#but he doesn’t know how to do that or even where he’s going in the first place | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trashytracktales · 1 day ago

Note

teammate!lando x reader where they had a bet and she loses…so he makes her crawl to her, hump the pillow, rub her bare clit against his clothed crotch ALL WHILE HE RECORDS HER (with consent ofc)

Lights, Camera, Action! | LN⁴

🔹️ summary ──── It was supposed to be a joke, then it became everything.

🔹️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x fem teammate!reader

🔹️ rating ──── explicit

🔹️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, nerdy!Lando, soft!dom Lando, recording (consensual), cushion humping, manhandling, orgasm from external stimulation, swearing, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, playful teasing, camera kink??

🔹️ word count ──── 6.3k

🔹️ date ──── May 6, 2025

🔹️ a/n ──── How tf do I set my intention to go for PURE SMUT NO PLOT, yet still manage to write over 6k 😀 I don’t even know what’s this, nothing makes sense and we are living on a floating rock.

Hear me out, I usually only link the song, but then I remembered about this music video and I almost had an aneurysm because of how well it fits. I recommend watching it after reading though. Anyway, ENJOY!!

youtube

THE LAST RACE before the break fucked them both. Pretty hard. What was supposed to end with another 1-2 finish for the team turned into a disaster of strategy, pace, and pure bad luck.

Since getting back to Monaco, the fallout hasn’t left them alone. It’s pretty hard when everyone is talking about it; it can get lonely, too. Luckily for them, they’ve been texting back and forth for days, laced with sarcasm, blame, and just enough flirtation to keep the tension at its peak. However, neither of them said what they really wanted to say. But it was always there, between the lines as usual, and in the way her name popped up on his screen, making his stomach flip.

Every single time.

The bar is loud enough to blur that tension and even Lando, with his no-alcohol rule, is loose and laughing. They dance and talk about anything but racing, and for a while it feels like neither of them are carrying the weight of disappointment.

Friends come and go through their circle, a few fans spot them and ask for pictures — which they take, grinning too wide and standing too close for their own good. Somewhere between the fourth round of mocktails, a familiar song starts pulsing through the speakers, and that’s when she brings up the bet, half-laughing, stepping in front of him like she did back in the garage when she dared him.

“If I finish behind you, I owe you a private dance,” she said, confidence dripping from every word. She��d qualified ahead of Lando, and was so confident she can finish ahead of him, too. But since every race is unpredictable and full of unknowns, she ended up taking the checkered flag after him.

It was a joke, anyway. But she can’t say with all her heart that she hasn’t thought about it at least a few couple of times. Besides, it’s Lando who’s been constantly reminding her throughout the past few days and, even if it was in jest, the curiosity made her spend hours staring at the ceiling of her room, imagining different scenarios.

Now, it’s late when the door to his apartment clicks shut behind them with a clean, satisfying noise. Lando tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl on the console with more force than necessary, and while the keys clatter, one nearly skids off the edge, forcing him to reach for it instinctively. She doesn’t say anything, although she can’t help but finding amusing that the inanimate objects always decide to act up only when her teammate’s patience seems so fragile.

The sudden movement makes Lando whine in exasperation as she watches him kick off his shoes and drag a hand through his curls.

The place is quiet, as if reflecting their inner agitation, silently burning within. He’s not bothering turning on more than a lamp, but it’s enough to bathe the whole living room in a pale silver glow, making everything seem even more intimate than it should be.

As they step further into the apartment, the same silence hits them both, because it’s not just the sudden absence of noise, but the weight of it. They’ve never been this quiet around each other before. Usually, they’re the chaos in the garage, either laughing too loud or teasing mid-debriefs, always bringing the kind of energy that makes their engineers roll their eyes but secretly love it. Now though, it’s the first time neither of them knows what to say. Or how to act.

“Cute place,” she says, partly to break the silence, but mostly because it really is. Spacious, stylish, not super tidy, but very Lando in that sense.

“You know you don’t have to make small talk, right?” he laughs. “It was a stupid bet to begin with, since I was always going to finish ahead of you anyway.”

Her jaw drops slightly at the cockiness in his tone. This is the Lando she knows and, in other circumstances, she would find his confidence hot, but right now it only makes her want to knock that look off his face. Or sit on it just to shut him up. Either works.

“Always eager to finish first? Got it,” the playful jab lands right where she intended without too much effort; it’s a split-second flicker in his expression, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his arms tense.

That’s the spot, she thinks. That’s where it bruises his ego, not because it’s crude, but because it’s enough to sting. Which only makes her want to push harder.

Lando’s grin flattens a bit. “Well, someone’s gotta lead the way,” he replies casually, even though he caught her double meaning phrase.

“Right. Leading the way because you can’t pace yourself,” she fires back.

He chuckles. “Sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t keep up.”

They’re toe-to-toe now, all bite and smirk and so much tension. She’s half a second from throwing a cushion at him just to knock that pretty smile off when she glances past his shoulder and, without another word, she steps forward, fingers brushing lightly against Lando’s arm as she urges him to move out of her way, wandering farther into his apartment like she owns the place.

“Interesting,” she mumbles. “I saw you with the camera before,” the girl continues as Lando turns to follow her silhouette. “How about you film me while I dance? Give you some new material for land0.mov?”

Lando’s expression twitches barely, but she’s still able to notice it. That small flash of disbelief, quickly masked by a half-laugh, like he’s not sure if she’s joking or just testing him.

“No way, mate,” says Lando, but it’s already too late.

She nods slowly, letting the weight of her intention settle in the air they share. His boyish smirk fades into curiosity in an instant. It’s like watching him put a helmet on: composed, dialed in, serious in a way most people rarely get to see.

To give him more space to process, she veers toward the low shelf by his TV, crouching slightly. “Let’s see. Which one’s your favorite?” she asks nonchalantly, running her fingers along the row of cameras lined up like little trophies; old film bodies, modern DSLRs, and a few point-and-shoots with scratched lenses.

Lando stares at her like she suddenly grew two more heads in the meantime. “You play too much, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Which one?” she repeats.

He blinks, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. After he rubs the bridge of his nose, Lando exhales slowly. “The, uh… the Leica. Second from the left. Black one,” he instructs. “I rarely use it, which makes it special, I guess.”

She lifts it delicately, turning it over in her hands. It’s heavier than she expected, sleek and cool against her skin. “Nice,” she grins. “Bet it makes everything look expensive.”

Lando hums in agreement, “Only shoots what’s directly in front of it. Look,” he says, getting so close to her that he’s now towering over her frame, while pointing at the camera. “Fixed lens, see? No lazy zooming, but the resolution is insane. The tricky part is that you have to move it yourself to get the shot you want,” he continues.

She looks up at him, noticing a slight shy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And, just when she thought Lando couldn’t get any nerdier, she hears his voice again.

“It’s a twenty-eight millimeter lens. That’s not crazy wide,” he informs her. “If you stay in the middle, the background’s gonna fall off all soft and blurry. Makes it feel…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “Personal. It’s not even about perfect framing or whatever,” he rushes to add. “It just catches whatever’s there, no hiding.”

“Did you use it before?” she asks, curiosity pulling the words out of her mouth without having the time to think them through.

“I did,” he replies with a grin, giving her enough time to come up with her own scenarios before adding, “On my cars.”

She smiles, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room. “So. If I move, you have to follow, hm?”

Lando nods.

She sets the camera down gently, then leans against the wall beside the shelf with her arms crossed. She’s aware that what she’s suggesting it’s pure insanity, especially after what’s been happening between them lately.

“Okay,” she finally says, holding her hand toward him, palm open. “Can I see your phone for a sec?”

Lando frowns, trying to hide a curious smile. “Why?” he asks, sliding the phone from his pocket and unlocks it, handing it over with suspicion in his voice.

She only flashes him a smile back, thumbing through his apps until she finds the little Spotify icon. A few seconds later, the speakers come alive with a sultry bassline that wraps the room in a charged ambiance.

The teasing in her voice is easy to catch next time she asks, “You seriously have a sex playlist called sex playlist? Men are so predictable.”

He chuckles, “Yeah? What’s yours called?”

“I’ll send you the link,” she winks at him jokingly, but that still has an unexpected effect on Lando. Maybe because he’s starting to understand that his teammate is hardly ever joking, actually.

For a second that feels like a week, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches her, every muscle in his body taut like he’s holding himself back from something that’s about to come out anyway. It has to. Because everything has a limit, and theirs was crossed from the moment she entered his apartment.

With a quiet exhale, she presses herself lightly against the wall, then pushes off and crosses the living room in steady, cat-like steps, taking his hand in hers, fingers threading through his. Her touch is warm and somehow reassuring, her palm so small and silky against his. She guides Lando toward the couch with intent as if this isn’t his own home, nudging him gently until he sits.

She breaks away then, walks back across the room, and returns with the Leica in hand. “Turn it on,” she says simply, with enough clarity behind her words.

Lando stares at her, dumbfounded for a beat, before the corner of his mouth twitches upward in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I trust you to capture the best in me,” she admits.

He lets out a heavy breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and flips the switch at her insistence. The familiar click of the camera waking up is giving Lando chills, but when he glances up again, his hands still adjusting the ISO, she’s already pulling the shirt over her head, revealing a black bra and her toned shoulders dusted in the dim light.

She tilts her head. “Just make sure I look good, Lando.”

With that, she starts moving as slow as possible, every inch of revealed skin feeling like it’s offered, not given.

Lando’s hands are steady on the camera, but for some reason, breathing doesn’t feel automatic anymore, and he’s currently aware of every shaky breath he takes. His fingers work on instinct, dialing the aperture wider, letting in the glow of the cool lighting. His pulse is racing, heavy in his throat, because he can see everything through the lens, but is still not ready to look at her in the flesh.

For her, it’s easy to notice how focused he is, so she glances straight into the camera on purpose, with a spark of mischief in her gaze, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. To him. As a result, Lando’s knee starts bouncing, restless, his breathing too shallow to be subtle. He can’t remember the last time he felt so tightly wound, but it doesn’t even matter because what happens now will stay with him for a long time, and this is all he needs to remember from now on.

And then, it gets worse.

He stares at her while she’s arching slightly as she undoes her bra clasp, letting it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor without breaking eye contact with the camera. At that, Lando looks away out of instinct — out of that last shred of decency clawing at him. But the camera stays trained on her, and when he lifts his gaze again, it’s like a dam breaks inside him. Violently. The hunger that flashes across his face is instant, and impossible to hide. He doesn’t even try, because what fool could ever take his eyes off her?

Lando adjusts himself without thinking, moving in sync with her teasing gestures as she peels her panties down her legs from under her skirt. He tells himself to stay focused and capture the sensuality of her body with the last fragment of professionalism that he possesses. But that’s a losing game when his own body is burning with need, and every subtle curve and line of her turns into a map that he’s desperate to explore as soon as possible.

His focus lingers on the swell of her breasts, her nipples tightening in the open air. It forces him to swallow hard, a deep ache growing both inside him and his pants, knowing how badly he wants to lean forward and suck them into his mouth, to feel the heat of her skin against his tongue.

The camera dips lower as she dances to the hypnotic rhythm of his music, and Lando keeps working with her, baring the elegant slope of her waist and the strong lines of her thighs. The way she stands there, so natural and confident, feels like a direct hit to his chest that he welcomes without hesitation or any intention of dodging. She’s pure femininity, and that throws him into a black hole made only of her, where the gravity is so strong that there’s no escape.

He’s so focused on her that he almost stops breathing in order to make sure he gets the perfect shot, every shot. That makes Lando’s hand tighten around the camera, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. But his body has a mind on its own, apparently, and his thighs flex like he’s one wrong move away from standing. From closing the distance between them. Against his will, though, he sits there, shivering with the effort to stay still.

“Come on, Norris,” she says, and her voice wakes him up from the trance her shapes put him in. “I’ve seen you take tighter corners at Spa with less hesitation.”

Even though he tries to, he can’t stop the throaty laugh that comes out of him. Only for a moment, Lando lowers the camera again, and lets himself, finally, finally, see her. And this time, he doesn’t look away. He watches her shamelessly, while reaching behind him to take a cushion that he ends up tossing onto the floor near his feet, nodding toward it.

“Go on, then. Show me how desperate you are.”

There is something about the way he says it that sends a thrill straight through her. She heard that Lando is direct when it comes to his wants and needs, but to feel it on her skin hits different. Her pulse suddenly stutters with excitement as she lowers herself in front of him, straddling the cushion, her body already anticipating the liberating feeling.

The moment her hips roll forward and her mouth falls open in surprise at the faint pleasure, Lando is right there, capturing every gasp, every twitch, and every sweet reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. His mind runs wild with all the places he aches to touch — his hand curled around her throat, palms squeezing her breasts, fingers digging into her hips to hold her still while he teases her until she begs.

The temptation claws at him, full throttle. But he forces himself to handle the camera like a pro, because more than anything, he wants her to see what he sees: how devastatingly beautiful she is like this, undone and bold. Through his own lens, she’s a vision, and giving her that full picture keeps him going.

From her perspective, noticing Lando’s determination sends a fresh wave of heat throughout her body, making her rock her hips a little harder, and that puts a tension in his shoulders. A type of need he didn’t feel before.

To stop herself from making more embarrassing sounds, she meets his gaze over the camera, mouth slightly open. “Is this good?” she asks, voice breathy and half-mocking, although there’s something real underneath. A dare. A plea.

Lando looks at her again, revealing a flushed face and his blown wide pupils. “Yeah, don’t stop,” he replies hoarsely.

Her thighs squeeze around the cushion from the moment she hears the first note in voice, the soft fabric teasing against her clit with every slow roll of her hips, pulling breathy sounds from her. Behind the camera, Lando tails closely as she grinds back and forth, his jaw clenching at the small sounds slipping past her lips.

“Shit, that’s hot. Are you always this needy?” he asks out of pure curiosity, but the question is mostly rhetorical; of course she is. Judging by the way her chest heaves and how she leans forward slightly to catch as much friction as possible, the answer is obvious.

She wants to push back against the power shift, but she’s too lost in the rhythmic movement of her body. And it’s not as if Lando’s wrong. Every gentle brush gets increasingly out of control, each desperate grind into the cushion sending small waves of pleasure straight to her nerves, making her fingers curl into the couch for balance. For the control she’s rapidly losing.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, mouth constantly parting as the pleasure spirals inside her like a coil wound too tight.

Lando’s fingers flex over the shutter release, but he’s barely present anymore. He’s completely absorbed by what is happening on the other side of his lens, and it’s her moan that pulls him out of it, just as the pressure builds. So he reaches out, his hand entering the frame like an unexpected guest. With ease, his fingers grab the edge of the cushion beneath her, and she pauses, blinking up at him, flushed and dazed, breathing heavily like she just stepped out of the car after a last-lap push. With one strong pull, he slides it out from under her, making her gasp in surprise, her body jolting at the sudden loss.

“Lando,” she exhales irritated.

She gets her hands onto his knees to steady herself, thighs still wobbly, but he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s too busy staring at the soaked fabric instead, darkened with heat and want and everything she didn’t say out loud.

“That good?” he asks, but the arrogance in his voice diminished, giving way to his sincere curiosity.

She shakes her head, looking up at him again. “Not faking it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The fact that she is as sincere in her statement, encourages Lando to take things to the next level, just to see how much he can push before it’s too much. He throws the cushion aside with a thud, his eyes lit up with need.

“Come here,” he orders in a gentle tone, patting his lap.

She’s stunned at his words initially, and the way they leave no room for teasing. But then she catches the way his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, leaving it wet and shining, and something inside her pushes her to get up. She realizes that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do if he asked.

With calculated steps, she climbs him patiently, her thighs spreading over him. They’ve been in each other’s personal space in the past, when they had to do silly challenges for McLaren to entertain the fans. Still, even though there’s a camera between them just like before, the air feels different, charged with desire, unknown, and heavy lust. Because this time, it’s just them.

When her body sinks onto his, the scabrous fabric of his jeans meets the soaked warmth between her legs, the weight making Lando groan silently, his little sound hitting her low in her stomach. His reaction encourages her to continue, shifting on top of him in order to find the best position, enough to grind against his bulge. It’s thick and hard beneath her, and the simple contact is already maddening. Yet not nearly enough, and the realization that he’s just as affected by this makes the coil in her stomach tighten further.

“Keep going,” he speaks again as he lifts her skirt up to her waist, going back to the camera and angling it to capture the way she moves against him, right where her skin meets the fabric of his pants.

Her palm comes around his bicep for suport, letting the instincts guide her further. The pressure she chased a moment ago is still there, but it’s different this time around. More intense.

Lando grunts, his free hand gripping her hip to show her the pattern to follow. She whimpers while that sweet ache comes back, her body trembling with need. In no time, she can move on her own, and because she’s such a fast learner, Lando points the camera closer, eager to capture the wetness soaking through.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re making such a mess,” he exhales, bringing his hand between her legs to feel it before he could even process his own action. His thumb finds her clit, rubbing it gently, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, craving to catch every reaction.

She moans, one hand squeezing his arm harder as her body rocks forward, chasing the release that she hopes it’s not that far into the future, especially if his hips continue to twitch beneath her the way they do, so impatient and reliant on her.

Unfortunately, the time almost stops the moment their faces get close enough to kiss. She can feel the heat of his breath and the pull between them, and she’s sure he can feel it too. Her eyes flick to his mouth, and Lando’s eyes stay on her, but no one dares to close the small gap. Because somehow, that would be more intimate than all of this. Kissing would mean acknowledging what’s been burning between them for a while now. It would mean admitting this is real, and admitting will complicate everything in both their personal and professional lives.

And neither of them are ready to take that chance yet.

With that in mind, she doesn’t lean in. She just closes her eyes and grinds harder, her hips rolling against his hand and the hard line of his cock beneath her. The sensation amplifies fast, and Lando never stops working her with his thumb. Soon enough, her breath comes out in spasms and her thighs start to shake. Her pace intensifies, chasing the high that’s been teasing at the edges of her patience, feeling the mess she’s made slick against Lando’s pants with every desperate press on it. Still, his hand stays steady, rubbing perfectly against her clit, matching the rhythm of her hips like he knows exactly all the ways she wants — and craves — to be touched.

With Lando’s help, it doesn’t take long until her body finally seizes, hips jerking forward uncontrollably as pleasure crashes over her. He moves with her, a silent apology for stopping her earlier written into every precise touch, making sure this time she falls apart completely. Because of him.

Luckily, the camera captures everything: his hand on her, the wet spot she’s left on his pants, the way her skin flushes and seems to crave more with each passing second, and the way her thighs shake when the aftershocks hit. It catches the way she starts trembling, too, body overwhelmed, aching for something deeper, something only he can give her right now.

Only he gives her time to ride it out instead, feeling all the ways her walls flutter, hungry and empty, and the sound that tears from his throat is nothing but a helpless moan. The sensation alone, even without him inside her, is enough to make his head spin. It wrecks him completely, makes him ache with the violent need to know how it would feel to be buried deep inside her, to have her tight, needy pussy squeezing around him while she comes undone all over again. Because of him.

The girl barely registers the camera being placed in her hands until Lando nudges her chin. “Here. See for yourself.”

Except, she doesn’t want it. Not yet. By her own choice, she takes it gently from his hand, presses RECORD again and turns it around, placing it on the padded arm of the couch. Facing them. Remembering Lando’s voice earlier, casual and offhand when he said that the camera only captures what’s in front of it.

Her fingers move impatiently, drifting to the hem of his shirt, bunching it in her hands. “Since you let me finish first,” she rushes to explain.

With that, she pulls the shirt up, and he lifts his arms to help her, muscles tightening under skin slick with the faintest sheen of sweat. Once it’s off, she tosses it to the side, her eyes drinking him in. Lando is warm under her palms, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, and she senses the same tension in him that’s barely holding him together.

She studies his face while her hand drifts lower, trailing down the center of his stomach, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Carefully, she slips her hand inside, where she finds him hot and so painfully hard that it makes her mouth water. Without any instructions, her fingers curl around his soft skin, and the sight alone makes his stomach flip. She starts to stroke him teasing, but before she can go quicker, Lando grabs her wrist, groaning low in his throat.

“Just a sec,” he pants, voice cracking slightly. His hands are already moving, guiding her hips back over his lap with a need that borders on desperation.

This time, there’s no fabric between them, and her soaked heat presses directly against his length, making them both shuddering at the contact; skin on skin and no more barriers, just the unfiltered reality of what they both want. His hands find home on her hips, big and heavy, his control hanging by a thread.

Agonizingly slow, her clit slides along his hardness, slick and warm, sending sharp jolts of pleasure from one body to another. He can barely contain himself at the way she finds it so easy to rock against him, faster when she feels how thirsty Lando gets in a matter of seconds. He’s leaking already, the head of his cock glistening, smearing against her folds as she moves.

Completely flushed and utterly drunk with pleasure, he shifts beneath her, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, pulling her closer, even though there’s no physical space left between them. But it’s useless. No matter how close they are, there is only one way that would truly satisfy his urge.

“Please,” he whispers next to the shell of her ear, desperate and breathless. “Can I slide in?”

She’s a lost cause by now, and her reply is reduced to a broken hum, while she sits up just enough to guide the thick head of his cock to her entrance. Lando’s patience snaps at her quick response, and he thrusts his hips up in one motion, his hands holding her hips and pulling her down onto him at the same time. The stretch is overwhelming and takes her by surprise, knocking the wind out of her and making her vision blur at the edges as she tries to take all of him.

They moan together, helpless, her hands landing on his chest as she laughs shakily. “You trying to break me in half or?”

“Didn’t think you’d be so tight,” he groans in a strained voice.

Lando tries his best to take it slow, but the way she welcomes him, so warm and perfect, nearly undoes him the moment he’s all in. A shudder runs down his spine as he grips her hips with more force, thinking maybe if he doesn’t hold her right, the world will actually end.

And it may, based on how her hands are sliding up, clawing at his shoulders with her nails digging in to anchor herself. Her breath shudders out in short bursts as she does, her body struggling to adjust, to take everything he has to offer. All of him.

To test the waters, she starts circling her hips, hoping she’ll find the angle that makes her breath hitch, and when she does, it’s like lightning strikes between them. He’s impossibly deep, touching places inside her she didn’t even know could feel this good. Her pussy hugs him so tightly that Lando has to grit his teeth to shut himself up. Then she tilts her hips forward just slightly with every grind, rocking her clit perfectly against his pelvis while he’s buried inside her.

The effect she was looking for is instant, and she hears Lando choking on another moan, finally, “Fuck, yeah. Right there,” his fingers dig into her skin, hunger battling in his wide eyes. “Do that again, it feels so fucking good.”

“Shit, Lando,” she breaths out. “So deep, I can feel you everywhere.”

She pulls him in again and again, until he is practically whining beneath her. Seeing Lando so lost inside her makes her losing the rhythm, her breathing turning ragged, thighs ready to give up as exhaustion and pleasure blur into one. It’s messy and greedy on both sides, and when she finally collapses against his chest, she sobs out a cry, her voice cracking with it.

“Need you,” she exhales. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

Lando doesn’t waste a breath. One sharp, hungry movement and he’s planting his feet against the floor for leverage, thrusting up into her with everything he’s got. She gasps at the same time he groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating between them as he finally takes her the way they’ve both needed.

Her mouth goes dry.

His jaw tightens.

Their breath grows heavier, shared in the tight, sweaty space. Her body tenses, then squeezes around him with such perfect pressure it leaves him breathless. A high-pitched moan spills from her, unexpected and honest, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, biting at it in order to shut herself up.

Gently, Lando catches her wrist, holding it firm. “If you’re gonna bite something,” he tilts his head, offering his shoulder, “Be a good girl and bite me instead.”

Her breathing is too fast and her mind runs at the speed of an F1 car. She can’t think straight and, for a moment, she just stays there, her forehead brushing the curve of his shoulder as she tries to catch herself from falling in too deep. Then slowly, like she’s giving in to something bigger than her, she places a kiss on his skin. Her lips press gently on it, trailing along the line of his neck to the dip of his collarbone. It’s the closest thing she’ll ever give him. The closest thing to letting herself feel for him.

He’s still warm, salty with sweat, and soft under her lips. And he smells so good, like skin and heat and something clean that clings to her nose and settles in her chest like smoke.

It drugs her.

The way his scent mixes with the feel of his breath against her temple, the way his pulse flutters beneath her lips — she has to stop. It’s too much, too close, too real.

“Think we should bet every race weekend, what do you say?” asks Lando, his pace quickening, hands guiding her up and down his cock like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. “Would die to have you like this all the time, hm?”

“Mhm,” she grinds down until his name is all she can say. “Fuck. I’m so close.”

“Yeah, baby. I feel you.”

Her voice breaks off into a moan right when she’s about to speak again, to tell him not to go there and call her that. But Lando rolls his hips, pushing deeper, filling her inch by inch until there’s no space left, which shuts her up in an instant. They fuck in a rhythm that shouldn’t work, all sweat-slicked skin and shaky breaths. The air fills up with obscene sounds of them, their bodies colliding with enough force to make her whimper and moan his name all over again, each time he thrusts.

To help himself, he spreads her wider, holding her open for him, watching the way he disappears inside her, utterly wrecked by the sight. “Taking me so fucking well,” he says between thrusts, dragging his mouth over her jaw. “Look.”

She whines while looking down at where they’re joined. Lando moves his gaze on her expression with a grin on his face, so proud when he feels every spasm in her body; it’s a total mess. Her slick is all over him, coating his cock, his thighs, soaking through the waistband of his jeans that are still shoved only halfway down his hips. Each time they meet, there’s a wet sound echoing between them, sticky and warm, ricocheting against the walls in Lando’s living room like a drumbeat pulling them closer to the edge.

“You like how wrecked you’ve got me?”

She nods frantically, squeezing him so tight it makes Lando see stars. At that, he reaches up, brushing the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears with his long fingers. His hand stays there a moment, continuing to slide lower, fingertips skimming her jaw, then wrapping gently around her throat, enough to feel her pulse. To hold her in place.

In a matter of seconds, their eyes lock again. Her chest heaves and her eyes shine, but not just from pleasure. It’s because she wants to tell him that this isn’t what she expected. It’s much, much more, and it will leave a deep mark, no matter which path they’ll choose to take tomorrow morning.

His hands move hungrily, down from her neck to her chest, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. He holds them carefully, wanting to memorize the shape, the weight, and the way they fill his palms, to make sure he won’t forget a single detail about her body.

“Lan,” she warns.

Lando hums, “Mhm. Right there with you, beautiful,” he assures her.

Her breathing is jagged, the rhythm of their hips desperate, chasing the edge that’s been teasing them since the moment she sank down onto him. Every motion drives him deeper, sends wave after wave crashing through her, because she’s right there for quite a while now.

“Hi there,” Lando’s voice brings her back. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, gently pulling her to see her face. “Look at me, I want to see you. Let me see you.”

Her body tenses, and just for a split second the frantic rhythm stutters, then finds its pace again as the orgasm rips through her with a blinding force. She keeps her eyes on his the whole time, riding it out with her hands burried in the curls at the back of his head. His hips jerk beneath her as he throbs inside her, overwhelmed by the way she fights to keep him in. It drives him crazy, and he moans loudly, trying to pull out, but her thighs close tighter around him.

“Inside,” she rushes to say, unable to form sentences longer than one word.

Lando’s jaw clenches so hard he feels like his teeth might snap from the force, every muscle in his body pulled tight and shivering. He holds on by a thread for half a second longer, but then her body flutters around him again, and with a loud, guttural gasp, he lets go, spilling inside her in thick pulses that only make her hold him tighter. His hands shake where they clutch at her hips, trying to pull her down even harder, like he can’t bear even a sliver of distance between them right in this moment.

None of them knows how much time passes like that, but neither of them moves again. She’s stays slumped against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, while his arms stay locked around her waist, as if letting go might break whatever just happened between them.

Lando presses his cheek on the top of her head, his heart hammering so hard he’s sure she can feel it. But it’s fine, because he can feel hers, too.

His hands drift up and down her back in aimless strokes and, while she starts to come back to herself, she notices the music still playing softly around them, the same sultry beat from earlier floating through the air.

Her brows pinch together in confusion before realization hits. “How the fuck did you time your playlist so perfectly?”

Lando lets out a breathless laugh, “Talent.”

She snorts, dropping her head back onto his shoulder with a groan. “Goodness gracious, it is so hard tolerate you.”

“Liar,” he says, “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the way her cheeks heat up gives her away immediately. Lando laughs under his breath again, cocky and so annoyingly right. She opens her mouth to fire back, to tell him that no, she definitely doesn’t want to kiss his smug ass, but then her eyes catch the little red light blinking from across the couch.

The camera. Still recording.

She nudges him softly, grinning against the flush in her cheeks, and points at it. “Smile and wave, Norris,” she whispers, and Lando immediately flashes the most ridiculous smirk at the lens, making her laugh for real this time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

899 notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 13 hours ago

Text

♡ TW: nsfw, rough sex, choking, expensive sex worker!reader, sorta toxic relationship, age-gap

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about the ruthless kingpin, owner of the city's most high-end escort business…

The one who took you in when you were still only a sorry street wretch—a child who fought with rocks over scraps before he taught you women didn’t need to draw blood in order to win.

Oh, and he taught you well... How you could make fools out of men, but never of him, with only a weaponized look in your eye.

You were a fast learner, too. The type of fast you only see in people who enjoy what they’re learning. You had fun slipping on those tiny dresses and heels, going out prowling for filthy rich men you could make your happy victims. You’d come away with their money and their thanks and seemed to bask in every second of it.

Back then, you were hungry. But too soon, it became too easy, and too soon, you realized money was a dull thing that would quicker leave you feeling sick to your overfull stomach than satisfied.

You used to think you could buy a house and call it home, but you’ve since learned it doesn’t work that way.

So you always come back to him. Home-sick little thing that you are.

You wear his shirt and coy eyes, crawling into his lap, daring him to fuck you now that you’ve made yourself so priceless.

“Think you can still afford me, old man?” you ask, looking at him through that sly smile he taught you to perfection so many years ago.

“Brazen,” he scoffs. “But coming crawling back here with your tail tucked between your legs isn’t exactly a good sales pitch, little girl.”

Sighing, he acts as if he isn’t interested—and by god, how you missed getting played with like that.

“I thought I taught you better than to show people what a wretched street cat you used to be, and yet here you are, begging me for the same scraps.”

You moan with aggression, a gleeful smile splitting your painted lips, looking at him with a twinkle in your eyes whilst purring, “Mmh, how I missed your dirty talk. Nothing gets me wetter than watching you deny how you don’t wish you’d collared me when you still had the chance.”

He scoffs then, half-mast eyes watching as you unhurriedly unbuckle his belt for him. In his lap like a loyal pet. “Why would I put in the effort when you come back to me so willingly?”

“You trust me that much? That while you take your afternoon nap, I won’t find myself someone else to entertain me.” Your smile doesn’t waver, nor do your hands, and how they work oh-so-painfully slow at unbuttoning him, taking your sweet time, baiting him both with your actions and with your words. “I mean, you’re getting on in your years... I’m not sure how much longer you can keep up.”

That does it, of course. Older than you or not, he’s got the strength of a bull and the stamina of one who’s seen red, grabbing you by the fat of your ass as he springs up and strides to the bed where he all but tosses you down.

You only giggle and receive him, ready for your punishment like a convict pleading guilty. Feeling the same type of urgency take you when he bears over you, you rush to unbutton his shirt, attacking each other with tongue and teeth.

He tugs you close by the hips and doesn’t wait for any word of consent before filling you up.

Your eyes roll back, digging your painted nails into the muscles of his back and locking your legs behind him, thinking it feels nothing short of homecoming the way he stakes his claim as if he owns you.

“Playing games even when you know you’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his fist finding its way around your throat, squeezing tight. “Say it.”

He owns you. He made you. Sculpted you with his bare fucking hands. You’ll never escape him. And you know it, so you should admit it with your chest. You’re his. No matter how many others you may go out hunting at night, you’ll always come back to your owner to present the kill. So be honest. His grip on your throat tightens. He owns you.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

All movement stills—breaths and all—hanging poised in the air as if stuck in the suspension. His heart flinches within his chest, rifts with hope so brutal it’s reminiscent of terror.

It hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear, nor was he aware he’d even wanted to hear it, and still, even now, he’s a little unsure as this feeling within is something he’s never before felt but always dreaded, and yet here you are, taking him by surprise.

You’re betraying the game the two of you’ve been playing. Throwing the knife away and asking him if he won’t do the same. But you’re not supposed to do such silly things. You’re supposed to have more pride than that. You’re supposed to be fangs and all, not soft-spoken confessions and those big eyes full of raw hope that bring him to his knees. Oh no, what have you done?

“Then marry me.”

Oh no, what have you made him do?

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Enji, Aizawa, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

502 notes · View notes

camarei · 3 days ago

Text

the cashier looked worried as kento rushes inside the establishment panting.

“hello...” he muttered as he catches his breath. holding out a little note with some rushed scribbling on it.

“hello, are you alright?” the cashier replies, clearly alarmed by his state.

“yes,” he makes a gesture on his hand signaling the woman to wait, “do you... do you happen to have a whole block of fondant?”

“a whole block—what do you need it for?” the woman looks up at him with a confused look.

“it’s my wife. my wife needs it.” he says finally steadying his breathing.

“a whole block of fondant seems a bit too much for baking...” the cashier replies.

“s’not for baking. my wife wants to eat it. please, i’ll pay you for how much you bought it...” he looks... desperate?

“right, let me bag it up for you...” the woman briefly leaving him and then quickly coming back.

“here you go, would that be all?”

kento browses the list.

“sprinkles. a whole bag of sprinkles.” he sighs.

“i don’t think we have anymore stock—”

“please... s’all i can do for her.”

the cashier leaves the register as she goes to the kitchen, coming back with a bag full of sprinkles.

“is this enough...?” she says holding out the bag for him to see.

“yes, thank you...” he let out a heavy breath as he pays for everything, leaving a big tip.

before he went inside your shared home, he checked everything on the list.

doughnuts

fondant

sprinkles

peanut butter

everything’s sorted out.

he opens the door to see you, quietly watching some cheesy romantic movie.

“hey, sweetheart.” he softly muttered, going straight to where you’re sat.

“hi, ken. where have you been?”

he doesn’t say anything as he pulls out everything he bought.

“whatever my wife and daughter wants, they get.” he whispers as he rubs soothing circles on your stomach.

you pout, your eyes getting glassy.

“kento, i love you... so much!”

“mhm. i love you, too. now stop crying, love.” he chuckles, using his handkerchief to wipe your tears away.

“it’s the hormones, okay? also, it’s still too early to know the gender... what do you mean by ‘daughter’...” your voice shaking as you sniffle.

“i just know that it will be a girl...” he kisses your forehead, placing a hand on your tummy. “now, now. enough crying and eat, dear. the whole bakery even gave me weird looks as i bought those. but, anything for my pretty girl.”

swu’s note: i saw this tiktok and figured that it’s perfect with kento n his pregnant wife. credits to @/fromscratchbaker on tiktok for the idea !

891 notes · View notes

formulaonecrumbs · 2 days ago

Text

till death do us part 🥀

Lando Norris x deceased!reader (is that a thing idk)

summary: lando grieving the death of the love of his life

warnings: pure angst, death, grief, cause of death never mentioned, depressed lando

A/N: i don’t even know why i wrote this. it’s old, and i had one of those anxiety spirals where i kept picturing ppl i love passing away and i just bawled and bawled until i wrote this (then bawled some more) BUT I HOPE U CRY TOO :p enjoy (or don’t), u beauts ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

lando doesn’t remember the last thing you said to him.

not really.

he’s replayed your voice so many times in his head since you left that the truth’s gotten all tangled up with the imaginary — the should-have-said, the could-have-been. maybe it was something small, something boring, like “don’t forget to take the bins out.” maybe you told him you loved him. maybe you didn’t say anything at all. it’s all static now. a fuzz of memories he can’t quite grip.

he wishes he could go back. rewind. hear your voice. just once. even if it was yelling. even if it was just you asking if he wanted tea. anything.

he wakes up most mornings forgetting you’re gone.

there’s still two mugs on the drying rack. your toothbrush is still in the cup. your side of the bed still sinks like you’ve just rolled off it.

lando doesn’t touch any of it.

he doesn’t let anyone else touch it either.

his friends try. connor, max, oscar — they come over sometimes. bring food he won’t eat. offer company he won’t ask for. they speak too gently. their eyes flinch when they say your name. they never stay long.

he likes it better that way. the silence.

the quiet feels closer to you than they ever could.

still, it hurts.

god, it hurts.

everything he does reminds him of you. you, who used to hum in the kitchen while making breakfast. you, who wore his oversized hoodies and laughed when they fell past your knees. you, who called him “pretty boy” with a grin and kissed the mole right next to his nose.

lando stares at your hoodie now, folded neatly on the back of the couch. he hasn’t worn it. he can’t.

he’s tried. once. sat on the floor and held it to his face, breathing you in until he choked on it.

you’re everywhere. and nowhere.

he can’t go back to the track. not yet.

his helmet still has the tiny heart sticker you put on it after that race in monza. “for luck,” you’d said. he wore it every session after that. now it sits untouched on a shelf. dusty. forgotten. like him.

sometimes he talks to you.

soft, one-sided conversations in the dark.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” he whispers into the void. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

he looks at your photo on the bedside table. it doesn’t answer.

lando doesn’t cry much. not anymore.

he did, for a while. for days. weeks. he cried until he couldn’t breathe, until his chest felt like it would cave in. now he just… aches. it’s quieter. but heavier.

your number is still saved in his phone. your messages, your voice notes, your blurry selfies — all still there. sometimes he opens them just to see the typing bubble. to pretend, for a second, that you’re still here. still coming home.

but you never do.

he scrolls through old videos. your laugh echoing in the background. your face popping into frame just to kiss his cheek.

lando presses play over and over. and over.

he doesn’t eat much. barely sleeps. the world outside his flat has kept moving but he’s still stuck in the moment he lost you.

he doesn’t remember the last thing you said to him.

but he remembers the way your hand fit in his.

he remembers the warmth of your forehead against his.

he remembers how you smelled like citrus and something floral and the shampoo you both shared.

and he remembers how the world shattered the second they told him you were gone.

there was no final kiss. no goodbye.

just silence.

and now —

lando sits alone in the flat you made a home, surrounded by the ghosts of everything he didn’t say.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re just in the other room.

but you never walk out.

you never will.

and that, more than anything, is what finally breaks him.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it’s been six months.

half a year.

lando knows because the calendar on the fridge still has your handwriting on the last day he ever saw you. a little smiley face next to the words movie night, finally. he’s never turned the page.

he still lives like you might come back.

your jacket’s still hanging by the door. your favorite cereal is still in the cupboard, untouched, but he buys it every week anyway. sometimes he opens the box and just stands there, staring at it. hoping he’ll wake up and hear your footsteps coming down the hall.

but the hallway’s always empty.

and he’s always alone.

lando went back to the track two months ago. he hated every second of it.

the first race without you was unbearable. your seat in the paddock was empty. his garage was too quiet. no smile waiting after quali. no arms around his neck after a podium.

he finished P5. they said it was a good result. strong comeback.

he didn’t care.

nothing matters now. not really. he drives because he has to. because people expect him to. but he doesn’t feel anything when the lights go out. not like he used to.

there’s no more joy in it.

just noise.

distraction.

people keep telling him you’d want him to be happy. to move forward.

what they don’t understand is — lando doesn’t want to move on.

he doesn’t want a new beginning. he wants you.

they say grief is a wave.

for lando, it’s a flood that never recedes. it drowns him quietly, every morning when he opens his eyes and realizes you’re still not beside him.

your absence lives in everything.

the playlists you made still play when he drives. his spotify wrapped was just you. your music. your voice in the background of voice memos.

you’re gone. but you’re everywhere.

and it’s unbearable.

lando avoids people now. his smile’s thinner. fake.

fans ask him to do your accent like he used to. he just laughs and changes the subject.

he hasn’t posted anything personal in months.

his camera roll is full of photos he can’t look at. videos he can’t bring himself to delete. you in the sun, you laughing, you in his hoodie.

you in every frame of his heart.

sometimes he dreams of you.

you’re always just out of reach.

always smiling.

never staying.

he wakes up shaking. empty. sometimes in tears, sometimes in complete stillness.

lando’s therapist says grief isn’t linear. that he’s doing okay.

but okay feels like a lie.

lando doesn’t remember the last time he laughed without feeling guilty. doesn’t remember what it’s like to be held and not feel the absence of your arms in comparison.

the flat is still yours. still smells like you, faintly.

some days he talks to the ceiling. some days he clutches your pillow and begs the universe to give you back.

most days, he just stares at the wall and breathes through the weight on his chest.

it doesn’t get easier.

it just gets quieter.

and the quiet is killing him slowly.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

one year.

twelve months without you.

lando never thought he’d make it this far.

not because he didn’t want to. not because he stopped loving life completely.

just because it all felt too heavy to carry without you.

but he’s still here.

and that feels both like a betrayal and a miracle.

your photo is still on his nightstand. a little more faded now. he talks to it sometimes, less often than before. not because he stopped needing you, but because the silence between his words hurts less than it used to.

he still misses you. with every heartbeat. but it doesn’t knock the wind out of him anymore.

not every time.

sometimes he even smiles at your memories now instead of crying.

like last week — he found a video you took of him in the kitchen, half-asleep, dancing like an idiot to some cheesy pop song. you were laughing so hard, the camera shook. he watched it three times. laughed with you. then cried himself to sleep.

progress.

his team has learned to stop tiptoeing around your name. they say it with softness now, not fear. they hang photos of his old races and leave the one of you kissing his cheek right there, in plain view.

lando doesn’t hide it anymore.

you mattered. you still do.

a few days ago, something small happened. something unexpected.

he was walking back from the store — headphones in, head down, hoodie up — when a little girl bumped into him by accident.

she looked up at him and said,

“you’re lando norris! my mum loved you! she made me watch all your races.”

past tense. loved.

he looked at the girl’s father standing a few feet away, eyes kind and full of something familiar.

grief.

loss.

he smiled. genuine. soft. like he understood. because he did.

he handed the girl a mini helmet keychain from his pocket — one he usually kept just for himself — and told her,

“thank your mum for that. she had good taste.”

they walked away.

lando stood there for a long time, staring at the sky.

he imagined you watching him from wherever you were, eyes warm. proud.

that night, he lit a candle.

sat on the floor. whispered into the flame.

“i miss you. i always will. but i’m trying.”

he meant it.

he still sets the table for two sometimes. he still wears your hoodie on the bad days. still listens to your playlist.

but he also lets the sunlight in now.

he opens windows. answers texts. sometimes he laughs — real, full laughter — the kind that doesn’t feel stolen.

lando knows now that he’ll never stop loving you.

but maybe that love doesn’t have to hurt forever.

maybe love, even in loss, can still grow.

and maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to live.

even without you.

especially because of you.

THE END :>

#formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #ln4 #lando norris angst #lando norris imagines #ln4 angst #ln4 mcl #ln4 x y/n #ln4 one shot #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you #angstiest angst

407 notes · View notes

batsovergotham · 2 days ago

Text

CHAPTER 1 PART 2

you agreed to spar and now you’ve basically dry humped in front of the royal guard

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+. dry humping, accidental voyeurism.

a/n: this chapter is mostly expository, other chapters will be a lot more nasty ;)

You move without hesitation. His stance opens for half a second, too wide, and you’re on him, using leverage, instinct, and sheer force of will. Your shoulder catches his, your boot hooks behind his ankle, and in one breathless twist of momentum, Emperor Mark Grayson is on his back.

He lands with a dull thud against the sparring mat, his cape crumpled beneath him, and before he can rise, you’re already there, straddling his waist, pinning him hard to the ground with one knee pressed to his ribs and the other leg braced for balance.

Your hand presses to his chest, palm-flat, stabilizing yourself. The other still holds your sword, but loosely now. The fight is over. You won. You didn’t even think. It was automatic.

And then you shift.

Just slightly.

Trying to find better balance, your weight drags across his hips, your thighs tightening unintentionally. The soft scrape of armor and fabric grinds you directly over him, your hips brushing down against his beltline as you adjust your center of gravity. It’s a fluid, mindless motion, like mounting a steed, like resetting for a throw.

You don’t notice.

Mark does.

He goes completely still beneath you, like a detonator just clicked under his spine. His breath hitches, just once, then stops entirely. His arms stay braced to his sides. He doesn’t move. Doesn't look away. But his eyes narrow, and a quiet tension creeps into his jaw. Every muscle in his body coils tight as cables.

You’re still perched over him, fingers splayed over the solid rise of his chest, sweat dripping from your temple, your thighs firmly gripping either side of his hips. You’re focused, serious, alert, completely unaware of how intimately you’ve seated yourself. How the rhythm of your body pressed into his has shifted from combat to something far more fraught.

“I think that counts as a pin,” you say, slightly breathless, frowning in concentration. “You didn’t even try to counter.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

You glance down, confusion knitting your brow. “...Are you alright?”

He blinks once. Slowly. Then exhales through his nose. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not moving.”

“Because if I do,” he mutters, voice tight, “you’re going to ask a question I won’t want to answer.”

That stops you. “What kind of question?”

Mark looks up at you now, dead-on, his blue eyes sharp, unreadable, locked on yours like they’re daring you to figure something out. But you don’t. You tilt your head, trying to read the tension in his face.

“I don’t understand,” you say honestly.

He nods once. “Yeah. I know.”

You shift again. Another small adjustment, trying to rise from him without slipping, but the motion brings your hips tight over his again, the pressure dragging slow across him as you brace yourself to stand. His jaw clenches harder. His hands twitch against the mat. Still unmoving. Still silent.

“I’m sorry,” you say, startled. “Did I–hurt you?”

“No,” he says, quick and low.

You study his face, still not fully understanding. “Is that a Viltrumite thing?”

He closes his eyes for a breath. “No. It’s a human one.”

You frown, leaning slightly back. “Should I get off?”

Mark opens his eyes, unreadable again. “Probably.”

You nod and move to dismount, carefully shifting your legs, but your heel slips on the edge of his cape, and once again your hips press down into his as you steady yourself. This time you feel it, a sudden tension, not in you, but beneath you. A hardness you weren’t expecting. Something solid, growing where you’re pressed tightest.

You freeze.

Mark doesn’t breathe.

You lift your head, wide-eyed. “Is that–” You pause. “Are you injured?”

His eyes flick to the ceiling.

“No,” he says, flat.

You blink. “Then, what is it?”

There’s a long silence.

You don’t know what you’re asking. Not really. But the question’s there, hovering like a live wire.

Mark finally looks at you again, slow and deliberate.

“You’re sitting on it.”

You stare at him blankly.

Then you really stare at him.

“Oh.”

Stillness stretches.

You glance down again, your hips still lightly settled against his. The feeling is strange, warm. Heavy. You don’t know why it feels good. But it does. Not in a sharp, electric way like battle adrenaline. It’s slower. Thicker. You can feel your pulse at the base of your throat, down your arms, between your thighs where your body rests against his. There’s something there. Something you’ve never encountered in training halls or battlefields.

“I don’t understand what I’m feeling,” you admit softly.

Mark closes his eyes for a beat. “I know.”

“I don’t want to get off yet,” you say, unsure why.

That makes his head snap back toward you.

“What?”

“I just… don’t want to move. Not yet. My body feels strange. Not bad, just–” you search for the word.

His fingers twitch against the mat. He still hasn’t touched you.

“You’re aroused,” he says bluntly.

You blink. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes.”

You study his face, your expression open, curious, completely free of shame or understanding.

“Do you feel it too?”

His jaw flexes. “Yes.”

“And it’s caused by me sitting here?”

“Yes.”

You shift again. Just a little. The pressure rolls through your core in a slow wave that makes your breath catch. Your thighs press tighter around his hips, not intentionally, and your body reacts without permission. A slow, hot pulse deep in your stomach. You like the sensation. You don’t know what to do with it. But you don’t want to stop it either.

Mark watches you. Still motionless. Still unreadable.

“I think I like it,” you murmur, surprised.

Mark exhales. “Yeah. Most people do.”

Another pause. You remain seated on him, hands now on both sides of his chest. You lean forward slightly, not on purpose, just curious, still trying to understand the feeling.

“Do we need to stop the spar?”

He speaks slowly, voice like steel wrapped in silk, “this hasn’t been a spar for the last five minutes.”

You blink. “Then what is it?”

Mark’s gaze drifts over your face, your flushed cheeks, parted lips, the way your body stays pressed down over him with growing tension neither of you is naming.

“I don’t think you want the answer to that.”

“I do,” you insist. “I want to know everything.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.

You shift again.

And he groans.

Not loud. Not deliberate. Just a soft, ragged breath that slips through his teeth when your hips roll over him one more time.

You feel it vibrate up through your thighs.

You freeze. “Was that a–?”

“Yes,” he says, eyes shut.

Your lips part. You lean down again, closer, hair falling forward.

“Is this still… arousal?”

He lets out a strained breath. “Princess, get off.”

“Why?”

“Because if you stay there any longer, this is going to stop being about sparring, or diplomacy, or anything else you came here to do.”

Your heart is hammering now, but not from fear. From some strange, exciting fire in your chest that you don’t understand, but want to. Your body wants to move again. You feel the ache building inside you. Your thighs clench tighter, instinctively, like your body’s ahead of your mind.

“I feel hot,” you whisper. “Inside.”

Mark stares at the ceiling, trying not to look at you.

“You’re turned on.”

You repeat the words quietly, trying them. “Turned on.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “And if you keep grinding on me like that, if you keep learning like this, you’re going to make me do something you can’t take back.

Your hips move again. A little slower this time. A little more aware. The pressure pushes right up against that pulsing heat between your legs, and your whole body tenses. Pleasure spills through your limbs, light and unfamiliar and so good it steals your breath.

A soft sound slips from your lips, high, trembling. You don’t even realize you’re making it.

Mark’s grip on your hips tightens just slightly. His fingers curl against the fabric at your waist.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at you like a man enjoying it. He looks at you like a man watching himself walk the edge of something dangerous.

You swallow hard. “Does this happen every time two people do this?”

“No,” he says. “Not like this.”

You shift again. Testing. Trying to understand. Your hips grind slowly down, the motion sending another wave of pleasure through your stomach, coiling lower this time, deep in your core. You feel your body clench around nothing. Your chest rises in a soft gasp. You don’t mean to moan, but you do.

It’s quiet. Honest. And it makes Mark’s eyes narrow sharply.

You lean in closer, your hands braced on either side of his chest. Your hair falls forward. You can feel the heat coming off his body, the way every part of him is still coiled beneath you. You feel his arousal, hard beneath you, pulsing where you straddle him. It makes your thighs clench again.

“I don’t think I want it to stop,” you admit.

Mark’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know it feels good.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flash. “Because I’m not going to be the one to take advantage of what you don’t understand.”

You stare at him, searching. “I’m not a child.”

“I never said you were.”

“But I’m not helpless.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re dangerous.”

That lands. It’s not insult. It’s truth. And the way he says it makes your pulse stutter.

You shift again, slightly, unconsciously, and the pleasure crests so sharply your legs tremble. You inhale hard through your nose, lips parting.

“It’s too much,” you whisper.

Mark closes his eyes again, breath shaking. “You’re close.”

“To what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move again, just a slow roll of your hips, and this time he grunts, jaw clenched, head tipping back against the mat as his fingers dig hard into your waist.

You shift your hips, slowly, carefully, but this time, it’s not to regain balance. Not to keep your center of gravity steady.

It’s because you want to feel it again.

That deep, pulsing sensation that shoots up from the pressure between your legs, the one that’s been building since you landed in his lap, confusing, intense, but not frightening. Not anymore.

You drag yourself across the hard length of him again, and the friction is delicious. Blunt and thick beneath you, his cock pushes back through the fabric of his suit and the thin barrier of your own. It’s not penetration. There’s no bare skin.

But your body doesn’t care.

The sensation makes your thighs twitch, your knees tightening at his sides. You pant softly and rock your hips again, the motion smoother this time. He’s letting you. You don’t fully understand why, but you can feel it, his restraint, his tension. The fact that his hands haven’t moved, that he’s choosing to let you stay exactly where you are.

And it makes your chest burn.

“Mark,” you murmur, unsure why you say his name, only that you need to.

His eyes are open, fixed on yours, but his jaw is locked. He doesn’t speak at first.

You grind down again, this time slower, more deliberate. The heat where your bodies meet is unbearable. You’re wet now, soaked through your underwear, and you feel the way your arousal slicks across him through the layers. You clench down instinctively. It makes the pressure even sharper, more overwhelming. Your body reacts to every drag of friction like it’s being filled.

Mark groans.

Not loud. Not even intentional. But real. His fingers flex at your hips, still resting there, still not guiding you but not letting go either.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says under his breath, something strained in it.

You nod, honest. “I know. But it feels right.”

You rock again, your breath catching on a gasp. The motion rolls your clit against the seam of your panties, right over the thick ridge of his cock. That contact, direct and perfect, makes you tremble. You suck in a breath, nails digging lightly into the fabric over his chest.

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose…,” you whisper. “I just don’t want to stop.”

“I know,” he says again.

There’s heat in his voice now. Tight. Grounded. Like he’s holding something in his teeth, something huge, and not letting it out.

You do it again.

Your hips grind into his, slow and controlled, but it lights a fire in your stomach all the same. You feel his cock pulse beneath you, hard and solid, rubbing right through your soaked heat. The friction burns in the best way, blurring your thoughts.

He groans again. Deeper this time.

“You’re going to drive me insane,” he mutters.

You breathe harder, rocking back and forth now in steady rhythm. Your thighs ache from the tension. You feel like you’re being pulled into something bigger, something that climbs higher every time your hips move.

But neither of you lets it go too far.

He doesn’t thrust up.

You don’t lose control.

You just stay there, grinding against him slowly, hips moving in quiet, deliberate circles, chasing that cresting heat inside you without ever quite falling over the edge.

It’s not finished.

But it’s more than you’ve ever felt before.

You rest your forehead against his.

Your lips part on a breath. “Mark…”

His hands squeeze your waist, not rough, not claiming. Just there.

He nods once, exhaling through his nose, eyes closed now.

“I know.”

And still, you keep moving.

You keep grinding down onto him, hips rocking with effort and need, but it’s not working. Every pass brings you close, makes your breath catch, makes your core clench, but not enough. Never quite enough.

You pant softly, brows knitting, thighs starting to tremble, not from pleasure now, but from frustration. You want it. Your whole body is aching for it, soaking for it, pressed hard against the thick shape of him beneath you, but your angle’s off. You’re sliding over it instead of into it, dragging against the wrong curve, the wrong line. Your clit brushes too high, too shallow, and you can feel the edge of it, what’s waiting if you just could, but you can’t get there.

You grind harder, desperately chasing it, hips circling, sweat sliding down the small of your back. Your moan comes out raw, frustrated. Your hands fist in the fabric of his clothes as you try to adjust again, rutting against him like instinct has taken over, but the pressure is imprecise.

“I can’t��I can’t get it—” you gasp, voice thick with confusion and heat. “Why can’t I–?”

Mark moves.

There’s no warning. No change in his face. Just motion. Fast, fluid, efficient.

He grabs your hips with both hands, and with a low grunt, flips your body under his, reversing your positions in one clean, practiced movement. One moment you’re on top, gasping through grit teeth, chasing friction, and the next, your back hits the floor and he’s above you, between your legs, weight balanced perfectly, cock still hard beneath the fabric and exactly where it was, only now, he's in control of how it moves.

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, blinking through the haze.

His face is so close. Closer than it’s been the entire spar. His lips hover over yours but don’t touch. His eyes flick over your features like he’s memorizing them.

“Let me fix it,” he says simply. Low. Firm.

You nod.

You don’t even think. You just nod.

And he grinds forward.

The pressure hits you like a jolt, perfect, sharp, dragging his clothed cock against your soaked center in a way that makes your spine arch and your hands fly up to grab his biceps. His uniform’s seam brushes directly over your clit and the friction makes your breath punch out of your lungs.

Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh—Mark—”

He does it again. Controlled. Measured. A slow, firm thrust of his hips, rubbing his cock right against your clit in a long, deliberate drag, and you writhe beneath him.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

“I—I am—” you gasp, voice tight.

But you’re not. Not really. You’re overwhelmed, completely, and the relief is almost too much. It’s like your body sings under the rhythm he sets, every pass of friction through your wet heat drawing the pressure tighter, higher.

Your legs lift around him on instinct, wrapping around his waist. Your hips rise to meet his. It’s not something you’ve done before. It’s just what your body needs.

He keeps moving, grinding into you through both your clothes, slow and firm and devastatingly direct. The sensation is exactly what you’d been chasing, pressure in the right spot, friction dragging perfectly over your clit, again and again. And his weight pins you down just right, heavy, warm, safe, keeping you steady as you start to come apart.

Your thighs tremble. Your hands clutch at his arms, his shoulders, not sure where to hold as the pleasure builds too fast to track.

“Mark—I—oh—” You can’t finish sentences now. Your voice breaks again on a sharp, choked cry.

You’re so wet your dress sticks to you, practically glues to your folds as he keeps grinding his cock against you, never entering, just rubbing, dragging you right up that steep edge.

Mark exhales a rough breath beside your ear. You feel the heat of it. His control is fraying, but he keeps his rhythm, hips rolling steady, pressure unrelenting.

“Right there,” he mutters, not quite a command, not quite a plea. “Stay there.”

“I can’t–”

“You can. You’re almost there.”

And you are.

You feel your body lock up, tension coiling hard in your belly, tighter than anything you’ve ever known. Your whole world shrinks to one hot, aching point where he grinds against you.

And then, you break.

It hits fast.

Violent in its sweetness.

You shatter beneath him with a gasp so sharp it punches out of you like wind through cracked glass. Your hips buck into his, thighs squeezing tight, your mouth falling open on a soundless moan. Your body locks, clenches, pulses with wave after wave of release.

Mark doesn’t stop. He keeps grinding through it, his cock dragging slowly, steadily over your clit until you whimper from the intensity, your nails digging into his arms as you shake under him.

And then finally, he stills.

You lie beneath him, gasping, trembling, every nerve in your body singing. Your suit clings to your skin, soaked through. Your muscles are molten, legs still wrapped around him, chest heaving.

He doesn’t move.

His forehead rests lightly against yours. His eyes are closed.

He hasn’t come.

You open your eyes slowly, still panting, dazed, and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Mark doesn’t answer. He just lets out a long breath against your cheek.

You’re still beneath him, arms wrapped loosely around his back, thighs locked around his waist like you’re holding him there, anchoring him to you. The aftermath of your orgasm is still buzzing through your body, every nerve trembling under your skin. You didn’t expect it to feel like this, that good. That intense. That personal.

But you’re not done.

Neither is he.

Mark doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t roll off. He stays, firm between your legs, his cock still hard and pressing into the soaked, sensitive spot between your thighs. Your bodies are still fully clothed, but the friction, the heat, is so raw, so direct, you might as well be bare.

You’re breathing hard against his neck, lips parted, cheeks flushed. The fabric of your bodice sticks to your skin. Your entire lower half feels electric, like every slow drag of him through the wet cling of your suit might set you off again. You twitch beneath him involuntarily, hips rocking.

“Still feels good,” you whisper, not really thinking.

Mark grunts, low and restrained. “Yeah.”

His hands are still on your hips, callused and warm. He flexes his grip, just slightly, and then he starts to move again. Slowly. Purposefully.

A slow grind of his hips forward. His cock, hot and thick beneath the dense fabric, presses right up against your clit in a perfect, agonizing drag. You suck in a breath and arch your back, moaning softly as the pleasure flares up all over again.

You hadn’t expected more.

But your body is ready for it.

You’re already soaking, the wet heat of your arousal completely saturating the thin layer of fabric covering your core. And he’s soaked too, you can feel the heat radiating through his suit, the slick friction building again as he starts to thrust, slow and firm.

He grinds into you, hips moving in a controlled rhythm, each drag of his cock grinding against your clit, every inch of him thick and unrelenting.

You shudder. Your fingers curl into the muscle of his shoulders, pulling him down tighter against you.

“Oh—Gods—Mark—”

You can feel the edge building again. Faster this time. It’s like your body never came down from the last one. You’re raw, hyperaware, every thrust sending a jolt through your spine.

He moves against you with perfect control, not animalistic, not frenzied, but intentional. Like he knows exactly what he's doing now. Each roll of his hips is deep, steady, and hard enough to press right through your overstimulation and stoke the fire burning in your core.

You’re crying out now, soft little whimpers muffled into his chest, your body rocking with his rhythm. Your hips lift to meet each thrust, grinding back against him in time, needing that friction, that pressure. It’s all instinct now. All feeling.

Mark is breathing hard above you, his jaw clenched, breath hitching through his teeth every time your bodies slide together.

And then, you feel it.

The subtle, unmistakable jerk of his hips. The way his cock starts to pulse harder against your clit. His hands grip your waist tighter. His control falters just a little, just enough for you to feel it break.

You look up at him, panting. Your voice is a whisper.

“You’re gonna–”

Mark doesn’t answer.

He just pushes down harder, grinding his cock deep into the soaked space between your legs, and then he groans, deep in his chest, rough and strangled as he spills into his suit.

You feel it.

The heat. The pulse. The way his whole body tenses and shudders above you as he finishes, cock pulsing in long, desperate surges against your slick core.

And that’s it.

You cry out as your own orgasm slams into you againth, is one harder, deeper, tearing through you like fire. Your back arches under him, thighs locking tight, your pussy clenching helplessly even with nothing inside. The rhythm of his grinding, the heat of him coming, the friction, it overwhelms you. Breaks you.

Your moan is high and raw and choked on his name.

Your fingers claw at his back as you shake through it, hips grinding frantically against his even as your muscles lock up.

It feels endless.

Like you’re both trapped at the peak, your bodies glued together by sweat and come and heat, neither of you moving, neither of you able to breathe.

When it finally fades, when the trembling slows and the burn in your muscles starts to soften, he lowers himself over you, arms braced on either side of your head.

You’re both soaked. His suit is clinging to his body, dark and glistening where he came. Your own is practically translucent from the flood between your legs.

You stare at him, dazed, flushed, stunned silent.

He’s watching you.

His expression isn’t soft.

But it’s not closed anymore, either.

You’re still beneath him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your thighs are aching from holding tight around his waist. Your dress clings to you, soaked through and stretched taut over your hips, your legs, your breasts. The scent of sweat and sex fills the air between you, hot, intimate, unmistakable.

Mark’s weight settles just barely atop you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still cupping the curve of your waist. His head is bowed, close to yours, his breath ghosting over your skin as he steadies himself.

Neither of you speaks.

But you can feel something shifting between you, something fragile. The afterglow hasn’t faded yet. You still feel him there. Softening, now, against your soaked heat, but present in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

You want to say something. You don’t know what. Your throat tightens around the silence.

He feels it. He lifts his head slightly, eyes meeting yours. And for a moment, everything inside you threatens to rise, to spill. Something warm. Grateful. Maybe something more.

“Mark, I–”

The door hisses open.

The sound slashes through the quiet like a blade.

Mark’s head snaps toward it immediately. You flinch, instinctively trying to shift, but your body won’t move fast enough. You’re still spread beneath him, legs tangled with his, suit darkened with sweat and arousal. The scent of release is thick in the air.

General Kregg stands in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t blink.

His expression is hard enough to split steel, and his eyes take in the scene with one clinical sweep, his Emperor half-kneeling over a flushed, sweat-slick foreign dignitary whose thighs are still spread open around his hips. Your bodies are clearly still connected by more than politics.

Mark doesn’t rise.

He doesn’t explain.

He doesn’t apologize.

Kregg’s voice cuts into the air like cold glass.

“My Emperor.”

Nothing in his tone gives anything away. He sounds like he’s reporting for duty. If his jaw is tight, it’s barely visible. If his breath is heavier, it’s only in the subtle flare of his nostrils.

Mark exhales, slowly. Then, with that same impossible calm that makes his enemies fear him more than any weapon, he begins to move.

He pushes himself off you without a sound, lifting his body with the same control he uses in combat. His knee plants against the floor beside your hip, one arm bracing his weight as he slides away from your center.

You feel the loss of him immediately.

The wet heat between your thighs is suddenly exposed, pulsing and raw in the cool air. You try to close your legs, but they won’t quite obey, not yet. You’re trembling still. Still slick. Still open.

Mark straightens slowly, rising to his full height.

His suit is wrinkled, stained with sweat, and visibly damp along his groin. The outline of his cock is obvious even in the low light. He doesn’t try to adjust it.

You push yourself up on your elbows, hair stuck to your forehead, cheeks flushed. You feel seen, not because you’re embarrassed, but because Kregg’s gaze has no softness in it. No curiosity. Just calculation.

The silence holds.

Mark’s voice finally breaks it, steady and even.

“You’re early.”

Kregg doesn’t move. “I wasn’t aware I needed an appointment to access my own training deck.”

There’s no humor in it. No accusation. Just the truth, stated plainly.

Mark turns to face him fully now. His presence fills the space again, not physically, but in that way only he can. Authority settles across his shoulders like armor. He tilts his head slightly.

“You do now.”

Kregg doesn’t flinch. But he nods, once, curt.

“I see.”

His eyes flick to you, not to leer, not to gawk. Just to register. To document. And then they move back to Mark.

The pause hangs.

Mark takes a step forward, closing half the distance.

“Whatever you think you walked in on,” he says, low, steady, “doesn’t leave this room.”

Kregg’s jaw works once. His voice is just as controlled.

“Understood.”

A long beat passes.

Then Kregg speaks again, voice clipped. “There’s been movement on the Saturn front. We’ve intercepted a transmission from a Coalition scout.”

Mark’s nod is barely perceptible. “Give me five minutes.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Of course.”

And then he’s gone.

The door hisses closed behind him.

Silence returns.

But it’s different now.

You’re still seated on the floor, legs folded beneath you, breathing shallow. Your heart is pounding again, not from release, but from exposure. From the way the moment changed so fast.

Mark turns back toward you slowly. His face is unreadable again, stone and silence. Not angry. Not regretful.

But contained.

You look up at him, trying to read what’s behind his eyes. What was real. What was just release. What remains.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask quietly.

Mark studies you for a moment.

Then he shakes his head once.

“No,” he says. “Not yet.”

And that answer, quiet as it is, settles deeper than any declaration could.

You sit there on the cool metal of the mat, legs folded beneath you, arms wrapped around your knees, and you still feel him between your thighs.

Not physically. Not anymore.

But the ghost of him.

His weight. The drag of his hips. The way his body ground into yours with such pressure, such focus. He never lost control, he gave it, piece by piece, until it was both of you, undone.

And now that it’s over, your body still trembles with the memory of it.

Your skin is slick, flushed. Your dress clings in all the wrong places. Your thighs are sticky and tender from friction and pleasure and the aftershock of release. You keep trying to shift, subtly, like you can shake the feeling of him still pressing between your legs.

But you can’t.

Because it’s not just your body that’s wet and aching.

It’s your mind.

It’s spinning, looping, dragging you through thoughts that feel unfamiliar, like new terrain underfoot.

You glance at him, Mark. Still standing. Straight-backed. Recollected. Hands calm at his sides, breathing returned to normal.

Like he never came at all.

But you felt it. You felt him stiffen, his cock pulse against you, that deep, involuntary grunt when he spilled between your bodies. You remember how his hand stayed clenched on your hip. Not possessive. Just anchored.

And still he looks like nothing touched him.

You try to speak. But your voice won’t come. Not yet.

Because there’s too much happening inside you.

You feel... split open.

Not broken.

Just undone.

Like the tight knot of purpose that’s always held you together, battle, duty, Eternia, Swift Wind, honor, just unraveled under his weight and breath and the slow, unbearable grind of his hips into yours.

You think of Adam.

Your brother is sweet. Noble. Kind to a fault. He loves Teela in a way that looks like springtime. They laugh. They share flowers. He writes her awkward songs with too many verses. They kiss beneath trees and exchange promises no one expects them to keep.

That was always what you thought love was. Softness. Teasing. A kind of partnership built from shared stories and unspoken loyalty.

You’ve never seen them pressed together like that. Never heard the sounds you made against Mark’s mouth tear out of Teela’s throat. Never imagined that closeness could be... devouring.

That you could want something that made you grind yourself raw into someone else’s body just to get more of it.

You didn’t understand before.

Now you do.

And it terrifies you.

You shift, knees squeezing tighter together, trying to soothe the tremble in your belly. But it’s not fading.

You think of how Mark looked beneath you. Calm. Barely strained. But his cock had been so hard. So solid. Pressed up right where you needed it. And your body had taken over. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t think. You just moved.

And he let you.

He could’ve stopped you. Could’ve shoved you off, or corrected you, or said something when your hips started grinding harder, more desperate.

But he just watched.

Felt you.

Met you, rhythm for rhythm.

And now?

Now you feel a gnawing ache inside. Like your body’s still waiting for something more. Even after the climax. Even after he came. Something stayed behind. An emptiness that wasn’t there before.

Your throat tightens. You finally whisper, “I don’t know what this means.”

He turns toward you, slow, composed, every inch the emperor again.

He doesn’t dismiss you.

Doesn’t soften either.

“Neither do I,” he says.

And that hits you in the chest harder than any answer could.

Because if he doesn’t know what it means, what chance do you have?

You look away. Pull your knees tighter. Your voice is quieter now.

“I thought I understood what connection looked like. I thought it was words and loyalty. Letters and shared smiles. Not... this.”

You feel his eyes on you. Not piercing. Not judging. Just present.

“I didn’t know bodies could want something before your mind even catches up,” you say, voice tighter. “It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. I felt like I was coming apart. Like something ripped out of me and then wrapped itself around you.”

A long silence.

“You didn’t pretend,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“You weren’t trying to manipulate me. Or seduce me. You weren’t faking a connection to gain power. That’s what people usually do around me.”

He crosses the space slowly, kneels on one knee beside you.

“And that’s why I didn’t stop you.”

You turn to face him, fully now. Your voice breaks at the edges.

“But I don’t even know what I wanted.”

Mark meets your gaze. He’s steady. Unblinking.

“You wanted,” he says.

That’s all.

The hum of the training deck fades into silence again, but your ears are still ringing.

Your thighs are sore.

Your dress is wet.

Not damp, soaked. Clinging to you in a way that feels more vulnerable now than when he was inside your space, grinding into your core. You can feel everything, the sweat, the release, your own slickness still thick between your legs. Every shift of your hips squelches faintly in the quiet. The fabric is nearly translucent at your center.

Mark’s suit is worse.

There’s a dark stain smeared across the front of him, stretching low from where you felt him pulse and spill, pressed hard against your body as he came. His cock had been trapped between layers, but even Viltrumite fabric can’t hide that. The mess. The scent. The heat of it still hanging between you.

You sit cross-legged, thighs pressed together now, trying not to think about how it’s drying sticky against your inner thighs. Or how the slick warmth keeps seeping slightly when you move.

You shift again.

It’s unbearable.

And he notices.

Mark steps forward. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes one look at you, your hair matted, your cheeks flushed, the soaked V of your dress, and turns toward the wall console.

“You can’t stay like that,” he says. Not cold. Not gentle. Just factual.

You blink, confused. “I–what?”

“I’m opening a washroom,” he says, voice low but gentle in a way you haven’t heard from him before.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re soaked,” he says, glancing at you. “And not just with sweat.”

The blunt honesty should make you flinch. But it doesn’t. Not from him.

Instead, it grounds you.

He taps in a quick sequence. A panel hisses open on the far wall, revealing a narrow corridor, warm light spilling out, laced with low steam. It smells clean, slightly metallic, slightly herbal. You imagine it’s the closest thing Viltrumites have to comfort.

“I’ll walk you there,” he says. “It’s private.”

You rise slowly, legs aching, and nod. “Thank you.”

You’re surprised by the sincerity in your voice.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch up. But he doesn’t rush either.

You walk beside him, his stride steady, his posture relaxed but upright, still visibly wearing the mantle of command. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you catch something flickering in his face.

A softness at the edges.

An absence of distance.

Like he’s still in the moment with you, whether he shows it or not.

And the pull in your chest, that strange magnetic thread that’s been there since the first time you stood too close, tugs again.

You reach the washroom.

He opens the door, steps just inside, then turns back to face you.

The light cuts across the sharp line of his jaw, his damp hair falling loose around his forehead, his suit still dark with your shared heat, your shared mess. He looks like war and aftermath and restraint wrapped in a man’s skin.

And something in you moves.

“Mark,” you say quietly.

He turns toward you, brows slightly drawn. “You’re alright?”

You step into the doorway, heart beating fast again, not from fear. Not from arousal.

Just from closeness.

From the unbearable feeling that something happened between you that neither of you can name yet. Something real.

You take a breath.

Then you lean in.

Your hand touches his chest lightly, just over the center. You feel his breath catch under your palm. And then, gently, unsure, you press your mouth to his.

The kiss is soft. Barely there. Not demanding.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

You only know you need to.

Mark doesn’t pull away.

For a heartbeat, he stays still.

Then his hand lifts, careful, and brushes your jaw, just once. His mouth parts slightly against yours, not deepening the kiss, not taking over. Just returning it. Quietly.

When you pull back, your eyes meet his.

You’re flushed again. Open. Unsure.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“I know,” he says softly.

And it’s not rejection.

It’s understanding.

He looks at you for another moment, then glances toward the shower, the rising steam.

Mark stands close.

Close enough to feel the heat off his body.

Close enough to remember the exact weight of him on top of you.

The kiss you gave him, hesitant, barely formed, still lingers on your lips like something half-awake. It wasn't practiced. It wasn’t a move. It was need. Real, if undefined.

And you’re not sure what happens next.

You don’t know what you want to happen next.

So you watch him.

And he watches you back.

You expect him to nod. To offer something clipped and polite and step away the way leaders do when things get too complicated.

But he doesn’t.

His gaze lingers, not on your dress, not on your curves, not on your mouth, but your face. As if he’s looking for something behind your eyes he hasn’t figured out yet.

And then, quietly, he steps forward again.

There’s no sound. No warning.

Just movement.

Your breath catches.

His hand lifts, slow, careful, calloused fingers brushing lightly along your jaw. The pad of his thumb skims the line just beneath your cheekbone. You freeze, not out of fear, but from how gentle it is. How careful. It’s the lightest touch you’ve felt from him, and somehow it burns hotter than the press of his hips ever did.

Then he leans in.

Not commanding.

Not forceful.

Just… there.

And kisses you.

Softly. Briefly.

It’s not slick. It’s not urgent. His lips just press against yours, warm and dry, like something he’s allowing himself for the first time in a long time. A question. A statement. A pause in time.

And then, just as quickly, he breaks it.

But he doesn’t step away yet. He lingers, his mouth still close, his breath soft between you.

You inhale slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. Quiet. Honest. “That’s why I did.”

And something in your chest folds inward. A slow, warm collapse. Because he doesn’t know you. Not really. And yet... there’s something there. Something real. Something neither of you can put words to yet, but neither of you is pretending didn’t happen.

He finally pulls back, and his hand leaves your face with deliberate slowness.

“I’ll send someone to wait outside,” he says, just above a whisper.

You nod.

He turns and walks to the door, this time without the stiffness of command. Just a man leaving space for something fragile not yet spoken aloud.

The door hisses open.

He steps out.

And you’re alone.

The silence in the room is deeper now. But not empty.

You let out a slow breath and reach behind you, peeling your dress down your back. The fabric slides reluctantly over your thighs, dragging across your sore folds and flushed skin with a sticky sound. You wince, then exhale.

You step out of it fully, barefoot now on the warm alloy floor.

Naked.

Not just unclothed, but bare. Every part of you feels like it’s still buzzing with his touch, even if he isn’t here anymore.

You step into the shower.

The water hits you in a clean, hot wave, and your head tips back as the heat rushes over your face, your neck, your chest.

You close your eyes.

And you kiss him back, silently, in your mind, again.

The water pours over you, hot and full, washing down your skin in long, steady sheets. It strikes your shoulders, your collarbones, your thighs. It rinses everything away, the mess, the sweat, the slick friction between your legs. But it doesn’t touch what’s still inside you.

That kiss.

Still there.

Still burning.

You tilt your head forward, letting the stream rush down your scalp, your breath slowing as the warmth settles into your bones. And your thoughts, at last, start to move.

They drift to Eternia.

To the palace.

To the quiet hills beyond the gates where you used to spar with Adam until dusk painted the sky pink and golden. You remember how your lungs burned from running drills. How your armor always fit wrong when you first put it on. How the blade felt heavy in your hand until it didn’t.

You think of the long banquet halls, the polished stone, the tapestries. The quiet understanding that everything had meaning. Every action was symbolic. Every word had to pass through three filters before it reached someone’s ears.

And you think of men.

There weren’t many.

Not for you.

Adam, of course, your brother, shining like the sun, with Teela by his side, always. They made it look easy. A gentle kind of affection. No drama. Just touches that lingered, glances that spoke in shorthand.

You always watched them with a kind of quiet envy you never named. You were proud of your body. Proud of your power. But you never wanted. Never let your mind go there. Never imagined what it might be like to need someone else, to move with someone not because it was strategic, but because it was helpless.

Until now.

Until him.

Until Mark.

You let out a breath, forehead resting against the shower wall.

You don’t even know him, not really. You know his name. His title. The weight of him inside your body, the press of his mouth against yours, the hard, pulsing heat of him rubbing through your suit until you came. Twice. Maybe more.

But what you felt, what you’re still feeling, isn’t just attraction.

It’s pull.

Mark doesn’t flirt.

He doesn’t sweet-talk.

He barely even touches unless it means something.

And yet every time he’s looked at you, every time he’s stepped near, you’ve felt like the air changed. Like gravity bent around him. Not because he commands it, but because he doesn’t ask for it at all.

He carries himself like a star trying to collapse inward. All that power, his voice, his body, his restraint, it’s like being near something too dense to define. And it doesn’t scare you.

It calls to you.

You think of how he looked after he kissed you, just a flicker of hesitation before he pulled away. Not weakness. Not doubt. Just a crack in the armor. Just enough to show he felt it too.

And you realize, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was acceptance.

Acknowledgment.

A choice.

He didn't need to stay after what happened. He could’ve closed off. Could’ve made it a transaction, a release, a single act dismissed and forgotten.

But he didn’t.

He saw you.

He still does.

And now, standing here under the water, bare and alone, you feel something shift deep in your chest.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something close to recognition.

Like maybe, somehow, whatever burns at the center of Mark Grayson’s world has started to burn in yours too.

And you're not sure you want to put it out.

The door hisses open, letting out a lazy swirl of steam behind you. You walk out, hair a bit wet, skin still warm, and wearing something totally different.

The Viltrumite uniform looks way better on you than you thought it would. Sleek. Strategic. It fits your body like a glove, white and slate gray, with sleek lines and boots that instantly improve your stance. It clings in a way that Eternian armor never did, not out of vanity, but precision. There's no space for action that doesn't have a reason behind it.

And somehow… that just feels right.

You've never experienced feeling both protected and vulnerable at the same time.

You glance down at yourself. The fabric molds tight around your chest, your waist, your thighs. Your body still has that faint ache from what went down on the floor. Out of the water. From the weight of Mark Grayson pressed against you.

Your fingertips brush your lips without meaning to.

And then you step into the corridor.

He’s waiting there.

General Kregg.

Standing with perfect stillness, arms clasped behind his back, eyes unreadable beneath that squared jaw and cropped hair. His gaze flicks up the length of you, fast, clinical, but you catch it.

He sees.

That this isn’t just a fresh uniform.

That something in you is different now.

You don’t say anything at first. You just stop in front of him and meet his eyes. You feel no fear. Only the strange quiet of shared knowledge unspoken.

“Princess,” he says, voice neutral. “Your quarters have been reset. I’ll escort you back.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Kregg turns sharply and begins to walk, his strides precise, and you follow without hesitation. The hallway is quiet, lit in soft violet tones. You walk side by side, boots tapping in unison on the clean metallic floor. You glance at him once, his jaw is set like iron, his posture perfect.

But there's something in the silence.

Not disapproval.

Not judgment.

Just… a recognition.

He breaks it first.

“Your attire will be taken for cleansing. It was–” he pauses, just briefly “compromised.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. But awareness.

“Yes,” you say quietly. “It was.”

Neither of you speak for a long stretch.

And somehow, that silence says everything it needs to.

Kregg doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry.

He’s a soldier. And now, so are you, at least in appearance.

The hallway opens to a narrower wing, quieter, warmer. You recognize it now, your wing. Your assigned room aboard the Viltrumite vessel. Quarters meant for a diplomatic guest. Private. Monitored, yes, but clean and spare and untouched since you left them this morning.

You stop outside the door.

Kregg stops beside you.

The air holds.

You glance at him. “I imagine… there will be questions.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Not from me.”

You study his face. “You’re not going to report what you saw?”

Kregg meets your eyes, steady and unflinching.

“What I saw,” he says calmly, “was a sparring match. A foreign dignitary testing her strength. A moment of intensity. Then two people leaving separately.”

You stare at him. Then nod once.

Your voice softens. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head. “If you need anything, the console is open. Otherwise… rest. You’ll be called when it’s time to reconvene.”

You turn toward your door, lift your hand to the panel.

Then stop.

One last glance at him.

He stands like stone. A sentinel.

You wonder, briefly, if he was ever like Mark.

But the door hisses open before you can ask.

You step inside.

And you are alone again, still in this new suit, still warm from the shower, still tasting Mark’s mouth on yours.

But you don’t peel the uniform off yet.

You just stand there. Barefoot on the cold floor.

And breathe.

The door slides shut behind you with a soft hiss. The silence in your quarters is immediate, and in its own way, deafening.

No footsteps. No voices. No breath but your own.

You walk forward on instinct, each step deliberate, but still disoriented, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re not on the floor anymore. Not under him. Not between thighs and heat and breath and friction.

You run a hand over the high seam of your new uniform. The fabric hugs you like a second skin. Too smooth. Too precise. It doesn’t feel like yours yet. Not quite.

You don’t sit.

You don’t speak.

You haven’t moved from where you stood when the door closed behind you.

The air in your quarters is clean, dry, just a little cooler than it should be. Your hair is still damp against you. The Viltrumite uniform hugs you tight, across your breasts, your ribs, the curves of your hips. The fabric is smooth and sterile, not a wrinkle in sight. It’s built to support strength, not comfort. And yet it feels like the only thing holding you together.

You take a breath.

Then the console pings.

A soft, chiming tone, not a warning. A call.

Personal transmission: ORIGIN – Eternia, Palace Command.

Your heart skips. Something in your chest tightens, like a string being plucked. You blink, then step toward the console, barefoot on the polished metal floor. The pads of your feet feel too soft for this ship.

You swipe your hand over the panel.

The screen flickers, then stabilizes.

Adam.

His face fills the screen like a rush of wind. Tousled hair. Soft golden lighting in the background. The outline of one of the palace towers over his shoulder. You catch the faint outline of Teela’s shape moving behind him, out of focus. He looks relaxed, his usual half-grin resting comfortably on his lips.

You can hear birds outside the window.

You forgot what birds sounded like.

“Hey,” Adam says, smiling wide. “There you are.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Adam,” you say quietly. “You look... sunlit.”

He laughs. “That’s because I am. It's morning here. Teela and I just finished patrolling. Thought I’d call before you got swept up in more diplomatic saber-rattling.”

Your smile is small. “It’s been... eventful.”

He leans forward, squinting at you through the projection. “You look—wait. What are you wearing?”

You glance down at yourself.

The stark white and gray of the Viltrumite uniform is sharp under the console light. A far cry from your usual Eternian silks, or the ceremonial outfit you wore on your arrival. This is something else entirely.

“Temporary replacement,” you say. “Mine was... rendered unusable.”

Adam tilts his head. “Was there a battle I didn’t hear about?”

You pause. Not quite a lie. Not quite truth.

“Something like that.”

He watches you more carefully now. His expression softens.

“You okay?”

You look back at him.

And for a moment, you’re not sure how to answer.

Because your body is still humming. Your thighs still ache. Your lips still feel the weight of that kiss. And Mark’s hand, calm, unhesitating, warm on your face, lingers in your memory like the imprint of armor that was never actually worn.

But that’s not what you say.

You say, “I think so.”

Adam nods, but his smile fades just a little. “You sound... off.”

You fold your arms, not defensive. Just grounding yourself. “It’s different here.”

His eyes flick to the side of your image. “Where are you now?”

“My quarters. Just returned.”

“You’re not scheduled to check in until morning.”

“I know.”

Adam frowns. “Then why now?”

You hesitate.

Then quietly, you say, “Because I needed something familiar.”

That silences him.

For a breath. Two.

“You’re not alone, are you?”

You blink. “I am, now.”

He catches the word. “Now?”

You close your eyes. “Adam…”

His voice softens. “Hey. I’m not prying. Just asking if I should worry.”

You shake your head. “You shouldn’t.”

He studies you for a long moment.

“Was it the Emperor?”

Your silence answers him.

Adam leans back, exhales slowly. “Okay.”

Just that. Not judgment. Not shock. Just acceptance.

And somehow that’s worse. Because it makes the knot in your throat tighten.

“You know me,” you say quietly. “I’ve never... wanted. Not like that. I’ve never had time to.”

Adam nods. “You made time now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t always have to.”

You press your palm flat against the edge of the console. It’s cool against your skin. Grounding.

“I didn’t expect it,” you whisper.

“No one does.”

You look at him again. Your brother. The boy who grew into a man with Teela beside him. Who makes jokes over dinner and writes bad poetry and fights monsters with a smile.

“How do you live with it?” you ask.

Adam tilts his head. “With what?”

“This... feeling. This pull. This ache when they walk out of the room. This pressure in your chest like they’re still in the air you’re breathing.”

His smile returns, smaller now. More weathered.

“You don’t live with it,” he says. “You just... let it change you.”

You nod slowly.

The silence hangs between you, warm this time.

He lets you rest in it.

Then, softly, “Teela says hello. She also says she knows exactly what that face means and that I should let you go so you can think without me watching.”

You manage a breath of a laugh. “Tell her she’s still smug.”

“I’ll tell her when she wins our next duel.”

You smile. “She always does.”

Adam’s grin is boyish again. “You’re okay?”

“Not yet,” you say.

“But close,” he finishes.

You nod.

He leans forward again. “You’ll call when you need to.”

You nod again, more slowly. “I will.”

And then, before the call ends, his voice turns soft again, like he’s trying to reach you through the screen.

“Whatever you’re feeling... don’t bury it.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

The transmission flickers.

And then it’s gone.

You’re alone again.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like falling.

The lights dim gradually as you step away from the console. The room senses your silence and begins its quiet descent into rest mode, bathing the walls in soft, ambient violet and cooling the air just slightly, like a sigh.

You stretch your arms once, slowly, and press your palms to the small of your back. Everything still aches faintly. Not pain. Just awareness. Your body is awake in ways it’s never been before, like someone lit a fire beneath your skin and then told you to sleep.

The Viltrumite bedding is functional, sleek, neatly arranged. You brush your hand over the smooth surface of the cover, white, sterile, a little too perfect. No creases. No warmth left behind.

Unlike the floor.

Your chest tightens.

You sit on the edge of the bed and pull your legs up beneath you, still wrapped in the borrowed uniform. You haven’t taken it off yet. It fits too well. Holds you too tightly. It’s not just clothing, it’s memory now.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and let your thoughts drift.

They drift to Mark.

To the way he looked up at you when you had him pinned, like you’d surprised him. Like he didn’t expect to feel anything in that moment, and yet he did. You saw it, even then. That flash of something under the control.

You think of the tension in his hands when you started to move on him. Not possessive. Not indulgent. Held. As if he couldn’t believe he was letting it happen and still didn’t stop you.

You remember the weight of him above you, the sound of his breath changing when yours did. The way his hips moved, not rough, not hurried, just… right. Measured. Real. Like every motion was deliberate, but none of it was detached.

And then the kiss.

Not the one on the floor. The one after. The one in the doorway, before he left you in steam and silence. That kiss was soft. Hesitant. Almost human.

That’s what gets you now.

Not the release. Not the sweat, the moans, the ache between your legs that still hums faintly in the aftermath.

That kiss.

That hesitation.

The Emperor isn’t the kind of man who hesitates.

And yet, for that moment, he did.

You roll onto your side now, drawing your knees up, settling into the curve of the bed. The sheets are cool. Your body is still warm. The contrast makes you shiver just a little.

Your eyes drift to the ceiling.

You don’t know what he’s doing right now.

Probably reviewing reports. Or speaking to his commanders. Or sitting somewhere too big and too quiet, surrounded by people who revere him but never see him.

You saw him.

Even for a moment.

You remember the line of his jaw after he pulled away. The flicker in his gaze. The hand that stayed hovering at your cheek for just a second longer than it had to.

You press your own hand there now.

It’s still warm.

You exhale slowly.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not with so much still moving inside you. But eventually, your breathing evens out. Your limbs grow heavier. Your thoughts dull, circling quieter now, like wind easing through trees instead of a storm.

And the last thing you feel before you drift under is the ghost of his lips on yours.

ִ ࣪✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

taglist is OPEN. drop a comment in the replies if you wanna be tagged in future updates.

391 notes · View notes

alliwritespuck · 2 days ago

Text

Afterglow [Will Smith]

𓂁 Summary: After a fight ensues between you and Will, you’re quick to learn that his anger and frustration is driven by a deep-rooted insecurity, and he just wants you to tell him that it’s alright

𓂁 Warnings: cursing, fighting

𓂁 Word count: 1.6k

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

The fight was inevitable. And you didn’t like that. Not one bit.

The Sharks, while not in the best position in their division, conference, or the league, a playoff spot was possible. Not by much, but if by some miracle they win the rest of their games and do well, they could clinch a playoff spot. But the chances of that happening were slim to none.

And Will.

Well, Will didn’t know how to handle all of the pressure. The pressure of only having one year of college under his belt and then signing his ELC. The pressure of performing well when he knew he could very easily be sent down to the AHL. The pressure of being compared to players he wasn’t.

Sure, he had been doing well since January, getting at least one point every game. But there was still that lingering, nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

That he wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t Macklin. He wasn’t William. He didn’t compare. He wasn’t them, and that was his fatal flaw.

At least that was what he thought.

The door to your apartment slammed shut, the harsh sound shaking the walls. The loud thud of the hockey bag landing on the floor. The sound of shoes squeaking against the tile as he took them off. He was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And that was even worse.

“Hey, hun. How was practice?” you ask, standing over the stove, making dinner for the both of you. A simple chipotle chicken pasta, easy to make, but full of protein and carbs for him for his game tomorrow night.

“It was fine,” he says, response short and clipped. That should have been your first clue that something was off. Usually, he was talking your ear off. Mack said this, Toff did that. Delly wants to go golfing on our next break. Sharkie played a prank and we answered a question for a TikTok. You usually couldn’t get him to shut up.

“Are you okay?” you ask, testing the waters. If something was wrong, letting it fester and sit, bottled up in Will’s mind wouldn’t help.

“I’m fine, Y/N. Just drop it,” he says, finally snapping. He doesn’t continue, he just walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. You hear the TV come to life, some show playing, filling the once quiet apartment with the noises of reality TV.

As you finish dinner, you tentatively walk into the living room to tell Will.

“Will. Dinner’s ready,” you say, not saying a word more than necessary.

He walks into the kitchen again, sitting at the fixed dinner plate on the side of the island. You stand across from him, but on the other side of the kitchen, keeping your distance. You didn’t want to fight. And you knew if you ask more questions, continue to press, it would end up in a fight.

“Come sit down,” Will says. His nonchalance and easy-going tone makes you question his earlier mood. The switch was unexpected, and while it confused you, it put you more on edge than you already were.

“I’m okay over here,” you say, voice quiet. You didn’t want to push him, knowing that sometimes that could make it worse, or could make him totally spiral into a fit of anxiety.

“What, are you scared of me now?” he asks, and you’re kind of shocked. Scared, no. Careful of what to say? Yes. You haven’t seen him like this before. And you didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“No. I’m just eating over here,” you say, pleading with whatever, whoever could hear you that he would just simmer down a little.

“Y/N, just come eat over here.”

“I’m fine over here, Will. Just eat.”

“So I’m not good enough for you to sit next to me to eat?” he asks incredulously. Now you feel you might need to say something because you had no idea where that was coming from.

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant, right?”

“Will, what’s wrong? I tried just dropping it but something’s wrong. You never act like this,” you say, setting your plate on the counter.

“Nothing is wrong Y/N. I’m just tired from practice. It’s been a long week,” he says, fork clashing against the plate. His anger, while not unusual, was seemingly different than any anger of his you’ve experienced before. You didn’t know how to go forward. What could you say, do, to stop him from whatever was going on with him?

“Bullshit, Will,” you say. You may not want to fight, but if he wanted to, you would.

“What the hell is your problem?” Will’s chair screeches across the floor as he stands up.

“My problem? What the hell is your problem, Will? I have felt like I’m walking on eggshells tonight because you’re in a pissy mood. Now will you tell me what is wrong?”

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh my gosh, Will. You’re being ridiculous,” you say, eyes rolling as you turn back to your food. You’re trying to remain calm, trying to keep your anger under control. Because his anger was one thing, yours was a culmination of a million different things. It was different entirely. And that would not make things any better.

“Well then leave me if you think I’m so ridiculous!”

“It’s my apartment! But that’s not what I want! I want you to tell me what’s wrong!”

“No, you should! Go be with someone who doesn’t play like shit, who isn’t benched, who is a lot better than me!”

“I don’t want someone else, Will,” you try to say, but Will doesn’t want to hear it. He cuts you off before you can say anything more.

“Go be with someone like Mack!”

It clicks. Everything clicks. You’ve seen what people say. What people think. Saying that he isn’t Macklin and should be sent down to the AHL. That he should’ve spent another year at BC. You’ve seen all sorts of comments from nobodies that can barely understand hockey, let alone play in the NHL. You knew these things, had seen them being said. But it never occurred to you that it was affecting Will. And you felt like shit for not noticing just how deep he was in everything.

Despite this, you knew that it wasn’t true. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. You knew Will.

You only want him, and it hurts that he’d think you didn’t.

“I don’t want Mack, I want you!” you shout, and everything goes quiet. Will’s tirade ceases, and you two are left standing there. You could hear a pin drop. It’s silent, neither of you knowing how to proceed next.

The sound of the TV still playing from the living room makes it less awkward. You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling out of place in your own apartment. This was new territory for you.

“What?” Will asks, voice broken, quiet. And your heart breaks. He believes you want someone else. That he isn’t good enough for you. That he treats you like the other guys before him. That he doesn’t deserve you.

“Why would you think I want Mack?” you ask, making hesitant steps toward him.

“Everyone says I’m not Mack.”

“But you’re not. You’re Will. And that’s just as good. That’s better than Mack. I want you, Will. And I want you for you. I don’t want someone else,” you say, finally coming to stand in front of him.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I don’t care if you’re a good hockey player or not. It’s a bonus, for sure, but that’s not why I love you. Your performance in a game doesn't determine the amount of love I have for you. The wins and losses don’t determine how much I love you. I won’t love you any less for failing, Will. You’re human. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t fail. I love you for the way you treat me, the man that you are. I don’t care what everyone else says because I get to see the Will that they don’t. The sweet, shy, absolutely loving William Smith that I get to call mine,” you say, arms looping over his shoulders. “I love you, and no hockey game, no social media critic, no other man is ever going to change that.”

As you finish your monologue, you see the tear land on his cheek. And as quickly as it fell, you wipe it off with your thumb just as quickly.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Please don’t yell at me, and please don’t shut me out. I’m here for everything. The ups, the downs, and the everywhere in betweens. If something’s bothering you, I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”

“I do trust you. I don’t know what happened. I just got in my head, thinking that everyone was right. I love you. So much.”

“I love you too, Will,” you say again, moving your hands to cup his cheeks, wiping any lingering stray tears.

You look him in the eyes, his all bloodshot but swimming with a hopeful glint. You pull him closer, placing your lips softly on his. The unspoken words flow into the kiss, ones that were too vulnerable to ever be spoken, saying everything he couldn’t bare himself to speak.

You felt the desperation, the longing need, the insecurities Will held onto for what seemed to be far too long. He kissed you like his life depended on it.

And when you pull away, his eyes look a little brighter, and a small smile starts to form on his face.

“Are we okay? Tell me we're alright,” he asks, pleads quietly.

“Yeah, baby, we’re good,” you say. And you were.

It may take a while for him to be completely willing to talk to you when he feels down, but you would remain here, by his side, waiting for when he finally could.

﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏﹏﹏𓂁﹏

Do not copy, translate, or repost my work as your own

#will smith hockey #will smith nhl #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith x you #will smith fic #will smith x y/n #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #san jose sharks #alliwritespuck

221 notes · View notes

tsunodaradio · 2 days ago

Text

afterglow ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

he isn’t fighting to destroy. he’s fighting to give.

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, reader is a softie, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: listen. listen. i know i said i would stick to the WIPs i currently have, but i've been unable to function with this idea on my mind. i fully blame @binisainz. this is a short one for now; a bit of a pulse check, i guess, to see if people like this concept/couple/verse? let me know! 🥊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowd is already howling when Isack ducks through the curtains.

It smells like metal and spit back here. Concrete floor slick with old sweat, the low throb of bass rattling his teeth.

All he can think about is you. How you kissed his cheek this morning, barely awake, murmuring something about the cold creeping through the windows. How you curled back into the blanket like a cat, trusting him to go out and do what he always does.

He told you he had errands. That was technically true.

Now, the ring glares under hot lights. A blood-stained mat. Chain-link fence catching every glare like it’s daring someone to look away. The other guy is already inside—tattoos down his arms, jumping on the spot like he’s itching for pain. Isack doesn’t care. Not about the guy. Not about the noise.

He cares about the little shop off Rue de la Liberté, where he saw the secondhand necklace with the gold locket you’d probably never buy for yourself. He cares about the look you’d give him if he managed to hand it to you without a scratch on his face.

He shrugs off his jacket. Rolls his wrists. Breathes in once, steady. His coach, Christian, says something, but it all comes out muffled. His focus has tunneled. There is only the sound of your voice in his memory, bright and impossible: Promise me you won’t get hurt.

Isack apologizes in his head before stepping into the ring.

The cage door shuts with a clang that sounds like punctuation. The other guy smirks. Isack doesn’t flinch.

You’re not here. He would never make you watch, never want you to be in the audience for any of his matches. This is his world. This den of debauchery, this last resort for the desperate.

But you’re everywhere else. In every breath Isack pulls in through his nose, trying to stay calm. In the way he keeps his stance low, remembering how you once massaged his shoulder after a bad hit. In the fury that doesn’t quite come, because he isn’t fighting to destroy.

He’s fighting to give.

The bell rings.

Fists fly.

Somewhere in the blur of muscle and motion, he thinks of your laugh. He thinks of the way you once patched his knuckles with ointment and bandages shaped like stars. He thinks of your birthday, only four days away, and how maybe he can afford the locket. Maybe even a cake.

He takes a punch. Spits blood. Laughs.

For the first time in a long while, he has something worth bleeding for.

Isack fights like he always does. Scrappy, sharp, more heart than polish. He’s not as slick as Ollie or as ruthless as Kimi, but he’s reliable in a way people like to bet on. His jabs are fast, his footwork clean, and when he takes a hit, he doesn’t crumble. He recalibrates. Keeps going.

Tonight, he weathers two solid punches to the ribs. Another jab hooks into his jaw and sends stars skittering behind his eyes. Nonetheless, Isack comes back swinging. Left, right, then a knee when his opponent drops his guard. The other guy staggers. The crowd screams.

Isack finishes it clean. A final punch, heavy and sure. The ref pulls him back. It’s over.

His chest heaves. His mouth tastes like rust. But he’s still standing.

Backstage, Christian is already waiting.

“Nice work,” the manager says, all slick grin and fake praise. He hands Isack a rolled-up wad of euros. Lighter than usual.

Isack counts quick, frowns. “This isn’t the full cut,” he grumbles.

Christian shrugs, too casual. “You got hit too much. Should’ve made it cleaner. Odds dipped in the third round.”

“That’s not—”

“You want the cash or not?” Christian leans in close, voice cold. “Because I can find someone else who wants it more.”

Isack’s jaw tightens. For a second, he sees himself saying no. Walking away. Then he thinks of you, the locket, your birthday.

He pockets the money.

The fluorescent lights make his bruises look worse than they are. He’ll ice the ribs when he gets home. The cut on his jaw isn’t deep. Nothing you’ll see unless he smiles too wide.

Isack walks home instead of taking the bus. It’s a ditch effort to have a bit more money to spend on you. He does mental math the entire way, computing how much he’ll need to get you everything he wants you to have.

The apartment is peaceful when he lets himself in.

He toes off his shoes gently, careful not to make noise. The hallway is warm, dimly lit by the flicker of your favorite candle on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and something soft beneath it—home, he thinks. It smells like home.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked underneath you. There’s a book open in your lap, but you’re not reading. The moment he steps in, you’re already looking up.

“Salut,” you say, voice soft but not accusing. “You’re late.”

Isack manages a smile. “Des petites choses à faire,” he murmurs. Little things to do.

You narrow your eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s caught.

Instead, you shift, patting the cushion beside you. He crosses the room slowly, sitting beside you with practiced ease. Not too stiff, not too slow. He’s done this before—hidden bruises, concealed aches. You press your cheek to his shoulder, humming contentedly.

“I was thinking,” you say lightly, “for my birthday, maybe we go somewhere. Just us. Nothing big. Maybe that little town you always talk about with the old cinema and the broken carousel.”

Isack chuckles and immediately regrets it.

A sharp pain blooms across his ribs. He tries to play it off, but he tenses just slightly. Just enough.

You pull back instantly. “What was that?” you ask, eyes scanning his face. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isack.”

You’re already pushing back your blanket, rising to your feet. He doesn’t stop you when you disappear into the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. There’s a gentle fury in the way you set it down. A kind of heartbreak.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He hesitates. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shirt. Off.”

He sighs, peeling the fabric over his head. The bruise is already forming across his ribs—angry, purple, edged in red. Your eyes spark as you kneel beside him.

“Mon pauvre,” you whisper, dabbing antiseptic across the scrape on his side. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t complain.

“You always come back like this,” you go on. “And you always say you’re fine.”

He watches you work, your touch careful, your brow furrowed in concentration. The only person who’s ever looked at him like he was breakable. You sound weary, and for a moment, it sparks something like concern in him.

Would this be the night? Would this be the evening you decide enough is enough; you can’t be with someone as battered and bruised and addicted to the thrill as Isack?

“I just wanted to get you something nice,” he says quietly, trying not to give too much of his plans away.

You pause.

“Mon amour,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t need anything you have to bleed for.”

He says nothing. Just takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Too late, mon ange,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already everything I’d fight for.”

It had started years and years ago, in the courtyard with the cracked pavement and a broken swing.

You were nine, maybe ten. The older kids had cornered you behind the bike racks, calling you names that stuck like burrs. Isack heard them before he saw you. Your voice was tight and trying not to tremble. He didn’t say anything.

He just ran at the tallest one, fists flying with all the messy fury of a child who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

He came home with a split lip and a sprained wrist. His mother yelled. Yours baked him cookies. You wouldn’t stop looking at him like he’d hung the moon. He never forgot that.

The fights got cleaner over the years. Less wild, more measured. He trained in secret at first, using borrowed gloves and YouTube videos on his cracked phone. He said it was for self-defense. Everyone knew better. He did it for you.

And now, he still fights.

Not for playground pride, but for rent. For groceries. For birthdays and futures you both pretend to not talk about yet.

He fights so you won’t have to.

But tonight, the bathroom door is cracked open. You’re brushing your teeth in silence; he sees the way your shoulders shake, just barely. The little sniff you try to hide behind a mouthful of foam.

He leans in the doorway, watching for a moment. You blink rapidly at your reflection, fighting tears, trying to smile like it’s nothing. It breaks him.

He steps forward without a word, wraps his arms around you from behind. His chest presses warm against your back. You freeze for a second, toothbrush paused in midair.

“Chérie,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tu pleures.”

Darling, you’re crying.

You shake your head.

He hums, unconvinced. “Even your shoulders look sad.”

You let out a wet, reluctant laugh, and he feels your spine soften against his chest. “Want to tell me?” he prompts.

You spit out the toothpaste, rinse, and lean both palms on the sink. “It just… got a bit heavy today,” you say, watching Isack through the mirror. “Everything. You. Money. I don’t know.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying the two of you gently. “I know. But we’ll be alright, mon ange. You and me, always.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. Red-rimmed but warm. He presses a kiss behind your ear. “No one gets to hurt you, not even life. Compris?” he hums.

You nod, wiping your cheek. “Compris.”

He hugs you tighter.

In the mirror, you both look a little ridiculous. Tired and young and too soft for this world. But you also look like something solid. Something that doesn’t break.

The sheets are cool against your skin as the two of you slide into bed. You shift to make space, and Isack follows, slower, careful with the bruises he hasn’t admitted to. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. There’s something about this hour that strips everything down. Even him.

Here, he isn’t the fighter people bet on. He’s not the boy who threw punches for pride or the man who bleeds to make rent.

He’s just your Isack.

He curls behind you, one arm draping over your waist, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You can feel the tension still tucked in his shoulders, the thoughts still churning behind his silence.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his. “You’re thinking about taking another fight.”

He hesitates. Breathes in deep. “Maybe. Just—”

“No.”

You turn to face him fully, eyes shining even in the dark. “I mean it, amour. I don’t want anything for my birthday if it means watching you come home like this.”

He tries to protest, but you cut him off with a hand on his chest.

“You’re enough. Just you. In one piece.”

The silence that follows is thick. He stares at the ceiling like it might give him another way forward. But then he looks at you and sees the worry still lingering around your mouth, the exhaustion clinging to your frame. He thinks of all the times you’ve cried in the bathroom, thinks of the first aid kit that has to get restocked every couple of months.

He sighs, presses a kiss to your forehead, decides to give you this.

“D’accord,” he whispers. Alright. “No fight. Not for your birthday.”

You smile, triumphant and relieved all at once, and reward him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. And another. His breath catches when you kiss the tender spot along his jaw, just above the bruise.

He chuckles under his breath. “You always win,” he grumbles, trying and failing to sound upset about it.

“Only when it matters,” you say before going in to press your lips against his.

He pulls you close, tucks you into him like a secret, and lets his guard fall entirely. He falls asleep to you softening all of his edges. Chaste kisses, breathless giggles, gentle touches. Isack’s last thought before slipping out of consciousness is that he could live a thousand lifetimes and probably still not deserve you.

He dreams that night.

You’re laughing in the sun, barefoot in some place he can’t name. Your arms are outstretched, your hair whipped by the wind. You call his name like it’s always meant to belong to you.

He chases after you, light-footed, weightless. The sky is a soft blue. The kind that exists only in dreams. His heart thumps, thumps, thumps in his chest the way only you can make it beat, adrenaline and fighting be damned.

The dream shifts.

It bleeds from the sunlight to the darkness, from the sunny outside to your shared apartment. You’re crying. Not loudly, not messily—soundless tears, falling as you stand in a crumbling kitchen with a bill in one hand and nothing in the fridge. He calls for you. You don’t hear him.

He opens the leather wallet you got him for his seventeenth birthday. It’s empty. His hands are bruised, bloodied. His knuckles won’t stop bleeding.

He cannot help you. He cannot reach you. He doesn’t deserve—

Isack wakes with a start.

The bedroom is still dark, but it feels smaller, suffocating. His heart beats in the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape. Beside him, you’re curled against his chest, breathing steady, your hand resting gently at his sternum.

He blinks up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You don’t stir when he carefully slips out of bed. You don’t feel the draft when he shrugs on a hoodie, tugs jeans over legs that still ache. You don’t hear the pen scratch against paper as he writes, just three words:

Running errands, amour.

He places the note on the nightstand. Stares at it longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

The hallway is colder than he remembers. The elevator groans.

Outside, dawn bleeds into the horizon. A light wind stings his face as he pulls out his phone. Fingers hover, hesitate, then dial.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Christian.”

Isack swallows hard. “Give me one more match.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh, low and knowing. “Just one?”

“Just one. That’s it.”

“Same rules. Same cut. You in or not?”

Isack looks back up at the apartment window.

You’re up there, dreaming still. Safe—for now. Isack thinks of the locket, of cake, of the town you want to visit and the food in the refrigerator.

He thinks of you. He’s always thinking of you.

“I’m in,” Isack breathes.

The line goes dead. ⛐

#isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar imagine #isack hadjar x you #isack hadjar fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fluff #f1 fic #isack hadjar fluff #formula one x you #formula one x reader #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ih6 #does he know . what i would give for him

265 notes · View notes

padmerry · 1 day ago

Text

What people often get wrong about young Ford

Strong title, I know. By “young Ford,” I mean baby and teen Ford.

When people think of baby Ford, what kind of personality do they envision? Many times—as I can attest due to fanfic reading—they seem to picture him as shy, sweet, quiet, and, in Stan’s words, “Mr. Good Nerdy-Shoes” who couldn’t stand up for himself nor think of disobeying adult authority. Look at his adorable little face.

When they think of teen Ford, he is not so sweet anymore, true—but he still contrasts greatly with his adult self, who is so assertive and confrontational, and even with young Stan, who looks extra brash next to him. That is ostensibly why Ford couldn’t stand up for Stan in the principal’s office, even though he would have had if he had more courage.

Is this general portrayal faithful to what we’re shown in canon? My own answer would be a firm no. I’ll elaborate why, exactly, below the cut.

The first thing we have to establish, imo, is that young Ford isn’t a completely different creature, a boy unrecognisable from the man he is going to become. That even baby Ford already shared, to a certain extent, some of adult Ford’s traits, and not only the most “wholesome” of them—the endearing fascination with science and anomalies and nerdiness, that is.

We can notice, for example, his ambition (back then):

We can notice he’s apparently (from what is shown to us, which is not much) the one used to decide what the Stan twins did every day, the Phineas to Stan’s Ferb:

Stan asks him, and he answers—a perhaps unintended but still fascinating parallel to how Ford was also the one to decide their destiny in the finale, namely to hunt anomalies in the Arctic.

He’s the one who rides their bike in the two panels we see them riding it. Maybe an insignificant (and definitely unintended) detail but fitting, imo, with the pattern of Ford leading and Stan tagging along.

Despite these two observations being more my particular observations than anything else, the need to draw a visual parallel between baby Ford with his adult self was the whole point of dressing them in similar outfits, with the red turtleneck:

That said, let’s focus on two major things here...

Was Ford ever a goody-two-shoes?

I think nothing is more fitting than to start this topic with Stan’s little nickname for Ford in the comics: “Mr. Goody Nerd-Shoes.”

If you have read Journal 3—hell, if you have watched the show at all—you know that Stanford Pines is far, far from being a goody two-shoes, despite indeed being a huge nerd. (An important distinction! Ford doesn’t fit nerd stereotypes!) The guy stole radioactive waste from the government even before his portal days, became an intergalactic criminal described as “armed and dangerous,” lent a mind-control tie to a child... Stan is just living in the past and doesn’t understand that Ford changed, right? He isn’t that sweet little boy who could do no wrong anymore!

But... was he ever?

He found it hilarious when Stan mocked their teacher with an unflattering caricature, and doesn’t even bother to hide it.

He helped Stan cheat on tests/assignments (it’s not clear what exactly they’re doing here, but the fact Stan was trying hard to copy it from Ford and not from the blackboard tells us he wasn’t simply copying notes, but answers). Do notice that Ford doesn’t seem bothered, not even anxious or afraid of the teacher catching them. He’s smiling.

Both occasions seem to indicate that despite taking his studies seriously, Ford didn’t have a particularly strong fear of adult authority.

And of course—the best for last—he found it perfectly normal to impersonate two boys he mistakenly thought were dead:

Alex elaborates on the shenanigans those two would get up to in the commentary A Tale of Two Stans:

We played around with the idea that you would see them working together doing little science games or pulling little pranks. There was actually a scene that—I think some of it was even storyboarded—where they have a treehouse. And they’re in the treehouse together and Crampelter and his friends have tracked them down and are begging for their lunch money and Stan and Ford have used their jerkiness and geniusness to rig up like a water balloon throwing machine that knocks Crampelter in the head. I remember him saying, “oh no, my old-timey paper crown!” We were really hanging a lampshade on all these sort of Little Rascal cliches.

They were—both of them—an utter menace. I think Ford just happened to be way subtler about it than poor Stan, causing his misbehaving nature to be easily ignored by both the audience and, luckily, his father Filbrick.

Was Ford ever meek and conflict-avoidant?

I think many people think Stan was the protector and Ford the protected in their early years, but it was never as straightforward as this.

Young Ford is very sensitive about one thing in particular: when people mock his hands or imply he’s a freak. The way I see it, it’s because he believes that, deep down. He believes he’s indeed a freak. On top of that, he cares more about general public opinion than Stan does, since Stan is only ever shown to care about the opinion of his own family.

The insecurity about his hands is something that arguably follows him to adulthood:

(Of course, Ford doesn’t blush and doesn’t demonstrate any insecurity here, but he’s gotten way better at hiding and/or suppressing his feelings. I doubt Bill would have chosen this to pick up on if he didn’t think it would hurt.)

Outside of that, however?

He was quite confrontational! Certainly way more than I remember being when I was his age, as a conflict-avoidant child.

Quite angry, too:

(Notice how, in the original idea of Stan and Ford rigging up a water fountain described in the previous topic, Ford wasn’t afraid to pull a prank on Crampelter, either, despite being sensitive towards Crampelter’s targeted mocking of his hands.)

And most interesting of all—he was not afraid of stand up for Stanley, even when it would cost him to do so (considering that the Sibling Brothers had threatened to frame him as well and let him face Filbrick’s punishment along with Stan in case he made the wrong choice):

Not even when Filbrick was involved directly, instead of being used as the Siblings Brothers’ invisible threat! Pay attention to how Stan hides behind Ford as he tells Ford, “tell ‘im, Sixer!” basically using his brother as a shield, hahah. And, by the way, subverting the common fanon perception that Stan would often protect his twin from his father while a helpless, scared Ford would only watch and let him take the punishment. This is one of the reasons why he gets angry at Stan for lying: “I defended you!”

When Stan is being kicked out, he actively asks Ford for help, once again, just like he did as a kid!

Not even their mom, Caryn, but Ford!

And Stan knows Ford like the back of his hand! Why would Stan ask for Ford to defend him, to stand up to Filbrick, if he didn’t think Ford was capable of it? Ford’s protection was something that Stan thought he could rely on, if only this once, with such high stakes and urgency... despite...

... despite Ford completely failing to defend him in front of the principal, yes.

Remember how Ford always struggled to defend himself from comments that he believed deep, deep down? I think a similar thing was happening here, in the principal’s office. Of course, he wouldn’t have thought of Stan as “a clown,” at the very least not consciously, and he loved his brother, but at that point in their lives the difference between Ford’s and Stan’s accomplishments and abilities must have been undeniable, with the world at large pointing it out more and more often.

This moment in the series was also probably inspired by the real moment in Alex’s life that inspired the scene in which Mabel overhead Ford’s proposal to Dipper, according to the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

This idea of Mabel overhearing Dipper and feeling left out actually came from a real thing that happened between me and my sister. This is a weird anecdote about me and my sister but we did this kind of like, sort of competitive improv games when we were in middle school, very nerdy. And we did pretty good, like, our team made it to the international competition every year, and there was this high school team... [...] We had a pretty good team, but there was a team above us, the high school team, that was like, legendary, that we wanted to be like. And when me and my sister went from junior high school to high school, like, this is going to be our last year to do this sort of competitive improv, and I got a call from the high school team saying “hey, guess what? we already raided your team for the standout members, we’ve taken the people from your team that always do good scores and we’re combining the high school team and the middle school team into a super team and we would like you to be on the high school team. And I was like, “what about Ariel?” And they were like, “well, there’s only seven members per team—” and Ariel was listening on the conversation and I remember her like, bursting into tears because they had basically been like yeah, we got two Hirsches [and] we only want one, and I didn’t even blink. I just said, “no, I refuse to be on this team.” Like, I couldn’t, it was just like, this is so messed up, you’re breaking this whole thing apart, like yeah, it’s a great team, yeah, you guys are awesome, but I’m not gonna do this without Ariel.

Based on Alex’s immediate and strong reaction to such a proposal, it’s not a stretch to think Ford’s silence here was indeed telling—especially because in Alex’s case, Ariel was never insulted. The principal, on the other hand, calls Stan a “clown,” says “he’ll be lucky to graduate high school.”

And because Caryn (who failed to defend Stan when he’s kicked out) did react about the way the principal was talked about him/did ask about him, in the two opportunities that were given to her, basically taking Alex’s irl role in the situation:

Dipper himself also asked about Mabel, even though he was being given an opportunity to learn from The Author of the Journals, whom he admired to the point of almost worship:

A significant factor I think could have changed for Ford to stay silent as the principal badmouthed Stan is: Ford’s priorities. Before, when they were children and more carefree and naive, it was Stan > the world (such as other people’s opinions and his ambition). Now, though, with a true opportunity to finally prove himself—one unlike any other he had before, capable of earning him the approval of even their “tough as a cinderblock” father—he was clinging hard to it.

And you might also be thinking, “but the examples you gave of Ford being assertive were only of baby Ford! Teen Ford could have grown more insecure. Perhaps Stan hadn’t realized that yet, or perhaps Stan was just desperate.” To that I say... fair enough! We don’t have enough canon material regarding teen Ford to decide how he behaved.

But we do have something regarding college Ford, just as he entered college, likely just months after Stan was kicked out—when he met Fiddleford, as described by Fiddleford himself on the TBoB website:

Lines such as “[...] my room mate, a freshman from New Jersey, barged in like he owned the place [...]” and “confidently declared” are very telling here. Of course, Ford didn’t stand up for Fiddleford in front of the whole class, but I honestly think that a) it was a different situation, considering the sheer amount of people/the presence of a public audience, and, partially due to that, b) it would have been a very unintelligent move if he didn’t have anything to defend Fiddleford with (to brag about something with zero backup, even if motivated by anger, is a very typical move of cartoon characters to create conflict for the plot... and also quite annoying to me personally, so I’m glad Ford didn’t go that route, hahah). Deciding to prove that Fiddleford’s theory was accurate first to shove it in everyone’s face second is a way smarter move and way, way more in line with Ford’s modus operandi, who—well—loves shoving the undeniable truth and/or his undeniable superiority in people’s faces. (From Journal 3, when Ford was already living in Gravity Falls: “I traveled to Northwest Manor to confront Old Man Northwest with the evidence of his family’s deceit [...]” and “Imagine the look on the dean of West Coast Tech’s face when he saw that the student he refused was now the next Einstein! Imagine how proud my family and hometown would be: the ‘Freak’ would return a hero!”) Personally, the vibes I get from this seem to indicate a very confident Ford already! A Ford who would have defended Stan if he weren’t already slowly internalizing and subconsciously agreeing with the things people said about his brother, or—at the very least—asked the principal about Stan’s fate, like Alex, Caryn, and Dipper did/would have done in his place.

We also have a clear parallel between baby Ford in The Jersey Devil’s in the Details and teen Ford in A Tale of Two Stans. Both have people telling them they’re better than Stan. One defends Stan strongly, the other listens quietly. Both feel betrayed by Stan. One forgives Stan, the other doesn’t. Filbrick was involved in both situations—one wasn’t afraid of being framed if it meant standing with his brother, the other didn’t stand with his brother even as his brother was kicked out of the house.

Let’s remember the Sibling Brothers’ words to him:

“One day you’re gonna realize that you’re too good for him.” Unfortunately, that prophecy came true! Way too true!

In the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. The Future, Jason Ritter (Dipper’s VA) suggested that Ford believed than “you can be held back by your siblings,” to which Alex agreed. It’s not necessary to accept Word of God to understand this fact, either:

I didn’t want to end all of this on such a bitter note, since my last intention with this post is to give people more reason to hate on Ford. He is actually my favorite character and, if the parallels between The Jersey Devil’s in the Details and A Tale of Two Stans teach us anything, it is that Ford did have reasons to distrust Stan/not believe Stan was telling the truth about it being an accident. (Stan lies really, really well when he wants to! See: Not What He Seems!) It is exactly because of him being my favorite character, though, that I am so fascinated by his characterization, and I think baby Ford’s loyalty and courage deserves more appreciation. Teen Ford, on the other hand—it was never courage that he lacked.

#ford pines #stanford pines #ford pines meta #stan twins #stan twins meta #gravity falls #gravity falls meta

285 notes · View notes

ekybrini · 3 days ago

Text

you're the right one | Will Smith

Request: Hi! I have a request if you are up to writing it. Can I please request a Will Smith fic where he and reader are out on a date, and people keep coming up to ask for pictures and autographs, and she happily takes pictures if asked, but for the most part the fans ignore her or make snide remarks. And she starts feeling bad because she feels that she can’t keep up with his world and doesn’t belong with him. And so Will invites her over and he makes her dinner and gets her flowers, does everything. And he basically praises her and thanks her for staying with him and supporting him through his rookie year.

— ⟡ summary | After a rough night out leaves y/n feeling out of place, Will comforts her with flowers, dinner, and gentle reminders that she means everything to him.

— ⟡ warnings | None (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 2.3k

— ⟡ gabs note | hiiii !!!! I finally finished this after like almost a month of it being in my drafts lol. Who knew the last two months of school were actually going to be a living hell. THANKFULLY I graduate in exactly a month so I'll be able to start being more active on here which means more post!! if anyone would like to request something don't hesitate !! I won't get to them right away but I will end up writing it sometimes when I have time.

You tell yourself it didn't bother you at first.

The stares. The whispers. Or how your name gets left out of every “Can I get a picture with you, will?” request.

That is just part of dating him.

You try to focus on the warmth in his eyes. The way his knee brushes against yours under the table. The way he said “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” when he picked you up tonight after the two long roadies.

And he meant that.

The first fan comes by after your appetizers hit the table. Young guy, maybe in high school, nervous, polite, asking to sign a sharks jersey. Will grins, he takes a picture and signs the jersey. He is sweet about it, he always is. You simile and even offer to take the picture. You’ve gotten used to this by now. You’ve known what it meant to be with him since the beginning of your relationship.

You just didn’t expect the stream of fans to keep coming.

Another one stops mid conversation. Then another. And another. You take a couple more pictures. Will never says no. He apologies each time with a sheepish smile and squeezes your hand each time, but you can feel the distance building up with every polite interruption.

Your food arrives. You push it around your plate, your appetite fading like the candle in front of you guys.

And of course it happens again.

You're mid laugh at something Will said, something genuinely funny, something that made you forget about how you two can’t seem to have a private moment when a group of girls passes by your table. They slow down pretending to glance at their menu, but their eyes are on Will.

“He’s even cuter in person,” one whispers.

Another snorts softly. “No kidding. And he’s with her?”

“He could definitely do better if he tried.” The girl replied back.

Will stiffens next to you like he heard it too.

But you don’t wait to see if he’ll say something. You excuse yourself with a bright smile and make your way to the bathroom before your voice cracks.

You stare at yourself in the mirror feeling your chest get tight, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache.

You knew it could be like this. You’ve seen the comments online, the subtle glances, the disbelief in people’s faces when they realize you're together. You always thought you could handle it. You thought if you loved him enough, if he loved you enough it wouldn’t matter.

But tonight, it feels like you’re trying to breathe underwater.

You fix your makeup, though it doesn’t fix anything. You smooth down your dress, though it still doesn’t feel like it fits right. You stare at yourself until the flush in your cheeks fades enough to pass as normal, then go back out there and pretend you weren’t just unraveling in a public restroom.

Will’s sitting up straighter when you return. There’s a shared dessert waiting at your seat, your favorite, a small cookie pie with vanilla ice cream on top.

His smile is small, searching. “Thought we could end the night on a sweet note.”

You sit down feeling your heart twisting.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He watches you for a moment longer than usual. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s not a lie. You’ve had a long day, but it's not the reason for you shutting down.

He doesn’t push. He never does when you shut down like this. Instead, he forks a bite of cookie and offers it to you across the table.

You take it.

You make it through dessert. You make it through the ride home. He tells you he’ll text you when he makes it home. kisses your temple like he always does, lingering just long enough for you to feel guilty for pulling away.

You go inside and lean against the door, blinking against the burn behind your eyes.

Will hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s the hardest part.

He’s just being himself, kind, open, unaware of every careless comment, every ignored glance, every fan who acts like you’re invisible. He doesn’t know how small you felt tonight. How you keep wondering if people see you and think he settled.

You crawl into bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling, your mind looping that one cruel comment over and over again.

And he’s with her?

You close your eyes and try not to cry.

The next morning you wake to the soft buzz of your phone on the nightstand. It will. It’s still dark out, the sky a dull gray that matches the fog in your chest.

“Good morning, pretty girl. Hope you slept okay.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at the message for a while then type back slowly.

“Morning. Slept alright. Hope practice isn’t too rough today.”

You press send before you can second guess yourself. It’s casual. Normal. Exactly the kind of message he’s used to from you. But it feels like a lie, even if the words are technically true.

You’re not ignoring him. You just can’t bring yourself to say what’s really on your mind.

The way the girl at the restaurant looked you up and down like you were some sort of joke. The way you felt more like a shadow than someone’s date. The way Will didn’t seem to notice.

You know it’s not fair to hold that against him. He wasn’t the one who made you feel small, but he also didn’t notice that you were shrinking.

Later, you respond to another one of his texts, something simple about what you’re watching on TV, what you’re having for lunch. You even throw in a little joke. You’re trying. You really are.

And Will is sweet like always.

“Can’t believe you’re watching that without me. Rude.” Will send the message after telling him you’re watching glee.

“You were the one who fell asleep halfway through the last episode. I’m taking initiative.”

He replies with a string of laughing emojis and a gif that makes you smile, just a little.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. At least that's what you’re telling yourself.

Because every time your phone lights up with his name you feel that familiar twist in your stomach. Like there’s something caught in your throat, something heavy sitting on your chest. Like you’re pretending everything is normal when inside you’re spinning.

You want to tell him. But you don’t want him to think it’s stupid about you being upset over a comment. You know it shouldn’t have hurt you the way it did.

So you keep replying. Keep smiling through texts. Keep laughing at the right moments. Because silence would make him worry and you don’t want him to worry.

“Come over tonight?”

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You hesitate not because you don’t want to see him, but because you’re scared he’ll see right through you.

Still, you reply.

“Sure. What time?”

His response is nearly instant.

“Whenever you want. I’ll cook. Something fancy and probably half burnt, but made with love”

That makes your lips twitch, just a little.

By the time you knock on his door, your stomach is in knots. You try to smooth out your expression when he answers, wearing a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, the smell of garlic and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

Will leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before pulling you inside. “Hey, you,” he says. “I missed you.”

You nod, setting your bag down. You don’t trust your voice to work yet.

“I went all out,” he says as he leads you to the kitchen. “Like, full Pinterest boyfriend levels. There are candles. I obviously couldn't get wine but if you wanted the full experience i got grape juice if not i got sodas. And I even tried to fold the napkins into those little triangle things. Don’t look too closely.”

Sure enough there’s a small dinner spread waiting on the table. It’s simple pasta, salad, garlic bread slightly burnt around the edges but it’s warm, thoughtful, and made by him.

And sitting right in the middle of the table is a small bouquet of flowers. Tulips with a mix of wildflowers, your favorite.

You blink. “Will”

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I know you’ve had a weird couple of days. Thought maybe this would help.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your throat tightens too fast.

He misreads the silence, smile dimming a little. “I didn’t mean to overdo it. I just I guess I wanted you to know I don’t take you for granted. Not ever.”

Your breath stutters. The lump in your throat threatens to spill over.

You reach for a flower stem with trembling fingers. “They’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He nods, watching you carefully. “So are you.”

Will pulls out your chair and sits beside you instead of across, his thigh pressed lightly to yours.

“I don’t know what’s been bothering you,” he says, voice softer now. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to hide it from me.”

You want to tell him everything. The whispers. The way you felt like you didn’t belong. The way his world sometimes feels too loud, too polished, too far from yours.

But for now, you lean your head on his shoulder and he lets you stay quiet.

After a while of silence you pick at your pasta more than you eat it, but the warmth of the food and the soft music Will put on in the background helps ease the ache that’s been sitting in your chest. Will doesn’t push. He just chats about his last practice, about how one of the guys slipped during warmups, how the locker room smelled like actual death because Macklin left a protein shake in his bag over the weekend. You smile weakly at the stories, letting them wrap around you like a blanket.

But eventually, the words stop. He glances over at you, eyes searching and says gently, “You’ve been quiet lately. I mean, more than usual.”

You stare down at your plate. Your fork scrapes against ceramic, and your voice is barely audible when you say, “Yeah. Im sorry”

Will doesn't rush you. He just waits.

Eventually, you set your fork down and take a breath, fingers curling into your lap.

"It was at the restaurant," you say, voice barely more than a whisper.

Will looks up, confusion flickering across his face. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

"Our date," you add, still not looking at him. “When those fans kept coming over.”

His expression softens, and you can tell he thinks you’re about to say you were overwhelmed by the attention, maybe annoyed. But that’s not it.

“Some of their remarks are incredibly hurtful sometimes. I overheard someone ask if I was your assistance when I was walking to the bathroom. And then there were ones whose whispers were just too loud.”

You pause, swallowing hard.

“They said you could do better and I know,” you add quickly, “I know people say stupid things all the time. I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you still felt like shit,” he finishes for you, voice low.

You nod. “I smiled through it. I laughed. Took the photos. And then I went home and felt like maybe they were right.”

“I wish you had told me,” he murmurs. “I wish I’d noticed.”

“I didn’t want to ruin the night. You looked happy.”

“I was happy. Because I was with you.”

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Listen to me. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I thought about what they were saying. I don’t care what some strangers at a restaurant think. You think I could survive this year, this pressure, this schedule, this whole new world without you?”

“You’re the best part of all of it,” he says. “You’re the one who keeps me grounded. Who reminds me who I am. That night, I was proud to have you next to me. I just hate that anyone made you feel like you weren’t enough. Because you are. You’re more than enough.”

Your throat tightens as you finally look at him.

“And I made you your favorite dessert,” he adds, almost sheepish. “It’s in the kitchen. I was gonna wait, but”

You laugh wetly, tears spilling as you cover your face with your hands. “You’re such a sap.”

“I know.” He grins, brushing your hands away gently. “But only for you.”

And when he kisses your lips, soft and unhurried, you let yourself believe it that maybe you do belong here with him after all.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, the soft hum of a movie playing in the background. You’re not really watching it, not with Will sitting beside you, one arm around your shoulders, his fingers brushing over your arm in slow, calming strokes.

Will shifts slightly, glancing down at you. “You okay?”

You nod, leaning your head against his chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I will be.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. And if anyone ever makes you feel like that again, I’ll personally throw their soup across the restaurant.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching in your throat. “Please don’t start a food fight because of me.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

The warmth in his voice melts something in your chest, and for the first time in a few days, the ache feels like it’s fading.

You trace gentle shapes on the inside of his hoodie sleeve. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just pulls you closer, holds you tighter. And as your eyes begin to drift shut the rhythm of his heartbeat steady in your ear all you can feel is safe and loved.

The world may never stop whispering, but tonight wrapped in Will’s arms you makes you feel as if you don't have anything to worry about.

251 notes · View notes

kakashisacademia · 2 days ago

Text

ೃ⁀➷ how they’d act as your alphas - jjk edition

Satoru Gojo – the cocky, obsessed alpha

Satoru pretends he’s chill, but when your heat hits? He goes fucking feral. Smug as hell, but shaking with restraint and want and need. He’ll kiss your neck like it’s sacred territory and growl and snarl;

“You smell like mine. You know what that does to me, baby?”

He makes you ride it out in his arms. But he’s also spoiling you, teasing you, whispering between kisses that no one else gets to touch you ever.

“Slowly, sweetheart. Let your Alpha take care of you.”

Suguru Geto – the worship-you-in-private alpha

He’s so calm and so composed, but when he’s alone with you during your heat? He kneels for you like it’s instinct. Smooth hands gripping your thighs, reverent kisses on your stomach as he murmurs;

“You’re mine, little Omega. Every inch. Every sound.”

He takes his time with his fingers, tongue and his cock. And he holds you in the bath afterward, stroking your hips as he says;

“I’ll always be here. I know what you need.”

Choso Kamo – the soft spoken, devoted alpha

Choso is gentle and almost shy about it. He smells your heat coming before you do and starts prepping your nest, laying out clothes, blankets and snacks. When it hits full force, he holds you like you might break.

“Tell me where it hurts. Let me fix it.”

He doesn’t push. Just strokes your hair and rocks you through the tension until you beg him to touch you. That’s when he allows himself to let his Alpha to take over and claim you.

“I’ll never let you go, you know that?”

Toji Fushiguro – the dangerous, territorial alpha

This man? He’s unhinged in rut. You walk into a room with another scent on you and suddenly you’re pinned against the wall.

“Don’t let anyone get that close again.”

This man? He’s even more unhinged when you’re in heat. He’s rough and growling, biting, panting against your neck. But he knows your limits. He pushes right to the edge of them, smirking down at you. He’s a fucking dick, but you’re his and his alone.

“That little Omega body was made to be filled by me. Say it.”

Kento Nanami – the controlled, devoted

Nanami is the definition of discipline until it comes to you. He monitors your cycle with quiet focus, tracking every shift in your scent like clockwork. When your heat comes he cancels all plans, loosens his tie and locks the world out. He takes you apart slowly, coaxing pleasure with practiced hands, murmuring against your skin;

“You don’t have to rush. I’m right here. I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

He’s the type to feed you between rounds, wipe sweat from your forehead and whisper,

“Such a good Omega. I’m proud of you.”

There’s so much reverence in the way he knots with you like it’s sacred.

Sukuna – the possessive, sadistic Alpha

Sukuna is chaos. You are his and he makes sure everyone knows it. He purrs when he catches your scent going sweet in heat, backing you into a wall with a fangy grin.

“On your knees, little Omega. You smell too good to walk around like this.”

He teases you until you’re begging, licking your neck where his bite will go, taunting;

“Say it. Say you want your Alpha’s cock, or I’ll make you suffer through this alone.”

But once you do submit? Oh, baby. He wrecks you. Knotting you again and again, laughing when you go limp and boneless in his arms.

“Look at that. My pretty little Omega, stuffed full and drooling for more.”

Want a full story for one of the Alphas? Feel free to request it 😊

208 notes · View notes

cryinggirlnamedhelen · 23 hours ago

Text

need to know!

ft; sakura haruka, suo hayato, umemiya hajime, ren kaji

synopsis ; how aware are they of your crush on them?

cw ; gn!reader, violence, some of them are stupid asf

now playing ; need to know by doja cat

sakura haruka

romantic sensor hard at work…! again.

sakura isn’t stupid. well, academically, he certainly is. but he’s aware enough to tell when you’re acting differently around him than with the others. for one, you don’t show up at suo’s doorstep every day with food while proceeding to eat it with him. you sure do that with sakura though. you don’t bombard nirei with texts whenever you can. you sure do that with sakura though.

his stupid little romantic sensor gives it away though. whenever you do anything for him, even if it’s picking up something that he dropped or making a sarcastic compliment about him, he turns bright red and his thoughts begins to ramble a mile a minute. it’s almost as if steam is rushing out of his ears.

his sensor is practically screaming “they have a crush on you! they have a crush on you!”

the biggest problem though? he’s too insecure to realize it.

logically—and even instinctively—it makes completely sense that you’re in love with him. but emotionally, sakura’s senses are completely blocked by his past experiences. i mean, what was there to like about him?

he’s internally aware, but externally too dense to figure it out.

suo hayato

he knows the tea. and he drinks it as well.

aware? oh, suo knows. he can tell. from the slight twitch of your fingers when his hand accidentally grazes yours to the slight, nearly unnoticeable pout on your lips when he leans in ever so closely to your lips only to brush a few strands of hair ever from your face and back away. he sees it all.

of course, he likes you back. a little bit too much, actually. so much that when he closes his eyes, you’re the first thing that he thinks of. that you occupy and consume all of his thoughts. he doesn’t mind confessing first, he just needs to make sure that you’re prepared. you’d probably melt and hyperventilate if he confesses to you in this current state.

you’re so damn obvious about your crush. he thinks it’s cute.

the worst part about suo is that he’s so damn nonchalant and vague about it as well.

when he finally confesses to you, after an excruciating year of crushing on him, it’s almost like an intentional slip of the tongue. “you think no one’s going to ask you to homecoming? well, i like you a lot, and if we went to the same school, i’d ask you out.”

suo is painfully aware. so much so that it’s incredibly annoying to have a crush on him.

umemiya hajime

“yeah, of course 1+1=2!” “how’d you solve it?” “…”

of course he can tell that you have a crush on him! how do you think he leads furin without good observational and emotional skills? he can obviously tell that you’re so genuine with your compliments because of your crush on him!

and yes, he can easily figure out which are the gifts you give him because you have a crush on him and which are the gifts you give him because it’s actually some sort of special day. usually it’s the former. well, at least he’s still getting the gifts at the end of the day.

the catch?

he can’t seem to process the fact that you have a crush on him.

it’s just like how it is with tsubaki’s crush on him. he’s not stupid; he can clearly tell that you have a crush on him. but he can’t seem to process it or act on it. it’s like knowing a formula for math but not knowing what the hell to do with it or where to put the numbers.

you don’t even know if you want to call him stupid or smart.

ren kaji

he’s just as in tune with your emotions as he is with music.

kaji is leagues more normal than the others. he’s keen enough to be in touch with the emotions of others, especially as a grade captain. despite how outwardly rough he can be sometimes, he can definitely take a good read on the emotions on someone else, especially someone he’s close with.

he’s not as cruel as suo or as dumb as umemiya. does he like you back? definitely. he couldn’t even deny it. but at the same time, he’s too awkward to confront you about it. he’s horrified at the thought of coming off of brash or abrasive if he ever confronts you about your crush on him.

so he just sucks on his lollipop, watching your face turn bright red whenever you catch him staring at you a bit too intently.

you’ll be fine. he’s sure that you’ll find out soon.

211 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 1 day ago

Text

How Do You Know

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship, fluff, light angst, humor.

Summary/Warnings: There are different levels of Dean being drunk, and you've seen all of them. Or at least, you thought you'd seen all of them.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! I am incapable of not making it emotional, and for that I am sorry. Enjoy!

Word Count: 3.1k

“I bet I can beat you at pool.”

Dean’s voice is low in your ear, and you sigh, giving him a gentle smile as you shake your head.

“I know you can beat me at pool.” You say with a pointed look. “So do you. Just tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want anything-“

“Dean.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his chin onto the top of your head, and you don’t have to smell the beer to know he’s drunk. He doesn’t drape himself all over you and make incredibly obvious attempts to smell your hair unless he’s at least level one Drunk Dean. Overly and openly affectionate.

And it’s not as if he’s never affectionate. He’ll hold your hand and kiss your brow every day, but if he wants more it’s not for anyone else to see. Let alone the entirety of a fucking bar. You’ll get pulled into corners and alleys and empty rooms, kissed stupid then fucked until you need to hold onto Dean’s arm to walk, but it’s not for others to see.

Unless he’s drunk. Drunk Dean has all the possessiveness of Sober Dean, and none of the reservations. Sober Dean whispers promises in your ear, but won’t be soft where it can be seen.

Drunk Dean is going to fucking kill you, because he’s grabbing your chin and tilting your head back, and there’s a bright, cocky grin on his face that makes you feel a little gooey in your stomach.

“You’re pretty.” He mumbles, and your own smile grows. “C’mon, let’s go play-“

“Dean.” You reach a hand back to trace over his jaw, and his body stills. “Say what you want.”

“Doesn’t matter-“

“It matters to me.”

He blinks at you. “You’re my dream girl.”

He’s more drunk than you thought. Level two Drunk Dean, where he’s losing his filter. It’s celebratory drunk—hunt done in a day, no casualties, he got a burger and found a cool new gun—but he’s still hammered.

He’s lucky he’s the cutest person on the planet. Lucky you love him, and that wins are so rare you couldn’t deny him celebration if you tried.

“If I tell you what I want.” Dean’s fingers start to comb through your hair, and you try not to moan. He’s not even doing it on purpose. “Do I get it?”

“We‘ll see.” You hum, and his grin widens.

“Wanna see your boobs, when you lean down to do that shot you’re good at.” Dean grabs you by the hips, turning you on your stool until you’re pressed right to his chest, and he’s standing between your legs. “Then I wanna kick your fuckin’ ass at pool, and win a kiss.”

You raise your brows. “Kisses are free, you know.”

He shakes his head, dropping his brow down to yours. “Wanna earn ‘em. Earn you.”

“You’ve earned me, Dean.” You smile up at him, and his eyes widen like he can’t believe you. “You’ve got me. That’s how the dating thing works. I’m yours.”

“Huh.” He mutters, turning your hair between his fingers. “Can we have sex, too?”

You giggle, dropping your brow to his shoulder. “When you’re sober, cowboy.”

“You think I’m a cowboy?”

There’s something soft and hopeful, in his voice. And you love him too much to tease him right now. Not when he’s being so sweet, and touching you like you’re truly his.

And you are.

But it still doesn’t feel real.

It’s not anything Dean’s done. You understand the mostly private thing. It’s safer, and means that you can keep working together without giving Sam an aneurism or compromising the cases. And Dean’s perfect, when you’re behind those doors. He’ll pull you onto his lap in the Dean Cave, and make you breakfast in the morning, and sit with you all night if you can’t sleep. Your head on his thigh while you watch cartoons, him ignoring your suggestions that he go to sleep. Grumbling that while you’re up, so he’s up, and holding you until you pass out.

But you’ve known him for a long time. You’ve had long years that no one’s at fault for, where you watched him hit on women at bars and never look at you like you might be more.

Dean’s said that you were always more, he just didn’t think you wanted him. And you believe him. You do. Dean wouldn’t lie about something like that to preserve your feelings. He wouldn’t know that you love him, and then sleep with you just to do it. If he wants sex, he could get it anywhere.

He’s choosing it with you. That’s what you cling to, in the dead of night when he’s—for whatever reason—somewhere else. If Dean just wanted sex, he’d tell you. He’d wince when you tell him you love him, and he wouldn’t call you his dream girl, and he wouldn’t act like a puppy just under your attention. He wouldn’t be looking at you with big eyes and holding you like you’re something priceless.

But he’s never said it back.

“You can be a cowboy if you want to be a cowboy.” You give him another sweet smile, and he stands up a little straighter.

“Can I be your cowboy?”

God, he must have been made in a factory. But he’s so fucking real. Dean’s warm and real around you, and under the booze you can smell his cheap cologne, and his eyes are shining on yours.

He’s yours, too. Dean had given you the right to call him yours.

“Do you want to be my cowboy?”

The shift is immediate. Dean’s lips curve into a teasing grin, his features fall into something a little darker, and his weight shifts so he’s no longer clinging to you, but shielding you. Pulling you into him, until every bit of space between your bodies is still far too much.

This is what he wanted. And you’re not nearly strong enough to shove him off with a laugh. To not indulge it a little, when his fingers trace over your cheekbones and he tugs on your hair slightly. Just enough for your head to tip back, and your eyes to be forced onto his.

“I’ll be your anything, babygirl.” He mutters, his thumb moving down to pull at your lip. “Let’s get out of here and see if you wanna take me for a ride?”

“I think I’m supposed to save a horse, first.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“I can be the horse, too.”

Jesus Christ.

And that’s how you know. How you think you know.

That Dean loves you.

You shake your head and shove lightly at his chest—not because you don’t want it, you can feel how much you want it between your legs—and he doesn’t move away. He just laughs like he expected it, pulls you into a heavy and sloppy kiss, and goes back to hanging around you as he moves on. Talking about work he wants to do on the Impala—he’s starting to forget car terms, which means you’re hitting a level three Drunk Dean—and muttering in your ear about how he still wants to bend you over the bar table one second, before asking you about something stupid and watching you with big eyes the next.

He’s here for you. He’s not at the bar for anything but you. And he hasn’t said that he loves you, but whenever you say it, he kisses you like he’s trying to eat you alive.

Then you hit level four Drunk Dean.

Level four Drunk Dean is your favorite.

He’ll gather you into his arms and kiss your neck, all while muttering praise you don’t think he understands. His words are all over the place and impossible to follow, but he’s grinning the whole time, and he seems to throw in a your pretty every few minutes. He stumbles over the jukebox, herding you into front of him—like the idea of you being gone from his sight is worse than the end of the world—and picks a song you know sober Dean would hate.

Sober Dean would call pop music not his thing. Say he’s freakin’ hates that bubblegum shit, sweetheart, so stop tryin’ to swap my mixtapes or I’m gonna tie your hands up.

You’ve pushed him right to the edge of that. It had been a fun afternoon.

But nothing is better than Drunk Dean very much knowing pop music. And feeling no type of shame about it, because level two Drunk Dean loses all the weight and pain that Sober Dean carries. And you love Sober Dean, and his brooding and stoic face and big arms around you like he’s worried you’re going to fly away.

But you love all of Dean. And it’s another way to know.

Dean lets you see all of him.

The fact that you get to see all of him. Not many people get to see all of Dean, but you’re allowed to be spun in his arms as his eyes get more and glazed and blown out. You love him like this just as much as you love him scowling in his room and burying his face between your breasts after a nightmare, because it makes him feel better.

It might not.

You don’t care.

It’s another way you to know Dean might love you, even half as much as you love him.

He just doesn’t say it. And that’s Dean. He barely even tells Sam he loves him. So you’ll take whatever he’ll give you, and hope it’s enough to destroy the little devil in your ear, telling you soon he’ll get bored. You’re just a convenient, consistent, safer lay, and one day you’ll have to face that.

Dean wouldn’t do that to you. You know Dean wouldn’t do that to you.

No matter how you wish it would, it doesn’t stop the fear.

You’re starting to hit a level five Drunk Dean. That’s when it’s time to call it a night. His inhibitions are too far gone, and he’s starting to try and do things he cannot do. Objectively. He’s strong, but he’s not going to be run through the wall like the Kool-Aid man. He’s agile for a guy of his size, but he’s not going to be able to climb onto the ceiling like Spider-Man. He eats a lot, but no one is going to be able to swallow a dart.

Sam’s been busy all night. He took one drink and shuffled off to a booth to call Eileen. They haven’t had a lot of time to call in the past few weeks, and you don’t need Sam to handle a level five Drunk Dean. It might be easier without Sam, because you can keep all of Dean’s attention on your tits while you sneak the keys out of his pocket, and Sam won’t have to deal with Dean asking you to fuck in the bathroom before you go home.

You’ll text him, when you get back to the motel. Tell him to walk back if he can’t wait, or hang out until you get Dean into bed.

“C’mon,” you mumble in Dean’s ear, looping an arm around his back. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

He glares at you, not budging an inch. “Stop touchin’ me.”

Your hands fly off of him, your eyes widening slightly. “I- I’m sorry, baby-“

“Don’t call me baby either.” He grumbles, turning back to the jukebox. “‘M not your baby.”

You don’t know how to deal with that. You can’t start crying in the middle of the bar, but you also feel like your heart was just put through a shredder. He doesn’t want you to touch him. He’s not your baby. And that fear is rearing it’s head and howling, because maybe the drinks are freeing Dean of being a gentleman, and he’s saying what he’s always thought. You’re just a body. You shouldn’t be calling him sweet things or touching him like that, because that makes you something that—to Dean—you’re simply not.

“I-“ You take a long breath, and you’re going to need Sam. He can handle Dean, and you can go try to stitch your heart back up in the bathroom. Just enough to face him in the morning. To not completely shatter when you tell him that you know, and you’ll leave to save him the trouble. “I- I’m gonna go get Sam-“

“Don’t want Sam.” He glares at you again, and the world is starting to blur a little bit.

“Dean, I don’t-“

He cuts you off with your own name, and he says it the same as when he’s had a nightmare. Like he’s a little lost. “I want her. Not you.”

You stare at him, and the heart-breaking stutters to a stop. “What?”

“M’ girl.” He grumbles. “She’ll kick your ass, if you try’n grab me again. She’s hot. She’s gotta gun.” He frowns at the air. “But ‘m not ‘possed to tell people that. Don’t tell ‘er I told you.”

You can feel a soft smile pulling at your cheeks. “I won’t.”

He nods slowly, and he’s still watching you with a slight apprehension. Your heart is still caught in the slight stasis, but before you can let it bloom back, you just need to check.

“Can we go home, Dean?”

His nose wrinkles like he smelled something bad. “I don’t wanna go home with you. You’re not m’ girl.” He says your name again, a big, goofy smile spreading over his face. “I miss ‘er.”

He misses you.

And he really doesn’t seem to have a clue that you’re right in front of him.

You take a careful step forward. “Dean-“

“Look, lady.” He snaps, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. “You seem fine, but I love my girl. So no touchin’.”

There’s no fighting your smile now. “You love her?”

He gives a firm nod, eyeing you wearily. “She’s perfect. She smells really good, and she’s got a big n’ pretty mouth, and one time she stabbed me, and it was freakin’ hot. I love her. Never loved nothin’ like her.” His scowl deepens. “And I’m her’s. Not yours. So no funny business.”

You’re still fighting tears. But now they’re made of Dean loves you.

He does. His filter is gone, and he’s affectionate, and he can’t remember enough to recognize you, but he knows he love you, and that he’s yours.

He’s doing things Sober Dean wouldn’t do. Like trying to eat olives and cherries with his nose, and saying he loves you.

He loves you.

“No funny business.” You raise your hands for him to see, and your smile is probably manic. You don’t really care. “Can you stay here for a second?”

“You’re not my freakin’ boss-“

You say your own name, and try not to melt when Dean’s whole face lights up. “I’m gonna go get her and Sam. You just have to stay here. Does that sound good?”

He nods cautiously, and you give him one last smile before moving over to Sam’s booth.

“Hey,” he frowns around you, obviously looking for Dean. “Eileen just went to bed, where’s-“

“Back there.” You nod over your shoulder. “He doesn’t know who I am, Sam.”

You don’t know what you expected, but Sam laughing definitely wasn’t it. “Holy shit. How many beers did he have?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t counting them-”

“Well, you know our Dean drunkenness scale?”

You frown. “Yeah?”

“This is a level six.” Sam says, starting to move out of the booth. “His brain is scrambled. One time he left me in a parking lot because he thought I was a random girl following him around.”

“Sam.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about level six.”

“Cause it’s rare.” He shrugs. “It only happens when he’s really depressed, or really happy.” He gives you a small smile. “I’m guessing this is the happy one, which is nice. Only other time I saw the happy one was after we got Michael out of him, and that was also half depressed.”

You try not to flush too much at that. Or how, when Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder, nods to you, and explains he found you looking for Dean,

Dean’s whole face lights up and he barrels towards you with an openly adoring expression.

“I missed you, sweetheart.” He drops his face into your hair, the hug almost bone-crushing. “I wanna go home.”

“I think we can make that happen.” Your words are muffled in Dean’s chest as you snake your hand into his pocket, but he seems to understand them all the same. His grip tightens as he pulls back, and if he had a tail, he might have been wagging it.

“Can you shower with me?”

“Sure, baby.” You get a good grip on the keys, a toss them to Sam behind his back. “Ready?”

Dean nods, and never once pulls himself away as you guide him back to the car.

“I don’t wanna ride in that car.” He grumbles in your ear. “I want my car. I’d never park Baby this shitty.”

You snort, and Sam scowls. Dean was already one level of drunk when you showed up to the bar, and he’d been clinging to you like an octopus for the whole drive.

“It is a shitty parking job.” You hum, and Sam flips you off.

“You couldn’t have done better-“

“Hey!” Dean snaps, and you squeak as he folds over you like a human shield. “Don’t talk ‘bout my girl like that, buddy. I’ll fuckin’ shoot you, and then- Then my brother will make you freakin’ disappear-“

“I know, Dean.” Sam sighs, and you muffle your giggle in Dean’s side. “Let’s go.”

Dean passes out only two seconds into the ride. Snoring all around you, his grip tightening whenever you so much as wiggle.

“I’m gonna kick his ass in the morning.” Sam mutters. “That was not a bad parking job. There was a truck half in the space, and I made it work.”

“I know.” You hum, playing with the flannel of Dean’s cuff. “Don’t blame him, Sam. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Yeah, he does.” He glares at Dean in the mirror. “Jerk.”

You let out a soft laugh, but you really hope Dean knows what he’s saying.

He does know what he’s saying.

He just doesn’t know that he’s saying it.

And you can take that. You can take Dean loving you and not knowing how to say it. And you know that in the morning Sam will mock him for reaching a level six drunk, and Dean will look at you with a slight fear, and you’ll just kiss the scruff on his jaw. Tell him that you understand with hands in his hair and sweet smiles, and make sure he knows that he doesn’t have to say it.

You’ll love him all the same.

And Dean does love you. Drunk or sober, he knows he loves you.

And now you know it too.

End Note: Dean if I had you I'd never let you get sad drunk.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101

@chi-raz @lori19 @wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey

@and-i-wish @jsudsgf @fullbelieverheart @wowzabowza69 @bonbonnie88

@pillowjj @barnes70stark @kamisobsessed @happyfxckinghorrors @deans-yn

@jofinka

245 notes · View notes

halfwayhearted · 2 days ago

Note

Can you do one story where Hector Fort its SUPER clingy w his gf and when they're in the middle of a making out he literally can't stop kissing and saying how much he loves her

Kiss Me — Héctor Fort.

Pairing: Héctor Fort x Fem!Reader

Summary: In which he just can’t get enough of you.

Word Count: 355+

Disclaimer/s — Hi, kissing of course, anddd that’s it I think!

A/N: This is short :/ but it’s been marinating in the requests for quite a bit sooo! + I stared at my screen blankly writing this

Air, you mused to yourself. You guys needed air.

Your hands fall from his hair—his curls—and drop to his shoulders before you pull back, utterly breathless. “Wait, you’re actually trying to kill me.” You say, catching a much-needed breath.

“You know I’m not,” he huffs.

“Yeah, well,” a pause—the silence broken only by the sound of both your quickening breaths. “Could’ve fooled me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Héctor narrows his eyes at you. His hand moves from your hip to your jaw, thumb hovering over your bottom lip. “Never fail to always be the dramatic one, do you.” His finger traces your lip gently. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, gaze drifting away. You feel your face heat at his words.

“Can I kiss you now?”

Oh, he’s so going to be the death of you.

When you don’t reply, he leans forward, a whisper of a kiss landing on your shoulder blade. Slowly, his kisses trace a path up your neck, until he reaches your jawline. “Can I?” Héctor questions.

“You’re sickening,” you grumble, but the words are lost as you capture his lips. He smiles into the kiss, amused by your impulsiveness. Oh, okay.

And as if on instinct, his grip returns to your hip, his thumb rubbing soothingly against your skin where your shirt doesn’t quite reach your pants.

You should’ve told him to catch his breath with you, especially when he tilted his head back.

He just had to be impatient.

“I,” Héctor starts, trailing off to peck you on the lips before pulling back. “Love you. I love you.”

A smile graces your lips. “I love you.”

That’s when he groans, pulling you in for another one. God, when did he become so needy? He doesn’t care; he’s got you. When does he not?

“Héctor,” you manage to murmur. “Breathe. You’re acting like you won’t see me for months.”

“I love you.”

Uh-huh. He’s a goner. “So you’ve said.”

All he does is roll his eyes, but does as you order. Breathe. Even if he’s back to pecking at your lips within seconds. You’d have to deal. Unfortunately.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @pedriache + @spidybaby + @levidazai + @ferrarifudds + @sakashq + @joaoflms ! ౨ৎ

179 notes · View notes

yunamoona · 2 days ago

Text

formation a !

summary: you’re getting hit on!!! Luckily your friends have a protocol to neutralize this very situation.

content: fluff, satoru gojo x fem!reader (ft. Shoko and Suguru), silliness, gojo vs jealousy. Gege if he was full of joy and whimsy AU where they all at least make it to their last year of school together. Oh and thug Geto (but not really) allusion to the “Formation b” og at the end.

a/n: we all saw how quick Gojo was to reacting to Megumi “getting hit on.” formation b??? yeah, that was NOT his first rodeo…anyways, this is my first oneshot! please be forgiving, but I’m open to constructive criticism! also feel free to send feedback & reqs! info in my pinned.

“I don’t waannaaaaa!”

“Then go home.”

“I don’t wanna do that eitherrr”

Before you can snap at him again, it’s Suguru who smacks him upside the head, “then quit whining,” the man grumbles as Satoru whimpers and rubs the back of his head. “It’s already hot as balls out, you’re giving me a headache.”

Satoru huffs at that, purposefully stumbling along the sidewalk to knock himself into Suguru. There’s an oof as Geto returns the gesture by elbowing him in the gut, and some of your and Shoko’s shopping bags slip down Gojo’s arms as he shoulders the other man again, more intentionally this time. It’s moments before the two break out into a full on scuffle.

“Let’s bring Haibara and Nanami next time, kay?” Shoko jests loud enough for the two behind to hear, her thumb jabbing backwards towards them with that feline smirk on her lips. “They’re way more well-behaved than those idiots.”

“You can’t replace me— maybe Suguru, but not me!” Satoru wheezed out, sputtering a bit. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Suguru tightening the headlock around the other boy’s neck, squeezing a choked sound from Satoru as his sunglasses slipped down his nose. “You’d miss me too much!”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever, we’re almost done shopping, alright? I just wanna get one more thing.” You point a little ways ahead to the shop you’ve been meaning to get to after hearing they had a sale on all their blind packs.

Yet looking backwards, you could see the heat was getting to your friends, making them more irritable and haggard. Even Shoko looked about ready to call it a day, but it was Satoru who appeared to be the least tolerant. He was practically dragging his feet across the ground, cheeks flushed red from the absurd heat and a rare genuine frown on his lips. The sight made your heart pang just a little.

Your gaze traveled around the little outdoor shopping center, landing on something that you were sure would bring up the mood— at least for a certain someone.

“Oh!” You pepped, pointing out a little cart stationed at the corner across from the store you wanted to hit up. Perfect. “How about we stop for ice cream?”

The way Satoru brightens immediately is almost uncanny, azure eyes sparkling and wide. “How’d you know that’s exactly what I was thinking?” He beamed, toothy grin wide and unabashed. “See, this is why we’re soulmates!”

You wish he’d stop saying thoughtless nonsense stuff like that.

The four of you stroll up to the stand, the older man running it joyfully greeting your group as Satoru leaned over the counter, enthusiastically giving your orders. You can’t stop thinking about that shop across the way, though. Clarence. Blind boxes. Marked down. MiniBrands…other people were gonna buy them all out…

“Shookoooo,” You whine, your bottom lip jutted as you reach for her hand, nodding your head towards the store. “Come with me pleeaaase? I’ll be quick.”

Lie.

Both of you told the guys you’d only be a minute, but it’s been at least 15 by now. Where the heck were they hiding your stupid discount mystery boxes??

“I know they’re here,” You reassure Shoko after dragging her into the same aisle you’ve checked three times now. “Somewhere. I have that feeling.” She doesn’t argue, but you feel her unspoken doubt.

After a while still, Shoko taps you on the shoulder.

“You keep looking, I’ll be right back,” she hums, middle and pointer finger tapping her lips. Then she was waving and strolling out the automatic doors, right back to where you both left Satoru and Suguru. The latter was manspread on a bench and scrolling on his phone, the former half-perched on the armrest watching the screen over Suguru’s shoulder. He had his second half eaten popsicle in one hand, taking sneaky licks of your ice cream in his other when he thought no one was looking.

He didn’t pay Ieiri any mind for a good several minutes, not until he peered up into the glass window of the store across the street, tongue frozen mid-lick of your ice cream. You were in there, without them— with some guy— chatting. Laughing. Suguru’s head rose when he heard the plop of frozen dairy hitting the asphalt, following his friend’s gaze after registering his alarmed expression.

The ebony haired man sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. “That’s rough.”

In a blink Gojo’s hands grip Shoko’s arms with urgency. “Shoko.” He gritted, hand flying to make wild motions toward the shop.

The girl squinted, spotting you inside after a few seconds, talking to some guy. “Oh. Good for her,” she’d acknowledge coolly around the cigarette at the corner of her lips.

Satoru’s frown drastically deepens.

“You were supposed to stay with her— what happened to girl code?”

“I needed a smoke. And what do you know about girl code?”

“Queens before nicotine!” Satoru stressed while jostling the easygoing girl.

“C’mon, c’moonn, we gotta hurry. Do it like we practiced, alright?”

“These what you’re looking for?” The man who’d originally approached you pulled out a small colorful package from a larger cardboard box, lopsided grin on his plain face as he held it out to you.

“Omg, yes!” You cheered, clasping your hands together. At long last, you’ve been reunited with your cheap blind boxes. “Thank you so much, you have no idea—“

Your name is called out somewhere down the aisle, and when you turn to look, you spot Shoko back from her smoke break.

The brunette looked less than enthused, however, eyes flitting down to very obviously scan some note cards between her fingers. She briefly cleared her throat.

“Another one? Damn girl. Isn’t this your third one today? I thought what we had meant something to you.” She exclaimed flatly, articulating every word like a robot. She shuffles to the next card. “Girl, you crazy.”

???

You stare at her with a gaped jaw and knitted brows, lips barely forming the beginnings of the word “What—“ when you hear the chime of the door. And in the storefront’s entrance stood Suguru- reimagined to look…vaguely thuggish?? Your eyes don’t know where to look, between the rolled up sleeves of his rumpled uniform that showed a poorly scribbled tattoo sleeve on the arm of his pocketed hand, and the jagged scar with a smudge of red that’s suddenly appeared on his right cheek. (You’ll learn later they’re sharpie marker and Shoko’s red lip stain.)

“Hey babe,” BABE?? “Sorry to keep ya waiting. There was…a complication.” He grunts around a toothpick. You only notice he’s lugging a bat over his shoulder when he taps it twice against himself for an intimidating emphasis. He begins to stride toward the three of you, unimpressed glare landing on the man who’s now shuffled slightly behind you. “But there’s no trouble here. Right?”

The poor guy looked ready to piss his pants out of fear. You were ready to explode out of shock and embarrassment.

“I—“ You open and close your mouth like a gasping fish, but no words are forming as your baffled expression shifts between Shoko and Suguru. “What the hell is happening?!”

Admittedly, you did feel a sense of foreboding. Like a piece was missing from this debacle of a puzzle. A grand finale that would ensure you would never set foot into this store for at least another decade out of pure shame.

“Would you step away from her? You homewreckers!”

No. Nononono—

To your horror, large hands clap over your arms, spinning you around to face teary cerulean eyes.

God knows where his uniform jacket’s gone, or where he’s managed to get a tie to wear at the collar of his white button up on such short notice.

The way he laments your name is already enough to make you cringe, his disheveled white hair cascading as he slumps his head forward between his shoulders, his hands bracing on yours.

“I knew you’d be out here, fooling around! Don’t tell me it was a lie? When you said I was the only one for you?? I slave away everyday at that damn office— to provide— for us!!” He’s sobbing, in the midst of his own soapy k-drama. You half expect cherry blossoms to start raining from the tiled ceiling covered in harsh fluorescent lights, or for some violin-heavy ballad to start playing.

“Come home,” he begs, lifting his face stricken with faux tears to meet your eyes. “the kids miss you…”

There are no words to describe how much you wish to disappear. The blood that had drained from your face comes back tenfold, now buzzing in fiery humiliation.

There’s a too heavy, too long, awkward pause.

“…Okay, well. If you don’t need anything else, I should get back to restocking…” The man who’d been the target of Satoru’s strategic wrath half-bowed his head, anxious to shuffle away with a forced polite smile. “Glad I could help you find what you were looking for, miss.”

“Huh.” Both Gojo and Geto chirp in unison, heads tilting in confusion. Only then do the men maybe register the fact the guy who was “hitting on you” was wearing a uniform and a name tag. And then understanding dawned. Not before you yank at either of their ears, unfortunately, which they begrudgingly accept.

“What is wrong with you guys??” You fume, and either of them shrug, wincing when you tug harder. Best to take this sitting down. “Why would you embarrass me like that— and why’re you dressed like the villain of a low budget movie?” Geto glances sideways and you can almost see the guilty cartoon sweat drop.

With a long suffering sigh you release the both of them, whipping around to Shoko with hands on your hips. “Okay, but why’d you go along with this?” You ask in exasperation. She merely gives a halfhearted shrug.

“‘Was bored.” Figures.

“So mean! We had good intentions, where’s the love?” Satoru pouted, faux tears in his eyes as he rubbed at his reddened ear.

“You,” Was all you could muster in a dangerous tone, accusing finger jabbing towards him. He jolted, at least having the decency to look somewhat fearful even if it was mostly overshadowed by thrill. “I know you’re behind this.”

“Sweetness, hey,” He attempted to pacify you, palms forward. “before you get mad, I—“ The squeal that elicits from him is girlish as he twisted just out of your reach. Then he’s booking it. Slippery bastard.

The way he cackles at you as you give chase makes your cheeks burn hotter, curses and promises of strangling him spilling from your lips. He howls when you nearly crash into the ice cream stand while whipping around the corner after him, the owner shouting his own swears at the two of you and…

…and the remainder of the memory escapes you as sunspots dance in your vision. Bright light sears your eyes the moment you manage to blink them open, a bead of sweat rolling from your forehead down the bridge of your nose. You just sit there for a minute like this, dazedly staring at the sky. Trying to hold onto the vivid imagery before it began to fade back into the recesses of your mind once more. With a grumble you gain your bearings, wiping your face with a sleeve as you stand. You swear there’d been shade over this bench when you sat down…just how long had you been sitting here in this heat?

You look side to side. Where have your students gone? Well, your students, and that overgrown manchild—

“Fushigurooo!!”

“No.”

“But Fushigur-“

“Stop following me.”

Your head snaps to where your students are zipping past the sidewalk, Yuji stumbling after Megumi as he stormed off.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Fushiguro! I really thought she was hitting on you— y’know, Bros before Does!” Itadori placated with a pleading gesture of his hands. With one glance behind him however he jolted, picking up the pace into a sprint almost immediately after spotting Kugisaki barreling towards them.

“Itadori, you idiot!” She squawked, waving a fist as if to clobber him once she caught up. “Making us chase down that angsty sea urchin in this heat! You’re gonna get it!!”

All three disappear around that corner where that ice cream stand always used to be posted, an echo of the past. Come to think of it, it hasn’t been around for years, and you idly wonder what became of the old man who used to run it.

As if on cue, Satoru meanders up to you, ruffling his snowy hair as he readjusts his blindfold over his eyes. He beams simply at the sight of you.

Your glare hardens, and he startles. He knows that you know he’s the mastermind behind that spectacle you’d just witnessed. Was it really that long ago since he pulled this same stupid stunt? He never did quite change.

“Ehehehhh,” He pitters nervously, putting on a wide innocent grin as you approach, index scratching a nonexistent itch at his jaw. “Hi sweetie, baby, love of my life—”

What makes him give pause though is the way you just trudge into his side and nod your head against his chest. You feel an arm instinctively wrap around you, and it makes you uncomfortably warm in this hot weather, but you don’t entirely mind it either. “Hey, what’s up,” he murmurs more sincerely, head craning to get a better peek at you. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Is what you mutter in response, still replaying the dream of that memory in your head. It made you feel poignantly happy, but the aftertaste of the emotion left you…tired. “Heat fatigue.”

“Right.” His grip tightened, nestling you closer. He doesn’t say anything, just letting the quiet fill the air aside from the croak of locusts. You wonder if he’s reminiscing on those times, too. Before everything— “I betch’ya got a nasty tan line.”

“Satoru!”

“I’m kidding! You’d be sexy even if you had a redneck tan.”

“Ew, don’t even say that!” You scold even if you can’t keep the ridiculous smile off your face. You still check under your sleeve for good measure, to which he chuckles.

“Wanna get some ice cream?” There’s a smile in his voice, and you feel his lips stamp a kiss to your sweat damp forehead.

“Y’read my mind.”

#⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆moonwrites #gojo satoru #geto suguru #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo saturo #gojou satoru x reader #shoko fluff #geto fluff #suguru fluff #jjk fluff #fushiguro megumi #yuji itadori #nobara kugisaki

192 notes · View notes