roll your eyes, but the smile on your face gives away that you were anything but annoyed.

You arrive to said location after ten minutes of walking. And at first sight, it seemed like any normal abandoned building; a little creepy, no color painting its exterior and most importantly lifeless. But the smell—god, the gut wrenching smell that came from it made you cringe.

“God, it smells horrible.”

“Then we’re at the right place.” Suguru is the first one to walk in, and you follow close after. You take careful steps, eyes darting around the area to scan it for any clues.

“I have a horrible feeling about this,” you mumble to yourself. You knew you were sent to this place to find the source of its gloominess, but the farther you walked down the hallway, the tighter your stomach got.

“It was an orphanage.” Your heart sinks at the revelation, watching the old toys scattered on the floor, filled with dirt and dust. You could only imagine what happened to the kids.

The room is silent for a few moments before both of you and Suguru stand still. Almost on guard.

“Do you feel it?”

“Yeah, I do.” Whatever took over this place was huge. It didn’t necessarily feel like a strong or dangerous curse, but the way it was staring at you from down the hall had you standing in a fighting position.

Before you could even process the fact that you were dealing with that big curse, it charges at you—and fast.

It’s too fast for its size!

Mist engulfs the creature almost immediately, it would only serve as a distraction for a little bit before it would rage even more and decide to charge at you.

“Go hide, I’ll take care of it.” You watch as Suguru calls in two of his powerful curses, both enough to do the job. But you don’t want that.

You don’t want him to do the job on his own, or worse hide while he does everything. It wasn’t why you became a sorcerer, why you chose to even join the school. And so you stood still, grabbing one of the daggers attached to your thigh. You ignore Suguru’s cries telling you to step away from the huge curse.

“You’re gonna get killed if you don’t move!”

“Shut up!” The mist slowly morphs into something else—something Suguru has never seen you done before. It shapes itself into a beautiful scenery, one where flowers are blooming and the sun is shining and—he was hallucinating.

And so was the curse. The technique might’ve not been the most powerful, but it still managed to blind the curse for a few moments. You fill your sharp dagger with cursed energy before slicing it open in one swift motion. It’s messy and sloppy, and blood covers your clothes and the floor like a paint. You stand still and stare in awe at what you’ve just done.

I killed a huge curse on my own!

What you fail to see is the multiple cuts on your body, and how all color leaves your face as exhaustion washes over you. Shit, you were passing out.

The last thing you remember hearing is Suguru calling your name before everything goes silent.

--

Suguru is a mess. That was the only word that could accurately describe the state of the poor guy as he paced back and forth in front of your dorm room. No matter how much Gojo tried to convince him that you were okay, he refused to budge.

He was mad at you. You were so reckless back there, refused to listen to him when he asked you to move—he was filled with all kinds of emotions.

And so when Yaga finally gives him the green light to visit you, the first thing he does is scold you.

You’re sitting up in your bed with bandages wrapped around your body, and you look so tired. But despite all of that, you still manage to flash him a warm smile when he walks inside your room and closes the door behind him.

“Yaga told me I was passed out for two days, I hope I didn’t worry you—“

“What you did was reckless.” Suguru cuts you off, voice sharp and cold that you flinch. Your eyes stare at your lap, avoiding his because he was right. You were reckless, refused to listen to him and powered up your technique faster than your body could handle.

“I know,” you don’t apologize. A part of you wants to, but you were still going to stand your ground if he tried to guilt trip you about the situation.

“And I was very mad,”

“I know.”

It’s silent for a few moments, and Suguru takes in how despite the tears blurring your vision, you refuse to give in and apologize about anything.

“But that’s only because you scared me to death,” he hears you sniffle, and he sees you blink away the tears before staring at him in shock. Suguru takes a few steps towards you, and for a moment you see the hesitation in his action. He quickly brushes it off as he gently rests his hand on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You have no idea how terrifying that was.” Your heart starts racing at his words, and his touch left a tingling feeling behind when he pulled away to pat your head.

“I don’t want you to do that again, but I gotta admit,” he ruffles your hair, the scowl on his face morphing into a soft expression.

“That was really cool,” your smile is on your lips almost immediately at his words, and you take your hand and wrap it around his wrist. You pull his hand down and place it again on your face, a bold move that has the both of you slightly blushing.

“You think I’m cool?” your voice sounds sweet when you ask the question, and Suguru thinks he’s never heard you sound like this before but he nods anyway.

“The coolest.”

Neither of you move or say a thing after this, but the prolonged eye contact had the tall male leaning down a bit hesitantly at first, making sure you were okay with it. So when you pull him closer and place your lips on top of his, Suguru is convinced that it was the right thing to do.

The kiss is short and sweet. You pull away after a few seconds and the blush on your cheeks spreads across your entire face when he leans in to give you another kiss. Then another and another.

“Sugu—“

“Shhh, you look cute when you’re flustered.”

2023 © all works belong to slttygeto. do not repost my work anywhere else.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Be Mine [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: A morning meeting has an unexpected twist. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Language. Smutty. Avenger!Loki x Female Reader. Questionable flirting techniques. (w/c 2.8k)

The muscle at the side of Loki’s jaw flexed. He swallowed; an achingly glacial bob of his Adam’s apple making you want to claw your eyes out.

For some inexplicable reason he had opted to wear full leathers to today’s briefing.

It was seven nineteen in the AM. Thor was sporting a muscle vest boasting not one but three stains of varying complexity and a pair of shorts which left little to the imagination. Scott was wearing his dressing gown.

The rest of the team hung off chairs and flopped on the table in various states of undress. Steve stood at the head of the room as usual; prim and fresh in a crisp button-down and perfectly creased chinos.

“So what we’re seeing here,” Steve said, turning to the group from the Powerpoint, “is an up-tick in biological experiments-”

His eyes narrowed while they roamed over the doodling, distracted and hungover band sprawled around the table. “Lang.” he snapped. “Close your legs; there are ladies present.’

Scott shuffled up his seat, drawing the dressing gown down over his knees while mumbling apologies. A low rumble of mirth circled the room, but Loki’s gaze never left the Captain’s.

The curve of his dark lashes swept upward, features set in performative rapture. Loki's facial expression hadn’t changed as the scene unfolded, but for a miniscule twitch of his lip. Usually the two of you would exchange a few eye rolls; a few knowing smiles during a particularly turgid monologue about shoe storage post-mission...but not today. Today he hadn't even looked at you.

Steve sighed. He extended a finger and pushed his retractable pointer down to a stub. Pacing to the table, he dropped his head, laying his palms flat. When he looked up, disappointed-dad energy was thick in his eyes. “Folks, this just won’t do.” he said.

Natasha’s sunglasses slid down her nose. Scott crossed his legs making the swivel chair knock into Wilson and waking him up. The Falcon’s arms flew wide on instinct, whacking Tony in the chest. “Jesus Christmas-” Tony snorted, blinking wildly. “It was a party.” Natasha drawled, pushing the sunglasses back in place with disdain. “Maybe if you’d stayed after the cake you’d have those tight panties of yours in less of a spick, Rogers.”

“That’s Captain Rogers.” he snapped. “We’re on the clock.” “Calm down, Rogers.” Tony said, cresting his fingers. He was remarkably chipper for a man with whipped cream crusted in his hairline. “You’re all sitting on my clock. Remember that.”

Steve flushed scarlet. His eyes narrowed as Tony’s smirk grew.

“All I’m saying is it’s a sorry day when Laufeyson is the star pupil. Look at him!” Steve said, gesturing incredulously at Loki who remained in position; back straight, chin up. But now, one eyebrow arched. “All of you lot in your skivvies and Laufeyson’s in full dress?” Steve shook his head. “I fail to see the humour, Rogers.” Loki said. “Why is it so surprising that I come to our daily summons dressed thus? Certainly I have never presented myself in a tragic towelling monstrosity like Lang here.” “There was that one time with the silk nightie.” Sam whispered to Scott. Scott covered his mouth.

“A silk robe.” Loki snapped.

“Usually you only bring out the Asgardian shit when you’re brown-nosing. Or when you’ve done something shifty.” Natasha said, propping her chin up with a fist. You bet her eyes are closed. Wanda nodded behind her Starbucks.

“Or trying to impress someone,” the witch said. Natasha waved a finger in agreement. “Sexually.” Wanda added.

Loki released a scandalised snort. “How dare you.” he said. Leather creaked against his biceps as he folded his arms.

Beneath the table, your thighs squeezed together. The only thing hotter than Loki in leather, was an indignant Loki in leather. You suddenly became very aware of your quickened breaths making the buttons of your blouse strain. The god’s eyes darted to the side, meeting yours. “What?” he snarled. “Nothing.” you squeaked, swallowing. An awkward silence hung in the room. The scent of stale vodka suddenly seemed very strong. Steve sighed.

“Let’s call it for this morning-” he said, immediately met with muted hisses of celebration around the table. He patted down the air. “Rescheduled for this afternoon. Thirteen-hundred sharp. Wear clothes.” Approval turned to whines and hushed curses as chairs were swivelled and aching bodies shifted. “Unbelievable.” Loki snarled under his breath.

You watched out the corner of your eye as he stood; the flat of his iron stomach inches from your face. The scent of rich leather filled your nostrils while Loki’s fingers nipped beneath the hem of his tunic, tugging it down. He flipped the length of his cape with a sniff. You saw it swirl around his boots briefly as he stepped towards the window, clasping his hands behind his back.

Taking your time, you picked up each piece of carefully laid stationary at your seat. One by one, the rest of the team left the room. Steve was last, his hand hovering on the door handle while he shot you a wary look. As a parting gift, he opened the door wider. “You didn’t stay late?” Loki’s voice was a thick hum in the growing silence. His tone, inscrutable. “Huh?” “At the party.” he said. “You didn’t stay late.”

This time it wasn’t a question. “I usually head off when Thor starts making passes at everyone. I didn’t see you. Were you there?” “He did that?” Loki bristled. “To you?” There was a pause. “To everyone.” you repeated quietly. Loki’s shoulders stiffened. His fingers twitched, thumb digging into one exposed palm behind his back. He was still staring out the window.

“I’ll see you later.” you said, nerves fluttering in your belly. The god’s hair shortened as his chin dipped. You wondered how it would feel to wind those dark strands through your fingers as you rode him. Wondered how the grunts and signs and pretty curses from his lips would sound wet in your ear.

“No.” Loki said. “Excuse me?” “No,” he repeated.

You steadied against the table-top with the pads of your fingertips. Small stars began to burst in your field of vision. “I think the leather looks goo-good,” you stammered. And you didn’t know why.

The thought of him barring the exit of enemies in far flung realms using only that voice barged through the doors of your imagination with the force of a horny caveman. If that was the last sarcastic quip they heard, by god, you imagined they may just have died happy. And hard.

“It looks good.” you repeated, no more than a whisper. Loki turned his head. The sharp profile came into view at a glacial pace. First the peaked tip of his chin, then the slant of his regal nose, then the harsh peak of his cheekbone, then his eyes. Your ass met the table-top with a stumble. There was a small crease between his eyebrows. “Bold of you to make another jest without your compatriots around you, Agent.” he said. Across the short distance between you, venom dripped from his tongue; his hackles raised. “I wasn’t joking,” you said quietly as his gaze fell to your feet with a sneer. The quick breaths that made your buttons strain were back. Loki’s rising stare lingered on your breasts, a small smile tweaking at the corner of his mouth. Words tripped from your lips, forcing their way from behind your teeth. “I like it.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. He turned fully with a ceremonial flourish, the hands clasped behind his back moving to the front and rippling his leather and silken cloak. It fluttered.

“Is that so?” he purred darkly. He didn’t believe you.

You imagined how this is how a rabbit felt in the eyeline of a fox. To look away was to admit weakness, vulnerability. It meant death. And yet – it was the only chance to escape. But did you want to escape? Not really. You wanted to feel the sharp of his teeth fasten to your neck as he sucked and bit and made violent love to every inch of you.

You nodded, not breaking eye-contact. Loki inhaled sharply, chin tilting up as he did so.

His eyes wandered over grim foam tiles as though an enemy lurked beyond the suspended ceiling. They narrowed, darting back and forth. With a thundering heart, you noted one of his heavy boots rise from the floor. He paced forwards slowly, ceremonially, stopping inches from you. Your fingers curled tight around the table’s edge, the messy in your panties beneath the skirt becoming intolerable. Loki cleared his throat. “Am I to understand, contrary to common rhetoric, that you find my Asgardian leathers enticing; Agent?” “I think ‘enticing’ is a little grandiose, is it not?” you laughed, cringing at the way you so easily mirrored his speech. Loki noticed it too. He tilted his head. “I am nothing if not grandiose, Agent.” Loki said. “Am I not impressive? Am I not imposing?”

He trailed a long finger down your bicep, his touch light as a feather. “So often, you mortals use such words as insult.” he mused.

“It is merely a reflection on your own feelings of inferiority. This morning is a perfect example. An attempt at ridicule to deflect from their own pathetic presentation. Each one more bedraggled and an abject embarrassment to their purpose than the last.” Heat began to rise in your cheeks as his finger drifted along your collarbone. There was a pause, his eyes dropping to your lips before the finger brushed the skin at the hollow of your neck. It graced upwards, tracing the curve and stopping beneath the tip of your chin. “But not you.” he said.

The god’s eyes snapped to yours. His cheekbones hollowed under fluorescent lights, mischief glowing from the depths of his irises and painted in every light wrinkle on his brow.

“What else do you like, Agent?” he goaded softly. “Do you like the idea of what lies beneath these leathers?” You swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Loki-” you said, glancing towards the open door. He followed your eyes, rolling his own. With a flick of his hand the door slammed shut. “I want you,” he breathed, leaning closer so that the heat of his cheek warmed your own, “to tell me what else you like.”

You bit your lip, watching his beautiful face come back into view. With a prang, the thought occurred that perhaps you were not the rabbit after all. Perhaps you were the fox. Loki’s gaze lingered on your face, searching it.

Emboldened, you found the words. “Why should I?”

His brows peaked softly. He released a muted sigh, pursing his lips. “As much as I am loathe to admit it, Romanoff was right.” he said. The hand tilting your chin upwards returned to its mate, clasped against the leather tunic. “I was trying to impress someone, but not that insufferable Rogers.”

He raised his eyebrows.

Excitement blossomed deep in your belly; rising like shaken soda and fizzing around your chest. Loki bit his bottom lip.

“You see, Agent, I like you very much. And I’m afraid that now it has reached the juncture where I must know if you like anything about me...beyond my exquisite taste in battle armour.”

The change in his demeanour was so dramatic that you could only gape. But when it came to Loki, could you expect anything less? Without thinking you reached forward and grasped the belt slung over his chest, pulling him forward.

Loki’s mouth clashed with yours, the heat of his lips giving way to the thrust of his tongue. Your hands slid over his metal epaulettes, tangling in ebony waves that cascaded around his shoulders. He tasted like heaven, the scent of him deep and dangerously delicious in a way you’d never known. A scent a girl could lose herself in forever; gladly.

In seconds your back was flat against the table, its cool wood harsh against the heat of your skin through the blouse. Loki’s ravenous kiss consumed you, licking and dancing inside your mouth like a man possessed. His shallow moans ricocheted between slurps of his lips, wetness coating them.

“Tell me, you infuriating woman,” he panted as a thick forearm landed on the wood beside your head. The metal vambrace clanged against cheap wood. Saliva hung between your mouths as he stared deep into your soul; blue eyes darkening. “Tell me what you like.”

“About you?” you panted. Loki didn’t nod, only lowered his chin.

His nose nudged at your lips, dragging upwards, tongue tracing around the bottom one. He had begun to smile. One of his legs nudged your thighs wider. The god straightened and you felt a thrill run from your scalp to the tips of your dangling toes. He towered above like a monolith, leather tight to his rectangular body. Hair fell around his jaw, perfectly imperfectly wolfish curls flirting against his skin. His cape brushed against your bare calves as he shifted his stance, palms sliding up your thighs and pushing your skirt higher. “Yes; I like the idea of what’s beneath all this,” you whined as you pawed at his leather-clad stomach. It was so hard. Loki smirked, watching beneath half-lidded eyes. “I think about fucking you in the showers after training,” you whispered bashfully as your hips thrust up against your will. Loki raised an eyebrow. “More...” he rumbled. “I think about you all the time. All the awful things I want to do to you, y-you do to me- Loki, uhh-”

His hands crept higher as you spoke, fingers hooking around the hips of your panties. “If I pull these down, darling” he said with an air of reprimand, “will they be wet?” You let out a gasping moan, back arching against the table.

“Excellent.” Loki snickered, pulling the panties down the length of your legs before stepping back between them.

A hand flew to your mouth as you watched one long finger dip between your thighs, running lightly between your folds. He brought it to his lips, sucking gently. His cheekbones hollowed, finger slipping out. He swallowed with a groan of appreciation.

Loki settled himself between your legs, pushing them wider. The height of the table pressed your dripping centre against his crotch. You thought you might explode. His palms slid up your waist, exploring the curves of your body while your legs wrapped around his hips. The god’s cock pressed eagerly against the leather, strong and thick up the centre. His forearms came down at either side of your head, metal wrist-guards clinking.

“I will show you what it is to be mine,” he murmured in your ear.

Loki’s cock settled against your sex, rubbing in perfect gyration. “Oh...god,” you gasped as the weight of his body pressed against your own.

Fingers combed up from the base of his neck, tangling in his hair. The next moment, they grasped around his back, pulling him closer, catching in the folds of his cloak which draped across your bodies. The god grunted filthy praises in your ear as his bound manhood sent electric currents of pleasure deeper than you’d ever known. His searching lips found their way to your neck, your jaw. Every utterance from his throat more disgustingly sensual than the last. Hot leather filled your nostrils, the scent of him strong and intoxicating. Mounting orgasm bubbled in waves, a dream-like trance broken only with whispered groans of pleasure from your throats. Loki Laufeyson was about to make you cum. The thought was unbelievable. And yet, your pussy being tugged and massaged and owned by his leather-bound cock into the throes of heaven knew it to be true. Dry-humped like a teenager in the back of a pick-up.

“Be mine...” Loki mumbled breathlessly, a strangled choke gasping from deep in his chest. He immediately dove for a perishing kiss, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it with a wet suck. He smouldered down.

Against the bright lights, his dark halo shone; tendrils curling against your cheek and brushing with every calculated roll of his hips. Every muscle in your body tensed. Your legs tightened against his hips.

“Be mine,” he echoed. His face was twisted, and you suddenly wondered how close he was to cumming in those beautiful leather pants. “Loki-” you gasped, clutching at his cape. Back arching, the last thing you heard as climax stormed your brain were the matching pants of the god. The last thing you saw were his peaked brows above dilated pupils so deep you could drown in them.

In the afterglow, all you could manage were garbled phrases as your forearm draped over your eyes. “That was...unexpected.” you panted when the god’s weight lifted from your chest. “Perhaps for you.” Loki winked. “It was very carefully calculated on my part,” You watched in dazed disbelief as Loki sank to his knees, leather creaking, and hoisted your hips higher. He lapped at your soaking pussy, muffled moans seeping from his throat as he buried himself in your fresh pleasure. The flat of his tongue licked a thick stripe from the base to your swollen clit, placing a gentle suck on the tip. His eyes flickered up, meeting yours.

“Immaculate, as expected.” he breathed. His chin glistened.

You groaned as he withdrew; grasping at the air as he went. That small caress of him against your sex was everything you could ever have dreamed. Loki let you reluctantly arrange yourself before offering his hand for the short hop off the table. “Not exactly how I imagined our first time,” you said with a sheepish smile. Loki scanned your face.

“Agent don’t be insulting. That was merely a sample,” he scoffed. “It barely counts.” He stepped forward, pulling you flush against him with a flat palm at the base of your spine. “We must ensure you have eaten something before more intimate activities are indulged in; lest you faint. Or worse.” “Or worse?” “You are only mortal, after all.” Loki smiled slyly. “And this,” he gestured to his cock; hard and straining against the leather, “can be rather a handful. As well can his Master.” You slapped him on the shoulder. Loki smirked. Remembering the unexpected schedule change, you frowned. “You think we have time before the meeting later?”

Loki snorted. “We’re not attending. The two of us fulfilled our obligations, unlike the more cretinous members of our party.” You raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to get me in trouble, I can tell.” Loki’s fingers danced up your back, a light thrust of his hips making your body keen. His dirty exhale flooded your ear, the warm scent of him overloading your senses.

“Oh Agent,” he purred against the skin; his eyes darting covertly to the pair of panties discarded on the floor. “As if you expected anything less.”

Taglist (continued in comments)

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @icytrickster17 @multifandom-worlds @buttercupcookies-blog

[sunny44]

Pole position and broken wrist

Pairing: Max Verstappen x GF!reader

Warnings: broken wrist, medical center, medications etc…

Summary: Where Y/n broke her wrist on qualifying day.

It was one of those days when everything seemed to be in the right place. I woke up with Y/n by my side, her hair spread out on the pillow and a serene smile on her face. The sun was shining outside, and I felt a positive energy in the air. Today was qualifying day, and confidence was high. The car was fast, and the team's work had been impeccable throughout the weekend.

Y/n and I had a special ritual on race Saturdays. After breakfast in the motorhome, we would go to the paddock together. She was known for her vibrant personality and, of course, for her ability to get into unusual situations. I still remember when she spilled a tray of drinks on the team boss during her first visit to the paddock. But those moments, no matter how chaotic, only made me love her more.

We arrived at the paddock, and Y/n quickly started interacting with the mechanics and engineers, drawing smiles and laughter. It was impossible not to be infected by her light and carefree spirit. While she mingled, I focused on the qualifying session ahead. I knew she would be there supporting me, as always.

The qualifying session started, and the car was perfect. I managed to top the timesheet right in Q1, and that pace continued until the end. When I crossed the finish line in Q3, with pole position secured, my heart raced with excitement. I knew Y/n would be waiting for me in the garage, ready to congratulate me with that smile that made all the problems in the world seem insignificant.

But when I returned to the garage, something was off. I didn't see Y/n anywhere. Usually, she would be jumping with joy, ready to give me a celebratory kiss. Instead, I was greeted by worried looks from the team members. Before I could ask what was going on, one of the mechanics, Dave, approached me, a concerned expression on his face.

"Max, there’s been an accident... with Y/n," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

My heart froze. "What happened?" I asked, trying to stay calm.

"She was walking through the paddock, and you know how she is... Always bumping into things. Apparently, she tripped and fell. She tried to grab onto a metal structure but ended up slipping and falling hard. She broke her wrist."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The image of Y/n, hurt, flooded my mind, and a sense of panic started to grow inside me. "Where is she now?" I asked, already moving towards the garage exit.

"They took her to the medical center here at the circuit. She was in a lot of pain, but they said she's going to be okay. They just need to immobilize her wrist and maybe take her for more detailed exams."

Without wasting any more time, I ran towards the medical center. Everything around me seemed like a blur. The people, the sounds, even the noise of the engines... It all disappeared. The only thing that mattered was getting to Y/n.

When I entered the clinic, I found her sitting on a bed, with an expression of pain mixed with frustration. Her arm was already in a temporary splint, and the doctor was beside her, explaining what they would need to do next.

"Max!" Y/n exclaimed when she saw me, her eyes shining with a mix of surprise and relief.

"Y/n, what happened?" I asked, approaching her, feeling a wave of relief seeing her conscious and talking, even though she was visibly uncomfortable.

She gave an embarrassed smile, something she always did when she was in trouble. "I’m a complete klutz, Max... I tripped over one of those damn toolboxes and, trying to balance myself, ended up falling. And, well... you know the rest."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair and sitting next to her.

"Is it hurting a lot?"

"Yes, it hurts like hell."

"Do you have any idea how much you scared me?" I asked, taking her free hand and intertwining our fingers.

"I'm so sorry... It wasn’t my intention to ruin your pole day," she replied, with a pained little laugh.

"The only thing that matters to me right now is that you're okay," I said, kissing her forehead gently. "And, look, we’re still going to celebrate this pole. We’ll just do it at your pace, okay?"

She smiled again, this time more confidently, and nodded. "Sounds like a good plan."

The doctors entered and started discussing the next steps, mentioning the need to take her to a hospital outside the circuit for a more detailed X-ray and possibly to cast her wrist. The idea of her having to spend the rest of the race weekend with a cast worried me, but the relief of knowing it was "just" a broken wrist calmed me down.

After a few hours, we left the hospital with her wrist properly casted. I insisted we return to the motorhome and spend the rest of the day there, away from any potential dangers in the paddock. She hesitated a bit but eventually agreed.

We settled on the sofa in the motorhome, with Y/n lying next to me, her arm carefully propped up on a pillow. The TV was on, showing a replay of the qualifying session, but I hardly paid attention. My focus was on her, making sure she was comfortable and cared for.

"Max, you don’t have to stay here with me the whole time," she said softly, looking at me with a shy smile. "You should enjoy the rest of the day with the team, celebrate the pole."

"I'm exactly where I need to be," I replied, running my fingers through her hair. "Besides, who’s going to take care of you if I'm not around? What if you trip over the carpet now?"

She laughed, though she winced in pain right after. "I really am fucking clumsy, huh?"

"You are, but you’re my clumsy, and I love you for it," I murmured, leaning in to kiss her.

...

The next day, I woke up to the soft sound of Y/n's breathing beside me. Her arm, now casted and propped up on pillows, was a constant reminder of how clumsy she could be. But seeing her there, sleeping peacefully, I knew that even with a broken wrist, she would still make her day and mine unforgettable.

When Y/n finally woke up, the lazy smile she gave me warmed me inside.

"Good morning, champ." she murmured, trying to stretch without moving her arm too much.

"Good morning, clumsy." I replied, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Ready for another day of adventures?"

"More than ready," she said, with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Is it hurting a lot?"

"It’s starting to hurt more now, I think the painkillers are wearing off."

"Well, you stay there while I get dressed and grab your meds." I said, getting up.

"I can get them." She tried to get up but I stopped her.

"No, no. You stay there, safe and sound, I’ll get the meds." She agreed and lay down.

After I went to the bathroom and got dressed, I got her meds and handed them to her. She got up afterward, went to the bathroom, and I helped her get dressed since moving her arm was straining her wrist and hurting.

"Ready?" I asked, putting a Red Bull bucket hat on her head and giving her a peck, making her smile.

"More than ready." She said, and we left the motorhome together. "You know, I was thinking… since I’m going to have this cast on for a while, I’ll make it more interesting."

"Interesting how?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Autographs!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most brilliant idea in the world. "I’ll ask some of the guys to sign it for me. It’ll be a nice memory of this whole thing."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You really are full of ideas, aren’t you?"

"You knew who you were getting involved with when you asked me out," she replied, winking at me and holding my hand.

Y/n was visibly excited, and even with her arm in a cast, she radiated a joy that was contagious.

Lando was her first target. As soon as she saw him, she ran over to him, carefully balancing the cast on her arm.

"Lando! You have to be the first to sign!" Lando, always the jokester, gave a mischievous smile and took the Sharpie Y/n was holding with her free hand.

"So, do you want me to write 'Caution: very clumsy' or something like that?" He asked, as he signed the cast, and Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t hold back her laughter.

"Just sign it, Norris. And make it look nice."

"Alright, bossy." He handed the pen back to her, and after chatting a bit and wishing her well, we went after the next victim.

Charles was talking to some members of his team, but Y/n wasn’t intimidated.

"Charles! I need your autograph, please." she said, waving the cast in his direction, and he smiled warmly, taking the pen.

"I saw pictures of you online with a cast but didn’t know what had happened. Are you okay?"

"I’m better, yeah. I tripped over a toolbox... Long story," she replied, laughing at herself.

"Well, I hope you get better soon," he said, carefully signing the cast with his name and adding a small heart next to it. "And try to stay away from toolboxes for a while."

Carlos was next, and Y/n knew he wouldn’t miss the chance to tease her. When she approached him, he raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look.

"Max, you really have to keep an eye on her," Carlos said, laughing. "She’s a danger to herself."

"Tell me about it," I replied, smiling as Carlos signed the cast.

"Y/n, are you collecting accidents now?"

"Let's just say I'm adding a little drama to the weekend," she replied, extending her arm.

"There you go," he said after adding 55 to the end of his signature. "I hope you get better soon."

"Thank you Chili." He gave her a side hug and started walking towards the Ferrari garage.

"Try not to break anything else," he yelled and went inside.

Alex was walking past us when Y/n spotted him. "Alex! Please sign here," she said, and he promptly complied.

He made a neat signature, adding a small trophy to the side. "I hope this brings you luck to recover quickly," he said.

"Thank you, and bring Lily to the next race." He nodded and left.

Oscar was the last one before we returned to the Red Bull garage. He was focused, but when he saw Y/n approaching with that smile that said “you have no choice”, he smiled too.

“Oscar, you’re next on the list,” she said, shaking her cast.

“Honored to be a part of this collection,” he joked as he signed it, drawing a little kangaroo next to his name.

Finally, we made it back to the Red Bull garage, where Y/n handed me the pen.

“Now it’s your turn.” She said smiling.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” I said, taking the pen and thinking about what to write.

I decided on something simple but meaningful. I signed my name, and next to it I wrote, “I love you, my clumsy.”

She looked at the cast and then back at me, her eyes shining with emotion.

“It’s perfect, it’s definitely my favorite signature,” she said, smiling.

The day went on, and soon it was time for the race. Y/n was by my side until the last second before I got in the car. Even with her injured arm, she was there, smiling, supporting me, and reminding me of what really matters. mattered.

When I finally got into the car and got ready for the race, I knew that no matter what happened on the track, I had something very special waiting for me at the end of it all. The race was important, sure, but Y/n… she was the reason I gave my best, on and off the track.

Bonus scene!

Yourusername Instagram stories

“Before the accident X after the accident”

Ps: I’m okay guys, just a broken wrist

[secretlocket]

chris and sunshine!reader cross paths for the first time.

the sun beamed brightly over disneyland, adding on to the theme park’s cheery atmosphere. the air buzzed with laughter and the scent of churros.

you had pulled off the ultimate surprise for the three girls you babysit from time to time, bringing them to the happiest place on earth a week before school started, the perfect way to wrap up their summer vacation. their excitement was contagious, especially elise, the youngest sister, who gasped loudly and tugged on your hand at nearly everything she saw.

you smiled as you took note of the wide grins on the girls’ faces, feeling a burst of sentiment and happiness seeing them enjoy themselves.

there’s fifteen year old rae, the eldest, had been the hardest to win over. at first, she’d been skeptical of your relentless positivity, brushing off your efforts with curt nods and the occasional eye roll. but time and consistency had changed that. you never pushed too hard, never pried, but you always showed up—whether it was helping rae study for her history test or sitting with her during a rough day. slowly, her walls began to come down. she started opening up, laughing at your jokes, even seeking your advice when life felt overwhelming.

and ten year old willow who’s the opposite. a quiet, creative soul, she’d clung to you almost immediately, drawn to your warm, sunny energy. willow loved to draw, often sketching little pictures to give to you as thank you gifts. she has a thoughtful, observant nature, always looking out for her sisters and sometimes even for you, despite her young age.

and of course, elise, the five year old firecracker. energetic, curious, and endlessly talkative, she’s the heart of the group, always keeping everyone on their toes. elise adores you unconditionally, often declaring, “you’re the bestest babysitter we’ve ever had!” before skipping off to her next adventure. her excitement for life is pretty contagious, and her laugh could brighten even the dreariest days.

“alright girls, one more ride before lunch,” you said, holding up the park map and glancing at the three sisters. “what’re we thinkin’? tea cups? maybe pirates of the caribbean?”

“i’m fine with whatever,” rae said nonchalantly, though her eyes flicked toward the matterhorn before darting down back to her phone screen.

“tea cups are cool,” willow offered, adjusting her minnie ears. “but i kinda wanna go on the peter pan one.”

“let’s go on the merry go round!” elise exclaimed, spinning around dramatically before latching onto you leg. “it’s right there!”

you laughed, already accustomed to the kindergartener’s bursts of enthusiasm, and opened her mouth to respond when she suddenly gasped.

“MINNIE MOUSE!”

her shout turned a few heads, but elise didn’t care. her wide eyes were locked on the minnie figure, who was strolling just ahead, waving to parkgoers and posing for photos. “we have to take a picture! all of us!” elise declared, tugging on your hand with a force that nearly pulled her off balance.

as you and the girls gathered the photo with the mouse, a sudden realization hit you—you hadn’t thought about needing someone to actually take the picture. you looked around, a little frantic, trying to spot anyone who might be willing to help. elise, bouncing on the spot, tugged at you arm.

“come on, y/n, let’s hurry! minnie’s going to leave any second!” she squealed, her wide eyes never leaving the character.

willow looked around, trying to scan the crowd for anyone free. rae, clearly growing frustrated, let out a sigh. “i swear, something is always happening,” she muttered, crossing her arms and looking at the ground in annoyance.

ignoring the teen’s pessimism, you looked around again. it seemed like everyone was either already in a group or too busy to help. “okay girls, we’re going to have to ask someone…” you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

rae rolled her eyes. “yeah, obviously,” she grumbled.

just as the tension in the group started to rise, a voice cut through the noise of the park. “—i can help you guys if you want?”

you whipped around, surprised to hear someone offering so casually. standing there was a boy who looked around your age; messy brunette hair and blue eyes, sporting casual denim shorts and a graphic tee: his stance was pretty friendly, and to the side of him was two other boys who mirrored his exact features—triplets. you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t find them to be cute, especially the one that offered to help.

you smiled back, relieved. “oh—yeah! thank you, that’d mean so much to us.”

you handed him your phone without a second thought, but the moment your hands brushed, you felt an unexpected jolt shoot up your arm. your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly pulled your hand away, hoping he hadn’t noticed your flustered move.

focus, focus, you told yourself, trying to keep it together, but your mind was still on how cute he was.

rae, who had been watching the entire exchange with a keen eye, suddenly froze. her gaze flickered between you and the guy in front of them. “wait,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “t-that’s chris sturniolo! oh my god, the sturniolo triplets are literally here right now…”

willow, confused, scrunched her face up as if she popped a sour patch kid into her mouth. “who?”

rae’s eyes widened in disbelief. she immediately tried to play it cool, but the flush creeping up her neck gave her away. “it’s nothing, just—he’s, um, popular on youtube and tiktok. the sturniolo triplets. you know, from the videos i watch?”

as chris lined up the shot, his easygoing yet friendly demeanor only made your heart race a little more. there was something effortlessly attractive about him, the way he was engaging with the girls, making them laugh. he was down to earth, but still had that pull that made her feel a little flustered.

chris snapped the photo, then turned back to you, handing her the phone with a smile. “got it. took three just in case.”

you took the phone, smiling in return. “thanks so much,” you said, the words coming out a little more breathless than she expected.

“s’no problem at all, you guys enjoy the rest of your day!” he waved before turning to walk off with his brothers.

you stood there, your pulse still a little elevated from the brief interaction. the girls were already excitedly looking at the picture on your phone, but you found yourself glancing back at chris, who’s gaze lingered on you one last time as he walked away.

something about him stuck with you. and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d get another chance to talk to him.

messages from brie 🗯️ : was listening to espresso while writing this up, i don’t think i’ll ever get tired of that song 🙂‍↔️

also, gonna be serious for a second: if you don’t give credit—whether it’s for my about me layout or moodboard layout, i will block you and i will block you fast. i already have two blogs on here blocked for copying my layouts without permission. & if you’re take inspiration from my ideas, aus and all, at least switch it up a bit. i’m not saying this to be rude but cmonnnn.

✷ tags : @et6rnalsun @eternaldecisions @freshloveee @lov3bug @cosmicanakin @cupiidk1lls @marrykisskilled @lovevxle

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Kiss Me Tender (Castiel)

Summary: you confess to Castiel that you're in love with him.

Warnings: fluff <3

WC: 690

Read on Ao3!

-

The quiet hum of the bunker surrounded you, a stark contrast to the chaos that often came with hunting. Tonight, however, was different. Sam had gone off to research something, and Dean was off on a supply run. It left you alone with Castiel, the former angel who seemed to understand both the beauty and sorrow of the world better than anyone you’d ever known.

You sat in the library, surrounded by old books and maps, pretending to focus on something, but your mind kept wandering to the angel across from you. His intense blue eyes scanned through ancient texts, but every so often, you’d catch him glancing your way. There was a gentleness in his expression that made your heart flutter, something you tried to push down for far too long.

“What are you reading?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Castiel blinked and looked up at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “I’m researching a new demon sigil Dean wanted me to examine. It’s... fascinating.”

You chuckled softly. “Fascinating? Demons aren’t really fascinating, Cas. They’re kind of the opposite.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Yes, but their sigils are intricate. There’s something beautiful about how even the most malevolent beings can create something complex.”

That was Castiel—always finding beauty in unexpected places. The way he saw the world never ceased to amaze you. But it wasn’t just his perspective that drew you to him; it was his kindness, his loyalty, and his growing humanity.

He shifted in his seat, closing the book and setting it aside. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated. There had been a tension building between the two of you for weeks, an unspoken energy that neither of you dared to address. And now, sitting alone in the dimly lit library, you felt it more than ever.

“I’m fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. It wavered, carrying a weight that you couldn’t hide anymore.

Castiel’s eyes softened as he stood up, moving closer to you. He knelt by your side, his gaze locked on yours. “You don’t seem fine.”

Your breath hitched as his hand gently touched yours. His warmth seeped into your skin, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You had no words, no witty remark, no excuse. Only the truth you had been running from.

“I think I love you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You immediately regretted it, feeling the air between you grow thick with uncertainty. But Castiel didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away or seem confused.

Instead, his thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch steady. “You think?”

A small laugh escaped your lips. “Okay... I know I love you.”

His expression softened, and his eyes shone with something you couldn’t quite place. Was it surprise? Affection? Or something deeper? You weren’t sure.

“I’m... not very familiar with love,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost vulnerable. “But I know how I feel when I’m with you. It’s... different. Strong.”

Your heart raced as he continued.

“I feel... grounded. Like I belong. You’ve shown me things I never understood before—feelings I never knew I could have.”

You could barely breathe as he spoke, every word drawing you closer to him.

“I think I love you too,” Castiel finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without thinking, you leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you. His lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss, filled with all the unspoken words between you. It was gentle at first, but as he deepened the kiss, you felt the weight of his confession, the purity of his affection.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested against each other. Neither of you said anything for a moment, basking in the warmth of the moment.

“I’ve waited so long to say that,” you whispered.

Castiel smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his entire face. “Then let’s not wait anymore.”

--

tags!

EVERYTHING PERM: @nekoannie-chan @kjs-s @notyourtypicalrose @mistressofallthingsgeeky

SPN FOREVER PERM: @amelia-song-pond @kenzieam @flamencodiva @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes

CASTIEL: @hallecarey1

[corroded-hellfire]

This is a little angsty but do the AYW kids ever go through scrutiny about reader and Eddie's marriage from school and their friend's families?

With Ryan and Luke did they ever hear negative comments from their classmates other parent about reader and Eddie? Or a classmate saying "[reader] isn't your real mom!"

Can we agree that these boys need to be protected at all costs?

Words: 2.1k

[As You Wish masterlist]

The smell of crayons and Play-Doh hovers in the first grade classroom. The teacher, Ms. Fabray, counts her blessings that there aren’t any more foul odors filling the space. The kids are just back inside from recess, still rowdy with those last bursts of energy they get whenever they hear, “Five more minutes!”

As usual, Brandon Simpson is the last student to stroll in the back classroom door. He’s the most consistent troublemaker in the class and one of the reasons Ms. Fabray wishes this school year would hurry up and be over.

“Go sit there, Brandon,” Ms. Fabray instructs the six-year-old, gesturing to the only table that has an available chair. 

He plops down next to Luke Munson, who only glances at him out of the corner of his eye before he goes back to drawing.

Luke’s tongue pokes out between his lips as he concentrates on getting the shape of the dog’s nose just right. The moment he sets the black crayon down, his arm gets shoved. Luke’s brow furrows as he looks over at the culprit. Brandon beats Luke to the punch to speak, though.

“That girl who picks you up from school isn’t your sister?”

Well, that was one of the last things Luke expected to come out of the other boy’s mouth. Once his surprise vanishes, his head fills with a vision of you and how you smile every single time you see him and Ryan walking out of the school building.

“No, she’s my daddy’s girlfriend,” Luke says with a shake of his head. 

“But she’s so young!” Truthfully, Brandon wouldn’t have been able to gauge your age even if he was given one of the numbers, but he heard his mom complaining about the Munson’s dad being with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

While completely untrue since Eddie is only twelve years older than you, Brandon didn’t know nor care, and was just happy he had something he could use to tease Luke.

“So what?” Luke asks, reaching for the brown crayon.

“My mom says your dad should know how ridiculous he looks,” Brandon says. “That he’s probably having a midwife crisis and is trying to feel young again.”

The little girl sitting across from Brandon tilts her head up slightly to look at him beneath her sandy blunt bangs.

“It’s midlife,” she says. 

“Whatever.” Brandon waves her off. “He only wants her cause she’s pretty and young.”

The bully is clearly just parroting what he heard his mother saying, but it gets the intended effect. Luke drops the crayon and his small hands curl into fists.

“She loves my Daddy.”

“But not you,” Brandon says with a shrug, turning to grab a few crayons of his own. “I bet she just puts up with you cause she likes your dad.”

“That’s not true!” Luke shouts.

“Quieter voices, please,” Ms. Fabray says from across the room.

“She’s not your mom,” Brandon goads while starting his own drawing. 

Luke hates that he can’t deny that. You’ve treated him better than his own mother has from the day you met him. It didn’t take long before Luke wished that you were his mom instead of Brittany. When he realized that wasn’t possible, he switched to wanting you to be with his dad. Now that his dream had come true, Luke never thought someone would be so mean about it. 

“But she loves me,” Luke says.

The words are true, he knows it with every fiber of his being. The four words don’t even seem enough to the little boy to encapsulate how much you care for him and do for him. To him, you’re better than a mom, since his frame of reference is so terrible.

“I love my hamster, but I’m not his dad!” Brandon shoots back. 

Luke’s hands bang down on the table and his brow furrows even further.

“I’m not a hamster! And she loves me!”

“What’s going on over there?” Ms. Fabray asks, craning her neck in the direction of the boys.

“She’s a fake mommy,” Brandon continues, ignoring the teacher. “Not a real mommy.”

The fury has come to its boiling point in Luke’s small body. He sees red as he lunges for Brandon, knocking the other boy out of his seat. Both of them land on the rough carpet, a mess of tangled limbs and shouts.

“Boys!” Ms. Fabray yells, hurrying over to them. “Luke! Brandon! Stop it!”

Luke wraps an arm around Brandon’s neck, his Hot Wheels sneakers digging into the ground. Brandon’s legs kick, his heels pounding against Luke’s shins. It causes Luke to let go, and Brandon takes the opportunity to roll over and start hitting Luke in the ribs. 

Ms. Fabray pulls Brandon off by gripping him beneath his armpits and sets him down behind her. Luke hops up and the teacher immediately holds her hands out to keep the boys separate. 

“That is enough!”

“He started it!” Brandon shouts. 

“Nuh uh!” Luke shoots back. “He started making fun of my mo—my dad’s girlfriend!”

“Brandon, you go sit in the corner seat. Luke, you go sit at my desk. Now.”

The gray-skinned demon creature in the novel you’re reading creeps behind the main character and is on the verge of pouncing on her when the door to Eddie’s apartment swings open. You jump and let out a small yelp. 

Eddie ushers a red-faced Luke inside and closes the door behind them. 

“Hey, what’re you guys doing here?” you ask, glancing down at your watch. It’s still hours from when you usually leave to go pick the kids up from school. 

Neither of them answers, but Luke takes off running down the hall to his room. Eddie tosses his keys onto the counter and lets out a heavy sigh. He stumbles over and plops down on the couch next to you. 

“Luke got in a fight.”

“Again? Is he okay” Your eyes widen in shock as you lean in towards your boyfriend. The fight Luke had gotten into when kids made fun of Ryan’s glasses last year doesn’t feel that long ago.

Eddie nods, sighing again. He turns his head to look at you, a small melancholy smile on his face.

“Physically, yeah,” he says. “He’s upset though. He started it over something another kid said. About you.”

If the rug was pulled out from under you with the fight news, this crumbles the entire foundation of the house beneath you.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. He reaches over and rubs his hand over your thigh. “That you’re not his real mom.”

Your heart drops. Sadness and anger simultaneously begin to fill the now-empty space in your chest. 

“Can I talk to him?” you ask, a tentative tone to your voice. You’d completely understand if Eddie, as his dad, wanted to be the one to handle this. 

“I think you’re the only one who can make him feel better, honestly,” your boyfriend tells you. 

Something about that touches you. The fact that you have a special enough place carved out in Luke’s life that there’s a pain only you can soothe. 

Unsure of how to respond to that, you nod and push yourself up from the couch.

It’s quiet as you approach Luke’s room, but when you peek your head in, you see him sitting on his bed sniffling and rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, you.”

He doesn’t look up at the sound of your voice. Instead, he curls further in on himself and scoots closer to the bottom corner of his bed. Your heart aches more and more with every step you take towards him. 

His Hot Wheels blanket shifts beneath you as you take a seat next to him. 

“Do you want to talk?” you ask him quietly. 

There are a few moments where his sniffling is the only noise in the apartment. Suddenly, Luke turns around and buries his head in your chest, his arms gripping you tightly around the waist. 

A gasp escapes you, shocked at the overt show of emotion. The usually happy and bubbly little boy sobbing into your t-shirt tears your heart in half. You instinctively wrap your arms around him, hugging him close to your body. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” you coo before pressing a kiss into his curls. “I’ve got you. Everything is okay.”

Luke’s heart wrenching cries bring tears to your own eyes and you do your best to blink them away. 

“I love you,” you mumble against his hair. “I love you so much, you wouldn’t believe.”

He pulls back and looks up at you with wide watery eyes. His face is tear-stained and rosy red. The pain you find there is unbearable. You’d give anything to make him feel better, to make him happy.

“I…I love you, t-too,” he warbles out. 

You press a kiss to his forehead, and he pulls away a little more so he can wipe his eyes. 

“Are you okay, sweetie?” you ask, reaching up and wiping away a tear he missed. 

“I-I got in a fight,” he admits. 

“About what?”

His bottom lip wobbles but he swallows down the fresh tears that threaten to pour. 

“Brandon Sim-Simpson kept saying you don’t love me because you’re n-not a r-real mommy.”

“Oh, Luke.” One of the tears that had collected spills down your cheek and you’re quick to wipe it away. “You don’t think that, do you?”

The little boy shakes his head, his curls bouncing with the motion. You breathe a sigh of relief. It would absolutely break you if Luke believed this punk kid and doubted your affection for him.

“Good.” Gently, you cup Luke’s face in your hands and look him straight in the eye. “Luke, I love you, Ryan, and Daddy more than anything or anyone else in the world. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone as much as I love you.”

“H-He wouldn’t believe me,” Luke sniffles. 

“Well…then he’s stupid.”

Luke’s eyes widen at your words. He never expected to hear you talk like that about a kid. But this particular kid hurt your boy, so you think calling him “stupid” is on the tame end of the spectrum. 

“Honey, you know that I love you. Me, Ryan, and Daddy all know it and we all love each other. That’s all that matters.” You smooth some curls away from his face. “I know what he said hurt you. He was wrong in what he said. But it’s true I’m also not your mommy.”

The six-year-old glumly nods his head, his eyes downcast.

“But…” You tip his chin back up, so he’ll look at you. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you in the same way a mommy does. Because I do. I would do anything for you.” I would die for you, you think to yourself. I would kill for you. “I will love you for the rest of my life, and even after.”

“Even after?” Luke asks.

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile. “I’ll be a ghost and still try to squeeze you.” You wrap him up in your arms and pull him into your lap. He’s getting a little big for this, but you don’t give a shit.

Luke tucks his head under your chin and his hands grip your upper arms, as if he doesn’t want to let you go. “You’re everything to me, Luke. The fact that I’m not the one who brought you into this world doesn’t change that. Nothing can ever change it. You’re my little boy.”

“You’re better than a mommy,” Luke says against your neck, letting his eyes slip closed.

His words warm your heart, and you give him a soft squeeze. 

“Thank you.” Softly, you rub your hand up and down his back. “Do you feel better?”

You can feel his curls brush against you as he nods his head. He sniffles once more before tilting his head back to look up at you.

“Yes. I’m sorry I got in a fight.”

“I understand the feelings getting too big, sweetheart. But we have to find better ways to express them, okay?”

He nods again and dives back in for another hug. 

You cling to him just as tightly as he does to you. The love the two of you have for one another surrounds you in a warm bubble, solidifying this moment in both of your memories. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for Luke, and you’ll spend the rest of your life showing him in a million different ways. 

[avtrbee]

safe

✢ summary: just like everyone else, sometimes megumi just wants his mom.

✢ tags: mentions of the death of a pet, implied satoru x reader

✢ a/n: my friend has psychoanalyzed me with a diagnosis of mommy issues and i have always denied them. then i caught myself reflecting on what type of fanfics i write. especially this one.

Ever since Megumi had started school in Tokyo, he was barely home. Of course, he comes home every now and then, and living within the school's dormitories is part of the high school experience- hell, even you stayed in the school when you were a student- but the house is quiet without him, too quiet, which is probably why he does not go home as often as you'd like- that, among other things.

Everyone in your household knew that Tsumiki was what made your house into a home. Your girl always greeted you with a smile and volunteered to make hot meals for the family when you and Satoru didn't feel like cooking. She was warmth, she was energy, she was life. Until she wasn't.

The house became cold without its fire. You couldn't blame Megumi for wanting an escape from the halls that still echo her memory. Which was why you were surprised to see him sitting on the couch with his arms resting on his thighs, hands buried in his face.

"Megumi?" You call. "I didn't hear you come in."

His head lifts up and looks at you. "Liar," he accuses. "You can sense my cursed energy miles away. You knew I was coming home as soon as you felt it ."

His words were harsh but his tone was not off of his usual deadpan manner of speaking. You can't help but smile. He is still the same child who refused to sleep unless he clung to his divine dogs, Tsumiki, you, or Satoru (reluctantly, of course) in some way. He claimed it was for "warmth."

But he knows you as much as you know him. As he made his way to the house, you noticed something- his cursed energy was off. It was more powerful than usual. Of course, it could be a good thing- perhaps he was doing really well in school, but his downcast eyes and even broodier vibe are telling you otherwise. "What's wrong?"

Megumi leans back on the couch, sighs, and contemplates. He stares at your wall that is decorated with framed pictures and pictures you memories from his childhood. You've even framed pictures of his drawings- usually doodles of his shikigami.

He stands abruptly. "Never mind," he dismisses. "I don't wanna- I don't want to talk about it. It's childish and stupid-"

"Stupid enough to make you retreat back home?" You ask. You watch as your question sinks in through Megumi. Slowly, he sits back down. You sit on the other end of the couch.

"What's wrong, 'Gumi?" You ask again. "Tell me." I can fix it. Whatever it is, if I can fix it, I will shouts your inner thoughts.

"I lost one of them," Megumi whispers.

“Oh, Megumi, I-” you say, racking your brain for something to say. Deaths in the jujutsu world is so common that when you’re within the industry for too long you get used to it. “Losing a colleague- this won’t be the first time, baby. Nor will it be the last.”

“No,” Megumi groans out frustrated. There are tears streaming down his cheeks that he angrily wipes away. “My dogs. I lost one. I- Yuki died.”

Your heart breaks at Megumi’s childhood name for his white demon dog. “‘Gumi, I’m so sorry-”

You move to his side of the couch, wide arms open. Megumi falls in, just like he did when he was small. Megumi feels himself melt in your hold, his walls and defenses crumbling away like ash.

Megumi refuses to cry at all times but when you have his arms wrapped around him he finds himself not caring at all. It was like his heart recognized you too.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you pretend not to feel his tears.

You hold him until he lets you. Megumi is the one to pull away, and you never do. This boy js fickle with touch, and you always leave the duration of your hugs to his discretion.

You cup his face in your hands, thumbs swiping away the tear tracks. You’ve never seen Megumi this heartbroken before.

“I told him to scout the area and I just left him for a second- and he-” Megumi hiccups. “His head was on the wall. The curse threw his head so hard it made the pavement crack.”

You do not pretend to know his pain for you will never feel it. Megumi’s divine dogs were his first achievement. He smiled the first time he summoned them, even as Satoru threw him in the air in joy. Those dogs would trail after him in the house, obeying his command. You would turn a blind eye to the spare pieces of meat Megumi throws under the table just so they could taste cooked beef.

Megumi would refuse to let them go even when he slept, and was upset that they would disappear when he rested or lowered his guard. As a present, Satoru gifted him customized stuffed animals of the dogs that he never slept without. You were sure he packed those toys with him in the dorm.

When Tsumiki volunteers to run errands, Megumi would summon a dog and follow her. Just in case. They both always came back safe.

“He just did what I commanded, he was good, he was a good boy.” Megumi said, in a quieter voice.

“The best,” you agreed. “But didn’t Yuki merge with the other one? Isn’t that how your technique works when one of them dies?”

“It’s stupid-” A glare from you was all it took. “It’s not the same,” he admits. “I just want my dogs back.”

You give him a sad smile. You pull him close for another hug, and he melts in your arms once again but this time, he does not pull away. You hold him until his tears have dried, until his breaths slowed down, and until his eyes closed for a well deserved rest.

extra note: yuki apparently means snow in japanese. get it? snow=white demon dog (im not creative at all yall)

[revelboo]

Hi hi hi HIIII!!!

hope you're having a wonderful day!! very grateful and happy for the little treats you give us it's like bedtime stories for me HHHHH-

not a request, please take your time and don't stress since you already have a bunch of stuff going on, i was just wondering if we'd get a continuation for that delicious Rodimus fic (so yum yum) (against don't stress about it)

have a wonderful night 🫶🏻

Thank you! They’re all ongoing, I’m just superbly terrible at tracking what needs to be updated next

Attractive Today Pt 4

MTMTE Rodimus x Reader

• Slowly that panic on his face recedes and he leans sideways, shoulder thumping against the wall as his big hands shake. And you stop rambling and pace closer to the edge, sitting down with your legs dangling, aware of him watching you. “I didn’t know big, alien robots can have panic attacks,” you say, listening to his ragged venting. He slides down to sit, drawing his legs up and covering his face with his hands, looking suddenly so achingly young.

• “I wasn’t having a panic attack,” he mutters, feeling the tremors still coursing through him, but the danger is past. You talked him down somehow, distracted him. Kept him from hurting anyone else. Has anyone else been able to rein him in like that besides Optimus? Interlacing his servos, he looks up at you leaning out from your perch. No longer afraid of him, when you should be more terrified.

• “Looked like a panic attack to me.” Leaning your elbows on your knees, you swing your legs and he scowls up at you. Just sitting on the floor staring at you. “Want to talk about it?” Not that you’re surprised at all when he shakes his head at you. But then, had you ever wanted to talk about it after when irrational panic seized you by the throat? No, you’d always been left feeling embarrassed and almost ashamed by the attacks. Like something was wrong with you and your shoulders ease, because you at least have something in common with him. A starting point.

• “We can’t take you back,” he says and your swinging legs still. “Not yet, but I promise I’ll try to get you home.” Watches you tip your head back to stare at the ceiling and waits for you to get mad at him. To argue or cry. Not expecting you to slump back so all he can see is your dangling legs. Slowly standing, he walks over and leans over you. Guilt twisting about his spark as you stare at nothing, hair spread out around your head.

• Eyes opening to find him looming over you, his hands on either side of you, there’s not even the energy to be upset because he looks so genuinely upset about it. And you believe him, believe he’ll do everything he can to get you home. Not even bothering to sit up, you hold up your fist a pinky extended. “If you promise, you have to keep your word.” Know you can’t hold him to anything, that you have no power here, but he just looks from your face to your hand and reaches to gingerly touch his own servo to your pinky with a look so serious you almost start laughing, because it’s that or cry.

Previous

[pinkclairo]

mel medarda x female reader

cw: smut , dom!mel , sub!reader , pet names , praise, vibrator usage (??? how do i word this) , strap usage , edging like once but implied more , overstimulation , not proofread , very short i’m sorry

you're placed flat on her lap. legs on either side of her hips. you can feel her thick strap deep inside of you. you wanna move so desperately, but the feeling of the vibrator being held against your swollen clit by mel was clouding your mind.

her free hand is holding onto your hip, gripping and fondling the fat of it occasionally. when you squirm, or attempt to rut your hips against her own, she holds you in place.

the knot you know all too well starts to form in your lower stomach as she drags the vibrator up and down vertically on your cunt.

"fuckk— mel! please please please, i'm so close. please let me-" your begs get cut off with a whine slipping past your lips as you feel the vibrator drift away from your desperate clit.

she leans towards your collarbones and starts pressing sweet kisses across them, slowly moving up to you neck, then to your ear, and she stops.

her lips brush against your earlobe softly as she whispers, “you wanna cum, darling? how bad?”

“yes yes yes– real bad. wanna cum for you so bad, baby, please..” you beg her, not feeling even an inch of embarrassment, too caught up in the pleasure you’re so desperately chasing, although you probably will later.

you feel her thrust up into you slowly, and you close your eyes with a light gasp. you had somehow forgotten all about the large silicone cock stuffed inside of you, filling you up to the brim.

“don’t worry, my love. i’ll give you what you want.” she reassures you with a slight smirk playing on your lips, but you don’t register it. all you can think about is the shock of pleasure shooting up your body.

to make it even better, she turns the vibrator back on and places it on your clit. you let out a surprised yelp, raising your hips up to get more friction. she chuckles at your desperation.

she continues her thrusts up into you steadily, letting out low pants and small moans when the strap rubs against her throbbing clit with just the right amount of friction.

you find yourself inching closer to finishing faster than usual, result of how many times she denied your needs.

you unexpectedly cum without being able to warn her, and you grip onto her shoulders to steady yourself. after coming down from your high, you realize she hasn’t stopped thrusting into you, or moved the vibrator away from your clit. in fact, she’s going faster now, compared to the slow thrusts she was doing earlier.

the overstimulation sends your cunt into overdrive, and you dig your nails into her shoulders, almost drawing blood, as a couple stray tears roll down your cheeks.

“it‘s too much—“ you babble, blabbering about how you’re too sensitive. you remove one of your hands off her shoulders and place it on her lower stomach, pushing slightly.

“no. this is what you wanted, right? you’re not done until i say you’re done.” she pushes the vibrator harder on your clit, and suddenly thrusts up harshly into you.

there is NOT enough mel content on here.. so i took the opportunity of making some myself. also putting those slim pink line shits was unironically some of the hardest shit i’ve ever done omg (yes i know the pink doesn’t match the pic and it looks ugly I DIDNT HAVE THE ENERGY TO CHANGE IT)

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝑴𝒚 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 | 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏

(𝑺𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑴𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

⚠️MDNI. 18+ ADULTS ONLY⚠️

🎀Age in bio or blocked🎀

Rating: Mature

Category: F/M

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler

Relationship: Sebastian Michaelis/CielsCousin!Reader

Characters: Sebastian Michaelis; Reader

Summary: You visit your dear cousins manor in the countryside to get a well deserved break from the humdrum exhaustion of the city after an illness. What you do not expect from your quaint retreat is the start of an exhilarating illicit affair with the butler. But taboos mean nothing when lust love transcends human norm.

Additional Tags: Fluff and Smut; Sex; Vaginal Sex; Eventual Smut; Neck Kissing; Kissing; Gentle Kissing; Surprise Kissing; Making Out; Implied Sexual Content; Phantomhive manor; Reader-Insert; Victorian

A/N: not beta read. We die like men.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1: 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔅𝔲𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔯; ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤

“My lady,” you hear a soft voice calling you, “My lady, you must wake up, it is morning.” You open your eyes. The sheets around you are soft, freshly laundered. Your head sinks into the large white pillow, and you take a deep breath that turns into a yawn and turn over to go back to a more comfortable position. But the voice rings out again. “Now, that won’t do at all...” You twist your neck toward the direction of the voice. The sound in meats your ears like the gentle beat of a raven’s wing. Shielding your eyes because of the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows, you squinted to see a dark black figure stood before the opened curtains around your bed.

Sebastian Michaelis; the imposing shadowy butler of your cousin, Ciel Phantomhive who’s estate you were staying at while you visited the countryside after your illness. This man’s efficiency left you in awe. Managing an entire household with three other servants, an old butler, and a young master who was still very much a child. His roles extended far beyond that of an ordinary butler, to that of baker, chef, driver and even a pseudo parent. Additionally, with his smooth, silky, jet-black hair and contrasting pale skin he looked rather like a vampire – one from the cheap romance novellas you would pick up from the bookstore to keep yourself entertained. You definitely wouldn’t mind him sinking his teeth into your neck. You had been inappropriately lusting after the man ever since he greeted you into the Phantomhive manor. He was gentle and helpful, and you had found yourself yearning for the feel of his hands upon your skin. Sebastian seemed to sense your longing and took it upon himself to torment you with his sly touches at every opportune moment. He took your hand to help you down stairs, tied your shoelace if he thought it wasn’t done up well enough kneeling in front of you, he even lifted you and took you to bed one night when you were feeling especially tired from the day’s activities. You had been mortified to have been treated in such a manner but when he had leaned down and kissed your ear whispering a soft goodnight you exploded on the inside. Ever since then, you had been thinking the lewdest thoughts about the man- who would often catch you staring at his back and would wink at you and laugh when you turned red. And often your fingers would slip between your thighs, to rub over your mound below in an attempt to quell the aching need.

“Your maid seems to have caught a slight cold my lady.” Sebastian speaks drawing you back to the present. He smiles. “I hope you don’t mind me standing in for her this morning. I wouldn’t want you to exert yourself so soon after having recovered from one illness.” His eyes crinkle and he tilts his head while his smile grows wider.

For a moment, you stare at him and then understand the implications of his words. Still not fully awake you muster up the energy to ask, “But, who is to help me with my dressing?”

“I’m pretty sure you will find me capable enough, my lady.” He says, still smiling. You sit up quickly. Heart pounding in your chest.

“Sebastian!” you expel in admonishment “Surely that would not be proper!”

Sebastian prowls over to the the edge of the bed and leaning down, says, “Would it be as improper as this my lady?” He plants those smooth pale lips onto yours. They burn hot against your cool pink ones. You feel his hand caressing your cheek. Your heart beats hard in your chest and you sit rigidly unable to process what is happening around you. Is Sebastian really kissing you? Are his lips truly on yours? 

But before you can fully digest what happened, he moves away. “Are you awake now my lady?” he asks. You touch your lips feeling incomplete without his warmth and nod. “Good.” He says. “I want you to be awake for this.” He smoothly takes off his black coat and lays it down on a chair, then his vest, then as he unbuttons his shirt he climbs onto the bed. “Impropriety has been a recurring thought in your mind, has it not my lady?” he says to you. He kneels down in front of you. You feel your heart beat – loud enough for the whole mansion to hear.

“Wh– whatever do you mean, Sebastian?” You feign ignorance, trying to ignore the loud pounding of your heart.

“Don’t be coy my lady.” He smirks, his body almost enveloping you on the bed and playing with the string on the neck of your nightgown. He pulls it – untying the bow that your maid had made the night before. So smooth. His movements flow like a stream of water. Almost inhuman. You look into his eyes knowing that however improper it may be, you wanted the man. You wanted him in the basest way that a human may want a human. He cups your cheek in his hand and you can’t help yourself, you move forward to feel his burning lips against your own once again. He runs his fingers through your soft hair and wraps his arm around your torso pulling you closer. You pull off his already unbuttoned shirt. The heat of his body penetrating your thin nightgown. He presses his body against yours, kissing you, a hunger in his movements like no other you knew. His fingers reach your breast and he kneads it roughly. His tongue seeks entrance at your mouth. You open up readily, moaning softly at his touch. He tastes spicy yet at the same time sweet; it reminds you of chocolate a rare taste for such a rare man. Wanton moans drip from your throat and you just want more and more. Your head feels heavy—intoxicated. 

You close your eyes and pull him closer. He’s lean, yet you can feel hard muscle under the skin. Sebastian holds the bottom of your nightgown and looks at you with heavy lidded eyes.  “Are you sure about this my lady?” For a moment you think you see them flash a dangerous red but shake it off seeing them their regular brown.

You close your eyes and nod, biting your lower lip. It is what you want. Damn all the restrictions of society. Damn it all. It was your body and here was a man who made it writhe and respond on its own accord – without your control. You wanted him to feel you, touch you, make love to you. And you knew, he would appreciate you to the fullest – you would bloom like a flower beneath his touch.

A/N: This was originally posted on AO3 back in 2017. Since then much time has passed and i wasn't feeling the motivation to continue this series, but now with this resurgence of Kuro I would like to take this series up again. I am posting it here now, with changes made and small edits. Just to make it a better read while still keeping my original story intact. I hope you've enjoyed. As always, Likes and Reblogs are much appreciated and Comments will earn you kisses.

Masterlist

[isaacarellanesismyhusband]

i can’t believe it

pair: Draco Malfoy x pregnant!reader requested by anonymous

hi i have a request. can you do draco x pregnant reader? like how he’d handle it and how his parents would treat you? thanks!

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Draco Malfoy was never one to back down from a challenge. But as he sat there in the cozy living room of Malfoy Manor, staring at the little white stick in his hand, he realized this was a challenge of a completely different kind. The positive sign staring back at him filled his heart with a mix of fear and excitement. You were pregnant.

He glanced over at you, sitting nervously beside him, eyes wide with anticipation. You looked at him, your hands trembling a bit. “Draco?” you whispered, almost scared of what he might say.

But Draco didn’t say anything at first. He just reached out and pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. “We’re going to be parents,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it.”

You relaxed into his embrace, relief washing over you. “Are you… happy?”

“Happy?” Draco pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grey eyes shining. “I’m beyond happy. I love you so much, and I’m going to love our baby just as much.”

There was a moment of silence as you both soaked in the reality of it all. But soon enough, another thought crossed Draco’s mind. “My parents… I need to tell them.”

Your breath caught at the thought. You knew that Draco’s parents, especially Narcissa, could be a bit… intimidating. And Lucius, well, he was a whole other story. You had no idea how they’d react to the news.

“Do you think they’ll be mad?” you asked softly.Draco shook his head firmly. “No. They love you. They’ll be surprised, sure, but they won’t be mad.”

And so, later that evening, Draco called for a family meeting. You both sat in the grand drawing room, waiting for his parents to arrive. When they did, Narcissa immediately noticed the nervous energy in the room. “Draco, darling, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

Draco stood, taking your hand in his as he faced his parents. “Mother, Father… we have some news.”

Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a look, before turning back to you both. “What is it, Draco?” Lucius asked, his tone calm but curious.

Draco took a deep breath. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment, the room was completely silent. You couldn’t even hear Narcissa breathe. But then, something incredible happened. Narcissa’s face broke into a smile—a real, genuine smile. “A baby?” she repeated, her voice filled with awe.

Lucius, too, was stunned, but the expression on his face was not one of anger. It was of realization—his son was going to be a father. Slowly, he nodded, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. “A grandchild,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Narcissa crossed the room in an instant, pulling you into a warm hug. “Oh, (Y/N), that’s wonderful news! How are you feeling? Have you been eating well? You mustn’t strain yourself.”

You blinked in surprise at the overwhelming concern in her voice, but you couldn’t help but smile as you hugged her back. “I’m okay, Narcissa. Really.”

Lucius joined his wife, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You’ll be a fine father, Draco,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

Draco, who had been bracing himself for a different reaction entirely, was suddenly filled with pride. “Thank you, Father.”

The next few months were a whirlwind of excitement. Narcissa was constantly checking in on you, making sure you had everything you needed. She even went as far as to hire the best healers to look after you, much to your surprise and appreciation.

Lucius, though a bit more reserved, made sure the Manor was equipped for the arrival of the newest Malfoy. He even found himself browsing through baby books in his study, something that made Draco chuckle whenever he caught him.

As for Draco, he was nothing short of perfect. He was always by your side, making sure you were comfortable, bringing you your favorite foods, and talking to your growing belly every night. He couldn’t wait to meet the little one who was already the center of his world.

One night, as you lay in bed, Draco’s hand resting on your bump, you felt the baby kick for the first time. You gasped, grabbing Draco’s hand. “Did you feel that?” you asked, your voice filled with wonder.

Draco’s eyes widened in awe as he felt the tiny movement. “I did,” he whispered, his voice filled with pure joy. “Our baby…”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we, Draco?”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “More than okay. We’re going to be amazing.”

[rebelliousstories]

Desperate Times and Desperate Measures

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by @infinityfandoms

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Fighting

Word Count: 1,505

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: She always said she would be about as useful as a wet paper bag in a fight. Good thing she never skips leg day.

Consider Donating: Here

“And who is this? I don’t think audiences have had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” The man in the red mask asked, looking at the woman behind Gambit. She looked up, startled at the sudden attention being brought to her.

“Um, hi.” She offered her name, but was still confused as to what was going on with these new people.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re ‘The Druid’ aren’t you,” Deadpool gasped, “sparkle hands.”

“Sure, I guess if that’s how you want to know me. Haven’t heard anyone call me that in years.” She turned back to her bandages that she was wrapping back up. There were footsteps coming closer to her, but someone stopped them.

“Until I know whatcha gonna be doin’, ya ain’t gettin’ no closer.” Gambit snaps, charging a card near the red masked man.

“Oh, I’m not going to do anything to her. I’m a fan really. From one person with a regenerative healing factor to another, I applaud you, my dear.” Wade clapped his hands together and bowed dramatically. She giggled and set down the bandages, before walking over to Gambit.

“We’re alright, hun. He’s just being friendly.” With a hand on his chest, the man turned and caught her eyes. Letting the energy fizzle out and back into his body, Gambit wrapped an arm around her waist to tug her close.

Later that evening, as they prepared to go to bed in preparation of the big battle the next day, she was checking and double checking her stash. Different salves, elixirs, and dressings were being packed away in her satchel to take with her. As she was placing the last bottles and jars in, hands creeped across her waist and pulled her back into a firm chest.

“Neva’ gonna get tired of seein’ you work like dis, chere. Amazes me each and every time.” Remy drawled, pressing kisses to her neck while she leaned back.

“All to make you guys better, hun.” She replied, loving the feeling of his affections.

“Listen, when we in da lair tomorrow,” he began, “you gonna stay back righ’? Stay in da car?”

“Of course, I am. You know I can’t fight.” Her snort made the man smile as he pressed a kiss to her head.

“Good. Don’t want you gettin’ mixed up in all dat.”

Her hands came in front of them, and both of their attentions were on it. In a matter of a few seconds, a magnolia blossom was blooming from her palm. Taking it from one hand to the next, she passed it back to her lover. He held it to his nose, and breathed in deeply. The sweetest scent flooded his senses. Gambit tucked the flower into the top of his chest plate, right near his heart.

“Everything is gonna be alright, Remy. We’ll be fine.”

Those seem like famous last words now.

She was staying in the background. Behind the car because she was just not going to stay in an on fire car for anything. So far, no one had noticed her and that was just how she liked it. Keeping an eye on her boyfriend and friends, the chaos around them almost made her lose the line of sight.

An explosion next to her gained her attention, and made her squeak in surprise. Thankfully, she was still virtually hidden from the rest of the fighting going on. Locking eyes on Gambit’s coat once more, she was shocked to see someone sneaking up on his. Of course, all the fighting and shouting made the odds more optimal, but it was still an incredible task to do that to him. When he did not seem to be turning and looking at the attacker behind him anytime soon, she knew she had to do something. Looking around her, she tried to find something that would draw both Gambit’s attention to the attacker, and the attacker’s attention away from Gambit.

So she threw a shoe. Some random shoe that had gotten blown off of someone was what she picked up to throw. And somehow, it worked.

“Uh oh. We done messed up now.” She muttered, seeing the new set of eyes on hers. Taking off, she began weaving through the structure. But that man was close behind.

Gambit only noticed when he heard the sound of footsteps running behind him. A card blew up the spot that those feet had stood in the second prior. Taking a look around, he noticed that there was someone now chasing his girl all through the maze of bars that was Cassandra’s lair. Remy took off after the person, while trying to look ahead to see where she was going. Somehow, he remained just out of range for his cards to reach.

Ducking into a corner, she breathed heavily as she tried to catch her breath. A stitch was deep in her side, and her claves were beginning to cramp, but she couldn’t not stop now. Her life, Remy’s life, depended on it. All the noise around them meant that she would not be able to focus on the bad guy’s movements even if she wanted to. Poking her head out of her hole, she breathed a sigh of relief as she did not see him immediately. But that changed when, from the other end of the apparent hallway, he dropped down. She was trapped.

There was nothing that she could use as a weapon nearby, and her powers were defensive; not offensive. Breathing hard, she tried to steel herself against the awful smile that the man was now sporting. A cool metal bar was digging into her back. Her heart was speeding up. If she fell from this height, she would survive, but her bag would not and that was a greater travesty in her opinion. However, she did not have these thoughts long as a flash of magenta flew in front of her and sparked in front of the man.

“Ain’t ya momma eva’ teach ya how t’ treat a lady?” Remy was here. He shot a wink over his shoulder to her, before going after the man. His bo staff was out and charged, but for some reason it did not seem to be slowing this man down. Finally, he got close enough to stick a card to him, that promptly exploded. But as he walked away, this man just got back up and began to heal again.

Gambit groaned, and struck three cards to the ground, before running and grabbing his girlfriend from the railing. As they fell, an aftershock of the explosion knocked them in the air. He tucked her head into his chest, and cushioned their way down. Landing on the hard ground, both of them groaned as pain shot through their bodies.

“You good, chere?” Remy asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was inspecting her face as his hands ran over the rest of her body.

“Yeah. You?” She replied, doing the exact same thing to him.

“Don’ worry about ol’ Gambit now. Gambit’s fine. I want you to go dat little hole in the side over der and stay der till I come get you.” The man pressed a kiss to her head, a brief one to her lips before rolling them over so he was on top. Slipping a card out from his pocket, he flicked it towards someone coming near, before getting up and joining the fray once more.

Once she had caught her breath, she did exactly what Remy had instructed of her. The little cave that she had found herself in allowed her to keep an eye on everybody, but stayed out of the fighting. She knew where her strengths lie, and she was definitely going to be most useful after the fight. As she watched, her mind kept forming different recipes and mixtures that she could use to help.

The fighting slowed until there was just a few people left. As the group finished them off, she stepped out briefly to watch their two friends jump into the glowing circle and away from the Void. As they disappeared, she ran over to her boyfriend and their friends. He welcomed her with open arms, and breathed a sigh of relief as they stood there.

Taking an assessment on her friends, she immediately set to work dressing some of the injuries that they had but could not heal properly. She felt Remy pat her shoulder lovingly as she was wrapping a spot on Elektra’s back. Turning to him, he just drew her in closer before allowing her to tend to wounds he may have gotten. This was a well oiled machine that had been established over the years.

As they piled into the Honda Odyssey after, their journey home was quiet. They did not know if they were going to be able to go home, or if they were stuck there forever. But one thing was for certain; that shoe was going to live in her head for a while.