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saetoru · 2 years ago

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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ BURNER ACCOUNTS — GOJO SATORU.

contents. fem! reader, loser ex-boyfriend! satoru, exes to lovers, college! au, satoru making burners to watch your stories, miscommunications—satoru is not perfect but he’s trying okay?, gossip icons shoko & suguru <3, i had a silly idea and it turned into 2.6k words my bad

there’s a peculiar account watching your instagram stories—@user273582838, to be exact. you don’t think it’s a very well timed coincidence seeing as you and satoru have just broken up—so you decide to do some digging.

which of course, means enlisting the help of shoko.

“i think satoru is stalking me,” you mumble, making her pause in the middle of sipping on her energy drink—for a med student, her habits don’t seem every healthy. this is her third one of the day.

“okay,” she nods, “i wouldn’t put it past him, but what makes you say that?”

“look,” you turn your phone to face her, the blank, anonymous instagram account right there on the list of users who have viewed your story. she crinkles her brows, blinking for a moment before humming.

“that definitely seems like something he’d do,” she nods—and then, “i have an idea.”

“okay,” you brighten, nodding enthusiastically, “what’s the plan?”

“try and log in with that user.”

“shoko,” you look at her like she’s grown two heads. maybe the lack of sleep is finally getting to her—no amount of energy drinks can save her at this point. “we don’t have the password—”

“—and that, dummy,” she rolls her eyes, making you scowl at the name, “is why we click forgot my password and see the last four digits of the phone number that registered the account. if it’s satoru’s number, we’ll know.”

okay—you take it back. shoko is a genius and a full-blown brilliant mastermind that you could never hope to come close to. you’re glad you chose her to help—you’re even more glad she agreed because you would not have thought of that. this is fantastic. a fool-proof plan.

you grin wide, eyes lighting up as you gasp, “shoko! you’re so smart, that’s a great idea!”

“i know,” she grumbles, “took you long enough to notice.”

ignoring her, you quickly pull out your phone and try to log onto the account, typing user273582838 into the username box and clicking forgot my password. shoko is hovering over your shoulder, and your breath is held as you wait for the page to load and the number to pop up. within just a few seconds, the first few digits are censored with asterisks, but the last four show, and—

yeah. it’s satoru’s fucking number. just as you suspected—you and shoko scoff together at the same time, rolling your eyes.

“well,” you look at her, lips pursed in irritation—of course, satoru refuses to give you space and leave you alone after your break up (which was his fault, might you add), “what now?”

“send the verification code to his number,” she presses, “it’ll definitely spook him when he sees.”

she’s so good at what she does, you think in awe, staring at her with heart-eyes. nodding quickly, you press send code.

hopefully, that’ll give satoru the heart attack you want it to.

———

satoru stares at his screen in abject horror—who could be trying to log into his burner account? the only person who should possibly stumble across it is you, but surely you’re not closely inspecting your story viewers, are you? so then, who could be trying to log onto the instagram account of @user273582838?

“suguru,” he says in a trance, “are you trying to log onto the burner?”

“are you bringing that shit up again?” suguru grumbles, controller in hand as he pays attention to the screen, “i told you that was a stupid idea. a pathetic one too—”

“well, i didn’t want to keep waiting for you to send screenshots to see the stories—”

“you’re a fucking loser, do you know that? pathetic,” suguru reiterates. “move on.”

“no,” satoru hisses in disbelief, “why would i do that? now, was that you or not? you’re the only other person who knows the user.”

“as if i care to log onto your loser burner account,” suguru snorts, shaking his head in amusement. he beats satoru’s high score, turning to give him a sly grin as he adds, “i wasn’t removed, so i can view the stories all i want.”

“you’re a jerk, you know that?” satoru grunts, crossing his arms and pouting, “i’m having the worst heartbreak of my life, and you—”

“who’s fault is it that you’re dumped?”

satoru deflates.

okay, so he supposedly hasn’t been the best boyfriend. it’s not that satoru isn’t helplessly committed to you—he’s so sickeningly obsessed with you, it’s actually a bit unhealthy. suguru says so, at least. but satoru is…well, satoru, and he doesn’t always seem to take things as seriously as most people would hope.

evidently, that includes your relationship—though, he does insist on disagreeing on that. according to you, he doesn’t take you on dates often enough, and sometimes he flirts back with random strangers. that’s not true—he’s simply a bit of a tease and enjoys it when you’re jealous, but he doesn’t flirt back. that’s outrageous. you’ve even claimed he’s mean about it and makes a joke out of it all—satoru would never be mean on purpose; he only teases because the banter is always endearing.

but, unfortunately, you don’t seem to see it the way he does, and now he’s woefully single and cold and alone in bed. no cuddles, no goodnight kisses, and no head scratches.

life is so cruel sometimes.

“suguru,” he says in distress, “i’m serious. someone’s trying to hack my burner—who could it be?”

“hmm, i don’t know…maybe the one and only person who would notice the account in the first place?”

“but why try and log in if the password is unknown?”

suguru looks at satoru like he’s stupid—apparently, he is because he’s not putting two and two together.

“maybe because sending a verification code shows the last four digits of the registered phone number? you’ve probably been caught, you idiot.”

satoru pales at that—he didn’t think about that. it slipped his mind completely. fuck, he should’ve used a burner email instead. he stares down at his phone numbly—yeah, he thinks, he’s screwed.

———

after two days of continuous log in attempts into satoru’s burner account—it’s only just to spook him extra—you finally decide to confront him.

we need to talk. is all you send him.

the three bubbles appear on his end multiple times before disappearing—you and shoko get a good cackle out of that and laugh at him for a bit before he finally answers.

miss me already? knew it ;)

wow. what a dickhead.

so, because you can be equally as much of a prick, you send him a screenshot of his phone number on the log in page followed by a message that says: no. it’s so you can explain this.

the three dots show up again for a few minutes before he finally responds with: okay. you caught me. when do you wanna meet?

well, that was easy. satoru is the type to not go down without a fight no matter how cornered he is—he’s stubborn and annoying like that. you turn to shoko for help.

“meet him now,” shoko crosses her arms, “don’t give him time to come up with some ridiculous excuse.”

“what excuse could he possibly come up with?” you snort, “that he was possessed and the evil spirit in his mind made him stalk his ex like a loser?”

“true,” she concedes, taking a sip from her energy drink—seriously, how many of these does this girl drink in a day? “i just want to know what happens,” she shrugs, “so do it now.”

of course, as on brand as ever, shoko is merely in it for the drama. you roll your eyes before sighing and nodding.

“okay,” you huff.

meet me at my place. now.

on my way, he sends back almost instantly.

“he’s probably just excited to see you,” shoko snorts, “like the loser he is.”

“you’re probably right,” you purse your lips in exasperation. in all your time knowing him, you’ve definitely realized that satoru is definitely…well, a case.

———

“hey,” shoko whispers to suguru through the phone, walking out your door so you can prepare to confront satoru. “did you know satoru’s been stalking—”

“—on a burner account? yeah, i know.”

okay, she frowns to herself, that was no fun at all. suguru is already aware of the drama. but that’s no matter—surely, he can’t possibly already know that satoru has been invited over to be scolded.

“yeah, well,” she says smugly, “did you know he’s actually on his way over to—”

“—get yelled at? yeah, i’m aware. he called me panicked. what a fucking loser.”

“okay, well since you’re up to speed,” shoko grumbles bitterly, rolling her eyes. she was supposed to be the knight in shining armor with the juicy updates—but evidently, satoru is pathetic enough to already cry to suguru about his dilemma. “wanna meet up and get sushi nearby? i bet they’ll get back together in twenty minutes.”

“i bet ten. loser pays for the food?”

“you’ve got yourself a deal.”

———

satoru sits on your couch in shame, bouncing his leg nervously as you sit on the opposite end with your arms crossed and brow raised.

it’s quiet. he doesn’t have the guts to say anything, waiting for you to break the silence. maybe you’re not that mad.

“so,” you start, “it’s nice to finally meet you, user273582838.”

he rubs his neck awkwardly, chuckling through his nerves as he mumbles, “oh, hey there! it’s a small world, huh?”

“satoru.”

yeah, never mind. you seem pretty mad.

“okay, look,” he begins, “you can’t blame me. you dumped me, your sweet, loving, and unsuspecting boyfriend out of nowhere! i was heartbroken and shattered—and then you didn’t even give me a chance to work it out! i was not in the right headspace to make wise decisions so…so this is basically not my fault.”

that doesn’t seem to help his case—in fact, it only makes it worse.

“so it’s my fault?”

“wha—no!” he says quickly, “no, definitely not.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead in defeat as you mumble, “satoru, we are broken up for a reason. you can’t overstep and—”

“it’s a pretty stupid reason,” he grumbles under his breath, crossing his arms and frowning. you glare at him from the side as you scoff in disbelief.

“of course,” you chuckle dryly, “of course you would say that. nothing is ever serious enough to you—”

“it’s pretty fucking serious to me,” he spits, shooting you a look that tells you he’s just as shocked as you, “that’s obviously why i’m the one who’s still not moved on as easily as you. how seriously did you really take it?”

“that’s not fair,” you grit, “you made it abundantly clear you didn’t care enough, so why should i—”

“i fucking cared a shit ton,” he says incredulously, “that’s bullshit, and you know it—”

“don’t curse at me, satoru—”

“well, don’t accuse me of not caring when i clearly—”

“oh, yeah cause you cared so much when you were laughing with that waitress as she hit on you,” you seethe, throwing a pillow from your couch at him. he can catch it easily—you know this for sure, but he lets it hit him out of what you’re sure is at least a little consideration to your feelings.

“i wasn’t laughing because i enjoyed it,” he crinkles his brows as if you’ve said the most ridiculous thing ever, “it was just funny because she was trying so hard. and you looked all cute when you got mad.”

“what kind of boyfriend enjoys watching his girlfriend get mad—”

“the kind of boyfriend who thinks his girlfriend is adorable when she’s mad—”

“yeah, well your idea of a date is going to the mall with shoko and suguru. what kind of date is that—”

“okay, i was a bit clueless sometimes, but you could’ve said something instead of just dumping me like i was some random guy in your dm’s—”

“you need to grow the fuck up, satoru—”

“now look at who's cursing!”

it’s silent—both you and him have your arms crossed and lips curled into scowls as you both glare at each other. you’re stubbornly convinced satoru doesn’t care as much as you do, and he’s firmly committed to the idea that you’re twisting him into some douche who doesn’t give two shits.

it’s quiet like that for a bit before he deflates and slumps against the couch, rubbing his face as he groans.

“look,” he starts, “i’m sorry. i never meant to make it seem like i enjoy attention from other girls, and i didn’t realize you wanted more dates. i’d have done things differently if you told me how you felt.”

he sounds sincere. and he’s looking at you with those eyes of his—god, those stupid little eyes that are so wide and blue and deep and full of love. even after that whole argument, satoru is clearly as painfully in love as ever.

you sigh before playing with a loose thread on your sweatpants.

“i…guess i could’ve talked it out first. i probably shouldn’t have skipped straight to breaking up,” you mutter, not meeting his eyes.

satoru stares glumly at you from the corner of his eyes before he adds bitterly, “you don’t seem to miss me. not even a little.”

“toru,” you pinch your nose, “of course i miss you. i was not gonna be mopey on instagram, though—”

“doesn’t seem like it,” he huffs. he’s a bit hurt—you can tell because he’s not meeting your eyes, and he’s not got that playful little upward curl of his lips.

you’re a bit weak, you realize—but you suppose you always have been for satoru, because you’re shuffling to his end of the couch and poking his cheek gently.

“i miss you tons, y’know,” you murmur—you smile a little at his pout before adding, “i want more dates this time around. and stop letting girls get away with being shameless flirts.”

he finally meets your eyes—it’s like a child on christmas, the way his face lights up and his lips curl into an excited grin.

“you mean i get to be your boyfriend again?”

it’s cute—the way he asks to be your boyfriend and not if you’ll be his girlfriend. maybe you’ve been a bit unfair, maybe satoru has always cared deeply in his dumb little clueless way of his own.

“fine,” you pretend to roll your eyes. he looks hopelessly excited as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side, tucking you under his chin as he rests his cheek on your head.

“you should really talk to me more,” he murmurs, “i’m…things fly over my head sometimes. i’m sorry.”

“i’m sorry too,” you admit, “i’ll talk to you—but you better listen to me if i do. don’t turn it into jokes.”

“i never turn things into jokes,” he grumbles petulantly, huffing to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed raise of your brow. “does this mean i can follow you again?”

“yes,” you snort.

“and you’ll follow back, right?”

“yes, satoru,” you sigh, shaking your head in amusement. he’s already back to being a handful—but you can admit you might have missed it just a bit. “but for the love of god, please delete that burner.”

“fine,” he pouts, tugging you closer.

you giggle, he grins, and then you’re kissing—and everything feels as it should be.

———

“they’re back together,” shoko says in disbelief, staring at your text. suguru groans, pausing mid bite as he rubs over his forehead in defeat.

of course, you and satoru just have to make up in exactly fifteen minutes. not ten. not twenty. exactly fifteen.

how considerate of you both.

“are you kidding?” suguru grumbles, “so neither of us win.”

“guess not,” she says sourly, rolling her eyes.

woefully, they both agree to split the check.

suguru and shoko are so me and my friend every time our other friend argues with her boyfriend we deadass be making bets over when they make up and loser has to pay for boba LMAO

#teepods.writings #drabbles.#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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oaksgrove · 4 months ago

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Strict Schedules, Except…

pairing: John Price x Reader

synopsis: You live by your meticulously planned schedule—every moment accounted for, color-coded, and efficiently executed. The team loves to tease you for it, but Price? He notices the one exception—the unmovable, sacred block of time you always reserve for them. When the teasing turns to something softer, something warmer, you begin to realize that maybe, just maybe, the best moments in life aren’t the ones you plan.

warnings: Soft romance, teasing/bickering, mutual pining, found family fluff, longing glances, subtle tension.

word count: 794

There were a few universal truths in Task Force 141:

Soap would always have the last word in an argument (whether he was right or not).

Ghost had perfected the art of appearing and disappearing at will.

And you? You lived by your schedule.

Your planner was legendary—color-coded, neatly sectioned, and organized to the minute. Post-it flags marked priorities, alarms reminded you of hydration breaks, and the team swore you had meal prep down to a military operation.

They found it impressive. They also found it hilarious.

“You’re worse than a drill sergeant, lass,” Soap teased one morning over breakfast, watching you flip through the pages of your planner like it held national secrets.

Ghost, seated next to him, nodded solemnly. “Probably got her sleep schedule penciled in, too.”

“I do, actually,” you replied smoothly, not bothering to look up.

Soap let out a wheeze. “No way.”

Gaz smirked from across the table. “Bet you’ve got a section for breathing breaks.”

You finally glanced up, expression deadpan. “Every 2.3 seconds.”

Price, quietly sipping his tea at the head of the table, didn’t say a word. He only watched, eyes warm with amusement.

The teasing continued throughout the day.

When Ghost caught you meticulously cleaning your boots between briefings, he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “This part of the sacred schedule?”

“Could be,” you mused, not missing a beat. “But I’d have to check my notes to be sure.”

Gaz, passing by, let out a laugh. “Come on, even Price isn’t this organized.”

The captain—previously minding his own business—arched a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you don’t write ‘clean rifle at 1900 hours’ in a bloody planner,” Soap quipped.

Price simply smirked, shaking his head.

Everyone laughed. Except Price. Because Price wasn’t just laughing at your habits—he was watching. Observing.

Because unlike the rest of them, he’d noticed something they hadn’t.

That night, the teasing took an unexpected turn.

Movie nights weren’t planned. Not really. Someone would throw out a title, and somehow, everyone showed up.

It wasn’t mandatory. It wasn’t a mission.

And yet, you were always there.

No matter what was on your schedule, no matter how rigid your day had been, this time never changed.

No matter how rigid your schedule, you always carved out time for the team.

As Soap dropped onto the couch, popcorn in hand, he grinned at you. “Let me guess—blocked this off in the planner, too?”

“Something like that,” you admitted, shrugging. But this time, the faintest flush touched your cheeks.

Gaz hummed, eyeing you with mock suspicion. “I’m starting to think this is the exception to your precious schedule.”

Before you could retort, Price spoke.

“Of course it is.”

The room fell silent.

All eyes turned to him, Soap’s brows shooting up. “What, Cap’s defending the schedule now?”

Price didn’t look at him. He looked at you. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“It’s not about the schedule. It’s about the people.”

You gave Price a soft smile in return. The warmth in his voice settled into your chest like an ember, burning slow and steady.

Your breath hitched.

“Right,” Soap said after a beat, his voice lighter. “Well, if we’re that important, maybe someone could schedule popcorn refills next time?”

The room erupted into laughter, but the warmth Price had left in the air remained.

Soap, caught off guard, whispered to Gaz. “Did Cap just get all sentimental on us?”

“I think he did,” Gaz muttered dramatically.

But the teasing barely registered. Because Price’s gaze hadn’t wavered.

Not from you.

As the movie started, the moment seemed to pass. The team got lost in the film, laughter and commentary filling the air.

But you felt it.

The shift.

Price leaned closer. Not overtly—just enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, solid and warm.

It felt deliberate.

And when he spoke—low, just for you—you knew it was.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, voice thick with something unreadable, “I’m glad we made the cut.”

Your pulse skipped.

You turned slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim glow of the TV. There was something there. Something unspoken.

You swallowed, lips parting—but no words came.

You didn’t need them.

Instead, you leaned back against the couch, heart pounding just a little harder than before.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” your voice quieter than intended.

Price’s lips curved.

And for the rest of the night, he didn’t move.

Neither did you.

When the credits rolled, you glanced at your watch, half out of habit, and Price leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

“Got somewhere to be?” he teased, his voice full of fondness.

You smiled and shook your head. “Not tonight.”

And for once, your schedule didn’t matter.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash

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lovscb97 · 6 months ago

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— nerd!chan drabble #1

part 1 / part 2 / headcannons

synopsis: the aftermath of what happens between you and nerd!chan following the events that take place in part 2

tags: nerd!chan x cheerleader!fem!reader, established relationship, lots of fluff, lots of kissing, nerd!chan being a cutie, oral sex (f. recieving), unprotected sex (plz do not), basic lovemaking, aftercare, etc

wc: 1.70k

add. notes: idk why i wrote this n how tf it got so long. those pictures (i cannot upload them rn idfk why. if they r uploaded by the time u r reading this then good for us if not then i'll kms) seriously did a number on me i think tho bcs holy fucking shit man he looks so good. like i adore this man to death n beyond GRRR!!! anyways enjoy :3

. . .

saw chan's latest post and now i can't stop thinking about how the pictures are extremely nerd!chan universe's bangchan coded.. specifically, they're the type of photos chan would post the day you guys finally get together, on the first day he gets to call himself your boyfriend at last.

he's long dropped you off at home and is still reeling from the excitement of everything that's happened after the game, not to mention that he was so giddy to the point he ended up texting all his friends about everything that happened, making sure to repeat how he finally, finally!!! got the girl of his dreams at last. his joy is to the extent that when he gets home, he can't stop thinking about you, thinking about how you sounded and felt, thinking about the way you'd straddled his lap in his beat up car, thinking about how you'd kissed him breathless, just thinking about you.

when he's in the safety of his room behind locked doors, he positively melts against the wall, crumbling to his feet with a lovestruck grin on his face as he repeats everything that went down an hour prior and quite literally changed the trajectory of his entire life if he's being honest. when his phone pings with a message, he's immediately shooting to swipe for his texts, giggling at the sweet messages you've sent him to remind him once more that you love him and can't wait to see him tomorrow. he'd reply back with a goofy smile and kick his feet, of course, before impulsively making the executive decision to once again, stalk your instagram.

when he pulls up your account, his heart clenches against his chest, because there you are, plastered all over the feed with your beautiful features that he's fallen for over the last few months. the way your hair cascades over your shoulders, how your face is lit up and beaming in every post he looks through, your uniform or even casual clothes clinging to your body perfectly in specific uploads— everything about the way you are makes him feel dizzy in the head. he genuinely can't fathom the fact that you're all his starting today and onwards.

the next day when he sees you, he thinks he might ascend onto a different dimension. he's all dazed and in awe when he approaches you, softening at the way your eyes brighten after falling on his figure, watching with honey dripping as you parade up to and crash into him with your arms wrapping around his waist on instinct, no less in public. when he hugs you back, he can smell the familiar scent of your perfume and shampoo mixed together, burying his face in an effort to cling onto you like he's often dreamed of. though he's a bit pouty when you eventually pull away, he thinks you you make up for it by leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek and grabbing his hand to drag him away for a late lunch date.

the hours pass with you and him spending as much time as you can together to make up for however much you'd lost avoiding each other and sneaking around in private previously. chan does his best to pay attention to what you're rambling on too, something about your professor marking you down for a test when you'd answered correctly, but he truly can't seem to focus with the way he's so down bad for you. everything you do, everything you say, everything you are in general makes him want to swoop in and kiss you silly.

so, he does.

it catches you off guard when he leans over the table you're both sat at and connects your lips together, but you're no stranger to his affection (okay, maybe you are a little), so of course, you kiss him back, giggling against his mouth with him. he thinks your laughter might be his favourite sound in the world.

as the sky turns to orange with the sun dipping down, chan allows you to tug him around campus, going with you to the library to pick up a book you needed for your class and accompanying you to the university cafe where he insists on paying for your drink. you both eventually end up back in your dorm, with you letting it slip mid-conversation that karina would be at her parent's house today. the seemingly little tidbit makes him freeze in his place, but he brushes off the lewd thoughts entering his mind in favour of continuing the impromptu and innocent study session you decide to hold in the middle of your side of the room. he tries, he really does, to concentrate on the material he should ideally be preparing for his next exam, but you look so cute focused on the text you're busy highlighting that he can't resist reaching over to graze his thumb over your palm softly. you look up at the sensation of his touch, cheeks tinting pink at the way your boyfriend is staring back at you.

and so, it doesn't take very long for the two of you to get back into locking lips once more, chan hovering over your sprawled out body as his mouth ghosts the skin of your jaw, neck, collarbone, shoulder, everywhere. you swear he's gotten more bold ever since you started dating, but one glance at the burning red of his ears is enough to make you chuckle. when he asks you what's so funny, you simply shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck to yank him in for another kiss that leaves both of you practically levitating.

chan makes quick work to have you cumming on his face after that, languid swipes of his tongue flicking against your clit and swirling at your entrance as you let out the cutest whimpers he's possibly ever heard. when his wet muscles wraps around your sensitive nub and sucks, you see stars, clenching around nothing with your juices gushing down his chin as you spray everywhere. when your boyfriend rises to meet your gaze, glasses fogged up and stained with your release, looking like he'd descended from heaven itself, you can't stop the meek "need you inside, please" that leaves you from escaping. it makes his eyes widen, but he's stripping off his clothes in record time at your plea, causing you to laugh quietly in the darkness of the room, save for whatever light is streaming through the curtains.

when chan finally does enter you, despite having done so multiple times, you gasp. you still get butterflies from the feeling of his cock stretching you out, and he still can't shake off how his stomach swirls in delight at the way your warm walls basically suck him in. he moves slowly but surely, deep thrusts hitting every right spot that has you keening and shaking under his hold. his words are barely above whispers, filled with nothing but loving remarks and reminders of how much he adores you and can't believe you're his. he babbles about how lucky he is to be yours, and how he's never going to let you go, to which you breathlessly huff out something about how you'd never want to go anywhere anyways. that sentence coupled with the way your doe eyes blink up at him is enough to send him hurdling to his climax, triggering your own. you both lay there in the comfort of each other's arms for a while after that, snuggling into one another's skin and exchanging short kisses.

it's only after a few moments pass that chan gets up to clean you off, tugging his clothes back on along with the glasses he'd tossed on your bedside table before wiping you down with a wet cloth. the way you look at him as he tends to your needs makes him flush bright under your gaze, which only has you tittering and sitting up to kiss him once more.

by the time everything's done and he has to go home, chan lights up with an idea, lacing your fingers in his and rushing you outside the doors of the student accomodation. he flashes you a grin that makes you weak in the knees, ruffling his hair to slide his hat on before passing you his phone and posing for the camera. you're confused what this has to do with anything, but you click the pictures for him anyways, heart fluttering at the way he beams at the lens, or rather at the fact that you're the one behind it. when you're done, he thanks you with a smooch to your forehead, shrugging off his jacket to wrap it around your frame despite it being one too many sizes big for you. he buttons you up to the end, throwing his head back at the way you look so tiny compared to the clothing you've got on, which only makes you roll your eyes regardless of the smile that creeps up on your face at his joy.

it's only when you've said your goodbye's and shared a last few kisses of the day that you find yourself back in bed, wrapped up under chan's clothes and inhaling the scent of his cologne that brings back memories of today. when you open your phone, you're hit with his notification in an instant, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when you read him asking you to check his instagram but doing so anyways. you think your heart stops when you see what he's referring to.

chan had tagged you in the photos you'd taken a few minutes prior to seeing him off, but not just that, he'd captioned it too—

@.gnabnahc: thank you for being mine, pretty girl.

hot infatuation floods your system at the words he'd used, and for some reason, it dawns on you now of all times that chan is yours. he's yours. all yours. you can't stop the smile that graces your features at that realisation, replying back to him with something cheesy. safe to say, you drift to sleep that night with thoughts filled of your precious boyfriend.

in conclusion, chan may be smitten, but you're just as bad as him, it seems.

. . .

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! <3

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papayainsectorone · 1 month ago

Text

the wedding date

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summary: What started as a petty plan to get through a wedding spirals over one overheard insult, one punch, and one kiss too many.

content: 18+ !! smut, nsfw, fake date turned real, possessive behavior, jealousy, one-bed trope (sort of), playful tension, post-breakup vulnerability, teasing banter, protective Lando, emotional undercurrent, messy affection

word count: 4,1 k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

════════════════════════

You didn’t expect him to say yes.

It was one of those messages you type half-laughing, half-dreading the event you’re being guilted into. One of those “what if” jokes you fire off to avoid thinking about how awkward it’ll be to see your ex and his shiny new fiancée at a wedding where your name is penciled in with a plus-one you don’t have.

you free next weekend? feel like being my fake date to a wedding strictly for emotional support and judgmental stares

You didn’t expect a reply at all—not with the F1 schedule, not with the fact that he’s Lando Norris and probably has better things to do than crash a countryside wedding of people he’s never met, after all you´re not that good friends.

But then:

Sounds fun. What’s the dress code? And how fake are we talking?

You stared at your screen for a full minute, blinking.

Wait you’re serious?? It’s black tie. And we’re talking smug couple energy, minimum 7/10 believability.

I’m very convincing. Send me the date and time.

You’re insane. But okay.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Not because you were nervous. Just… overthinking. A little.

Okay. A lot.

You’re already regretting this when the day arrives. Not because of him—he's early (obnoxiously early), standing outside your flat in a tailored black suit like it’s the easiest thing in the world to look like that.

“You ready,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

You roll your eyes, smoothing your dress nervously. “Don’t start.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “I’m here purely for emotional support and judgmental stares.”

“Plus open bar,” you remind him.

“Obviously.”

The car ride is short, but it feels longer with the silence that fills all the places where your usual rhythm should be. You’ve known each for a while but now every laugh feels like a maybe. Every glance, a question.

When you reach the venue—a stone estate with fairy lights already glittering in the afternoon sun—you’re practically vibrating.

“Okay,” you say, straightening his lapel more for your nerves than his outfit. “Just remember: don’t look bored, don’t flirt with the bridesmaids, and please don’t make a scene if my ex says something smug.”

“No promises,” Lando says smoothly. “But I’ll try. For you.”

He offers you his arm, exaggerated like it’s a movie.

You take it.

The doors open.

Let the pretending begin.

The venue is ridiculous.

Gleaming marble, soft classical music, and rows of candles that make the whole place smell like wealth and vanilla. You tighten your grip on Lando’s arm as someone brushes past.

“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that it stays just between the two of you.

“I’m fine,” you say.

You’re not.

But you’re a little better when his fingers settle gently on the small of your back.

It’s a light touch. A fake boyfriend touch.

But your skin burns under it.

“Remind me who we’re avoiding again?” he asks as you both scan the growing crowd.

“Tall. Annoying. Can’t take accountability for his emotions,” you say.

“So, me in 2018,” Lando replies dryly.

You bark a laugh, almost against your will.

“God, I missed your ego.”

“Please. My ego never left. You’re just finally appreciating it.”

Before you can clap back, you hear your name.

You freeze.

Lando doesn’t.

He turns first, smile practiced and polite, as your ex approaches with his arm slung around the woman he definitely met before your breakup.

“Hey,” your ex says, like the last year didn’t happen.

Lando’s hand tightens just slightly on your waist. He’s still smiling. But now it has teeth.

“Hi,” you say, smile cool.

“And this is…?” the ex asks, gesturing vaguely to Lando.

You open your mouth, but Lando beats you to it.

“Lando,” he says, shaking his hand far too firmly. “Her date.”

The ex blinks.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Right,” the ex says eventually. “Didn’t know you two were… you know.”

Lando doesn’t look at you. “Yeah,” he says easily. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Your stomach twists. The words are casual. The delivery isn’t.

The ex nods, looking thrown off just enough to satisfy something in your chest. “Well… good to see you,” he mumbles before turning away with his Barbie girl.

You let out a slow breath.

“You okay?” Lando asks again, eyes flicking down to you.

You nod. “You’re scarily good at this.”

“Fake dating? Or putting assholes in their place?”

“Both.”

He winks. “Stick with me.”

The ceremony starts. You sit beside him, your dress brushing against his suit. Every now and then, your shoulders touch.

He leans in once to whisper something snarky about the vows and your laugh slips out too loud.

Someone turns to glare.

You don’t care.

Because for a second—it doesn’t feel fake at all.

It feels easy.

It feels like him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

The ceremony fades into champagne, chatter, and soft golden lights strung across the garden. You’ve taken your hair down, Lando’s tie is undone, just a little. The music drifts warm and low as people move toward the dance floor.

You’re starting to enjoy yourself.

And then—

“…Honestly, surprised she managed to rope him in.”

The voice hits you sideways.

Familiar. Sharp. Arrogant.

You step instinctively closer to Lando. He’s already turned his head, tracking the sound near the drink table where your ex is talking to some mutuals. His tone is flippant, but the words cut.

“Like, Lando Norris? Isn’t he usually surrounded by supermodels or something? No offense, but she’s not exactly his—well, you know.”

Lando goes still beside you.

Your heart thumps uncomfortably.

You see it happen in his jaw—clenching tight. See it in the shift of his weight, the way his grip flexes at his side. You grab his sleeve before he storms over.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

But he looks at you, something sharper in his gaze now. And then—he smiles. Slow. Wicked.

“Oh, I’m not gonna argue,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna put on a show.”

Before you can stop him, he’s tugging you onto the dance floor.

“Lando—”

“Trust me.”

The music has shifted—jazzy, upbeat, a little ridiculous. You let out a breathy laugh as he spins you once, unnecessarily dramatic, then pulls you in by the waist. Too close. Way too close.

He dips you suddenly.

You shriek, then laugh. It’s impossible not to.

People start watching.

You twirl. He follows. You trip slightly, he catches you with that smug little smirk. You're laughing now—truly laughing—as he spins you again and the world blurs, and for a moment it doesn’t matter what your ex said, or what people think.

It’s just this.

You and Lando.

Putting on the kind of show no one can look away from.

Applause breaks out around you when the song ends. You’re both breathless, faces flushed. You lean into him, catching your breath.

“That was ridiculous,” you say, gasping.

“That was perfect,” he replies, smug.

Someone taps your arm.

An elderly couple, beaming.

“You two are wonderful,” the woman says sweetly. “When’s your turn to get married, hmm?”

You freeze. So does he.

“Oh—no, we’re not—”

“Not yet,” Lando cuts in, easy as anything, his hand still resting on your waist. “But we’re working on it.”

The old couple coos and walks away.

You stare at him.

“‘We’re working on it’?”

He shrugs, smiling like it didn’t just knock the breath out of your lungs.

“Gotta commit to the role, right?”

But his eyes linger a little too long on yours.

And suddenly, the line between pretending and something else is feeling paper thin.

Dinner is over, and the night has softened—lower lights, tipsy laughter, half-eaten cake melting under the fairy lights. You’re standing near a column wrapped in ivy when Lando leans toward you.

“Another drink?” he asks, voice low, fingers brushing yours.

“Please,” you say, smiling. “Surprise me.”

He nods once and disappears toward the bar.

You watch him go. Watch how comfortable he looks. Like he belongs. And, somehow, like he belongs with you.

You don’t notice the shadow until it’s too close.

Your ex is swaying slightly on his feet, half-drunk and riding a smug high. His tie is loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he thinks it’s charming.

He slides in beside Lando at the bar.

“Norris,” he says, slurring just enough to irritate. “Mate.”

Lando turns his head slowly. “That’s not my name for you, but go on.”

“I’ve been watching you two all night,” he says, grinning like he’s about to deliver a joke. “You’re not really dating her, are you?”

Lando raises an eyebrow, hand casually closing around the drink the bartender just set down. “Why?”

“It’s just…” he laughs, wet and mean. “Come on. She’s not really your type, right? I mean, she’s… fine. But let’s be honest—she’s under your level.”

Lando doesn't blink. His grip on the glass tightens, knuckles whitening.

“I get it, though,” your ex continues, leaning in conspiratorially. “You’re probably just looking for an easy fu—”

Crack.

The sound rings out like a gunshot under the lights.

Your ex stumbles back, lip split open and leaking red, eyes wide with shock.

Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

The entire bar falls quiet.

People turn. Whisper. You’re already moving toward them, heart in your throat, dress brushing your ankles.

You find Lando standing stiff, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to hold something down.

You look between the blood, the shocked faces, and him.

“What happened?” you whisper.

Lando doesn’t look at you right away.

He just shakes his hand once—like it stings—and says, voice quiet but cutting:

“He said one more word about you, and I was going to kill him.”

You blink.

Your ex is still reeling, still clutching his face, drunk and dazed. Someone pulls him away. You don’t look back.

You take Lando’s hand, gently, checking his knuckles.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, even though your voice is shaking.

“Yes, I did,” he says simply. “Because you’re not anyone’s joke. And especially not his.”

You swallow.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a second, it feels like the whole wedding disappears. Just you. Him. His split knuckles and the pounding in your chest.

“Come on,” you say finally, voice trembling. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

And he follows you—no hesitation.

You’re sitting on the low stone wall just beyond the garden, the muffled music from the party drifting into the night behind you. The sky is ink-dark above, stars blinking lazily overhead. Lando’s hand is in yours, still bruised and warm.

You brush your thumb over his knuckles again. He winces, then smiles.

“Well,” he says, breaking the silence with a lopsided grin, “your ex definitely deserved it.”

You laugh. “Okay, yes. But that wasn’t exactly in the package I booked when I asked you to be my fake date.”

“Oh?” he turns toward you, amused. “Which part wasn’t included—punching someone in the face, or making you look incredibly desirable at a wedding?”

You raise your eyebrows, biting a smile. “The punching. Although… I admit, it was kind of amazing to watch.”

He lets out a laugh, low and playful. “Alright, now I’m curious—what exactly was included in this package?”

You lean back slightly, head tilting. “Hmm… I think you already ticked all the boxes.”

“All of them?” he grins wider. “That’s impressive.”

You nod, pretending to think it over. “Yeah. Let’s see: arrived in a nice suit, made a grand entrance, stared at me like I hung the moon, defended my honor, danced like a rom-com lead, and somehow made my ex question all his life choices.”

Lando chuckles. “That does sound like the deluxe package.”

He leans in a little, eyes flicking to your lips. “But I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper, heart skipping.

He lifts his hand, fingers brushing your cheek, then curling gently under your jaw. His thumb traces your skin like he’s memorizing it.

“I think the package you booked,” he says softly, lips inches from yours, “includes a kiss.”

You don’t even have time to answer before he closes the distance, pressing his mouth to yours.

And just like that, the whole world hushes.

The kiss is warm and sure, slow at first—like he’s savoring it. Like he’s been thinking about it for years. You melt into him, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, heart thundering in your chest.

When you finally pull apart, you both stay close, breathless.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur, dazed.

He smirks. “Told you—it’s the deluxe package.”

You laugh again, heart full in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.

And this time, it feels like more than just pretending.

Your lips linger close, breath tangled with his, hearts racing but steady now—like they’ve found their rhythm together. He’s still holding your jaw, gently, like he’s afraid to let go too soon.

You smile, soft and teasing, your voice barely above a breath as you murmur against his mouth:

“So… what else is included in the deluxe package?”

He exhales a small laugh, forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just watches you like you’re something he dreamed into existence.

“Well,” he says eventually, lips brushing yours as he speaks, “I think it comes with late-night drives... me picking the worst songs and you screaming all the lyrics anyway.”

You chuckle. “Tempting.”

“There’s also compliments,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face. “Endless, sincere, possibly annoying. Especially about your smile. I’m obsessed with it, by the way.”

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away.

“And,” he continues, softer now, “someone who never lets you feel small again. Not ever.”

You don’t say anything for a second. You just look at him. Let it settle. Let it mean something.

You’re both still close, breath mingling, the night soft around you.

Lando brushes his thumb across your cheek again, gaze drinking you in like he’s trying to memorize the moment. You smile—hazily, lips tingling, heartbeat racing for all the right reasons.

Then you lean in, your voice low, teasing—but laced with something honest you wouldn’t say if you weren’t just a little tipsy.

“Does the deluxe package,” you whisper, your lips ghosting against his jaw, “include more than just kisses?”

He stills, just for a second.

Then he smiles, crooked and warm, eyes searching yours. “You really liked the kisses, huh?”

You nod, biting your lip. “I really liked the kisses. Might be the alcohol talking… but—”

“But?” he nudges, amused and breathless all at once.

You grin. “I wouldn’t mind… more.”

He chuckles softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want to. God, I want to. But not when you’ll wake up tomorrow wondering if it was just the wine.”

You blink. “So… no?”

His thumb brushes gently across your cheek again, this time slower. His smile fades just slightly—still soft, but more serious now.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” he says, voice low. “You’re a little tipsy.”

You breathe out, steadying, eyes locked on his. There’s a pause, like something hanging in the air between you, and then—quietly, firmly—you lean in again.

“Not enough to regret it,” you whisper.

And then you kiss him.

This time, it’s different. There’s no teasing, no question. Just heat and certainty and years of everything finally rising to the surface. His hands find your waist as yours knot into the fabric at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens. It’s heavy now—messy, hungry. You shift into him as his body moves with yours like muscle memory, like instinct.

His hand slides up your spine, slow and steady, anchoring you to him as your mouths move in sync, sighs slipping between kisses. You can feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his curls.

And in that moment, there’s no wedding, no ex, no distance, no years lost.

Just this.

Just you.

Just him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, chest heaving.

His hand finds your waist, grounding himself. “Do you… do you really want this?”

You nod—eager, breathless, no hesitation. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, fighting the war between instinct and patience. Then he lets out a rough breath, jaw tightening. He gently pushes you back, just enough to put space between you—but his eyes never leave yours.

One hand drops to his pants, adjusting himself with a quiet hiss under his breath. “Give me a second,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re driving me insane.”

You watch him, flushed and trembling slightly, lips parted. Every inch of you wants to erase the space between you again.

He opens the door backing into the house with you following, steps faltering like you’re both trying to keep it together but barely managing it.

You nearly trip over your shoes, catching yourself on the wall as he watches, clearly struggling to hold back a smirk and something more feral underneath.

“I haven’t thought this through,” he says, voice low, almost to himself.

You step closer, brushing past him purposefully, your hand grazing his as you pass. “Then stop thinking.”

That does it.

His hand grabs your wrist—gently but firmly—and he spins you around, lips crashing into yours again, heat flaring fast. It’s messy now, untamed, like the dam finally broke and neither of you are even trying to hold it back.

His hand fumbles behind him, blindly grabbing for the nearest door handle. It swings open with a creak, and he guides you inside without looking, mouths still locked, breathing hard.

It’s a lounge—dimly lit, quiet, empty—and it barely registers before he pulls you toward the couch. You don’t resist. You can’t.

He lowers you onto the cushions with a reverence that doesn’t match the hunger in his kiss, but it makes your chest ache. Like even now, even desperate and dizzy, he’s still careful with you.

He follows you down, body pressing over yours, forearms braced on either side of your head, never breaking the kiss. It deepens instantly—lips moving, tongues brushing, hands everywhere now. Yours sliding under the hem of his shirt, his slipping along the curve of your waist.

You can feel him—all of him—against you. No space. No questions.

Only this.

The weight of him, the heat, the way his fingers tremble slightly as they trail over your skin. The quiet groan he swallows when you shift your hips.

And still, the kiss never stops.

Not once.

It is endless—deep, slow, tasting. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to memorize it, like he’s finally allowing himself the thing he’s wanted for far too long.

Your hands find the hem of his dress shirt, working quickly at the buttons. It’s harder like this, him above you, chest to chest, your fingers trembling slightly but you get them undone one by one. He helps, sitting up just enough for you to push the fabric off his shoulders and let it fall behind him.

And God, he’s beautiful like this, flushed, slightly out of breath, chest rising and falling, eyes blown wide and focused entirely on you.

Then his hands move sliding down your thighs, pushing your dress up over your hips without finesse, just raw need. When you start to sit up to reach for your heels, he stops you.

“Leave them,” he murmurs, voice rough. “They’re staying on.”

You blink, surprised by the low heat in his tone—and how much it lights something up inside you.

He pushes the dress higher until it's bunched around your waist. His mouth finds your collarbone as he tugs your bra cups down, letting your breasts spill out. He pauses to look, to take you in and then his mouth is on you again, open and hot.

A whimper slips from your lips when his tongue circles your nipple, teasing before he sucks gently. His hand mirrors his mouth, kneading the other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until you’re writhing under him.

He shifts lower, one hand trailing down your stomach, slipping beneath the edge of your panties. You’re already soaked. His fingers glide through the slickness before circling your clit with a slow, maddening pressure that makes your thighs tremble.

“Lando,” you breathe, hips lifting.

“I know,” he whispers against your chest. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He strokes you with just enough rhythm to keep you gasping, leaning back to watch your face. His other hand slips under your thigh, lifting it slightly—dragging your heel along his side as if he’s enjoying the scrape of it.

“Still think the heels were a good idea?” you gasp, teasing—barely.

His smirk is wicked. “The best.”

He pulls your panties to the side, sliding two fingers into you—slow at first, then deeper. You arch, gripping his bicep as he finds that perfect rhythm, curling inside you just right. When you clench around him, he groans low.

“God, you’re tight. So fucking wet.”

You can barely breathe, barely think, chasing the edge before he pulls away leaving you empty, whining.

Then he’s kneeling back, undoing his belt and pushing down his pants and boxers in one swift move. His cock is hard, flushed, and thick, already leaking.

You reach for him instinctively, but he catches your wrist, bringing your fingers to his mouth instead. He kisses your palm, then guides your hand down between your thighs.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

The request makes you shudder—but you do it. Legs spread, fingers pulling yourself apart as he settles between them, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds.

“Holy fuck,” he growls. “Look at you.”

He pushes in slowly, and it burns in the best way, stretching you, filling you. You gasp, gripping the couch as he sinks in fully, eyes never leaving yours.

Once he’s there, buried to the hilt, he stills just for a moment, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he moves.

Rhythmic, deep, hungry. Every thrust drives a moan from your lips. Your heels dig into his back as you wrap your legs around him, dragging him closer, harder.

“Fuck—you feel insane,” he pants.

You’re breathless, barely holding on, nails scratching down his back as he hits the spot again and again.

When your orgasm builds, it takes you over fast, sharp, electric, flooding your entire body as you cry out his name.

He keeps going, chasing his own high until he groans low, pressing deep inside and spilling into you with a stuttering breath.

Afterward, there’s only silence, your breathing, and the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

He rests his forehead against yours, still inside you, still catching his breath.

“That…” he murmurs, voice raw. “Might’ve ruined me for anything else.”

You’re still tangled in each other, your breath finally slowing, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, hair an absolute mess. Lando shifts to the side, arm draped over your waist, face buried against your shoulder like he’s not quite ready to move.

But eventually, reality creeps in—along with the faint, distant sound of voices and music—and you both start to laugh.

“We should probably… you know. Try to look like we didn’t just fuck on a couch in someone’s lounge,” you say, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.

He groans but sits up, reaching for his shirt. “Yeah. Probably.”

You tug your dress down as best you can, smoothing the fabric over your hips. It’s a lost cause. The bodice is wrinkled, your bra is somewhere half-off, and when you glance down, there’s an unmistakable bruise blooming just above your breast.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyeing your reflection in the black screen of a mounted TV. “Do I look okay?”

He turns, mid-buttoning his shirt. His eyes flicker over you—still flushed, still glowing, dress askew, hair a little wild.

He grins. “You look unbelievably hot.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warming as you shove him playfully. “Be serious.”

“I am,” he says, leaning in to kiss you again, soft this time. “But yeah. Let’s get you home.”

The two of you slip out of the room—still too close, hands brushing, lips twitching with laughter. It’s reckless and warm and giddy. You’re halfway down the hall when Lando stiffens mid-step.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong—until he grabs your waist and spins you to him, crashing his mouth onto yours like he means it. It's hard and hungry, lips sliding over yours with just enough edge to steal your breath.

Your hands instinctively grab his shirt to stay upright.

When he finally pulls away, you blink up at him—dazed.

Then you hear it.

A throat clear. A scoff.

You glance over your shoulder and see him. Your ex. Standing a few steps away, another drink in hand, eyes locked on the two of you. His expression caught somewhere between shock, jealousy, and rage.

Lando’s arm stays firm around your waist, his smirk downright devilish now as he meets your ex’s eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth. “We were just leaving.”

He leans in again, presses one more kiss to your jaw—possessive, casual, final—and then guides you forward, past the frozen expression of the man who once thought he could toss you aside.

You bite your lip, hiding a grin as you let Lando lead you toward the door.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇

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flwrkid14 · 2 months ago

Note

imagine if Tim’s rogues/villains (lady shiva, cat woman, riddler, ra’s, etc) are the only ones who remember his birthday? Like they’d break into the bat cave or JL meeting to gift him smth or just to wish him happy birthday. That’d be sad and depressing but also funny and cute ig.

thank you so much for this ask, anon !! it’s the perfect mix of funny and quietly heartbreaking — which honestly just is the Tim Drake experience. like of course his villains would remember his birthday. of course Lady Shiva would casually drop into the Batcave with a perfectly wrapped gift while everyone else forgets. it’s tragic. it’s hilarious. it’s weirdly endearing. and now I can’t stop thinking about it T-T

Tim doesn’t expect anyone to remember.

And look, that’s not some martyr thing. He’s not fishing. He’s not being dramatic. It’s just—everyone’s busy. Bruce is halfway across the galaxy playing interstellar Batman. Dick’s working double shifts in Blüdhaven. Cass and Steph are off-grid. Damian is... somewhere. Probably stabbing something.

Alfred would’ve remembered, but he’s in Zurich for that symposium on bullet wound triage. Because of course he is.

So Tim spends most of his nineteenth birthday in the Batcave. Doing diagnostics. Refreshing surveillance logs. Eating cereal out of a coffee mug. Like it’s not the most depressing way to turn nineteen.

And then the lights go out.

Not all of them. Just the perimeter lights. A very specific, very deliberate power dip. Because that’s apparently how Lady Shiva says hello.

She doesn’t say happy birthday right away. She just stands there in the half-shadow, arms folded, watching him like she’s assessing if he’s taller or if she just forgot how short he used to be.

“I brought food,” she says finally, and tosses a brown paper bag onto the desk.

Inside: dumplings. From that place in Chinatown with the crab logo he used to sneak off to between patrols. It’s still hot.

She doesn’t stick around. Just says, “Don’t waste it,” and disappears back into the dark like a cryptid. No hug. No smile. Nothing soft.

There's nothing particularly nice about it.

Next is Riddler.

He sets off every alarm on his way down the cave's elevator, and Tim barely has time to disable the failsafes before Edward saunters in wearing a blazer that could double as a traffic hazard.

“I brought you a game,” he announces, like this is normal. Like they’ve done this before.

It’s a puzzle box—wooden, intricate, probably one-of-a-kind. No branding, just a spiraling Latin inscription and a note tucked beneath the lid: "You’re harder to stump at nineteen. I’m offended, but i'll keep working harder to outsmart you, watch out birdy boy."

It’s mocking. Theatrical. Annoyingly sincere in a way that almost makes Tim smile.

Tim mutters a thank-you he doesn’t quite mean, but also kind of does.

Catwoman shows up uninvited (of course). No alarm this time—just a tap on the Batmobile’s roof as she lounges against it like it’s her personal chaise lounge.

“Word on the rooftops was that it’s your big day,” she purrs. “I figured the Bats forgot.”

She tosses him a small, flat box wrapped in a ribbon he’s 90% sure is from one of Gotham’s high-end jewelry stores. Inside is a slim data drive.

“Encrypted files on the mayor’s shady offshore accounts,” she says, almost bored. “Happy birthday, bird boy.”

Then, a wink. And she’s gone, leaving a faint trace of perfume and the knowledge that she absolutely used Bruce’s garage code to get in.

And then.

Ra’s.

Because of course there’s a transmission from Ra’s al Ghul, as if today hadn’t been weird enough.

The Batcomputer beeps ominously and suddenly there he is, on every monitor, standing before some firepit like he’s about to start a Gregorian chant.

“Detective,” he begins, smooth and dramatic and so deeply irritating. “I find the anniversary of your birth… worthy of acknowledgement.”

There’s a pause. Like he’s searching for the words “happy birthday” and finding them both distasteful and beneath him.

“I have arranged for several of your enemies to experience... inconvenience today. A small gesture.”

Which is Ra’s-speak for “I kidnapped half the Gotham underworld so you could have a quiet evening.”

It’s dumb. And morbid. And weird. But he remembered. Which is more than anyone else did.

Midnight hits. The cave is dark again. Shiva’s bag is empty. The logic puzzle sits unsolved on the floor. Selina’s drive hums faintly where he’s left it connected to his laptop. The screens have long since gone cold, the remnants of Ra’s transmission fading.

No texts. No calls. No Bats.

Just a handful of villains with weird boundaries and the emotional range of a brick.

Somehow, it still means something.

Somehow, it’s not the worst birthday he’s ever had.

#thanks for the ask <3 #tim drake #batfamily #villains are better at birthdays than his own family #ra’s al ghul says “happy birthday” like a death threat #this is sad but also kind of adorable #gotham is weird

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whumps-and-stumps-but-no-stumps · 14 days ago

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First time really writing something (and also posting on this account), it didn’t come out exactly like I had wanted but you have to start somewhere right?

Cw: gun, (forced) betrayal, vague military whump?, intimate whumper

He sat with his back to the wall, exhausted and relieved, but his nerves weren’t quitting just yet. He spoke again into the walkie-talkie.

“Okay, hard part is almost over. I’ve got the code for that door there that should be-“

Whumpee felt cold metal touching the side of his head. He instinctively froze and stopped the walkie talkie.

“Good boy,” Whumper said. The soft and condescending tone they took made Whumpee want to tear someone’s skin off. Wether it was whumper’s or his own he hadn’t yet decided.

Through the walkie talkie still in Whumpee’s hand came the voice of his teammate, “Whumpee, is everything all right? You cut out.”

Whumper crouched down to Whumpee.

“Is everything all right, Whumpee?” Whumper said teasingly. They pushed their gun a little harder into the side of his head, making Whumpee flinch. “tell them you’re fine.“

Whumpee took a second to compose himself, before putting on the most normal voice he possibly could in this situation.

“Everything’s fine, yeah. Sorry.” He was trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking.

“And the code?” Teammate replied.

“Right, the code. Um…”

Whumper looked at him expectantly, “go on,” they prompted.

“…7942.” Whumpee felt sick as he said it. He was probably dooming his team to falling right into the enemy’s hands, but what could he do about it? And anyway, Teammate is a smart person, they can figure it out, right?

“Great. I got through. Just straight from here, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Whumper grabbed the walkie talkie out of Whumpee’s hand placing it on the ground.

They brought up their free hand to cup Whumpee’s cheek. “You’re such a good puppet already, Whumpee,” they teased. Whumper caressed the side of his face with his gun. “Still, I will so enjoy making you perfect. You’ll get to pay for all the nuisance you’ve caused to our organization”

Whumpee was still trying to remain composed but crumbling. He knew what they did to people in this ‘organization,’ making them spies and soldiers by any means necessary. And now he’d led everyone he cared about right into the middle of it all.

“Please. I’m sorry. Don’t hurt my team”

Whumper looked at him with mock pity, “A little late to worry about that, don’t you think? Awe, It’s ok, you were only doing what you had to. And I assure you, you’ll thank yourself in the end.”

#whump #whump drabble #military whump #intimate whumper #whump writing #I know that this has #like #multiple tonal shifts #but its ok I’m trying to be more ok with just doing stuff #doesn’t have to be good #first post #my writing #team whump

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munsonsmixtapes · 2 months ago

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The Magic Touch

Simon “Ghost” Riley x yapper!reader

Y’all liked this pairing so much that I decided to make another fic! Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for the request.

Summary: You give Simon a PowerPoint presentation about something that you’re very passionate about.

cw: mention of Ticketmaster

You stand in front of Simon who’s sitting on your couch. You have your computer hooked up to the TV and your powerpoint is all ready to present with your pointer and everything. Simon is nothing but amused, ready to hang on to your every word like always. You’ve been making these powerpoints for a couple weeks and he always gets excited to see what topic you’re going to educate him on next.

“Alright, tonight’s topic is,” you pause and Simon leans over, drumming on the coffee table for dramatic effect as you go to your next slide. “Ticketmaster,” you finish. Simon has very little knowledge of the company but he does know that it’s public enemy number one. “This may or may not be because I just lost out on tickets and I’m still bitter. Anyway.”

You go to the next slide and explain the history of the company and how quickly it became popular, getting progressively more angry as you explain how they were the ones who decided to start charging fees on top of the already outrageous ticket price. How they have so much control over tickets and love events as a whole.

As you get more angry, Simon feels your rage as well. He’s upset for you and he wishes there was something he could do. He hates seeing you so worked up.

“And now, they’ll hike up the prices because of the demand, so one second, the ticket will be a hundred dollars and then you check later and it’s doubled. And don’t even get me started on how you’ll go into the presale and there will somehow already be resale tickets.”

You’re fuming now and Simon takes it upon himself to defuse the fire. He understands your frustration, he does, and he thinks your feelings are totally valid, but he hates seeing you so worked up like this.

“Alright, let’s take some deep breaths baby.” You both take a breath in and then it out before his hands rest on your shoulders, giving him a loving squeeze. “You said you didn’t get the tickets, how about I buy them for you?”

“It’s like you didn’t listen to anything I just said,” you roll your eyes.”

“I was listening, honey, I just want to help you. I hate seeing you so upset. Now come here.” He takes your hand and leads you over to the couch where he was just sitting. He opens his computer that’s sitting on the coffee table and has you log into your account on the website.

Once that’s done, he goes into the presale and you give him the code that you’ve memorized by now then shut your eyes tight as he clicks on some seats in the exact section you’ve been trying to get all morning.

“And done,” he says and your eyes fly open, seeing that Simon did in fact get the tickets you’ve been losing your mind over trying to buy for hours. And he did it in just a couple clicks.

“What the fuck, Simon?” You shove his shoulder but can’t keep the smile off his face.

“How about a kiss in exchange for working so hard?” You roll your eyes again and press your lips to his and he can’t help but smile into it, so happy to have you in his life, that he gets to call you is.

“How was that?”

“Payment accepted. Now how about we get you a pretty outfit to go with those tickets?” He asks, opening another tab to go to your favorite clothing website and you lean your head on his shoulder because you really are one lucky woman to have a man who has the magic touch.

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puck-luck · 11 months ago

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code-breaker | jack hughes

warnings: pining!, unprotected p in v, lots of miscommunication but it is resolved duh, lmao uhhhhh jack fucking his best friend's sister maybe? kind of a big plot point fasho, a lame excuse for a squirt, cum on da body (chest), eating come, lots of banter, tiny TINY bit of angst and insecurity on fem!reader's part pairing: jack hughes x zegras!reader request: cappy's "sister of the best friend, lake house, etc. sister makes the first move and the guy tries to turn her down out of loyalty to the other boy and she gets a little hurt and insecure thinking he's rejecting her and she's like "am i really that bad?" with her voice craking and he's like fuck then... smut!" wc: 4327

Jack is here.

Jack, who you’ve been in love with since your twin brother started hanging out with him when they were in NTDP together. Jack, the New Jersey Devils’ prized star, the number one pick. Jack, the most annoying and most attractive brother of the esteemed Hughes family from Michigan. Yes, that Jack is here– ‘here’ being your apartment that you share with your brother in Anaheim now that Jamie has moved out and away.

Jack is here. You are here. Trevor is not.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you tell him awkwardly, still holding the door open and blocking the doorway. You’re all too aware of your lazy, solo-movie-night outfit as you stand in front of him. You’re clad only in a big shirt, one that normally reaches the middle of your thighs but has ridden up since your hands are raised and resting against the doorframe, and your favorite pair of panties. You did laundry earlier and showered, your big exciting thing of the day being that you could but on your favorite underwear and be lazy as soon as you finished the chore of folding your clothes. “Trevor’s in New York right now.”

“I know,” Jack says, a hand on his suitcase. The other is clenched by his side. “I have a meeting in LA tomorrow so he said I could stay here while he was gone.”

“Oh,” you reply, feeling silly. It would’ve been nice if your brother had told you that Jack was coming and staying here while he was gone, considering you’d made plans to be alone all night tonight. Trevor always does shit like this– he makes plans and then forgets to tell you until someone shows up or he has to leave to meet them. It’s frustrating. “Come on in, then.”

You move to the side, gesturing for Jack to enter the apartment, and he does. His suitcase rolls in behind him, just a little carry on, and he leaves it beside the door where he kicks off his shoes.

Your hands make their way to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging at it. “I’ll, uh, go change into something more–”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Jack interrupts, waving you off. He clears his throat. “You don’t have to change on my account. I’m interrupting your night of–”

He looks to the couch and the coffee table, littered with a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of wine that you had been drinking out of, straight from the spout. Your movie is paused on the screen, a silly Disney Channel movie that had come out when you and Trevor were children and still hadn’t lost its touch yet. You’re hoping that Jack doesn’t recognize the screencap, but Mel’s Lemonade machine fills the screen and if he’s seen Lemonade Mouth at all, he’ll know what movie you’re watching.

“Disney Channel and wine,” Jack finishes, pinching his lips to hide the amusement in his voice.

You frown, even though you want to burst into laughter with him. It is silly, what you’re doing, but you were supposed to be alone and who are you to be ashamed of your guilty pleasures?

“Don’t make fun,” you admonish, crossing your arms with a pout. “I thought I had the apartment to myself.”

“I’m not making fun!” Jack denies, holding his hands up in surrender. “I think it’s nice that you’re having a me-party.”

He’s referencing the other time he’s interrupted when you’re having a movie night on your own, when you watched The Muppets (2011) at the lake house because the boys were out on the boat and you had gotten a nasty sunburn the day before, so you’d stayed in. Jack had come back early because he was hungry, making the boys drop him off at the dock before going back out, and caught you red-handed with his favorite kind of pretzels and a half-full bottle of margarita next to the blender.

You blush, glaring at him slightly. “Shut up, Jack.”

“No, this is perfect,” Jack continues, glowing a little as his shit-eating smile builds. He walks over to the couch and plops down, grabbing the bottle of wine and taking a swig before wiping his mouth. “I’m already dressed for a lazy night in, I shouldn’t waste it.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re such a dick,” you complain. “You know you don’t want to watch this movie with me.”

“Why not?” He challenges, another tilt of the bottle pouring the fruity liquid down his throat. He spreads his legs when he sits as all the boys do, taking up as much space as he can.

“Because you won’t like it,” you say. “And because I wasn’t planning on having you here.”

“Were you planning on having someone else here?” Jack teases. “Popcorn, red wine, a movie, no pants… I think I see the writing on the wall.”

“No, God, shut up, Jack!” You repeat with a huff, returning to the couch and curling up against the opposite arm, far away from the boy. “Just be quiet while I watch my movie. If you’re good, I’ll let you have some popcorn.”

Jack wiggles his eyebrows at you, sticking out his tongue. You pull at the bottom of your shirt again, making sure that your panties aren’t visible when he looks over. This is already humiliating enough– you don’t need your long-time crush seeing your underwear, too.

You hit play and turn the volume up loud enough to drown out any comments Jack might make. You’re lucky the movie is short, because he’s an antsy boy who loves to talk, just like your brother, and you can tell that he’s anxious to start another conversation.

As the credits roll, you mute the television and turn to him. “What?” You demand, sitting in criss-cross-applesauce and shoving your hands into your lap to stretch your shirt over the space between your legs.

“You really didn’t have plans tonight?” Jack asks. “It’s a Saturday night and you live in LA. You’re in your twenties. You didn’t want to have anyone over?”

You flush, but it’s less out of embarrassment and more out of anger. “Judgemental much, Hughes? Not all of us have people throwing themselves at our feet any given day of the week.” You grind your teeth, clenching your jaw and taking a deep breath. You stare at him, refusing to break eye contact. Jack shouldn’t be allowed to form opinions on your life. You know exactly what he’s insinuating– why aren’t you out there getting laid, Y/N? and it’s frustrating because it’s the same question you ask yourself whenever your friends text about their recent hookups or whenever Trevor brings a girl back to the apartment.

More than anything, you don’t want Jack judging you. You know that your Saturday night plans are lame, but that’s why you wanted to be alone.

Jack falls quieter, your reaction diluting his crooked, toothy smirk that he reserves for the people he knows well. “I’m surprised you don’t have– people. Throwing themselves at you.”

He’s awkward when he says it, too awkward not to make you suspicious.

He’s avoiding eye contact, picking at his nailbeds.

“Would you?” You ask, directly to the point. You’re making a point, too– you’ve known Jack for years and he has never, not once, implied that he thinks you’re desirable.

Jack says nothing, running his fingers through his hair and looking down.

You nod to yourself and stand from the couch, still tugging at your shirt. You’re pulling it even lower now, the neckline dipping and stretching as you cover your legs up as best you can. “That’s what I thought,” you say quietly, a cold feeling washing through your chest and pressing down on the skin that your heart beats beneath.

“I would,” Jack calls, just as you walk away. You’re positioned right in front of the door that leads to your bedroom when he says it, head hanging towards the ground so that he doesn’t see the frown on your face.

His silence was a rejection and his afterthought is even worse. Nonetheless, you turn to face him. This time, it’s your silence that rings throughout the space.

“I would,” Jack repeats. “If, y’know. You weren’t–”

“Trevor’s sister,” You say, filling in the blanks and finishing his sentence. You nod, a tight, close-lipped, and pointed smile on your face. “You don’t have to explain, Jack. I realized a long time ago that my world would always revolve around Trevor.” Your hand is on the doorknob now, twisting it and cracking your door open. Your bed is right there and you can collapse into it in mere seconds, able to let your tears leak into your pillow silently as you remind yourself that you’re not as good as your twin brother once again, just as soon as you get these words out. “I know I can’t do or say the things I want to with the people I want to because they’re always thinking about Trevor.”

You could add, And why would you be any different? You know him best. Of course he’s the one you’re loyal to, but you decide against it. It’s too petty. It’s too mean. It’s too– real.

You look at him one last time to bid him goodnight, already craving the following day when his meeting is over and he heads back to Michigan, far away from you and your un-desirability. The tight smile returns to your face, trying to smooth out your upset yet resigned features. It’s always the same thing. It’s not Jack’s fault, really, it’s not. You’ve imagined this conversation in your head many times and each time you think rationally, you know that this is how it has to be.

He’s Jack Hughes, for God’s sake. You’re just Trevor Zegras’ less successful, lesser known twin sister.

“Trevor would kill me,” Jack says on a whim. “Really. He would. He would stand me up and punch me, right here.”

You’ve got one foot in your bedroom and one foot out. Despite the ice piercing through your chest, you can’t find it in yourself to be rude and close the door on him. You turn to face Jack again.

He’s sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped in front of him like a prayer. He moves them when he talks, lowering them and spreading them and gesturing with them. He’s always done that, ever since you’ve known him– it’s another way that he calls attention to himself and takes up space. It’s part of the reason why he’s so charming– he knows how to use his hands, how to touch someone to politely get them to move or to pull them closer or to playfully shoo them away.

“If I had a sister, I’d do the same thing to him,” Jack continues. “It’s just– we can’t go for each others’ family. It’s against the code.”

You nod, slowly, exaggeratedly just to show him how nonsensical that sounds. “You realize it’s not up to Trevor to decide who you go out with,” you say. “That’s kind of your choice, Jack.”

“It’s not that simple.”

You shrug, then look away. Outside the living room window is a dark night, leaves blowing with the wind.

“It could be,” you say after a moment. You’re not surprised to hear how resigned you sound. You learned to live with this a long time ago, so you know that pointing out how easily things could change is futile. You say it anyway. “If you wanted it to be. But, I get it. I’m your best friend’s sister. Maybe if I wasn’t, you’d consider–”

“I have considered,” Jack interrupts. “I’ve– well, you’ve seen it. All the guys have.”

You’re lost. It’s like he’s speaking in code. “I’ve seen what?” You ask, monotonous and silently yearning for your bed. Your patience is growing thin.

“You can’t be serious,” Jack responds with a laugh. He buries his face in his hands, muffling the noise. “Are you?”

“I’ve seen what,” you repeat, straight-faced and not entertaining this sudden bout of humor from the brunet boy.

“How I look at you when you’re in those tiny little swimsuits on the boat, or how I laugh when you make one of your stupid jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but you and Trevor,” Jack says. “You really never noticed?”

Now he’s just dangling your hopeless crush in front of you. You assumed he had noticed sometime over the years, but this is overkill. He’s never felt the same– that much is clear. It’s cruel that he thinks he can lead you to believe otherwise as a means to further tease you for being alone tonight.

You shake your head. “I never noticed because you never did any of those things, Jack. You’re just saying that to say it.”

He’s up in a flash, coming towards you and placing a hand flat on your bedroom door to prevent you from closing it and ending the conversation. “I can’t believe you don’t believe me,” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’s funny that you’re making fun of the little crush I’ve had on you since we were kids. You don’t feel the same way and I’m not an idiot.” You move to close the door again, but Jack pushes it open again.

“You– I’m not making fun,” Jack stammers out, looking surprised. He leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “You have a crush on me?”

Your jaw drops and your face flames with humiliation. You thought he knew that you liked him and that he was making fun on purpose– and now you’ve accidentally revealed your massive, well-kept secret to his face. This was never supposed to happen. “You didn’t know?” You hiss, covering the lower half of your face with your hands.

“You have a crush on me,” Jack repeats, a smile spreading across his face. He steps closer, prompting you to back away.

“No. No,” you moan out, feeling positively ashamed and destroyed. Tonight is not turning out as you hoped it would.

Jack’s still smiling, closing your bedroom door softly behind him as he follows you into your room.

You knock into the edge of your bed and sit, sinking into the mattress. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth as Jack kneels in front of you, prying your hands away from your face and holding them gently.

“You have a crush on me,” Jack says for a third time, his voice soft and subtly optimistic. The corner of his mouth curves up into the tiniest of smirks and you swear your face couldn’t get any more red.

All you can give him is a frown and a devastated wobble of your bottom lip.

“Well, this changes everything,” Jack says, regaining his ability to joke, it seems. His next question is rhetorical and makes you swallow hard. “Who gives a fuck about Trevor when you feel the same way I do?”

“You’re– you’re serious,” you say, still a thread of disbelief sewn into your words. “You weren’t kidding. You actually– thought about it.”

“Thought about it?” Jack asks. “Fuck, Y/N, I almost told you right before you left last summer, but then you said you were talking to that guy.”

You roll your eyes– that guy had only been in your life for about a month and you had only mentioned him because Jack had mentioned a girl he wanted to see. You tell him such– “I only brought him up because everyone was talking about their romantic interests and who they were interested in, I didn’t want to seem like a loser. You had some girl, too, Jack.”

“Some girl– that was you,” Jack reveals incredulously. “I thought I was being so obvious.”

“You weren’t obvious at all!” You deny, mouth open in a scoff.

“I thought that you mentioning that guy was your way of letting me down easy!”

“Yes, Jack, because I was going to reveal my feelings for you in a room full of both of our brothers. Good idea. You fucking idiot!”

Jack laughs aloud, throwing his head back. His face scrunches up and he smooths his face with his big palm at the end of his amusement. He fixes you with a look of glee and astonishment– something only hindsight can bring to his expression. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

You shake your head, laughing with him for a moment before he swipes a thumb over your cheek, which stills you.

“Fuck,” he sighs, smile still gracing his face. “I can’t believe–”

“Me neither,” you say.

“Can I–”

“Absolutely.”

Jack’s rising up, kissing you and laying you back on the bed so that he can completely cover your body with his own. One of his hands cups your cheek, while the other grips your hip, atop your underwear but underneath the big t-shirt that is now riding up your body as you move. Your hand is on his bicep and his chest, clutching his sweatshirt. The strings dangle down into your space, brushing against your clothes and tickling you.

His hands memorize you like a topographic map, clutching at your dips and curves and anything else he can get his hands on.

“Wanna take this off,” You mumble against Jack’s mouth, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt.

Jack pulls back immediately, reaching behind his neck to grab the collar of his top and bring it above his head. He balls it up and drops it somewhere on the floor.

“That, too,” you tell him, about his t-shirt, before he can bend back down and kiss you senseless again.

Jack chuckles and pulls it off, too, leaving him half-naked just like you. His chest is tanned and swollen from his recent workouts in Michigan since his shoulder surgery, something that Trevor had told you about but about which you’d never checked in. You’re gentler on that side of his body, especially as he comes back down into your space and you get to touch him. You run your hands over his muscles. You feel out the ridges of his body, trying to match his own confident movements as he feels you up.

One of your hands makes its way to his v-line, something you’d seen over plenty of boat trips. You’d always wanted the opportunity to touch it, to trace it, to watch it bend and flex as he rolled his hips. You’re being afforded that opportunity now and it is sweet.

“I thought you might like that,” Jack murmurs. “Caught you staring once. Was the same day you wore my favorite red swimsuit out.”

“I still have it,” you tell him, gasping a little when his hand slides up to your chest. He tweaks your nipple, then his hand retreats.

“Mm, a treat for tomorrow,” Jack says. “I’m gonna have you walking around in that thing all day just so I can look at you. For now…”

He trails off, pushing the bottom of your shirt up and leaving your lips to attach his to the freshly revealed skin of your torso. He kisses up your body with each inch he reveals, between your breasts and up your neck. He pulls your shirt off, letting it join his own on the floor, and gets his first proper look at your tits.

“Been waiting to see these,” he continues, eyes fixed on your chest like he’s being hypnotized. He places his hands on you and squeezes, feeling your supple flesh between his fingers. You moan out at the sensation, the noise spurring him on. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding and tugging at his joggers, hoping he’ll get the hint and remove them.

“‘ve wanted to come on these tits since I first saw it in a porno,” Jack reveals, still mesmerized by your chest. “Thought about it a hundred times.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Come on my tits all you want, but you have to fuck me first.”

“Guess your Saturday night wasn’t so boring after all,” Jack says before he stands from the bed and tugs his pants off. He joins you again, wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing over your face. He grinds against you, his clothed cock sliding against your damp panties in a way that has you both keening into each others’ mouths.

“Guess not,” is your reply, cut short by another moan when Jack’s hand claims your chest again.

You move without speaking after that, fueled only by the desire coursing through your veins after years of pining and aching for the other.

Jack feels you out and eventually discards his own underwear before removing yours, returning to the missionary position that you had assumed as soon as you had first kissed. It’s sweeter this way– and you both need to see the other’s face, to feel their breath mix with your own. Your chests are flush together, your nipples scraping against the defined and broad swoops of his skin. You grind against each other for a few minutes more, his dick sliding between the wet lips of your pussy with nothing blocking it. He groans into your ear as your juices coat his length, eyes closed in a grimace that is completely charged by his pleasure.

“Condom?” is the last thing he asks, with you shaking your head and replying, “Pill.”

He lines himself up, mouth agape with a choked breath as he thrusts into your tight, wet heat. Your head finds the mattress beneath you, your back arching up as he fills you. You can feel his veins sliding against your walls, the blunt and weeping tip of his cock poking at your deepest parts.

He moves like a man possessed and fighting the beast– like he wants to let loose but at the same time, restraining himself. When you tug on his hair, the subtle waves that he’s been growing out over the summer and hiding beneath his hat in every picture you’ve seen, and whine out his name, Jack’s control vanishes.

He starts to piston his hips into your cunt, burying his face into your neck and letting out ecstasy-fueled whimpers each time you clench down. He curses in your ear, voice a little higher than it normally is, and the intimacy and vulnerability of the moment has your heart clenching.

“J– J–” You chant, mewling as his cockhead drives against the back wall of your pussy in hard thrusts that make your head spin.

“So good,” he grits out, kissing over your neck and catching your earlobe between his lips for a moment before dropping it. One of his hands is splayed over your hip, the other securely planted next to your head. “So tight.”

“Coming,” you warn, your fingers finding his bicep and clenching, fingernails digging into his skin so much that you won’t be surprised if you break skin. Your voice is high, too, octaves higher because of the pleasure you’re experiencing.

“Fuck, yeah, baby, come on my cock,” Jack pants out, the hand from your hip coming to rub circles over your clit.

It sends a shock up your spine and has your hips bucking up to meet his, your entire lower half shaking as your climax approaches. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and your vision goes spotty when you do come, just seconds after his groaned encouragement. Your entire body tenses, freezing with Jack still inside of you, making it damn near impossible for him to continue pumping his hips.

He slides from your opening as you’re coming, bringing some of the slick with him in a feeble excuse for a squirt. His dick bobs, hard and an angry red that might be the most beautiful color you’ve ever seen in your hazy, post-orgasmic state.

Jack comes up to straddle your stomach, stripping his cock quickly with a tight fist, chest heaving. You know he wants to come on your chest, having already given him permission, but your mouth opens and your tongue lolls out in an invitation that Jack can’t deny. He shuffles up further on his knees, his whimper sounding pained as his milky cum spurts from the tip of his cock and lands along the flat of your tongue and your lips.

His spurts grow weaker, although he’s still stroking his dick in a fervorous pace, whining a little more at the oversensitivity. His cum makes his way to your chest, just dripping down the length of his shaft and pooling over your tits.

You reach up with one hand and trace your fingers through the seed, causing Jack to sway a little on top of you at the sight. His cheeks are flushed and pink, eyes blue and clear like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Your fingertips brush your nipple, spreading the cum over it before you bring your hand up to your mouth and suck the remaining liquid off of your skin, swallowing it with a hum.

Jack is off of you in a flash, pulling you on top of his lap and joining your lips. The last of his cum, painted across your tongue in a thin layer, mixes with your spit as he kisses you. He’s desperate, filling your mouth with his tongue until you can barely breathe, tasting himself on you until it’s indistinguishable– where you end and he begins.

It takes a long time for Jack to finally pull away, for you both to come down from your highs and take a breath.

In typical Jack fashion, he can’t stop himself from joking around.

“Trevor’s really going to kill me now,” he says. “There’s a chance he’ll never let us be in the same room again.”

You laugh, knowing already that neither of you will be willing to let this– whatever this is– go just because your brother has something to say about it. “In that case, we’ll just have to sneak away.”

notes: I WANTED TO NAME THIS "BFB" AFTER THE VICTORIOUS SONG SOOOOOO BAD!!!!! but alas. it's best friend's sister. maybe some other time. blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. well now wait that's a good idea...

#puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#jack hughes #jack hughes smut #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x y/n #jh86 #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #hockey smut

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storiumemporium · 2 months ago

Text

Terminal

Chapter 1 - Spring Cleaning

It Happened™️did I think it would happen? No. But it happened and here we are and it's terminally bad 😭

“What can you do?” “Well…” you start after a pause that goes on too long. “I am- I am one of the foremost black hats in the country, cracking code is sort of my thing. I’m- Miss de Fontaine wishes for me to become the brain for your operation, handling the technological side of your missions so that you can focus on the physical parts.” "Is that why you’re not here, then? Keeping your identity concealed?” “Oh God no! No… I just- I work best from where I am right now.” And nowhere, nowhere else. --- Fourteen months following the void out of Manhattan, Valentine Allegra de Fontaine has you assigned as the newest member of her struggling superhero team. The New Avengers. You serve as their eyes and ears, their brain, and their personal AI in the style of famous JARVIS, though you lack the cool accent. Oh, and you also haven't left your home in nearly a decade, so.

Bucky thought himself to be a long suffering kind of guy.

Just… you don’t make best friends out of Steven Grant Rogers - any iteration of Steven Grant Rogers - without an unusually high penchant for tolerating bullshit in your day to day. Oh, your buddy is ninety-seven pounds and picked a fight with a guy bigger than you are, Buck? No problem, go get your ass kicked too if it means keeping him out of the hospital.

Oh, your buddy entered an experimental program while you were locked away in some HYDRA camp? No problem, just follow the lunatic wherever the hell he decides he wants to go.

It just didn’t matter, if Steve wanted to do something then Bucky was the guy.

The problem is - and half a dozen therapists have forced him to accept it by now - is that this isn’t just a Steven Grant Rogers thing. This is a James Buchanan Barnes thing.

Which is why he now is in charge of all of these assholes.

Fourteen months and twelve days since the New Avengers made their entirely unplanned debut to the world, and the barely rebranded New Avenger’s Tower had become something like a home and a hub all in one. It wasn’t as if the informally known Thunderbolts had anywhere else to go. Alexei wanted to be with his daughter, Yelena wanted to be an Avenger like her sister, Bob just wanted to be with people who cared for him, Ava did not oppose the lavish new means, and John was… himself.

Bucky? Well. He was between things, except the between period had only gotten longer and longer, and he was having a harder and harder time imagining being anywhere else than here. They’d grown on him, like mold. Or tumors.

Truth be told, they needed each other. It wasn’t outside the realm of Bucky’s psychology to understand that going it alone just wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t for ordinary people whose worst traumas were the goldfish they accidentally killed as a child, and it definitely wasn’t for people like them.

So he stayed, and really, he didn’t even try to figure out a reason not to stay.

The Tower, since it’s renovation, has undergone a nauseating trading of hands across the members of the Thunderbolts in a way that reminded Bucky of old school Tom n’ Jerry until finally landing on it’s longest and most comfortable configuration. The things that had stayed the same: all communal areas of the Tower remained squarely in the dead center, just above the neighboring office buildings, and positioned so that everyone had to be equally inconvenienced on travel time through the skyscraper. Bucky remained in the same floor he has been since they moved in- nobody was really willing to fight him on it on account of stubbornness. Bob got to keep the floor closest to the communal center, directly beneath. He didn’t like heights, and no one had the heart to force him to be far away.

Yelena took a floor close to Bob, Alexei took the floor closest to Yelena. John made sure to take the furthest floor he could from Bucky, leaving Ava in the middle.

Somehow this still created conflicts. Mostly in the fact that John and Bucky shared an elevator and the bastard was always racing him to use it first, leaving the other waiting there god knows how long dependent on where they were going.

In spite of their infrastructural warfare, the arrangement was nice.

Everyone stuck close by even with the immense amount of space afforded - often made uneasy by the scale - and the communal spaces of the Tower ended up being the most used for all things, sometimes even sleeping when nightmares or thoughts got severe enough to warrant not being alone. They all had them, but it was most often a divided line where some needed that space distinctly more often than others.

Bucky had categorized it into type S and type C, he was told type Stable and type Crazy were a little too harsh. So it’d been rebranded to Stable and Catastrophizing. He liked to think of himself as belonging to type S, sitting squarely alongside Yelena and Ava.

Progress for them meant a slow and arduous crawl from one rung of a seemingly infinite ladder to the next. Months on end of grueling and thankless work filled with uncomfortable conversations and deep personal confrontation to hopefully inch the tiniest bit forward on the path. The type of progress that Bucky knew intimately felt as if it wasn’t actually progress, at least in the moment. All these changes so minute that they could be overlooked in favor of all the places you should already be. You had to look back over the weeks, months, and years to really see how much you’d improved yourself.

John, Alexei, and above all else Bob belong to Catastrophizing.

He’s watched them make massive leaps and bounds seemingly in a matter of months, comparatively overnight versus his own progress. The sort of rapid adjustment to life that Bucky could bite steel over. Cutting their hair, putting on - conversely losing - weight. New clothes, a better outlook on life. It felt like some romanticized iteration of recovery where a hug and a ‘you matter!’ were enough for them to simply be cured of their afflictions.

Then the crash would come.

They would fall harder than Yelena, Ava, even he himself ever had. Possibly even combined*.* A total square one restart, if not at times worse*.* Like they’d taken eight steps back from when they first met each other. Somehow spitefully stuck themselves even deeper into the mud. It was always a titanic, catastrophic sort of mess. The kind of thing that couldn’t truly be prevented, only patiently waited out.

For Alexei that usually meant hiding the alcohol, forgiving the disappearance of food. Not acknowledging the couch has been robbed days in a row as he was robbed of the willpower to get off it and sleep in his own bed. Quiet nights spoken in Russian between himself, Yelena and Alexei. Tender with his daughter, reminiscing with Bucky.

For John, sparring matches that turned into outright fistfights. Vicious words that weren’t truly meant, met with stone until the soldier would hiss and seethe and retreat into himself and his room. He’d only reemerge days later looking a husk, a peace treaty offered by coffee and a conversation no one really wanted to have. Shave, Walker. Fuck you, Barnes. The shadow gone from his face and his eyes by next morning.

Bob? Holding on, no matter what. Sometimes that meant dealing with the ache of seeing him recoil harder from a gentle touch than he would a harsh slap. Dark, soft blue eyes turning beady and sharp with paranoia at the concept of freely given love and companionship. Catatonia met with meals, victories if he took even one bite. For Yelena, washing his hair when he couldn’t muster it. For Bucky, offering a hand Bob wasn’t afraid to crush in his sleep. When he needed to feel not-alone, but not-terrified of his own strength.

It was a system. A bad, fucked up, ill conceived one. But it worked, it was theirs.

They were getting better, their way.

This month has proven itself to be comparatively light in the mentalympics department, as Ava had called it and it had stuck. None of the Thunderbolts have been required to leave the Tower at any point in the last few weeks, taking it as their paid-for vacation meant that the only times anyone braved the city that never slept was to stock up on large amounts of booze and snacks- too impatient for the weekly drop off to arrive. From there? Game nights, movie nights, show nights. Charades has come up an alarming number of times with Yelena topping the scoreboard most frequently and Alexei consistently failing to guess almost anything. John and Ava have made a running pool on how many times the man can somehow derive Soviet era propaganda out of the weird undulations another member of the team is making.

All of this is pockmarked with training sessions, evenings taken to snoop around the tower (a year later and new things still keep getting found). And sometimes the overhead being stolen to play music while everyone brings blankets and pillows from their floor.

Ava and Yelena started it. Bob joined without much hesitation. Alexei joined with no hesitation. John and Bucky were pretty helpless to deny what they knew was coming.

The sleepover tradition.

Still, it’s early in the morning and there’s no guarantee anyone will posit that tonight be the night everyone clusters the sunken conversation pit with all manner of malleable objects to sleep on. Instead, Bucky scrolls through the The New Yorker on his phone while drinking dubiously spiced coffee out of a mug labeled ‘badass babysitter’ on the side with little cartoon flowers strewn across it in pastels. He’s already fully dressed for the day, and the deep navy blue and sheer black contrasts entertainingly with the salmon colored ceramic. Alexei’s word, not his. Across from him is Yelena, phone also in hand and feet on the table. John has been warring with her penchant for climbing on furniture for some time now, Bucky knows he’s already lost. She’s adorned in one of the many bundles of Avengerz clothing Alexei had procured for the team since everything went a touch sideways, avidly denying to ever be seen in public with it and yet unable to deny the softness of the pajamas. Her hair is unkempt, pale tresses scattered about and her face bare of any makeup. She looks unguarded like this, just taking space rather than commanding it per her usual.

“Do you think it’s been too quiet, lately?” Yelena’s voice cuts abruptly across the table at him, her head suddenly lifting from her phone and toward the ceiling, conversational but loud enough for the muscles in Bucky’s shoulders to twitch reflexively. Her brows pinched like she was wrestling with a puzzle. “I mean, there hasn’t even been a fire in the kitchen this last week. It feels wrong. We’re never this pleasant to be around.”

Bucky’s phone clicks dark, clattering gently on the steel-and-glass surface provided by Valentina’s many interior designers. Sterility was in, apparently. “Hello to you too, Yelena. Don’t jinx it, maybe?”

To that, Bucky is rewarded a shit eating smile from his friend. Though she’s still not exactly turned to look at him, her head has canted further in his direction knowing that he’s taken her bait for the morning. “Please, better to know now so that you’re prepared when all the good behavior comes back as something much, much worse for you later.”

The ‘for you’ was pointed, badass babysitter glinting ominously on the side of his cup as he took another sip from it.

“Well, I would like to continue believing you’re all just finally beginning to grow up. I’m very proud.”

“Who- uh, who is growing up around here?”

Bob found his way up from the floor below, finally. Though the man struggled with sleep it didn’t typically make him any more of an early riser, certainly not the way Bucky was- instead, if Bob wasn’t already camped out in the living room watching the sun come up, he was often close to the last to arrive.

“Absolutely no one, but we can let the old man dream.” Yelena is grinning once more at him, a little less sharp as Bob passes around the two of them on his way to the fridge. “I was just saying that this place seemed a little too quiet as of late.”

And without a beat missed; “Don’t see that lasting too long.”

“See! I told you.”

Eggs are tossed onto the counter, organic as demanded by John. A pan retrieved from it’s designated ‘we don’t care what happens to this one because it’s cheap and maybe someone stole it?’ spot, also known as Bob’s favorite spot in the kitchen (he lacked guilt if these ended up destroyed in some way or another) to be placed on the electric burner and warmed. Scrambled eggs, or omelettes? He was feeling pretty good, so maybe something a little fancier this time. He liked to treat himself in these tiny ways, because it felt like a reward but one he had to… earn? You don’t get nice omelettes if you don’t learn how to cook them yourself, type of thing.

Just as fluidly as he’d entered the conversation, Bob slips free of it, electing to become a background ear to the chaos of Yelena and Bucky chattering at each other. Their voices morphing into a fuzzy blanket over his still waking mind. A metaphorical radio turned on low so that he could focus on swimming to consciousness rather than the creeping anxiety of too much silence. The cadence of their voices soothing, the familiarity of it cozy and predictable. Today it seemed they were bickering over whether or not the Tower was going to be - wait, he wasn’t exactly paying attention. Something about firebombing the garden?

He hoped not. He liked it out there. Being outside without, y’know. Being outside. Still wasn’t quite good at that one.

Omelette to plate, plate to table, Bucky watches Bob situate himself dead in the center of his exchanging of light barbs with Yelena. The food passing into his mouth without much consideration, dark eyes blinking out at the windows across from them. This, itself, was an update for Bob. At the beginning even false tensity tended to make the mans’ hackles rise, waiting for the moment it turned severe and he needed to duck out of the way of whatever aggression was working it’s way out.

Now, he snorts to himself when Yelena calls Bucky frostbitten.

He’s a little like Yelena in that regard, in that he feels like a person inhabiting a space these days. But where Yelena hid behind a deadly persona, Bob had just seemed ashamed to need the same air they did. A little ghost with his shoulders to his ears. Now? Now he lets the tongs of his fork clink against the plate without wincing, and openly pays attention to the conversation he hasn’t reentered himself into.

John and Ava have returned after their first round of disturbing Bucky’s well needed relaxation in the breakfast area, and Alexei is finally arriving for the first time that day as Bucky is retrieving his and Yelena’s third cup of coffee, Bob’s first. (He wasn’t the most fond of coffee, but he appreciated the pick-me-up, especially when a frankly nauseating amount of creamer was involved.)

“We really need some kind of big spectacle, yknow? Just- yeah we can say we’re the Avengers and we can live in the old crews place, but we really need to kick some ass to secure our hold in it.”

“Well what do you propose, John? Beam a signal out into space? ‘Hey aliens, come here and pick a fight with us so we can look cool to the other people here!’”

“Pfft, no. They’d never agree to that.”

Ava is squinting at him from her position, close to Yelena who has now moved close to Bucky as the chairs shuffled around to accommodate the other three bodies clustering in. Bob has started to hit proximal capacity, with his shoulders squeezed slightly even though no one came close to brushing with him. It didn’t help that the man got caught between Alexei and John for company, both make their brand of obnoxiousness into a flag they bear proudly.

“Look, I’m just saying! We wouldn’t be having these problems if we were doing more than fight people the public never get to hear about in the first place.” John was poking at his second breakfast of the day, something he’d apparently ordered off Doordash? to be brought to the tower of all places, pushing around browned sausage and crisp hashbrowns and gravy and other assortments of things. “At this point we’re just doing the same thing we always did but together. And with matching suits.”

“Matching suits are good! Make us look strong, united!”

“It’s better that the public doesn’t know,” Bucky interjected over Alexei’s enthusiasm of identical attire, and had an elbow on his armrest now, waving about the other hand freely as he spoke. “If they know, that means we didn’t get there in time to stop them from doing something.”

“So you’re saying we’re too good at our job?” Ava, incredulous and scathing as ever.

“Yes!”

“No, not exactly. Just that sometimes this is thankless work.”

“Well maybe I’d like to be thanked.”

“Or at least keep getting paid.”

Bob’s eyes are darting about the conversation, watching how it develops without any really desire to partake. It’s not that he isn’t part of it, exactly. But that he doesn’t necessarily… care.

So what if they aren’t Avengers? Do they need to be? Isn’t the important part that they’re helping people?

His mouth opens to posit that question - dumb as it might be - to his friends, when:

“Ladies, gentlemen! I hate to interrupt.” It was like dousing ice across everyone in the room, for all the way all warmth and fondness fled out the windows and down the stairwell to some place they did not occupy.

Valentina’s voice still inflicted some sort of deep seated anger in Bob, he wasn’t sure why. Though he knew she was the one originally trying to kill all of them in the vault, and that according to Yelena and Ava she’d done… something with him while he was in his Sentry state, he wasn’t exactly sure what.

Maybe the part of him that twisted with rage still did.

It had him smacking his lips irritably, pushing the plate away curt enough that it let out a mild whistle against the surface of the table that didn’t go unnoticed. John’s eyes were on him steadily, recognizing that flare of temper for what it was. It was one of the few more serious conversations they’d ever had with each other. Anger, and managing it in ways that didn’t result in broken furniture or self inflicted bruises. He didn’t need to say anything for Bob to nod at him. I’m cool.

Little could be done by way of explaining the idiosyncrasies of a body fundamentally divorced from itself.

“There’s an exciting new update for all of you. Something very important. Non negotiable. Head for the boardroom, you have thirty.”

---

Less could be done to provide comprehension to the scope of deprivation it required to no longer feel apart of the species you were, by all rights, born to.

Basically, you were a rather difficult creature to explain or understand. Not that you had much by way of practice in doing that.

So, here’s the thing:

Manhattan, New York is one of the wealthiest areas in the world - much less the country, that you could live. Brownstones, historic districts, lavish parks, beautiful boutiques. It was a gorgeous place, green and lush, industrial and waiting with open palms for those who had the means to take it.

You were buried a quarter mile beneath Manhattan.

With the cold war came the advent of nuclear hysteria, the world ever terrified for a mushroom cloud apocalypse that would bring with it the winter to end all winters. The world would crumble away to ice and decay and all life would slow to a crawl until only the most adapted and isolated of creatures could outlast the Earth repairing it’s destructive near-end.

And then none of that happened, actually.

But the important part of that is what came from it. What you got out of it. Circa the 1960’s full terror had gripped the nation that our world was going to end, but if you were a particularly savvy (and exorbitantly rich) hotel owner in one of the nicest areas of the entire country, you were building fallout bunkers and you were doing it before it was cool. And with so many of these incredibly intelligent wealthy individuals making shelters of all different shapes, sizes, and needs… Some of them just slipped through the cracks, entirely forgotten about.

Which made them ripe for the picking, if you happened to stumble upon one that hadn’t been registered with local authorities.

This place was your baby, your home. Eight feet of solid concrete reinforced with steel, shored up with external struts to protect against water instability from the surrounding ocean, heavily ventilated, and thoroughly treated. Vault door, cameras everywhere, back up generators, a pantry you’ve meticulously stocked over the years. This thing was frankly massive, built to sustain an entire family comfortably, and not just a singular societal reject.

This place was built for the end of the world, and now it’s your entire world.

Most of your days are spent right here, well - okay - all of your days are spent right here. But not all of them in this exact spot. With your feet kicked up on the dashboard of your very own surveillance system. Thirty-two chest-sized CRT screens imbedded into the wall stare back at you with footage from all across the city on their static clung faces. Traffic, weather cameras, even random footage from peoples’ doorbell cameras. You weren’t invasive enough to go inside, even if the curiosity ate at you sometimes.

Your station has been meticulously equipped over the years of your stay. Some of it is as brand new as you could get, others are classics. An IBM Model M is sitting in front of you, retro old keyboard in the same dingy green-yellow-beige that the rest of the bunker is, unaided by the old fluorescents flickering above. It’s what you use to do your work - what they use to do all of your work for you. More like a marionette to their ministrations. Beside it are a DAC and amp stack for a nice pair of German headphones found on Guitar Center or Amazon, and a bougie Shure microphone you acquired by shorting people out of bidding on it on eBay. Your guilt assuaged by running a cursory background check on the seller, wife beaters don’t deserve money.

Right now, your heart is in your throat.

There was a reason you came down here. A reason you stocked and live in this place that you illegally siphoned hot water and AC and all the other good shit to, without anyone ever knowing. Because you didn’t want anyone to know.

People… the outside… It’s terrifying. And not in the- the casual shakes or the nervous rambling or even the puking kind of way.

In the way that you’d open a manhole cover and crawl down it, wait there for hours until you were starving to make sure absolutely no one is around, scrambling from tight corner to tight corner to find your den to hide inside. That level of fear.

Blood curdling terror.

Now you’re willingly going to be introducing yourself to an entire group of people. Digitally. But still.

You knew them too, sometimes New York has something interesting happen to it and you’re so far beneath the crust that you get to witness it like a fun little spectator. So when a massive chunk of the city had - they recently dubbed it - voided out, you didn’t get to experience the misery and the terror the people up top did. You watched it all happen from your wall of screens and your expensive speakers and your everything else. Insulated and safe.

You also watched the people you’re about to talk to, stop the void. Somehow. Nobody really knew. It just kinda- unvoided everyone and thing. Lucky, y’know?

Valentina had contacted you after months of relatively low interaction, mostly just sent missions where you surveilled and reported back to her team whatever movements or information you could gather from your eye deep, deep beneath the sky. And then collected the paycheck that let you buy all the nice things that currently sat around you.

Pain in the ass to get here, mind. Since you didn’t let anyone so much as see the area that leads to your home. Better safe than sorry, besides, the locally delivery guys have come to an understanding with you. The extra hundred for every delivery without inquiry helps.

Now though?

“It’s time.” Her voice, grating as ever, made worse when it sounded over the heavy speakers you had set around your home base. “You’ve coasted by on little jobs this far, but we finally have need of your assets. You’re coming out of the dark, Terminal.”

This wasn’t what you were built for, but even with all the skills at your disposal money still became a necessity after a point. Not everything you could ever want or need could be procured by scams and technobabble-savvy. Not everything came without a hit to your conscience.

Still, the laminate counter and all the peripherals you’d accumulated have been dusted and disinfected three times now, all thirty-two screens have been fussed at to no end and you’ve shocked yourself enough times that the muscle in your ring finger was beginning to respond angrily to the uninvited stimuli. The whole place hums passively, the buzz off the fluorescents had grated your last nerve over an hour ago and have been relegated to some incredibly old desk lamp you stole and repaired from an abandoned library ages ago. The room, usually bright and weirdly pear colored has now been reduced to shadow and blue and a blanket of orange. Your shape cut across the concrete floor. It makes the place feel smaller, somehow.

Admittedly, and you knew this was an incredibly morally dubious choice to make, but you were kind of… stalking them?

It was a little too easy to get inside the New Avenger’s Tower, the artificial intelligence that Valentina supplied in the wake of JARVIS and FRIDAY being disbanded was little more than a rudimentary shadow of it’s predecessors. It could lock and unlock areas, manage cameras and microphones, knew the locations of every room in it’s premises, could tell time, and weather… But that was about it. It was a glorified app hiding in the ceiling. This meant that what you thought would be a battle that could backfire and get you in hot water with Valentina slipped by so easily that you were watching your future teammates make dinner, oblivious to your existence.

And the intelligence, CASEY (Central Authority, Surveillance, something-something. Valentina had tried to tell you and it’d already been terrible before the third letter in the abbreviation) was either none the wiser or not well programmed enough to alert anyone of the extra eyes in their home.

It felt wrong, it was wrong, but your excuse to yourself as muttered into a dingy mirror in your bathroom was that it provided you with pregame knowledge and ample preparation. So you wouldn’t fuck this up, or react too badly to how they react to whatever is about to happen. It was just you doing your own reconnaissance! Don’t head into enemy territory unprepared.

Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking of them as enemies. But- oh well.

It’s t-minus thirteen to the formal introduction and conversation has been entrenched on the big reveal, the big you. Some think it’s going to be good- two, precisely. The rest are thoroughly geared toward this being a disaster because Valentina’s print is on it. Not, honestly, a bad way to gauge it. Still, it had your teeth sliding against each other in anticipation. They won’t trust you, they probably won’t like you. It’s an uphill battle from go, and the worst part is that your odds are lower than terrible with her branding all over you. Not- not literally. But still.

If she has a hand in it, they’ll think you’re just as bad as her. And that’s something you have to fight past, starting in a matter of minutes.

“Listen, she doesn’t have control over us, we can just ignore whatever the hell kind of stunt she’s trying to pull.” Crackles over speakers situated at each corner. They’re a good quality, but the microphones installed at the Tower are not, so that it almost rings every time sound pushes through.

“But do we? We have no idea what this is going to be, and no guarantee we can worm our way around it.” Distinctly from James Barnes, arguably the most easy to identify of the entire group. His arm a glowing beacon of acknowledgement for who he is and who he was.

Again. Fundamentally untrusting people. You’re walking into Siberia in a Hawaiian-dad shirt.

“She hasn’t done anything too crazy since this began, and it’s been an entire year. Maybe she knows better with all of us being the face now, you know, after attempting to set us on fire?”

In a morbid way, you wish you didn’t already know about that. It would have been a good distraction from the lead ball in your gut. But alas, O.X.E. has had you in their pocket for awhile now, and that means you’ve been panty raiding their intelligence for ages at this point. The moment you’d seen her face pop up on national television following the blackout, you’d gone on a fun little deep dive to see what she fucked up that badly.

So much. Like an embarrassing amount, really.

Another candy wrapper is discarded to the half full trash can at your side. You’ve pretzeled your legs into the recliner you use as your desk chair in perhaps the least professional display of your state anyone has ever witnessed. Only topped off when you drag a blanket off the back and burrito yourself into it.

Walking into humiliation with comfort.

The screens switch camera to camera without your added input - they handle it for you as you worry away at lifted skin around your cuticles, taking not chewing your nails as enough victory for the evening - as they pass through something like a million tons of steel, marble, granite, concrete, and two inch thick panels of tempered and laminated glass on their way to the room where your debut will be announced to them post hoc.

Good god, you’re going to be fucking sick.

Valentina is already standing there when they arrive, and even through fuzzy and less than pixel perfect resolution you can see the ripple of discontent. They didn’t realize she was already in the building, and they didn’t like the following thought.

She’s as polished and corporate as ever, every texture and color her suit and jewels were clad in most likely approved by an entire team of stylists to convey a particular image and sentiment just for this evening. Like armor of a slippery, slimy variety. They all sit as her face stretches around an interpretation of a smile, her eyes dark and flat and calculating. She’s judging how difficult the sell is about to be.

“Thank you for arriving almost on time, perhaps this time next year you won’t embarrass us in front of national press by showing up when you’re told.”

“Look if you’re just here to berate us about the quality of our answers on what ice cream is our favorite—”

“Oh, Jesus no. I know better than with any of you. No, I have something much better for all of you to get used to.”

Again, as your fingers curl in tightly enough around your pants for the material to sting against your skin, the room seems to get even more coiled without you physically being there.

“Terminal, my dear. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Fuck. Fuck.

You go to introduce yourself, realize your mic is cut, set it hot and clear your throat at once. A part of you, however small but certainly tangible and real, dies horribly. Why didn’t you clear your throat before the mic was live, dumbass?

“Well, I- I believe the introduction has just been made for me, but hello there,” this part has been rehearsed for you a thousand times. You’d written out a script and paced the entire bunker for a solid week following this day, editing, scrapping, and then rehearsing the things you wanted to say. To sound perfect, polished. Like you might not be a total mistake for Valentina to introduce.

Your voice is a little squeaky and off kilter, instead of energetic like you’d been going for. Your delivery feels as rehearsed as it is, and the tackiness developing on your ankles has you kicking the blanket you used for comfort mere moments ago away and onto the floor.

“I go by Terminal, and Miss de Fontaine - if she does not mind me saying - has brought me on board to be a-”

You can hear the quiet groan that passes from someone’s mouth, and your voice flattens unintentionally as you wish more and more that the bunker would suddenly lose all structural support and simply turn you into red mist.

“-a new member of the team. I hope that… we can get along, and I am- excited, to get started.”

Again, because the first two times weren’t good enough: Fuck.

There’s a ripple of disbelief and apparent anger, resignation, even a touch of outrage in some of their faces. Barnes seems the most ready to roll with it, his slow head bob visible from where the camera is fixated upon them. Walker immediately the most outraged by this, shouting something to the effect of how she could expect them to work with someone without their approval or - even knowledge that this was going to happen.

“Who the hell is this guy? And why don’t we get a say in it-?”

“There’s no way you’re going to just- forcibly slot some random person in and expect us to be okay with it-”

“Oh, please, more members are good for team! Means we get stronger and more official looking, eh?”

Their objections and affirmations blend into noise, and your head hits the back of your recliner hard. And then a few more times, for good measure. It was honestly just more frustrating, for once damning the cushion for not letting you get a satisfying thunk out of the abuses you wished to laud against your own skull.

Then, across the table and cutting everyone off:

“What can you do?”

It’s the one that nearly destroyed Manhattan, you realize after a stunned pause. He’s sitting there somewhat folded in his seat, his elbows on his knees as he stares in a random direction. Like he’s aware of your presence but maybe a little too oblivious to notice he should be staring at the camera that just moved to point directly at him.

He doesn’t seem particularly invested, one way or the other. Instead, just… curious maybe? There’s a sort of innocence in it, like he’s more fascinated by whatever specialty you’ve been given than the fact that Valentina is trying to throw off all the team dynamics because she can.

It’s also not a question you were particularly ready for, given that you thought Valentina would use that opportunity for further pitching you to your new team.

“Well…” you start after a pause that goes on too long. “I am- I am one of the foremost black hats in the country, cracking code is sort of my thing. I’m- Miss de Fontaine wishes for me to become the brain for your operation, handling the technological side of your missions so that you can focus on the physical parts.”

“Is that why you’re not here, then? Keeping your identity concealed?”

“Oh God no! No… I just- I work best from where I am right now.” And nowhere, nowhere else.

Bucky seemed to right himself then, more of his face becoming visible within the eye of the camera you’d hijacked some time ago. He still doesn’t look particularly happy with what is occurring here, and yet unlike the others - there’s some level of acceptance.

“There’s a reason you’re doing this, Valentina. We haven’t needed a tech up until this point, what’s going on?”

The wobble of her expression is visible, even here. “Can I not just bring in more hands for the New Avengers? Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, the polish erodes and something annoyed and acidic and acrid crosses her face. The posture never leaves, but her hands move in a way that’s far less diplomatic and vastly sharper. Little stabs and slices that indicate the deep set dislike she holds toward the man who has called her on her shit.

“Fine. There’s a situation. Look- O.X.E. has reason to believe that someone is looking to replicate what was done with Robert. They’re sifting through old files, poking about in shut down facilities. I’m not concerned that they’ll find anything on account of the fact that we got rid of the evidence, but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop.

We’ve grabbed what intel we could, and beyond a few dozen mercenaries with almost as many murders under their individual belts as our favorite Widow here. They’ve also begun to collude with the likes of Mikhail Doyenko and Aantu Haikali.”

Manila folders are thrown by Valentina into the center of the conference table they’d clustered around, and after a moment of heavy pause, each member of the New Avengers reaches forward to grab their copy of the report. It’s thick, filled with a few dozen pages of information on the named individuals as well as the organization they’d fallen in with.

Enmis.

Their known goals are listed, what little scraps were found from each abandoned base O.X.E. has raided, too late to get them while they were still escaping. They were slippery, skilled, and growing vastly more dangerous by the day. You knew because you’d read the same thing they were, days ago.

“I recognize the name, Doyenko.” Belova is the one speaking, the Widow with the pale hair and the eyes too clear. The one who had charged headfirst into pitch darkness and managed to save the world in the process. “He’s a trafficker, isn’t he?”

“Precisely, but worse than your regular. He specializes in the enhanced, whether that’s serum or something else.”

“Which means he’s got the experience and the equipment to handle a group of super soldiers.” Comes Barnes’ following reply, voice steady as he follows what Valentina has provided on a candy trail.

“I mean, c’mon! How good could they be, just some random souped up idiots this guy snatched off the street to sell? We’re actual soldiers, we have combat experience!”

“And we are team, they most likely run alone, no? Not prepared to be overwhelmed by the mighty Avengers!”

You were glad to be irrelevant in the conversation again, your little tatters of self esteem were still smoldering after being so thoroughly dashed on your lack of communication skills. The most successful exchange you’d had today was one of the members of the team asking you what you even do to warrant being on the team, though you suspected that maybe that was a more harsh reading of his question than he’d meant.

Robert Reynolds, Bob. The Sentry, or The Void. Supposedly the very strongest on that entire team, but in a sort of arrested development situation. From what you’d gleaned off your own eavesdropping and the information Valentina offered you to try and use to your advantage, Bob - as he preferred to be addressed - had not initially been an active member of the team following the void out on Manhattan. It was only as he grew more listless from being left at base constantly, combined with the burgeoning realization that just because he wasn’t using his more extracurricular power hadn’t negated the part where he’s bullet-proof that they decided to put him on the roster.

Bit of a disaster, at first. Some reports about near void-outs, some things being destroyed that were meant to be preserved. Lots of communication issues. Just the whole gamut of throwing a random- random guy into the middle of active combat. Even training looked to be a bit of a doozy, if the recordings you’d plucked were anything to go by.

It wasn’t that Bob didn’t try, he tried very hard- and what he picked up on he seemed to learn reasonably fast. But the issue came in the fact that- a lot of sparring tended to involve one side losing in order to learn from their mistakes.

Bob can’t… exactly lose. Hard to get the physical element of training by failure when kicking him in the head as hard as you can might actually break your ankle before it bruises his head. So instead of learning instinctively through the pain and the mistakes that cost, Bob has to go about it the long and conscious way. Deliberately taking in the lessons he needs instead of it just becoming imprinted on his dislocated shoulders and broken collarbones.

In spite of this, he sees rather regular combat in the modern day. He’s less of an aggressive force and more of their bulwark. A big living meat shield, bulldozing clean through walls and tearing reinforced doors off their hinges to make progression almost frighteningly convenient. All the while he served as a happy lookout while they took on all the action. He was quite content with this arrangement, it seemed.

He definitely looks different from the initial photos the press released, back when no one knew who the hell this guy was and yet he’d been cloistered into the center of the group of heroes you see now. He’s gained weight and his hair is - well, not short. But certainly shorter than it had been. Curling wildly in these thick ringlets that caress his ears and neck, dangling down in front of his face where he habitually pushes them aside as he speaks, offering timid bits of opinion and potential advice that his team receives with a surprising level of openness. It looks healthy, he looks healthy. More flushed and alert than he had been when those reporters descended like hawks to snap every picture they could get.

“Haikali is the bigger problem,” Valentina cuts into the discussion as it turns about. Drafting up early ideas of how to circumvent Enmises silver bullet for seemingly half of the entire team. “Doyenko might be a problem in combat, but Haikali worked on Riptide back during the blip. The man is a genius and a certified lunatic, if anyone would come into approximation of what we did here with Robert, it would be him. Issue being, it would be a far uglier and more botched serum, and he wouldn’t care. They don’t need to survive long, they just need to get the job done.”

And that was the crux of it, now wasn’t it? Bombs didn’t last beyond one use, they just needed to take everything else out with it.

It sets a sort of unsteadiness throughout the group, even you who sits with your knees to your chest and your chin propped as you parse through the cadence of everyone you are now expected to get to know.

“Terminal, it’s your turn to take it from here. Whatever they need, you get it. Got it?”

“Y-Yes, de Fontaine.” Your eyes squeeze tightly as you response, desperately believing that you don’t sound pathetic as you address her.

“Well, with that in mind. All of you play nice with each other! I have six interviews this week to try and deal with yet another one of your messes.” Valentina had abandoned any false pretenses of amicability, and her clicking heels manage to reach the microphone as she heads for the door.

“We’ll get you more information when they become active again, in the meantime. Do something that seems at least a little heroic, hm?”

When the door closes, you’re left with the crackle of your speakers and the deafening silence of their rigidity. They’re about as happy as you expected them to be, which is absolutely none at all.

This was going to be torture of the worst kind.

#bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #the sentry #the void #robert reynolds #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu #thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob x reader

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softlypaintedseafoam · 5 months ago

Text

you are love itself (君は愛そのものだ)

synopsis. his skin is dotted in stardust.

pairing. portgas d. ace x f!reader

word count. 1.3k | masterlist

content warning. reader is coded black (written ambiguously. anyone can read), established relationship, childhood friends, love as worship, love as a choice, reader has established devil fruit powers

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

a repost from another account and a sort of filler post for anybody who wants something not event-related. i love this fic so much i wanted it to be on this blog too. may you get a kick out of reading it if you haven't before!

Everything is made of stardust; the stars that made Ace are simply visible to the eye.

They couldn’t be contained in the depths of his body like the rest of the world’s inhabitants. It’s scattered all across his skin in a beautiful display, matching the skies they fell from. Isn’t that something? You brush a hand against warm skin in awe. It’s all right there. The stars themselves rest upon his skin, how beautiful is that? How could anyone want someone like that dead?

When you were children, Ace told you he would bring you the moon.

What do you need the moon for when you’ve been touching the stars since you were 10?

Straddling his lap, you can’t help laughing as you think you’d been fighting a losing battle from the start. From the beginning, you’d been drawn to Ace and his stars and you wanted to follow where they’d go for the rest of your life.

“What’s so funny?” Ace murmurs into your shoulder.

“I think I was born to love you.” It is the only plausible conclusion for you to reach after 10 years of loving the same person. For the half of your life you’ve known him, you’ve chosen Ace from day one. You will continue to choose him for the rest of the life you have. You chose to chase him all around Mt. Corvo, you chose to be his friend, you chose to join his crew and your heart chose him even if your head had been slow to realize. “We don’t need to find the One Piece,” you murmur as you lead a trail of kisses from his shoulder to Ace’s cheek. “I already have everything the world has to offer right here.”

You feel Ace stiffen beneath you before he laughs sheepishly, “I think you need to have your eyes checked if you think that.”

“Hey,” you lean back so you can see his face. Your brows are furrowed sternly but your eyes sparkle with mischief and your lips stretch into a challenging grin. “I have better eyes than you, I can see the soul.”

Ace snorts but his voice is light and as warm as the smile painting his face, “souls of the dead, yeah.” Smiles suit Ace more than the frowns that were once commonplace when you were younger.

“That still counts,” you protest with a chuckle. He doesn’t have to believe he’s worthy of it, you’ll tell Ace all the same. You cup his face in your hands and enjoy the vibration of his mellifluous laughter under your fingers tips as you squeeze his cheeks. “There’s a lot you can learn about this sort of stuff when you can see the dead.” How the soul carries its wounds even after death. How the soul carries the essence of everything that makes something itself. How love can carry on beyond the grave.

You’ve seen it countless times by now in your truthfully short time of being a power holder.

The spirit of a man who wanted a few berries to leave as a surprise his husband could stumble upon to brighten his day.

An elderly woman dancing in the town square, seemingly alone following the steps she took with her lost love long ago. Unbeknownst to her, however, her love danced with all the same as they did once a long time ago.

Pods of orcas full of members past and present, refusing to part from their birth pod even in death.

How beautiful it is, a love like that.

Even while deceased, they choose to remain by their beloved all the same.

Whenever it is Ace’s time, he’ll take his stars with him and they will rest on his skin just as they did when he was alive. But I’ll make sure you’re so happy you won’t want to stay, you vowed when you partook of the sea’s cursed fruit. You carry this vow even now. Ace will die a happy death but more importantly, he will live a long and mirthful life.

(You can tell for as sure as your eyes are dry; the urge to cry and scream in mourning and warning nonexistent. Still it’s your heart’s desire that you go first so you don’t ever have to risk the day you know death will come for Portgas D. Ace.)

“You know what I think,” you cease your pinching, letting your lax thumbs stroke his face. Dark eyes look up at you like you’re a dream and gold like sunlight rests in your chest. It’s light yet heavy and even if your heart is calm, its rhythmic beating tells you something precious. And he’s so, so precious. “I think that when people move on, they’re reborn as someone else. Then they get to live life all over again. And one day, that’s gonna happen to us.”

Then you’ll cease to be the 'you’ you have been and so will he.

Maybe that time, you’ll be raised in separate seas and there will be no trio of brothers you’ll latch onto. Maybe he’ll be born somewhere in Paradise but I’ll be from the West Blue. Or maybe he’ll be a fishman. Or a giant!

Maybe next time, Ace will be a short girl with firey auburn hair and chocolate brown eyes with the disposition to match. Or he’ll be a scarred and gruff dragon moray eel fishman who is an overt romantic.

Maybe next time his stars will follow him as the marker that ties him to his previous life. Then you’ll recognize him the moment you see him. But even if I don’t, I’ll love you then too. You don’t need reminders of who he was to make you want him again.

Whatever the outcome may be, you will embrace it wholly.

“Whenever that happens, I’m gonna find you and I’m going to love you all over again. You can be a girl or a giant or a fishman.” Or maybe he’ll be the tiny human and you’ll be the giant. It will be nice being taller than Ace for once, you tell him as much with a laugh. There’s a spot of wetness at the corner of his eyes that you wipe away instinctively. “Or… maybe this world runs in one big loop and we get to be us again but that time we get to make different choices. Do the stuff we didn’t do last time. But regardless of all the different things I might end up doing, the one thing that is gonna stay the same is that I’ll choose you all over again.”

There’s a pause before Ace ducks from your gaze with a wet laugh, forehead pressed against your shoulder again. The unmistakeable feel of warm droplets subsequently follow. “Thatch must be cutting onions,” he chuckles weakly. “Sorry.”

“Dummy,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and inhale his scent. There’s a natural sweetness to it you can’t explain; it’s sweet but there is a peppery kick. It’s been that way since the first day you met him. I love him, I love him, I love him. The sentiment echoes throughout your entire being. “it’s okay to cry.”

“Would you really want me again?” His voice is soft and unsure like a young bird who doesn’t know if it can trust its wings.

Who else would I want?

Why would I want anyone else?

I’ve known you for 10 years, Ace. There’s nothing about you I don’t want.

“Over and over again,” you kiss his temple once, twice and then a third time before you lift his head and kiss the corners of his eyes. “It’s you and no one else.”

A noise of surprise escapes you when Ace’s lips press against your own but you relax a beat later, humming tenderly. You relish every sensation, how his arms wrap around you tight and how his fingers gently dig into your back. The taste of salt on your lips is akin to the ocean and your heartbeat reverberates throughout your chest.

Yes, it’s telling you something precious.

#romance dawn ー 🌅#one piece x reader #op x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #one piece x black!reader #op x black!reader

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rcklessheavn · 4 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 ── ★ ˙🏎️ ̟ !!

f1 driver!matt x influencer!reader au

summary: after influencer!reader is invited to give interviews at the grand prix event, she meets matt and everything changes for both of them.

intro pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4

warnings: mentions of alcohol, brief swearing

wc: 3.6k

notes: im new to the F1 world, so bare with me and im sorry if i get anything wrong. english is NOT my first language.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ༉‧₊˚.

You’ve seen countless races and know just how fast a racing car can go, but seeing it live is a whole different experience.

Practice had been done for about five minutes, and you couldn’t move. Your ears were still ringing, your body pulsing with an incredible surge of adrenaline. It was overwhelming—and this was only practice! You couldn't wait for qualifying tomorrow and the race on Sunday, but for now, you had to survive the day.

Nick noticed your stunned silence and broke it. “Crazy, right?” he said. You turned to him, still in disbelief, shaking your head.

“More than crazy. That was insane! You get to watch this every year?” you asked. Both he and Chris nodded.

“I mean, with Matt here, we get a free ticket if we want it,” Chris explained. “We can’t make it to every race, but our usual ones are the first, the last two, and Monaco. After that, it just depends on our schedules.”

Nick hummed in agreement. “Sometimes only one of us, or our parents, comes out. Or one of us and our older brother. Honestly, it varies. But yeah, we've seen this plenty of times.” You couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy—who wouldn’t want that kind of access?

“That’s really nice,” you said, just as footsteps approached.

“Ready to continue the tour, Y/N?” Claudia called. You nodded and hugged the guys goodbye.

“I’ll see you both tonight, right?” you asked, and they both nodded. You smiled and headed toward the stairs, eager to continue exploring the paddock.

Claudia, Hailey, and you toured the entire paddock. You waved at a few of your favorite drivers, hoping you’d have the chance to interview some of them tomorrow. You saw a few other influencers invited by brands and teams—some seemed just as excited as you, while others looked bored, likely treating it like a brand trip. You didn’t quite understand that mindset, but then again, it wasn’t your life.

By the end of the tour, you and Hailey had silently agreed—it was time to find something to eat.

“Hey, Claudia, Hailey and I are thinking of grabbing a late lunch. Wanna come?” you asked as the three of you walked toward the paddock’s entrance.

Claudia smiled. “That’s sweet of you, but I can’t. I’ve got a meeting in about 30 minutes, and we still need to organize tonight’s dinner. Speaking of which, you need to be here by 6:30—no later than 7:00. Bring the passes you’re wearing so they’ll let you in. They’ll tell you where to sit. You’ll probably be seated with the Sturniolos—”

At that, your stomach dropped. You couldn’t help interrupting, trying to act casual despite the sudden panic inside. “Are the drivers sitting with us or…?”

Claudia didn’t seem to notice your unease. “Uh, I don’t think so. They probably have their own table, or they're with sponsors, but don’t quote me on that.” She continued, “There’s no dress code, but you have to wear red. It’s a theme night, apparently. Oh! And we want you to film for our TikTok account—those cute, aesthetic mini vlogs you do. Plus, we want you to do a quick, laid-back interview with our drivers.”

Your head was spinning. Not only were you asked to create content for Ferrari’s page, but you also had to interview both drivers. Charles was manageable—he seemed like someone you could easily befriend. Was he intimidating? Sure, a little, but that wasn’t the issue. Matt, on the other hand… your heart raced just thinking about him. And the weird staring contest you’d had earlier—what the fuck was that about?

Claudia noticed your inner panic and chuckled, patting your shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You’ll do great. Besides, there’ll be an open bar for a little liquid courage if needed.” She smiled, and both you and Hailey chuckled.

“Thanks, Claudia. We’ll see you tonight,” you said before hugging her goodbye. Hailey did the same.

You and Hailey ended up at La Rascasse, a popular nearby restaurant that you’d heard a lot about. The food was delicious, and to celebrate the start of a big weekend, you both ordered cocktails. After eating and chatting for a few hours, the clock hit 3:30—time to start getting ready for the first big event of the weekend.

-------------------

Once you were at the hotel, you decided to multitask—vlogging on two devices at once: your camera for YouTube and your phone for the mini "come with me" vlog for Ferrari’s TikTok. Surprisingly, you weren’t stressed. Vlogging had become second nature by now—your biggest skill and passion—and a small challenge never hurt anyone.

Home with You by Madison Beer was blaring through your speaker as you finished doing your hair, when Hailey suddenly rushed into your room.

“Did you even bring any red clothes?!” she asked, panic clear in her voice.

You looked at her and chuckled. “Do you really think I’d come on a trip sponsored by FERRARI and not bring any red?” you shot back sarcastically. Hailey rolled her eyes.

“I brought ten red outfits,” you added confidently. Hailey walked over to your suitcase, muttering under her breath, “Of course you did.”

“Is this what you’re wearing?” she shouted from across the room.

“Yes,” you called back, stepping through the door. You were wearing a gorgeous red outfit that accentuated your skin tone beautifully, hugging your body in all the right places—hoping it would make everyone who saw you drop their jaws. Or at least, you hoped so.

“Okay, Ms. Ferrari,” Hailey teased, raising an eyebrow. “I see you’re trying to leave your imprint on a few people.”

You laughed and walked back to the bathroom to start on your makeup.

“I’m not, but whatever,” you said as you finished prepping your skin. “You’d look amazing in either that silk dress or the off-the-shoulder top with the matching skirt, by the way. Maybe you’ll leave your imprint on a certain media person… or should I say, woman?” You flashed her a mischievous grin.

Hailey froze for a moment before trying to play it off with a nervous chuckle. “What are you talking about?” she asked, clearly wondering if you’d figured her out.

“Oh, come on, Hails,” you said, finishing your eye makeup before moving to your base. “I saw the way your eyes literally followed Claudia every time she spoke. Be so for real right now.”

“That’s not true, you’re insane,” Hailey said, clearly flustered, as she picked up the two-piece set from the bed. “Besides, I don’t even know if she’s gay,” she added, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Please, she totally is. I swear she checked you out—like, really checked you out,” you said, completely serious.

“Now you’re just joking. Very funny. I’m leaving,” she replied with a smile, clearly trying to brush it off. You couldn’t help but laugh as she exited your room.

Thirty minutes later, you stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. You looked... unbelievable. You barely recognized yourself, but in the best way possible. You looked ten times hotter than usual—and you loved it.

The car’s here, Hailey texted.

It was game time.

---------------

The dinner was at Castelroc, a beautiful restaurant just a short drive from your hotel. Stepping inside, you were immediately struck by the elegance of it all. The space was adorned with red roses and subtle Ferrari logos, creating a classy, sophisticated atmosphere. You felt out of place, yet, at the same time, incredibly welcomed.

The entire event took place outdoors, with stunning views of the Monaco coastline. Tables were scattered across the space, each one illuminated by flickering candles and warm lamps that, though a bit intense on the eyes, added a cozy touch. Whoever was responsible for the decor had truly outdone themselves—it was by far the most beautiful dinner you’d ever been invited to.

As you made your way through the garden, you spotted Nick and Chris immediately, deep in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. As soon as the mystery person walked away, Nick noticed you and waved you over.

“Hey, guys!” you said with a smile, moving in to hug each of them.

“Y/N! You look beautiful—red is definitely your color,” Nick said, giving you a once-over and making you twirl.

“I have to agree,” Chris chimed in with a smile. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks, guys, you both look great too.” You smiled, then realized Hailey was standing beside you. “Oh, this is Hailey, my manager and literal best friend. Hailey, these are Nick and Chris, Matt’s triplet brothers.” You introduced them, and Hailey extended her hand to each of them.

“Enchantée, mademoiselle,” Chris said with a dramatic, over-the-top bow, which made Hailey laugh.

“Hands off, Casanova,” you teased, grinning. “She plays for the other team.”

Chris flushed a bit, his awkward laugh filling the air. “Oh... sorry. Good for you,” he stammered, making everyone laugh.

Once the laughter died down, the four of you dove into conversation, chatting about everything under the sun as you got to know each other better.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw someone approaching Chris. You turned and froze—Charles Leclerc was standing right beside you. For a moment, your brain short-circuited, and it took you a beat to regain control of your senses as Nick spoke up.

“Charles, this is Y/N Y/LN. She’s here with Ferrari. And this is her manager and friend, Hailey,” Nick said smoothly, introducing you both. You extended your hand with a smile, your mind still in a haze.

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Charles said, turning to you. “I hope you’re enjoying the experience so far.”

Then, he asked, “Were you the one on the balcony today by the track, with the Ferrari hat?”

You froze, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

You nodded. “Y-yes, that was me,” you said, trying to swallow the lump of nerves in your throat.

“Oh, yeah, Matt and I saw you,” Charles said with a smile. “We were wondering who you were. Are you a Ferrari fan?”

Your brain was scrambling for a response, but Hailey swooped in just in time.

“A fan? Oh brother she sleeps, lives, and breathes Ferrari– it's like in her blood or something,” Hailey answered before you could even open your mouth. You could’ve kissed her in that moment for saving you from your awkwardness.

Charles raised his eyebrows, his smile widening. “Is that so?” he asked, intrigued.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, trying to sound casual. “I grew up alongside it. My dad’s the original fan.”

“That’s awesome,” Charles said, giving you an appreciative smile. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. Welcome to Monaco! I hope I can catch up with all of you later.” With that, he gave a nod before turning to chat with another table.

When he leaves, you can't help but breathe. What just happened?!

“You met Charles Leclerc, that's what” said Nick. Oh I said that outloud you think.

“Oh my god, that was crazy,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. “I need a drink.” You chuckled nervously, standing up. “Anyone want anything?”

When everyone shook their heads, you made your way to the open bar, which had been calling your name since you walked in.

At the bar, you ordered a cosmopolitan—yes, your mom was obsessed with Sex and the City, and you’d somehow developed a love for the drink as well. While waiting for your order, you couldn’t help but admire the view. The marina was beautifully lit, with boats drifting by and people enjoying the night. It felt surreal being there, and you couldn’t quite comprehend what you had done to deserve this moment.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“Can I get a root beer, please?” The voice sounded familiar—like you’d heard it before—but you didn’t want to turn just yet.

When the bartender placed your drink in front of you, you quickly thanked them, but just as you were about to leave, the voice spoke again.

“Hey, you were the girl on the balcony earlier, right?”

You turned, and there he was—Matt.

Matt Sturniolo. The Ferrari Formula 1 driver. The Matt. The one who had locked eyes with you in what could only be described as a weird staring contest earlier on the balcony.

“If you weren’t, it’s okay,” he added, when you didn’t immediately respond, clearly unsure.

Words, right. those are important to have a conversation.

“Oh, yeah—sorry, that was me,” you said, somehow feeling a lot more relaxed than you expected. “I’m Y/N,” you said, stretching out your hand.

“Matt,” he replied, as if you didn’t already know, taking your hand in his.

When his hand touched yours, you could have sworn you felt sparks. It was strange—almost like your hand was meant to fit in his, and yet, maybe that was just the cosmopolitan talking.

Which, you realized, you hadn’t even taken a sip of yet.

“Well, Matt, it was nice to meet you,” you said quickly, trying to break the slight awkwardness. But just as you tried to pull away, Matt grabbed your arm, stopping you.

“Wait, don’t go,” he said, his grip gentle but firm. “Don’t you want to talk?”

You blinked, a little taken aback. “You want to talk to me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said, his gaze unwavering, intense. “You’re pretty, you’re here, and you seem about my age.”

You could feel your confidence waver, but you pushed through, trying to match his energy. “Oh, so you think I’m pretty?” you asked, your voice teasing but slightly nervous.

“I don’t think. I know.” he said, his tone firm and confident, trying to throw you off.

But you don't flinch, maybe blush, but it's dark so who’s going to notice?

“Is this how you seduce women, Matthew?” you ask, clearly joking.

“Why? You want me to seduce you?” He replies, his cockiness coming out of him. Which he didn't understand, he wasn't usually like this… but after that slight handshake, you ignited something within him, and he couldn't stop, he had to have you now.

You chuckle at his question “funny, i'm gonna go now” you say, a slight smile creeping in. You turn around and start walking back to the table, then you feel a presence behind you.

“You know, following me wont seduce me right?” you say, without turning around and he chuckles.

“I'm not following you, i'm going to my table” he says, a smile clearly on display, you couldn't see it but it was clear in his voice.

You stay silent, a bit confused, maybe his table was close to yours.

And you were absolutely right… but he was much closer to your table than you thought, he was IN your table, right beside you actually.

“Great! You’ve met Matt!" Nick says as Matt dabs up Chris. “Hailey, this is my brother Matt.” Nick introduces.

“So you're the famous Matt Sturniolo” Hailey says as she stretches her hand.

“Heard of me?” Matt asks, knowing the obvious answer.

“Ehh, a bit– it's her fault to be fair” she says as she sits down, Matt sitting beside you with a cocky grin.

“Oh so you talk about me?” He says to you and you bite the inside of your cheek, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, you're a Ferrari driver, I'm a Ferrari fan, what do you expect?” you say, turning your head towards him, narrowing your eyes.

You will not give in to his games, no matter how captivating those ocean blue eyes of his are.

“Don't deny it pretty, you like me” he says, in almost whisper once everyone turns into their previous conversation.

“In your dreams” you say, standing your ground once again.

“Maybe you can help me make them come true” he says, and that makes your stomach flutter cause WHAT. This couldn't be real right now.

Before you could react, Claudia came over, said hello to everyone and told you it was time to give Charles and Matt their small lighthearted interview.

After about 20 minutes of trying not to laugh, turns out Charles and Matt made a very funny duo, you could see they had a very nice and genuine friendship, which you were glad about, not many F1 drivers were actually genuine friends, but they were.

The interview itself wasn't THAT fun, it was standard questions about their favorite memory together, how they felt about this year, if they had any predictions and their most crazy hear me out, Charles coming up with Sally from Cars, and Matt coming up with the Elder Wand from Harry Potter, which had you question your entire existence and his.

The dinner was perfect—delicious food, great conversation, and the whole table was buzzing with happiness. The atmosphere was relaxed and warm, with laughter flowing easily between everyone. Charles had joined you at your table later that night, and Hailey had mysteriously disappeared after dessert was served. She claimed it was to hit the bathroom, but you knew her well enough to guess that she was probably off searching for Claudia.

And the next text you received confirmed it.

Found claudia!She IS gay. 🤗🤞And well… would you ask for a ride back? Or uber?Do you hate me?

LMAOAs long as i get all the details tomorrow, youre goodHave fun! and be safe🫶

You let out a quiet breath and glanced at the clock. It was getting late, and you didn’t want to be too tired for qualifications tomorrow.

Matt must have noticed the slight distress on your face because he nudged your arm gently.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft and sincere.

“Yeah, I just need to find a ride back to the hotel,” you said, offering a neutral smile as you opened your Uber app. But before you could search for a ride, Matt took your phone and set it down on the table.

“I can take you, if you want,” he said, his usual confident demeanor shifting into something more shy and modest.

“I-I wouldn’t want to bother you,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

“You’re not bothering me,” he replied quickly. “I was going to head out anyway. Where are you staying?” He grabbed your purse from the chair and stood up.

You were caught off guard but managed to answer anyway. “Uh, the Hermitage Monte-Carlo… I think that’s what it’s called.”

Matt made a satisfied sound. “Perfect, I’m staying there too,” he said, sounding pleased.

“Of course you are,” you muttered under your breath with a chuckle, before turning to say goodbye to the rest of the table. Nick gave you a teasing side-eye, but you tried to play it off, even though he wasn’t letting up.

Outside, Matt’s car was waiting for both of you. He opened the door for you, handing your purse back as you climbed in. You took the opportunity to admire the sleek sports car for a moment.

“Nice car,” you said, turning to look at him.

Matt smiled and shrugged. “Not mine. They just let us rent them while we’re here,” he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but back home, I drive a van.”

You couldn’t help but smile, and Matt caught the expression, grinning right back. How could he not? You had a way of lighting up a room.

The ride was quiet, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of comfortable silence that only came after hours of talking and laughing. And besides, the drive wasn’t long—ten minutes at most.

When you arrived at the hotel, Matt quickly parked and rushed around to open your door. You couldn’t help but think it was cute.

“Well, aren’t you a charmer?” you teased, and he chuckled.

“I have to impress the ladies somehow, don’t I?” he shot back with a grin, and you laughed.

You both walked side by side to the elevator.

“What floor—” you both started at the same time, causing you both to laugh.

“Three,” you said, pointing to the button.

“Four,” he replied with a smile, pressing the button for three.

You both stepped into the elevator, settling into a comfortable silence for a few moments.

“Hey, we could go for a longer car ride if you want,” Matt said, breaking the silence. You turned to him, smiling.

“Tempting,” you replied, “but I should get some sleep, and so should you.”

He smiled back. “Maybe next time?”

“Maybe,” you said, not sure how true your words were, but the idea was certainly tempting. Just as the elevator doors opened, you gave Matt a smile and started to walk out, but he called your name before you could go too far.

“Are you going to watch the qualifications tomorrow?” he asked, standing between the elevator doors.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” you assured him, turning back toward him with a smile.

“Good,” he said, his tone hopeful. “Come see me before?”

You blinked, a little surprised by the request. “If you want me to?”

“I do,” he said, his eyes locking with yours, and you felt a flutter in your chest.

“I will then,” you said softly, and he smiled.

“Cool, have a good night, pretty girl,” he said, his grin widening. You couldn’t help but blush at the nickname.

“Good night, Matt,” you said, before walking down the hall toward your room, Matt heading back into the elevator with a wide smile on his face.

What the fuck just happened… is the last thought you both have before you close your eyes for the night, ready for whatever tomorrow will bring.

y/n.yln posted

liked by matthew.sturniolo, and 200k others

y/n.y/ln day to night in monaco ✨❤️‍🔥

nicolassturniolo ate so hard, left everyone speechless

y/n.y/ln SO DID YOU!!!! are you kidding!???

hailey_matthews Ms. Ferrari delivered🔥

y/n.y/ln ms ferrari is lowkey growing on me

tarayummy OH RED IS SO YOUUUUU!!

y/n.y/ln UGH ILY

emiluvsyn i cant believe i met you!!!

y/n.y/ln OMG!!!

matthew.sturniolo red suits you

y/n.y/ln huh crazy… it suits you too

userlovesferrari OMG DID MATT AND Y/N MEET!?????

y/n.sturniolo22 MY WORLDS ARE COLLIDING AHH!

a story by rcklessheavn

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ series link

⋆˙⟡ tag list

⤷ authors note: see i didnt think this was going to be this long but OH WELL! i guess chapters are just gonna get longer and longer... but dont quote me on that!!!! enjoy <3 and thank you so so much for the love this story is getting so far <333

@courta13 @matthewsroses @mattswifeyy @sturniolomatthewb @nessabarretswhore @nickmillersn1gf @mattslefttoenail @thecrawlys @tuttifruttixx @obsessedwiththesturniolos @period-queen1 @pair-of-pantaloons @b4by-hon3y @idkwhatthisis2009 @malsmind @matts-247 @baileysturnz @sturniololover1738 @emely9274 @stitchlover324 @priscillaog @hvlplvss @kiarasmaybank

#۫ ꣑ৎ sports car by cam ۫ ꣑ৎ #༺ stories by cam ༻#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt stuniolo fanfic #chris sturiolo fanfic #nicolas sturniolo #matt sturniolo fluff #rcklessheavn #sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfiction #formula 1

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