#reporter!reader

[starkwlkr]

cherry flavoured | sebastian vettel

sebastian vettel x reporter!reader

based on the video of iker casillas and his gf during the 2010 world cup

she’s a long one <3 this was finished at 2:30 AM so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes (please do not request for part 2)

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2010

It was the last race of the season and you were nervous, especially for Sebastian. It was down to Fernando, Mark, Sebastian and Lewis, one of them was going to be them champion. It was your job to cover the race and conduct interviews before and after so this gave you a chance to speak with Sebastian and wish him luck. The media didn’t know about your relationship that had just become official a month ago.

Sebastian had asked you out before the Japanese Grand Prix. That day, you decided to make a deal with him. If he won, you would go to dinner with him. After 53 laps, Sebastian secured a win and a date with you.

While you finished up your interview with Lewis, Sebastian stood patiently to the side. He kept his eye on you, staring at how you talked with such confidence and passion. He loved how expressive you were, sometimes talking with your hands. After letting Lewis go so he could prepare for the race, it was Sebastian’s turn. He happily joined you.

“Hello Sebastian, how are you?” You asked, knowing already how he felt, but you had to do your job. The night before, you stayed in Sebastian’s room, that’s when he told you how nervous he was feeling.

“Good, excited, happy.” He replied, smiling at you.

“Well I won’t keep you here for very long—”

“Why not? I enjoy talking to you.” Sebastian interrupted. His smirk was making you weak and all you wanted was to drag him into a room and let him have his way with you, but you couldn’t at least not now.

Several questions later, Sebastian was still giving you that look making it hard for you to concentrate. It was the same look he gave you the night before when you and him were in his hotel room ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Alright, good luck Seb . . astian, sebastian sorry.” You apologized.

All Sebastian did was laugh at your mistake. Since nobody apart from Mark knew about your relationship, you couldn’t call him Seb. He nodded then mumbled an ‘I love you’ and left. You really hoped nobody could read his lips since you were still live.

You understood that Sebastian needed to concentrate before the race so you didn’t bother him. Soon, the race had started, almost instantly on lap 1, a crash happened. After the race restarted, you watched Sebastian keep his p1 position. When it came to the final lap, everyone was silent in the Red Bull garage where you were watching the race from. Sebastian crossed the finish line, but you still had to wait for the other four cars.

Lewis came in second then came Jenson. After confirming, it was clear that Sebastian had become world champion.

You and the team members of Red Bull made it to the podium ceremony. The German national anthem played as Sebastian soaked in the moment. He had made history by becoming the youngest world champion. After the national anthem finished, he tried to look for you in the crowd. When he finally did, he winked at you. Again, he was making you feel all sorts of emotions.

After the podium celebrations and posing for photos, the three drivers had to do threat post race interviews. You were in charge of being the first to interview the new world champion.

In the media pen, Sebastian spotted you getting ready for your interview. When you were done, he walked up to you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Congratulations Sebastian. How was it up there on the podium?” You asked.

“It was a dream, but now it’s reality.” Sebastian replied. “I just wanna thank all the people that supported me and you of course, you’ve been there for me.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Was Sebastian about to reveal your relationship?

“Well congratulations again, go celebrate this historic win—” Before you could finish your sentence, Sebastian placed both of his hands on your cheeks and brought you closer to him, placing a kiss on your lips. You could taste the champagne that had been poured of him by Jenson and Lewis. From the distance, Jenson cheered, making everyone turn their attention towards you and Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t care that you were still live. All he wanted was to celebrate with his girlfriend. “I love you.” He mumbled against your lips. When he finally pulled away, he licked his lips. “Cherry, my favorite.” He smirked.

“You’re the worst.” You laughed. “I love you too, champ. Go, I’ll see you soon.” You practically had to push him away from you so you could continue with more interviews.

“I’ll wait for you!” He yelled as he walked away.

Then Jenson made his way to you since you were going to interview him next. “Do I get one as well?” He teased.

Of course you and Sebastian celebrated, how could you not? He had made history. After the famous kiss, you were sure that you were going to get fired, but nothing ever happened. You did get a warning to not do it again, which Sebastian reminded the FIA that it was his idea not yours resulting in him getting a warning too.

Over the years, you were there when Sebastian won, when he lost, when he moved to Ferrari. You comforted him when he realized he would never win a championship with Ferrari.

During the summer break of the 2019 season, you and Sebastian decided to get married. It was an intimate wedding with only close friends and family attending. The night of your wedding, Sebastian promised you that he would take you anywhere for a while so you could spend your honeymoon. Of course being an F1 driver and a reporter, it didn’t go as planned as a global pandemic hit. You assured Sebastian that you weren’t mad, you had traveled almost everywhere with him anyway.

After the 2020 season ended, Sebastian was now with Aston Martin. He had only secured one podium finish with the team, but you were still more than happy for him.

One day after media day had finished for the 2021 French Grand Prix, you and Sebastian were in the Aston Martin motorhome having lunch. You were talking about a new piece of furniture you wanted when your phone vibrated. You checked it and saw a picture of your friend’s baby that she had sent you.

“Look, remember my friend Jane? That’s her baby girl, aw she’s so adorable.” You showed Sebastian a picture of the baby. “I need to tell her to stop sending pictures or I might get baby fever.”

“It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, right?” Sebastian asked. “We’ve been together for eleven years, married for two.“

“I did always dream of being a mother. It would be fun to play dress up with our daughter or play with your toy cars with our son. Can you imagine that? They would call me mom . . holy shit.”

Sebastian thought about it. He was in his mid thirties, he already won four titles, that was enough for him.

“I guess this plays into what I’m about to talk to you next. . . I didn’t renew a contract for 2023 with sky sports.” You said.

“Are you going somewhere else?” He questioned.

“No, I didn’t sign anything with anyone. I just thought that it’s time for me to step back. Give someone younger their moment.” You replied. You made the decision a while ago even before the 2021 season started.

“But you love your job.”

“I can’t stay here forever, Seb.”

All day Sebastian had thought about your words. He couldn’t stay in formula 1 forever either. The younger generation had to have a go too.

At the end of the 2021 season, Sebastian had told you the news that he would be retiring at the end of the next season like you. You were sure him retiring was the result of your conversation, but he assured you that even before that he had considered retirement.

“So when are you going to announce it?” You asked.

“Soon. I want to enjoy winter break with you first.”

You and Sebastian spent the holidays in your home in Switzerland surrounded by family and friends. You weren’t even sure how it happened since you and Sebastian spent most of your time at home, but both of you ended up testing positive for covid. You assumed you contracted the virus when you went out for groceries.

The 2022 season had started and you and your husband were stuck at home quarantining. It wasn’t bad, it was just a normal day except you had medicine and empty tissue boxes scattered around the floor.

“Do you need another blanket, liebe?” Sebastian asked you. He touched your forehead feeling it not as hot as before.

You two were in your bedroom watching the Bahrain Grand Prix. You didn’t expect this to be the start of your last season, but at least you were with Sebastian.

“I’m okay, I’m thirsty though.” You sat up as Sebastian walked to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. Once he returned, he saw how sad you looked as you watch the race.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to miss it, but I’m happy that I get to be home with you.” You smiled weakly at him.

“We can visit whenever we want, liebe, and then one day we can visit with the kids.” Sebastian replied. “Here, drink.” He handed you the glass of water.

Soon enough, you and Sebastian were good to return back to the paddock. You felt refreshed and ready to officially start the season. You did your interviews, greeted your colleagues and then made your way to the Aston Martin garage where you were going to watch the race.

By lap 24, Sebastian was out. It broke your heart to see it, it was his first race back and he didn’t get a chance to finish it. He arrived back to the garage in a Marshall’s scooter making it a funny moment despite his dnf. He looked for you first.

“Are you okay?” You asked, running your hand through his messy hair.

“Good.” Was all that he said.

After doing some post race interviews, Sebastian waited for you in the Aston Martin motorhome. When you arrived, you noticed a plate of fruit and berries on the table. “I figured you didn’t get a break all day so eat. I made sure to get plenty of pineapple and strawberries.” He moved the plate closer to you.

“Thanks, it wasn’t that stressful today. Hopefully the next race is better for us.” You said once you sat down and started to eat the fruit. “No cherries today?”

“You and your cherries. Not today, liebe.” Sebastian grabbed a strawberry from the plate.

Eventually it was time to announce to the world of motorsports and media that Sebastian and you were retiring. You announced it first with a lengthy post on instagram with pictures of when you first started to now, you even posted the famous kiss that Sebastian gave you in 2010.

You received lots of comments and messages from family, friends and colleagues. It was nice to feel loved by them. The next day, it was Sebastian’s turn to announce his retirement. It started with him making an Instagram account then posting a video.

“I hereby announce my retirement from formula one by the end of the 2022 season.”

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2022

You felt a giant wave of deja vu. Here you were back in Abu Dhabi only this time it would be the official last Grand Prix for you and Sebastian. You would still visit like Sebastian mentioned, but it wouldn’t feel the same.

You walked into the paddock with Sebastian holding your hand. You were greeted by photographers, fans that wanted to get pictures with Sebastian and several members of other teams that wanted to congratulate you and your husband on retirement.

First you went to the Aston Martin motorhome again since you were a bit tired. You sat at a table in the corner. For a couple of weeks now, you were keeping a secret from Sebastian. Your friend, Jane, was the only one who knew since she had gone through a similar experience.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sebastian asked as he noticed the tired look on you. “Want something to eat?”

“No I’m okay, I promise. It’s still too early for me to function I guess.” You dismissed it. “I’ll catch up with you later, I’m sure you have lots of people waiting for you.”

“They can wait. If you need me here then I’m staying, end of discussion.” He was about to sit down next to you, but you stopped him.

“Seb, no. I mean it, I am fine. Go.” You demanded.

Before he left, Sebastian placed a kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, he frowned. “Is that coconut? I thought you were going to wear the cherry one.”

“Change of plans.” You smiled. “Go, the team needs you.”

“Be careful, I’ll see you later.” He placed one more kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You reply as you watch Sebastian walk out. “I can just imagine how protective he’s going to be about you, baby.” You spoke to yourself as you looked down to your stomach.

You found out you were pregnant when Jane was visiting you in Switzerland. You had gone out to eat for brunch at a nice little restaurant. Immediately after arriving, the smell of eggs made you run to the nearest bathroom and vomit in the toilet. Jane had ran after you making sure you were okay.

“Fuck . . It’s the smell.” You confirmed.

“Babe, when was the last time you had your period?”

Jane’s question made you think back to your vacation with Sebastian a couple months ago. You and Sebastian couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

After taking a pregnancy test, it was confirmed that you were pregnant. You called your doctor to schedule an appointment. Sebastian wasn’t home so you didn’t have to worry about him walking in on you holding a pregnancy test. You weren’t sure how you were going to tell him, but you knew that he would be the happiest man on earth.

You were assigned to interview Sebastian immediately after the race while on the track. You were told that it would be a special moment for you two seeing as you were both leaving. Apparently Sebastian didn’t know this so that was another secret kept from him.

Sebastian stood beside you as he got ready. You held his helmet, your name printed on the side in a small font. “Remember when I won back in 2010?”

“No, remind me again?” You joked. “Of course I do. It was the night you kissed me in front of thousands of people on live tv.”

“It would be a shame if we didn’t recreate that.” He teased. “You know . . . for historical reasons.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble on my last day.”

“You’re no fun.” Seb rolled his eyes playfully. “Kiss for good luck?”

You then kissed the top of his helmet and shoved it in his hands. “Good luck.” You were about to leave, but Sebastian grabbed your hand and brought you back to him. “Fine.” You kissed him as if your life depended on it.

“I was hoping you changed your lipgloss to cherry.” Mumbled Sebastian after pulling away from you.

“You’ll live.” You gave him a chaste kiss then waited for him to put his balaclava. “I love you and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Soon, the race was starting. Sebastian had started from P9. It was an exciting and emotional race for you and Sebastian. You didn’t want it to end, but you knew that Sebastian’s time in f1 was over.

By the end of the 58 laps, Sebastian had scored his last point in formula 1. You were content with the result even if he only scored one point. You were then directed to the track with a camera man and microphone in hand. As Sebastian did donuts on the track, you took your phone out to record his last moments. When he finished, you put away your phone. You didn’t even notice you were crying until a marshal gave you a tissue.

You thanked him and cleaned up as Sebastian made his way out the car to wave at the fans. Eventually Sebastian made his way towards you without his helmet and his racing suit hanging from his waist. You couldn’t start the interview without hugging him first so that’s what you did. Like in 2010, the camera filmed you and Sebastian as you embraced. You could hear the crowd cheering.

“You did so well. You made me cry.” You mumbled as Sebastian kissed your temple.

“You look pretty when you cry.” He let go of you since you needed to start the interview. He fixed your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear.

“Sebastian, wow, first off congratulations on your incredible career.” You began.

“I don’t know what to say. I feel a bit empty to be honest, it’s been a big weekend.” He looked at the crowd who were sad to see him go. He gave a speech that made you cry even more, which you blamed on the hormones. “I can say that you were always with me in the bad times and good times. Thank you for sticking with me.”

“Always.” You said, completely forgetting you were holding the microphone so the whole audience heard you.

Sebastian then thanked the fans for the messages and support he’s been receiving. It only made you want to cry even more so thankfully your interview was coming to an end.

“Congratulations, Seb. You deserve it.” You said and with that you and your husband hugged once more. “You’re coming home.” You sighed.

“You don’t sound too happy.” He teased.

“I am, trust me. That means you can help move some stuff around and redecorate the guest room.” You let go of Sebastian, but you still held his hand.

“Why would we need to redecorate the guest room?” He questioned.

“Because that’s our baby’s room.”

“Our baby? Really? You mean it?” His lips turned into a smile that he couldn’t wipe off. “When did you find out?”

“Weeks ago. I’m letting you know right now that if you ever make eggs around me, I will vomit so let’s not do that.” You laughed as Seb brought you in for a kiss.

Again, Jenson was cheering in the background like he did in 2010.

When Sebastian pulled away, he smirked. You had changed your lipgloss after all. “Cherry, my favorite.”

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Look! Up in the Sky!

Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia x Reader

Description: It's hard, making a name for yourself as an investigative journalist in a city as big as Metropolis. It seems like everyone and everything is against you, just because you weren't born and raised in Metropolis. But you're determined to make it. When a run-of-the-mill article turns into a hostage situation with armed criminals, you're not sure you'll be making it out of this situation alive. Can a run-in with Metropolis' own Superman light the flames of your passion once more? Or are you destined to pack up and go back home?

Disclaimers: DC canon-typical violence. Armed gunmen. Some language.

Warnings: Like most of my fics, this fic features a Female!Reader

Word Count: 3313

Author Note: Hiya lovelies! I've been thinking about this fic for a long time. I started writing it sometime early this year and never actually got very far. Several rewrites later and here we are!

First and foremost, I want to dedicate this story to the beautiful @sarahsmi13s, since it is her birthday! Vinny! Happiest of birthdays to you! I hope the upcoming year is bright and filled with as much joy as you've brought to me!

Second, I feel like I am permanently obligated to thank @horseshoegirl for being the Comma Queen she is and making sure my ramblings are well-written and actually make sense. This fic wouldn't be possible without you, Lucky!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist | Next Part

"I'm sorry, he what?!"

The mumbling on the other end of the phone makes you even angrier and more frustrated than ever. The frustration isn't new to you, not at all. It's part and parcel of being one of The Daily Planet's investigative journalists. The other thing the Planet appreciates in its journalists is people who have a nose for stories. You think you have one. Which is why everything is telling you that Peabody is prevaricating because he's trying to hide something.

"I understand your position, Mr. Peabody, but your contact is my biggest informant. If we don't have his testimonial, we'll never be able to publish this article on LexCorp."

There's more irate, increasingly loud yelling spilling down the speaker, but you could care less. You've been working on this article for months, carefully building layer upon layer of evidence, crafting the perfect hard-hitting expose. You're not taking his bullshit at face value anymore. Your mind is whirling as you lean back in your chair. Peabody is still spilling excuses into your ear, not that you care. Maybe you’re a little rough and brusque with Peabody as you hang up, but something about this situation is pinging in your head.

Your office is a bright space, all white walls, glass panes and metallic accents. From up on the 68th floor, Metropolis looks like a heaving anthill. Across the cityscape, another skyscraper glints tauntingly at you. You know Luthor is wrapped up in this. Okay, sure, corporate espionage isn’t exactly his deal, but who else could it be? You’ve carefully counted out every other potential culprit. Only Luthor is left.  Turning around, there’s an unholy rage in your countenance as you glare down at the twisted mess taking over your walls. There are newspaper clippings, articles, string and scribbled notes all over the walls. Just looking at it is sometimes enough to give you a headache. But you desperately need to get to the bottom of this situation. There must be a reason why all roads seemingly lead to Lex Luthor’s shining obelisk to his ego. You wouldn't be surprised if Peabody is clamming up because someone is blackmailing him.

Before you can further dig into the LexCorp situation, a whistle rings out through the air. You're the newest investigative journalist at the Daily Planet. It means you have the smallest office with half-broken heating and air conditioning, which nobody else wanted. It’s also the office furthest away from the bullpen.

The editor-in-chief of the Planet, a gruff, peppery older man named Perry White, only calls all of you together if there is something big brewing in Metropolis. You have to shove your way to the front of the circle loosely gathered around Perry. You're short, so you couldn’t see over the crowd if you tried.

“Alright, alright, settle down you lot.”

Perry's voice is gruff, carrying the tones of a person who grew up in Metropolis or one of its boroughs. Of course, most of the office hails from Metropolis. Sometimes you think your upbringing in the cornfields of Iowa has something to do with your distance from the other journalists on staff. After all, despite living in Metropolis for the past five years, your voice still holds the slightest twang. You can dress like a Metropolis professional, walk like one, and talk like one, but everyone makes it abundantly obvious you will never be a citizen of Metropolis.

The hazing is par for the course. You’ve seen more than your fair share in the three months since you started at The Daily Planet. The source of your struggles is, you’re sure, one person. She’s standing at the other end of the circle of reporters waiting with baited breath as Perry doles out assignments.

Natasha Trace.

She gets all of the best assignments from Perry, just because she’s his niece or something like that. The vindictive smirk she gives you as she accepts the latest city hall press conference is proof. Your own assignment is a little more dangerous, 300 words on the newest homeless shelter opening in Southside. According to the mayor, Southside isn’t dangerous anymore, but you don’t believe him. Perry quotes the same thing every chance he can get, especially because he sends reporters out to Southside pretty often. It’s all part of the Planet’s “For the People” reporting strategy. Every day, you hear people talking about another mugging or shooting or what have you. So you’re under no assumptions that Perry and Natasha are giving you an assignment they want you to succeed in.

You're cursing them more and more the next day when you're kneeling with a puddle of spilled tomato soup seeping into your sensible dark trousers. It was just your luck that masked gunmen waltzed into the shelter in the middle of your interview, wasn’t it?

 It was also just your luck that one of them had sent a spray of bullets into the air the moment hands went up. Cue some well-deserved screaming and a near-stampede for the doors, and you’d been pushed to the floor. So now you’re crouching in spilled soup with your hands up, trying and failing to moderate your breathing.

What the hell does a soup kitchen in Southside have for a gang of armed robbers, anyway? It’s not like it has much money. After all, this is only one of a string of new food shelters opening up in Metropolis. They’ve all been funded by the government, and they’re all supposed to be as clean as can be. Supposed to be, anyway. Obviously something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.

What’s just as interesting is the sight of the photographer you’ve been sent to the shelter with. Mickey Garcia is one of the Planet’s best. He’s got an eye for taking those photographs nobody else can. You’re not sure why Perry sent him with you. Usually he’s buddy-buddy with Natasha. He’s probably wishing he were with Natasha at City Hall right now. You know you are. But he doesn’t look scared or worried. He’s just kneeling in the soup next to you, hands up with his head cocked to the side and eyes staring into the distance.

It’s almost like he expects the police to come roaring up. Just as the lead invader turns his head, there’s a rush of wind and you see an imperceptible smirk on his face before he disappears between one blink and the next. You can smell ozone in the air, bitingly sharp, but it seems like nobody else notices but you.

Who the hell is Mickey Garcia? You almost wish you were hiding behind one of the tables. Because then you can pull out your notebook and start writing. Instead, it seems like all you have is your eyes and ears. How did he disappear so quickly? Metahumans aren’t exactly new in the world (or well, at least in the country). You remember reading about metahuman related events across the country. After all, everyone knows about Gotham City’s Bat. But recently there have been more and more reports. A meta-human in red-and-gold streaking through Central City. Villains with the power to freeze anything in its tracks and heroes with the power of the seven seas and beyond. And of course, everyone has seen the fluttering blue cape of Metropolis’ own metahuman.

So where does that leave you? Wishing for Superman, as you’ve heard him called, to save you? You’re not even sure he’ll show at all. There have to be a million other things happening in Metropolis more important.

“ALL OF YOU ON THE FLOOR!”

You’re not on the floor long when a hand grabs you by your hair and yanks you up.

“What do we have here?” A greasy voice growls the words into your ear as cold metal presses into your temple. “A little reporter eagerly waiting for a scoop?”

You shudder, your skin crawling at the hunger in this man’s voice as he traces his index finger up and down your throat. Your press badge thwaps against your chest with every movement.

“P-please.” You’re trembling in earnest, teeth chattering. “These people are innocent, th-they have no money. They’re here to get some food. The only money the shelter has is for food.”

His cackle chills you to the bone. “Oh, you’re so naive, you sweet little thing.”

“We’re not here for the shelter’s money. We’re here for the city’s money.” He grins, blowing his foul-smelling breath in your face. “And if the city doesn’t cough up the goods, we’ll just take you in exchange.”

“And what if he comes to save us?”

You’re not sure who asks, but it sparks a rising tide of questions. People are shouting the questions out, and the men grow angrier and angrier. From your new vantage point with a barrel pressed to your temple you can see how uneasy they actually are. Their fingers tighten around the weaponry, paling at the joints as they grip at the metal. The more people ask, bolstered by the sounds of the sirens outside and the crackle of voices through bullhorns, the angrier your captor gets.

“All of you, shut up!” It's a roar of sound which leaves your ears ringing. The gun hurts as it presses into your throat. It’s hard to breathe, to swallow, to think. Something tells you you're not getting out of this stand-off alive. Your pulse is thudding in your ears and your chest aches. You hear the tell-tale click and your eyes are screwed closed.

Please. Please. Please. I promise I'll be better. I promise I'll be a better daughter, a better employee.

You're not sure who you're praying to, but you’re praying nonetheless.

There's so much I haven’t done yet.

It shouldn’t be so sad, thinking about how pathetic your life is - how empty it is. You're braced to hear the sound of a gunshot, braced to feel pain and then feel nothing ever again. You can feel the silk of your blouse, the expensive one you never wear, sticking to your back as you heave in thready, unsteady breaths.

It's almost anticlimactic, the way it happens. You smell the same sharp ozone scent you did earlier and the hand wrapped around your throat, the gun pressed to the hinge of your jaw disappears. You keep your eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the yells of pain and cut-off curses as people get beaten up. You keep expecting to feel the acute pain of a bullet lancing through you, burning through your skin. But you feel nothing. You hear nothing, and obviously all you can see is the underside of your own eyelids.

“Miss, you can open your eyes now. It's all going to be okay.” 

You know what this voice is saying as you stand stiff-backed in the center of the room. Your muscles are locked in place and your hands are curled into fists at your side. You're not sure you could move if you tried to.

The hands that hold yours are warm, warmer than they have any right to be. But they feel good, and you can feel yourself relaxing into the touch. When your eyes open, you're not sure what you expected to see. But what you get is Metropolis's own Superman. He is smiling at you, pearly teeth on display, big brown eyes gentle as he talks you out of your panic. You're enraptured by how his dark hair curls just so over his forehead and how his jaw is so well-defined it could cut diamond.

More than anything, you wish you were still holding your notebook and pen or a dictaphone or anything. If there was anyone you want to interview here and now, it's him. But something is bothering you about him. He looks oddly familiar, something in the turn of his cheek and the fall of his hair.

Your statement to MCPD takes the longest. Long after all the other hostages have headed home or been shuttled to other shelters in the city, you stand, ignoring the way tomato soup is crusting on your clothes and how your fingers ache. Maybe your statement wouldn’t have taken quite so long if you weren’t trying to interview your interviewer back. In any case, by the time your throat is dry and aching, it’s late, approaching midnight and the only person left other than police personnel is Superman.

“A-are you okay, Miss?” 

You blink at his words, because he sounds oddly bashful, and that is a look you never expected to see on a superhero’s face.

“I’m fine.” You grin, the motion only halfway genuine. “I'm just about to head out. I'm sure a superhero like you has better things to do, other people to save and whatnot.”

“U-um, no actually.” He tips his head to the side, using his hand to fix his already immaculate hair.

“Do you always wait around at crime scenes to walk a gal home?”

“W-would it be alright if I walked you home?”

Your questions collide in midair against each other. You huff out an exhausted laugh, but he just blushes a little, golden cheeks flushing as his eyes twinkle at you.

“N-no. I don’t make a habit of waiting at crime scenes to walk girls home. Guess that's something only for you.”

Now it's your turn to battle hot cheeks. You can't even fan your face off because you don't have a thing to fan yourself with. Flapping your hands makes you feel stupid. So instead, you let Superman lead you out of the shelter and onto Metropolis’ streets. The city is alive with the sound of cars and ambulances. Someone has a radio on their window playing music. It feels like you're in an entirely different place.

“So, what about that walk home?”

He smells good. For the first time you notice how good he smells, this Superman, now that your nose isn't clogged with the smells of spilled tomato soup and sandwiches. You want to spend time with him. You want to forget what is waiting for you in the morning, how angry Perry is going to be when you didn't get a scoop on the shelter or any pictures that you know of. Maybe if you spin the Superman angle to this? It doesn't feel right, exploiting this man when he's so clearly doing it to help people. You also don't want to stop talking to him yet.

“Sure.”

Honestly you wish you'd clarified, because when he said walk, you thought he was actually going to walk with you. Instead he sweeps you up in his arms and shoots up into the sky. You scream the whole way, hands scrabbling for purchase against his suit, finally settling for an arm around his shoulder. You're shaken and shivering when he finally stops moving.

“Shit, sorry.” 

You grumble into his broad chest at the cheeky apology. 

“Just thought you'd want to see the city how I see it.”

When you finally screw up the courage to take a look, your lips part in a gasp. The entirety of Metropolis is laid out in front of you. Lit in gold from all of the lights, you're grinning from ear-to-ear as you peer out over the city.

“It's gorgeous!” There's a pleased smirk on his face. “I can't believe you get to see the city like this!”

“Yeah,” He grins, something soft. “I didn't fall in love with the city until the first time I saw this view.”

“I can see why,” You gasp, witnessing how soft your colossal city looks in the moonlight, how it seems like a world filled with such promise.

“Let's get you home.” There's a blush on his cheeks as he swoops you down, following your murmured instructions like he knows every inch of the city.

You feel a little bit like a princess when he sets you lightly down on the doorstep. He's still floating in the air, the navy blue suit he's wearing clinging to every muscle. Now more than ever something feels familiar about him. He stays outside your door watching with the same smirk on his face, his head cocked to the side like he's waiting to hear your deadbolt slide home.

You're a little giddy when he flies away, and you curl into your bed like you're in a dream. You sleep well, for the most part, not half as traumatized as you expected to be after being held hostage at gunpoint. At least, until you jolt up in bed, your hair a mess around you and growl, “Garcia!” 

He'd disappeared when the police came to the shelter with their bullhorns and their posturing. You'd smelled the same sharp ozone-tinged scent in the air when he'd disappeared and when Superman shot into the room. But there is more too. The shape of his face, the way he smiled, the almost compulsive way he pushed his hair off his face. He acts just like Garcia does, too.

What is the likelihood your first encounter with Metropolis' own Superman would give you insight into his alter-ego? After all, nobody would suspect that quiet, bespectacled, sweet Mickey Garcia, a photographer for the Daily Planet, is Superman. Nobody, it's obvious, but you. Forget your conspiracy board on LexCorp and their shady dealings. Right now, an exclusive interview with Superman seems like just the ticket to rocket you into fame.

But you can’t let on that you know. You spend the day typing up a lackluster article on the shelter opening, your eyes peering over your computer every time you hear footsteps coming your way. The people walking past you never stop by, not even to chat. You're practically sprinting for the door when you see Garcia, chunky headphones around his neck.

“Hey, Garcia!” 

He turns and looks oddly surprised to see you. 

“You got a sec?”

“Y-yeah, of course.” 

His stutter is adorable. You have to remind yourself he is Superman. 

“I wanted to take a look at the pictures you shot yesterday. Obviously the opening wasn't what we expected, but it should be an interesting public interest piece anyway.”

When he's sitting in the chair next to yours, fingers flying over your keyboard as he shows you all of the photos he took as well as a few of the aftermath, you're questioning your gut instinct even more. How is it possible he got pictures of the police helping people, interviewing you, if he was Superman? 

It's nice, working with someone who smiles at you instead of spitting insults out behind your back.

“This looks great.”

There's a smile on your face as you look at the finished article. 

“Yeah, not bad for an article about a shelter opening turned into a hostage situation, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

You turn, and rest your arm on his forearm. You let your reporting instinct take the driver’s seat. When he's relaxed, maybe you'll get some answers out of him.

“I completely forgot to ask! How are you holding up after yesterday? You know what Perry always says, ‘We're a family here at the Planet!’. I was terrified when those gunmen burst in.”

You prattle on and on, seeing his face change, almost fall, when you mention Superman. 

“You know, he's awfully handsome, Superman is. He took me home, made sure I was alright.”

You grin, wickedly, though you know for sure nobody here in Metropolis knows you well enough to tell.

“And then he blushed.”

All of your suspicions are proved true when Mikey Garcia blushes the same way Superman did.

“You know something? Superman blushed just like that when he was showing me Metropolis how he sees it.”

There's panic in his eyes now. You're just fast enough to block him at the door, arm flung out to stop him from walking past you.

“So…. How long have you been Superman, Mickey Garcia?”

Taglist:

@sarahsmi13s @desert-fern @horseshoegirl @teacupsandtopgun

@roosterforme @cherrycola27 @kmc1989 @chaoticassidy

@shanimallina87 @a-reader-and-a-writer @dakotakazansky @seitmai

@shinycupcakebaker

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[brittneyspears6]

Sky sports love | NR6

Nico Rosberg x Reporter!fem!reader

summary: Nico and you are a reporter pair on sky sports and somehow unserious banter turns into something real really quick..

warnings: none, a kiss

not proofread

a/n: I wasn’t sure if you wanted smut in it, so I left it out for now but there are smut fics in work for our dear britney 🙂‍↕️

masterlist | rules | prompts

The thing about working in F1 is that you learn to hold your own.

You’ve spent years perfecting the art of the quick-witted interview, of slipping between charm and challenge with just enough finesse to get the answers you need without stepping on too many toes. You know how to banter with drivers, how to navigate the politics of the paddock, how to keep your cool when tensions run high.

And then there’s him.

Nico Rosberg, 2016 World Champion turned pundit, whose on-screen presence is equal parts insightful and insufferable. He challenges you in a way most don’t—whether it’s an on-air debate about tire strategy or a smug comment about your latest post-race interview. He’s sharp, calculated, always looking for the upper hand.

So, naturally, you push back.

It starts small—pointed remarks, playful eye rolls, the occasional dramatic sigh whenever he insists on proving a point. The fans eat it up. Clips of your interviews together rack up views, Twitter threads dissect every exchange, and soon enough, you’re both leaning into the dynamic.

But somewhere along the way, it stops being just for show.

It happens in Monaco.

The weekend is relentless—packed schedules, unbearable heat, and a media pen so chaotic it feels like a war zone. By the time Sunday evening rolls around, your patience is hanging by a thread, your feet are aching, and you’re running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower.

That’s when Nico finds you, leaning against a barrier near the paddock, sipping the last dregs of a lukewarm water bottle.

“Tough weekend?”

You glance up, too exhausted to throw back your usual sharp remark. “Something like that.”

He studies you for a second, then—before you can ask why he’s still standing there—says, “Come on.”

You frown. “Come on where?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere but here.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on the deck of a yacht, your heels kicked off, a cold drink in hand. It’s not his yacht, but a friend’s—one of the many floating in the marina, buzzing with post-race celebrations.

Except this one is quiet. Peaceful. Away from the chaos.

You exhale slowly, letting the night air cool your skin. From here, the city feels distant—the bright lights reflecting off the water, the sounds of revelry muffled by the gentle rocking of the boat.

Nico is beside you, leaning against the railing, his expression unusually relaxed.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I think I like you better when you’re not trying to prove me wrong.”

You snort. “That’s funny, because I definitely like you better when you’re not trying to be right all the time.”

He laughs, shaking his head. But then he turns to you, something unreadable in his gaze.

“I’m serious.”

Your smirk falters. There’s something different in his tone—something quieter, more certain.

You open your mouth, but he speaks first.

“I know what this is,” he says, watching you carefully. “What it should be. Just friendly banter, a good TV dynamic, nothing more.” He exhales, fingers tapping idly against the railing. “But tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Your breath catches.

You should say something—something logical, something that keeps things uncomplicated.

But the truth is, you do. You have for a while now.

The teasing, the debates, the way your eyes always seem to find each other across the paddock—it’s always been more than just professional rivalry. You just weren’t sure if he felt it too.

Until now.

The silence stretches, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you.

Finally, you swallow, forcing yourself to speak. “And if I do?”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Then I guess we have a problem.”

But he doesn’t look troubled at all.

And maybe, just maybe, you aren’t either.

The weight of his words lingers in the air between you, thick like the Monaco humidity.

“Then I guess we have a problem.”

You should be more cautious. You are cautious—your whole career has been built on staying sharp, keeping things professional, never giving anyone a reason to question your position in this world.

And yet, standing here, under the glow of the city lights, with Nico watching you like he already knows what choice you’re going to make… you can’t bring yourself to step away.

Instead, you tilt your head, lips curving slightly. “And what exactly do you propose we do about this problem?”

His smile is slow, knowing. “Well,” he says, eyes flicking over your face, “we could ignore it.”

You arch a brow. “That doesn’t sound like something you’re particularly good at.”

Nico exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No, I suppose not.”

Silence settles again, but it’s different now—charged, crackling like the air before a storm. His fingers are still tapping against the railing, but you notice now that it’s more deliberate, like he’s holding himself back.

You could walk away right now. You could turn this into nothing more than a fleeting moment, something to laugh about later when you’re both back under the bright lights of the paddock, playing your parts in front of the cameras.

Or..

You take a slow step forward. Not enough to close the space completely, but enough to make your intention clear.

Nico doesn’t move back.

“So if we’re not ignoring it,” you say carefully, “what’s the alternative?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drops briefly—to your mouth, then back up—before he finally says, voice quieter now, “We see where it goes.”

Your stomach flips.

“See where it goes.” That sounds simple. It sounds like something two rational adults could do without too much trouble. But nothing about this—about him—feels simple.

You should ask what that even means. If this is some fleeting, post-race, adrenaline-fueled interest, or if it’s something deeper. If he’s thought about this before tonight. If he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

But you don’t ask.

Because suddenly, his hand is brushing against yours—light, tentative, testing the waters. And instead of pulling away, you let your fingers curl slightly, just enough to let him know you’re right there with him.

His breath hitches. Just barely. But you catch it.

Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

And the only thing you can do is nod.

Later, when the world is quiet and the night has settled into something softer, you find yourself still standing on that yacht, still wrapped in the aftershock of what just happened.

You should be panicking. You should be overanalyzing every second of it.

But when Nico looks at you, expression warm and unreadable all at once, the only thing you can think is

You don’t regret it. Not even a little bit.

-

nico in that blue shirt did something to me ✋🫠

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 “𝐋𝐄𝐓’𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓” 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier’s expression shifts subtly—a change most wouldn’t notice, but you’ve learned to read him. His dark eyes focus entirely on you, any trace of his usual sleepiness vanishing instantly.

“That’s dangerous, giving me cues like that,” he murmurs, his voice low and unchanged in tone despite the intensity behind his words.

He closes the distance without warning, one hand cupping your face while the other slides around your waist, pulling you against him. There’s something possessive in the way his lips claim yours—deliberate and unhurried, yet leaving no room for retreat.

Time seems irrelevant as he deepens the kiss. For someone who typically appears so detached, his actions speak volumes, betraying the emotions he reserves only for you. When you attempt to pull back for air, he follows, unwilling to break contact.

“Not yet,” he whispers against your lips, his breath warm. “I’m not done with you.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Zayne sits at his desk in his home office. He looks up, dark eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. Without a word, he removes them carefully, placing them beside his laptop.

“I suppose I’m due for a break,” he says, pushing back from his desk.

He stands and gestures for you to come closer. When you reach him, his hands find your waist, guiding you against the edge of his desk.

The kiss starts measured, methodical—like everything else he does—but quickly deepens with underlying hunger. His fingers trace up your spine, cradling the back of your neck with surprising tenderness.

“Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs in between kisses. “That’s all I need to refresh before returning to these reports.”

But the way he pulls you closer, the subtle sweetness on his tongue from the candy he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, suggests he might extend his break after all.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon light streams through the studio windows, casting golden hues across Rafayel’s canvas. His pauses, his paintbrush hanging suspended above vibrant blues and greens.

A smile spreads across his face as he sets his palette down. “And here I was thinking I’d need to convince you to distract me today.”

Paint-stained fingers carefully return the brush to its holder before he steps down from his step ladder. He allows you to make the first move, watching with fascination as you approach.

“For inspiration’s sake,” he whispers as your lips meet, though the way his breath catches suggests it’s more than artistic motivation driving him.

He lets you set the pace initially, responding to your lead with appreciative hums, his hands roaming your body. Then, something shifts—he’s in control.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your neck, fingers finally tangling in your hair.

His kiss deepens—wild and untethered, like he might disappear with the tide if not anchored to this moment with you.

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“What a bold request,” Sylus says, making no move to stand. Instead, he pushes his chair back slightly from the table, eyes never leaving yours. “If that’s what you want, come here and take it.”

The challenge in his voice is clear—he wants you to approach him, to claim what you desire. As you cross the room, his expression remains composed, though a certain hunger darkens his gaze.

When you settle onto his lap, his hands rest lightly on your hips, neither pulling nor pushing. “Well?” he prompts, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You made the request. I’m merely accommodating it.”

You initiate the kiss, setting a tentative pace that he follows without trying to accelerate. He restrains himself—a calculated decision to let you lead while he receives. Only when you deepen the contact does he respond in kind, his composure slipping just enough to reveal how much he’s been holding back.

“Good,” he breathes against your lips. “Now, show me what else you want.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The moment the words leave your mouth, Caleb’s expression darkens. He reaches past you to lock his bedroom door, the click echoing in the sudden silence.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, voice dropping lower as he backs you against the wall.

His lips find yours with urgent precision, one hand braced against the wall while the other cups your face. The kiss is consuming—a clear message that now that he has you, he won’t be letting go anytime soon.

You stumble backward as he guides you through his room, neither of you willing to break contact. Your back hits the wall next to his desk, and he cages you in with his arms, lips never leaving yours except for the briefest moments to catch your breath.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he confesses against your neck, voice ragged. His lips remain possessively on yours throughout the close-distance trip to his bed.

“Mine,” he whispers, pulling you down with him.

Another post upcoming for today 😼

[sixeyesonathiel]

all’s fair — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. that’s it. my pants dissipated writing this.

the air reeks of blood.

a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.

satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.

“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.

you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.

you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”

he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.

“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”

your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”

“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”

“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.

“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.

“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”

your breath catches.

his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.

you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.

“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.

“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.

for a long moment, neither of you move.

you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.

and yet.

your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.

“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.

his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.

“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”

you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.

he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.

instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”

his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.

“don’t flatter yourself, love.”

“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”

his grip around your wrist flexes.

you laugh. sharp. knowing.

“that’s what i thought.”

his patience snaps.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.

you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.

you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.

but no one kissed like satoru.

no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.

his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.

you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.

the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.

“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”

his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.

“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”

you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.

instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—

a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.

the war calls.

for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.

his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.

then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”

and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.

outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.

a/n : part two is out fellow freakies🫶🏻

[stereoqueen]

sunshine - pt1 - l.hughes

summary: luke walks into media after a win and recognizes a pair of eyes he hasn’t seen since he left the university of michigan behind. espnreporter! x luke hughes au

< au what to know > < next >

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"You have media in 10, Hughes!" Keefe yells through the locker room as Luke sighs, putting up his gear. Fresh off of a win, he was tired and ready to go home. He quickly showered and put his extra pair of clothes on, slipping on a hat over his wet curls. Leaving the locker room, bag in hand, he says goodbye to everyone as he walks to media.

The media room was large, podium in the middle with at least 20 reporters to talk to. Mercer walked out as Luke walked in. “Good luck bro, same old questions,” Dawson said as Luke sighed. He thought about even if they won, the questions are still the same and stupid. Dropping his stuff near the podium, he looks down to see a text from Jack.

Jack: Solid game bro. Have leftover pizza at home with your name on it! 🍕

He laughed as he quickly typed back,

Luke: Going to need it after suffering media… AGAIN!

Putting his phone down, he walks up the podium, fixing his hat so he can see through the bright lights better. The questions start to roll in as he gave the same basic answers. Nothing was new, until he heard the door open.

The back door creaked open as a woman sneaked in. She was wearing black trousers, white top, and a black trench coat. Her hair was pulled half up in a clip, and her media tags around her neck. She took a seat in the back, taking notes on her ipad in her left hand, and holding her recorder out in her right as Luke continued answering the question. His mind however, was on the woman, and why she looked so damn familiar. It’s like his memory was trying to assess why she was so familiar. Was it because she was one of the prettiest reporters he’s ever seen? Or was it the brown eyes that caught his attention.

“Luke— you were saying?” The reporter who asked him a question caught his attention back to reality as he sighed. A small smirk in his lips as he made eye contact with her and then back to the original reporter. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. What I was trying to say is that this playoff push is….” He continues answering as his gaze lingers on the girl in the back.

15 minutes later and that was it. Questions were over, and the back lights turned on, giving Luke a clear look on who tripped him up earlier. She was packing up her stuff when he was leaving the podium. He was headed to ask what her name was and introduce himself when Amanda beat him to it. He tried to ease drop on the conversation, walking slow and taking his time out of the media room. He didn’t catch her name, but he did figure out how she looked so familiar.

“How was your first time in the media room? Crazy right?” Amanda asks her as Luke walks by. Her gaze follows him as she assessed his 6’3 frame. “It was great! Way bigger that Umich that’s for sure,” She said as Luke walked out the door.

His eyes widened when she said that.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Flashback: Umich, 2022

It was a cool September day walking to practice on campus. Sophomore Luke Hughes was feeling good. Games were about to start, and he was going to prove why he should be in the NHL now. He decided to stop by the coffee shop next to the rink before practice, as he needed a caffeine fix after a long day of class. Loud, full of students, and busy, but absolutely worth the wait. He placed his order and waited in the corner on his phone, texting Dylan, his roommate that he would be cutting it close to practice.

“Coconut latte for Hallie!” The barista said as Luke looked up, thinking that the H was going to be Hughes.

A girl in jeans and a bright sun yellow top went up to the coffee bar to get the latte. Luke’s eyes followed down her frame subtlety as she said thank you to the barista. Her hair was long, honey blonde highlights popping against her tan skin. She turned around to walk towards the door, and towards him — he couldn’t help but stare. She was gorgeous. The embodiment of yellow. She waved to a few girls to his right, smiling as she rushed off. He moved out of the way and held the door as she looked back to him.

“Thanks! I appreciate it!” She said to him, smiling big as she walked out the door. Stunned by her genuine thank you, his face turned pink. “No problem,” He mumbled to himself as the door shut behind him. All he thought of was how beautiful her brown eyes were. They looked like little chocolate kisses. Oh how he wanted to get lost in them—

“Iced coffee for Hughes!” The barista yelled through the shop, snapping him out of it as he looked down at his watch. “Shit!” He said to himself as he grabbed the coffee and sprinted out the door to practice.

Rushing to practice, the guys laughed as Luke ran through the front door and up to the locker room. His coffee, half full from sprinting in his hand as he dropped his stuff and put his gear on faster than one can say Go Blue!

He made it to the ice with two minutes to spare, gaining looks from his friends. “Dude, what took you so long?” Dylan whispered as Luke tilted his head, trying to make up a better excuse. “Um, took longer than I thought?” He mumbled as he fixed his gloves.

“Okay! Before we start, I want to introduce some of the ladies you are going to be working with this season. We have Gab, Maggie, and Lauren as our returning social media team! and our newest member is our on ice reporter, Hallie!” Coach said as Luke looked to the bench, recognizing the girl from the coffee shop.

He had his helmet on so he was praying she wouldn’t recognize him. He was embarrassed that the first interaction was that way. Him stumbling over words and being distracted by her smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Luke was on fire his second year at Michigan. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was the reason why. Scoring or making a crazy play would lead him to her to be interviewed. So, he did everything could to be interviewed, building his stardom as he did. It also helped that he had a crush on the reporter. Her energy was contagious, questions were detailed, and he could tell that she was into her job, and the sport which was a good change. Her soft honey brown eyes had him head over heels since the coffee shop. The team could see the change in the young defenseman’s demeanor. He wouldn’t avoid the camera as much anymore. He would try to interact with social media more, and get to know the social staff.

Hallie didn’t know that Luke was originally “afraid” of media. They would have to pull teeth to get him to interview or interact with the camera off the ice. But when she came around, it all changed. She noticed this when Gab came up to her after practice and said something.

It was December 2022, the high of the season before the break. Hallie had just finished interviewing Luke, who had scored twice this game. “Well that’s all I have for our superstar. Our next game is after the break, see you then.” She signed off to the camera as Luke wiped his face off, leaving the camera’s sight. “Thanks sunshine, see you after break,” Luke said, crooked smile as Hallie returned the smile. “See you then, superstar!” She joked as she walked over to Gab.

Gab was laughing as she passed Hallie her water. “What’s the laughs for?” She asked Gab as she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’ve never seen Luke interact this way with media— ever!” Gab said as Hallie shrugs. “No idea, Maybe he likes the attention?” Hallie joked as Lauren comes up next to them, “If you’re talking about Hughes… he has a huge crush on you. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it, Hals.” Hallie’s face dropped as Lauren said that, “No way.”

Lauren leans against the wall, camera in hand — showing a picture of the two of them interviewing. His eyes were locked into hers as she asked a question. Her smile bright. The Live Photo goes as she can see his eyes go down to her lips and back up to her eyes, a small micro change in view. Hallie’s face turns hot. “Oh my,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Present time, March 2025

“Way bigger than Umich huh? That’s what Hughes said almost two years ago when he got here,” Amanda says to her as she smiles. “Did you know him?” She continues as Hallie tilts her head.

“Kinda. I wasn’t close to him but we knew of each other. But now, I’d be shocked if he knew my name,” Hallie tells her colleague as they walk out of the media room, walking down the hall to the parking garage. They talk about what Hallie needs to do for the upcoming week, with correlation to the Devils’ schedule in alignment with ESPN’s. By the time, they reach the garage, most of the cars are gone.

“Well, you have my number if you need me! See you on Sunday for morning skate!” Amanda yells across the garage as they go to their separate ways.

A BMW rolls past Hallie as she looks up to see the infamous man himself. He stops at the exit, not noticing her, but some little kids asking to sign their jerseys. He rolls down the window, signing them and making conversation. She walks by the exit, knowing her car is parked in a different lot since she didn’t get her passes until now.

Finishing up with the last kid, Luke looks up to see the woman walking to her car. She opens the back driver’s door to set her bag in the back. Looking up slightly, she sees his hazel eyes looking at her intently. He smiles, a real smile, not one he does for the camera as her brown eyes light up. He would never forget those eyes.

She hops in the car, windows down as she goes to back up and exit the area. She looks to see the BMW pass again, windows down as “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison plays through his speakers.

“I guess he did remember me after all,” She said to herself as she backed up out of her parking spot to head to her apartment.

By the time she made it to her apartment, her phone had blown up with new followers on Instagram and Twitter.

Instagram: lhughes_06 has sent you a follow request!

Instagram: lhughes_06 has sent you a direct message!

Instagram: lhughes_06: Think I saw a ray of Sunshine in the Devils media room tonight.

She blushed, shaking her head as she approved his request and typed back a quick message.

halliebrooks: Just as original as the last time I saw you, superstar.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Rusty! You’re back! Traffic was that bad?” Jack asked from the couch as his little brother huffed into the apartment.

Luke shut the door, dropped his stuff and immediately flopped onto the couch. He felt so dumb, stalking her instagram and then immediately dm’ing her. His mood was ruined if she took it the wrong way. Jack, confused on why his brother didn’t run to the open box of pizza, stood up and over him. He put his hand on his face to feel his head. “Nope, not warm but something is definitely off,” Jack said as Luke swatted his hand away.

“I’m just not hungry,” Luke grumbled as he felt his phone buzz. Excitedly, his mood instantly changed as he sat up and read the notifications.

Instagram: halliebrooks accepted your follow request!

Instagram: halliebrooks has sent you a direct message!

Instagram: halliebrooks: Just as original as the last time I saw you, superstar.

Luke jumped off the couch, grabbing a beer from the fridge and starting to eat the pizza as he tried to craft a message back.

“Okay I don’t know what the fuck just happened but you need to explain. NOW!” Jack pestered as Luke talked through his pizza. “I take that back. Eat and then explain why you just pulled a 180 like that.”

The commercial’s annoying jingle ended as ESPN came back on the screen. Luke immediately pointed to the TV, where the Devils broadcast was wrapping up. Hallie Brooks, ESPN Reporter was doing her highlight review of the game, taking over for Emily Kaplan. Jack’s gaze whipped from Luke eating to the TV and then back to Luke who was glued to the TV.

“This is THE famous Sunshine? No way.” Jack says as Luke shoves another piece of pizza in her mouth. “You gotta explain, start from the beginning before you put another piece in your mouth, or I’m calling Q.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

taglist: @chiblackhawks @hwalllllllelujah @dancerbailey3

[strungnews]

Something something viltrumite genes in Mark, he smells you before he even steps foot into the place, and like a bee to a flower who follows the trail of it alone. Surprising you with a warm hug from behind.

Something something viltrumite genes in Mark makes it so he can hear better than most, but can barely make out your words because hes too distracted tracing his eyes over your face and ingraining it in his head and eyelids.

Something something viltrumite genes in Mark that makes him the perfect guy to bring at the arcade, playing wack-a-mole to totally ‘test his reflexes’ after winning a buttload of tickets, and handing him an oversized stuff toy for him to take home.

Something something viltrumite genes in Mark that doesn’t make him any less scared when you’re pissed off at him for breaking something of value to you. Before giving a very pathetically adorable apology and tries to make it up to you in any way shape or form he can.

[saetiate]

itoshi sae x f!reader smut, reader's mad at him for the media reporting he's dating someone else and he fucks you like it's an apology

“you know what they’re saying? ah-, about you and that girl?"

your voice is filled with malice even with his dick so far up inside of you that you can feel it in your throat, even with each gasp that leaves you as he slams into you hard, his hips meeting yours again and again.

truthfully, he doesn’t. he didn’t spare the article more than a glance. what some bullshit reporter chasing a title for cash said has never phased him.

he grabs you gently by the chin, fingers wrapping around either side of your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “if i fuck you on the balcony and let everyone see, would that satisfy you?” the way he thrusts into you doesn’t falter once, even as he presses a hungry kiss to your mouth, teeth nipping at your lower lip, breath ghosting over as he speaks. “then everyone will see i’m yours.”

you jerk your face out of his grip, eyes sharp. “the only thing they’ll see is what a fucking womanizer you are, you asshole.”

maybe they will, maybe they won’t. but he can feel the way you’re gushing around his cock when he mentions it, wetness seeping down to his balls, glints like moonbeam. he presses a thumb to your clit and watches your back arch into a crescent moon, always so responsive to him.

“please, please please —,” your voice comes out so wrecked it has him taking in a sharp breath. even as you hate him, slap your hands against his chest as you tell him exactly that, “i hate you i hate you,” followed by please, please.

if it was any other day, if it wasn’t truly his fault for even allowing himself to get photographed standing just a little too close to someone that wasn’t you, he might’ve teased you for it. made you beg even more, cooed at you for being so needy. but it is his fault, so he relents. gives you exactly what you want, circles your slick pearl and fucks you so hard the words you say turn into nothing, until the way you hit his chest turns into your nails scraping over his shoulders, down his back.

he watches you as you come, has to, with tears on your lashline and a high pitched whine. at least this way, he knows the tears are a good thing, that he’s fucked you right.

(he doesn't let himself come, considers it some kind of penance, like it might be the thing that sways the guilt that eats at his heart.)

“you’re so pretty.”

“fuck you,” you spit, breathless. “this doesn’t make us even.”

he grabs you by either side of your thighs and slams you back down onto his cock with a scream.

“yeah,” his hand presses against the headboard above you, until the wood creaks down with his weight, his warmth radiating against yours. “i got that.”

[amirasainz]

Hey love. Could I please request some Oscar story. Maybe Oscar and reader being in love with each other and the other drivers teasing them a bit but still think it's cute?

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

Quiet Hearts, Loud Paddock

The paddock buzzed with its usual chaos: mechanics bustling around, reporters scribbling notes, engines humming in the background. Yet amid the noise, one corner always seemed to shine just a little brighter — wherever Yn stood with her microphone, offering kind smiles and thoughtful questions to drivers who appreciated her genuine warmth.

Yn was the youngest reporter in the paddock, just twenty years old, but already well-liked by the entire grid. Her interviews were never intrusive or sensational. She focused on the people behind the helmets — their personalities, passions, and quirks.

And while everyone enjoyed her presence, one driver seemed particularly captivated by her: Oscar.

The quiet Australian wasn’t one to seek attention, but when Yn was around, his shyness melted into soft smiles, flushed cheeks, and playful remarks. The two of them turned every interview into a game of compliments and shy glances. Everyone could see it — the stolen looks, the way their eyes lingered a beat too long, the rosy tint coloring their cheeks after even the simplest interaction.

The other drivers found it both hilarious and heartwarming. But despite their teasing instincts, they decided not to meddle. Young love, after all, had its own pace.

----------

Media Day

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the paddock as Yn stood by the media pen, holding her microphone and checking her notes. She smoothed her blouse and glanced at the interview schedule. Oscar — 3:30 PM.

Her heart skipped. Why did she still get nervous? She’d interviewed him dozens of times, yet her palms always got clammy just before he arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” a voice teased.

Yn turned to see Lando grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“No,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just working.”

“Sure, sure.” Lando’s eyes twinkled. “I bet your ‘work’ blushes as much as you do.”

Yn rolled her eyes. “Go annoy someone else, Norris.”

He laughed but left her alone.

Moments later, Oscar approached, dressed in his team polo and cap. Yn's breath caught, but she forced herself to smile as she raised her microphone.

“Hi, Oscar!” she greeted, too brightly.

“Hey, Yn,” he replied, his dimples showing instantly. “You look…uh…nice today.” His eyes flickered to her yellow blouse. “Sunshine-y.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, cheeks warming. “You always look good in team colors.”

Oscar laughed softly, ducking his head. “I mean…it’s required, but I appreciate it.”

“So, uh…let's talk about the weekend ahead,” Yn said, refocusing. “How are you feeling going into tomorrow’s practice?”

“Excited,” Oscar said. “The car’s feeling good. The team’s worked really hard. I just hope I can do them proud.”

“You always do,” Yn said automatically.

Oscar’s lips parted slightly, as though surprised by her conviction. “Thanks,” he murmured. “That means a lot.”

She cleared her throat. “And how’s the track looking this weekend?”

“Challenging, but fun. I mean, you've walked it, right?”

“Yeah. Nearly tripped over a curb though.”

Oscar chuckled. “Well, I promise not to do that in the car.”

They both laughed, the tension easing into something light and familiar. The interview went on, sprinkled with gentle teasing and lingering glances. When they wrapped up, Yn lowered her mic, but neither of them moved.

“Well…good luck, Oscar,” she said softly.

“Thanks, Yn.” His eyes softened. “See you around.”

As he walked away, Yn exhaled deeply. Across the paddock, Lando caught her eye and mimed a dramatic swoon. She ignored him.

----------

Post-Qualifying Interviews

Oscar had qualified P4 — his best of the season. Yn’s heart swelled with pride as he walked toward her with a grin.

“Congratulations, Oscar!” she beamed as he stopped beside her. “P4! How are you feeling?”

“Over the moon,” Oscar said, running a hand through his hair. “The car was great. The team nailed the setup. Honestly…I’m just happy I didn’t mess it up.”

Yn laughed. “You? Mess up? Never.”

Oscar ducked his head with a bashful smile. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I'm usually right.”

He met her gaze then, something unspoken crackling between them. She felt her cheeks flush and quickly asked another question.

Behind them, a group of drivers loitered near the hospitality suite. Carlos elbowed Charles.

“Look at them,” Carlos whispered. “They’re practically heart-eyes emojis.”

“Just confess already!” Charles mock-shouted toward Oscar.

Oscar heard. His neck turned bright red. Yn nearly dropped her microphone.

Max, standing nearby, shook his head. “Leave them alone. Let them figure it out.”

Carlos sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if they don’t kiss by the end of the season, I’m intervening.”

----------

Race Day

Oscar finished P4, earning solid points. Yn was the first reporter to greet him as he stepped from the car, hair damp with sweat and a tired but happy smile on his face.

“P4!” Yn said, raising her mic. “That was some brilliant driving, Oscar!”

“Thanks, Yn. It was tough out there.”

“You made it look easy,” she said, her admiration shining through.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, his usual tell of nervousness. “Well…maybe I had some extra motivation today.”

“Oh?” Yn tilted her head. “Care to share?”

His eyes met hers. “Nah. Not yet.”

Yn's breath caught. The air between them seemed to thicken, and the world blurred into the background.

When Oscar walked away, Lando sidled up. “Did he just flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” Yn said faintly.

“You’re both helpless.”

----------

The paddock party was lively, music thumping, drivers and team members mingling with drinks and laughter. Yn stood by the balcony, watching the celebration unfold.

“Hey.”

She turned. Oscar stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Congrats again.”

“Thanks.” He shifted on his feet. “I, um…wanted to say something.”

Yn’s pulse quickened. “Okay.”

Oscar took a deep breath. “I really like you, Yn. Like…a lot. And I know we’ve kind of danced around it for a while, but…I just had to tell you.”

Yn’s heart soared. “I really like you too, Oscar.”

His face broke into a smile of pure relief. “Really?”

“Yeah. Always have.”

The silence stretched, comfortable now. Then Oscar, emboldened by the moment, asked, “Can I…maybe take you out sometime?”

“I’d love that.”

They stood there, the party noise fading into a distant hum.

From across the terrace, Charles fist-pumped the air. “Finally!”

Carlos laughed. “Took them long enough.”

Lando raised his glass. “To the shy ones!”

Max shook his head with a fond smile. “Leave them alone, guys.”

But Yn and Oscar didn’t even hear. They only saw each other — their quiet love finally spoken aloud.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Ok, hear me out, Machine Herald Viktor x Reader AU with this line from Epic,,

Jayce: After everything you've done... how will you sleep at night?

Viktor: Next to my wife.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Look! Up In The Sky

Mickey "Fanboy' Garcia x Reader

A Superman AU

Status: In Progress

Last Updated: September 14th, 2024

Description: It’s hard, making a name for yourself as an investigative journalist in a city as big as Metropolis. It seems like everyone and everything is against you, just because you weren’t born and raised in Metropolis. But you’re determined to make it. When a run-of-the-mill article turns into a hostage situation with armed criminals, you’re not sure you’ll be making it out of this situation alive. Can a run-in with Metropolis’ own Superman light the flames of your passion once more? Or are you destined to pack up and go back home?

Disclaimers: DC canon-typical violence. Armed gunmen. Some language.

Warnings: Like most of my fics, this fic features a Female!Reader

Look! Up in the Sky on AO3

Look! Up in the Sky on Wattpad

Look! Up In The Sky

Taglist is Open!

Want to be added to the Taglist for this fic? Leave a comment on this masterlist or drop me a message in my inbox!

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[chrisissobabygirl]

introducing... nbaplayer!chris && reporter!reader

nbaplayer!chris

champion by nav (ft. travis scott). . . 23. jade. boston celtics. shooter. golden boy. leader. playmaker. loyal. down to earth. composed. protective of reader. flirt. plays better when reader's watching. possesive. hoodies. nike drip. caps. champion rings. travis scott. j cole. lil skies. kendrick lamar. 21 savage. nba youngboy. kanye west. yeat.

reporter!reader

never lose me by flo milli (ft. sza and cardi b). . . 22. baby blue. boston celtics. sideline reporter. nba baddie. professional. respected. quick on her feet. passionate. always looks for chris on court. fangirl (but she'll never admit it). independent. tough. witty. scented candles. crop tops. skirts. boston jerseys. baggy jeans. sneakers. gold jewellery. sza. flo milli. kesha. travis scott. mac miller. kali uchis. childish gambino. future. a$ap rocky. tyler, the creator.

taglist: @sweetshuga @strnilolover @endereies @heartsonlyforchris @immaqulate @hearts4werka @y3sterdaysproblem @zebonos

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier leans in and places a gentle kiss on your cheek, which you dramatically wipe off with the back of your hand. “Eww, Xavier! Cooties!”

Xavier stares at you blankly, though a slight tightening around his eyes betrays his feelings. After a moment of silence that lasts just long enough to become awkward, he tilts his head.

“Cooties... are not real,” he states matter-of-factly, then adds, “but if they were, you would already have them. We have kissed exactly forty-seven times in the past 3 days.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies your face with quiet intensity. “Did I... misinterpret something?” he asks slowly. Before you can respond, Xavier slowly leans in again, his eyes locked with yours in quiet challenge.

Just before his lips touch yours, he pauses. “Would you like number forty-eight?”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

After a quick goodbye kiss, you dramatically wipe your lips and make a show of feigned disgust. Zayne freezes midway through the door.

“Gross, Zaynie! Do you know where those lips have been?” You start to regret pulling this prank on him when you see the hurt in his eyes masked by his still expression.

Zayne turns to face you fully. Without a word, he slowly walks back to you, his intense gaze never leaving yours. “Is that so?” he asks. “Let me remind you exactly where these lips belong, then.”

In one fluid motion, he cups your face with both hands and kisses you deeply, thoroughly, leaving no room for teasing. When he finally pulls away, there's a hint of smugness in his otherwise composed expression.

“Don’t wipe that one off. Please.” He straightens his tie with practiced ease before adding, “Doctor’s orders.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

Rafayel plants a playful kiss on your cheek before flopping dramatically onto the couch. The moment he closes his eyes, you loudly smack your hand against your cheek.

“Ew, fish breath!” you exclaim with exaggerated disgust.

His eyes widen comically as you wipe his kiss away, his mouth forming a dramatic ‘O’ shape. “Fish breath?! Me?!” He sits up. “What kind of joke is this? Why would you say something so untrue?”

You collapse into giggles. “I’m just joking! It was a prank!”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously before a mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh? A prank, is it? Well, two can play that game.”

Suddenly, he’s launching himself from the couch, tackling you into a heap of pillows. “You want fish breath? I’ll give you fish breath,” he threatens, making exaggerated kissing sounds while you shriek and try to escape.

“Stop! I surrender!” you gasp between fits of laughter. He hovers above you with twinkling eyes. “Take it back. My breath smells like... what’s something amazing?”

“Like ocean breeze and sunshine?” you offer.

“Hmm,” he considers, still pinning you down. “I like that more.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“Hmm… what an odd aftertaste…” you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “Did you really think I wanted that?” You wipe your lips with your sleeves.

Sylus doesn’t move for a moment, his piercing eyes studying you. Then, slowly, a dangerous smile spreads across his face—the kind that would make others shrink back, but you know better.

“Sweetie,” he purrs, voice silky with amusement, “if you’re attempting to wound my pride, you’ll need to try harder.”

You huff, not getting the reaction you wanted, but it’s expected. “You’re no fun.”

Sylus kisses you again with his usual confidence, gripping your chin with his fingers. “If you want to play games, you should know better than to challenge someone who always plays to win.”

“What are you planning to do about it?” you taunt, still smiling.

His face stops just inches away, whispering, “I’ll ensure my taste lingers,” just before he proves his point.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb gives you a quick, sweet kiss before turning to grab his jacket. You immediately swipe dramatically at your mouth. “Blech! What was that? Military-grade morning breath?”

He whips around with an offended ‘are you serious?’ look, then his shoulders relax as he catches the mischief in your eyes.

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” he says, breaking into a grin. “You know what happens to civilians who mock Fleet officers?”

You back up a step, still giggling. “What are the penalties, Colonel?”

“Severe.” You squeal as he suddenly lunges forward, catching you around the waist and spinning you in a circle. “Take it back!”

“Never!” you declare, struggling half-heartedly against his strong grip.

“Then, I’ll have to deploy countermeasures,” he threatens, eyes bright with laughter as he dips you dramatically and hovers his face above yours. “What kind of countermeasures?” you challenge breathlessly.

His smile softens. “The kind that’ll make you never want to wipe away my kisses again,” he murmurs before demonstrating exactly what he means.

Damn, I haven’t written any fanfics for, like, half a year or something, lol. Consider my first post as me warming up and trying to figure out what format I should use.

[sixeyesonathiel]

love & war — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

part 2 of all’s fair. 18+, YEARNER gojo, LONG HAIRED GOJO I REPEAT, LONG HAIRED GOJO. jealous & sort of possessive gojo, he breaks your wedding ring. cunnilingus while u sit on ur throne, squirting.

the feast is decadent.

ambrosia drips like honey from silver goblets, pooling at the edges like nectar too sweet to swallow. laughter rings through the marble colonnades of mount olympus, reverberating against pillars gilded in gold, lilting and hollow—like a song sung too many times, a chorus with no soul. but the gods don't care for meaning. they care for spectacle.

and tonight, you are the show.

you sit at hephaestus' side, spine straight, expression the picture of benevolence. the torchlight catches in your hair, setting it aglow like strands of molten gold. the chiffon draped across your body slips just so—revealing the curve of your thigh, the soft swell of your shoulder, the shadow between your breasts. suggestive, never vulgar. worshipped, never touched.

you tilt your goblet, fingers tracing the rim like you're tuning a lyre. your lips, red and warm, brush the edge but never drink. your eyes flutter closed as apollo's laughter crescendos, and you feign delight—mouth curling in a smile that could bring mortals to their knees. beside you, your husband remains silent. his hand is steady on his chalice. he forged the ring on your finger with hands calloused from fire and fury, and yet you wear it like it's forged from spider silk—a fragile thing, breakable.

and you don't look at satoru.

not at first.

but oh, you feel him.

his presence seeps into the room like smoke. the god of war is leaned lazily against his throne across the hall, the picture of restraint. clad in armor darker than midnight, trimmed in crimson, his white hair is tied back by a ribbon dyed red, trailing down his back like a war banner, a declaration. but his restraint is a lie.

his goblet remains empty. always empty. he drinks nothing tonight—not wine, not ambrosia—because it is only you that he hungers for.

his blue eyes, pale and gleaming, fixate on you. they don't waver. not once. they drink in every movement of your fingers, every curve of your smile, every deliberate flutter of your lashes. he watches you toy with your ring like it's a sin he's yet to commit. he watches you lean closer to dionysus, watches your laugh tilt toward apollo, watches your bare foot slip from under the tablecloth like a secret invitation. it's cruel. deliberate.

it's punishment.

your favorite dress, ruined. your thighs, bruised. your lips, bitten and left cold in a tent heavy with the stench of blood and iron and war. he kissed you like a man possessed, like a god starved. then he left you aching.

and now?

he aches.

not with the sharp, glorious pain of battle—but something worse. duller. quieter. the kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and gnaws like hunger, like longing.

when the feast ends—when wine-soaked laughter fades into sultry sighs, when silk rustles and marble floors grow slick with pleasure—you do not rise.

you stay seated in your throne, golden and still, carved like a statue of temptation by hands far crueler than fate.

you wait.

and like always, he finds you.

you don't hear his footsteps. only the subtle shift of air. the softest rustle of a crimson sash brushing against bronze armor. then the press of a shadow curling into yours like a secret.

“that's twice now,” his voice comes low, smoked silk and sharpened edge, curling around your spine. “once on the battlefield. now here. you like making me wait?”

his tone holds accusation—but the way he looks at you, moonlight caught in those cerulean eyes, it's not anger. it's reverence. it's ruin. it's worship.

he looks like war incarnate dressed in restraint—white hair tied back by a ribbon the color of spilled blood, pale skin brushed faintly gold beneath olympian firelight, armor kissed by countless hands but pierced by none. and he looks at you like he's starved. like he would gut himself if it meant dying with your name on his lips.

your lashes lower, slow. you don't turn to face him yet. you let the pause bloom between you, heavy with all the words you shouldn't say and all the touches you're not allowed to crave.

then—deliberately—you twist to meet him.

your gaze is lazy, liquid, the wine having turned your movements feline. your dress slips like a sigh over your thighs. your lips curve just enough to wound.

you reach to press a palm flat against his chest, over the gilded armor. his heat hums beneath it. a mortal man would be scalded.

“you ruined my favorite dress,” you murmur, voice hushed and sugared. your fingers curl, tracing the seam between plates of gold. “and left me in a tent that smelled of blood and glory and you.”

he breathes in sharply, jaw ticking once—just once—but it's enough. enough to unravel you.

his exhale is quiet, but charged, like the hush before a battlefield scream. his chest rises with restraint, sinewed muscle tense beneath his black tunic, straps of armor left discarded at the threshold like a promise he intends to break.

he steps forward. slow. deliberate. like the way fire creeps, hungry and patient. another step. then another. the weight of him warps the air. heat blooms in your lungs.

your hand stays raised between you like a shield, but your wrist trembles, traitorous. it remembers the weight of his grip, the way his fingers once mapped constellations into your skin. your mind whispers no. your pulse chants yes.

his eyes flicker—not to yours, but to your hand. to the ring.

“and you think this—” his voice, low and hoarse, curls at the edges like smoke, “—wearing this ring makes us even?”

he slides his fingers beneath yours, not with force, but with reverence. with fury disguised as grace. he lifts your hand like it's an oath he's been denied. like it's home.

he doesn't meet your gaze. his attention stays pinned to the band of gold—hephaestus' craftsmanship, forged in fire and jealousy, fitted for a goddess who never wanted to be possessed.

he looks at it the way a warrior looks at a wound he cannot close. as if it mocks him. as if it dares him to tear it off with his teeth.

his thumb ghosts over it. slow. scalding. like a brand.

you inhale, lips parting to say something cold, something final—but your voice crumbles before it can reach your tongue. all that leaves you is a whisper, soft and shaking, “you shouldn't even be touching me.”

his head lifts.

his eyes—blue, impossibly bright, like the sky just before it breaks—lock onto yours. and they don't just look. they consume. scorch. drink you in like a man dying of thirst, parched from years of wars he didn't win, undone by a beauty he was never meant to hold.

you feel it then, the tremble in the air between you. like something sacred cracking. like prophecy catching fire.

“then stop me.” he says.

his voice isn't loud. doesn't need to be. it's low, rough like gravel but sweetened with reverence, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. and it tugs at something inside you—something soft, something ancient.

your fingers twitch in his grip. not to pull away. gods, never to pull away. but to stay. to linger. to clutch the fleeting moment like it might fly from your grasp if you dared to blink.

you don't stop him.

instead, you tip your chin up, just slightly. prideful. defiant. divine. and you raise your hand higher between you both, baring the delicate line of your wrist like an offering on an altar. like a lamb to the slaughter. like a challenge written in perfume and silk.

“go on, then,” you whisper, lashes lowered like a veil. the words curl out of you like smoke, like honey laced with venom. “break another rule.”

and he does.

not with rage. not with thunder.

but with reverence.

he sinks to his knees—not like a soldier kneeling before his commander, not like a penitent before a god—but like a man who has already decided that he would rather burn at your feet than live untouched in another's arms.

the marble floor groans under him. the sound is quiet, but it echoes, somehow—sharp and cold, like the world remembering how to breathe.

his white hair, bright as new snow and wild as flame, slips loose from its ribbon and cascades around his face like falling starlight. it brushes against his cheeks, glows silver where it catches the lamplight. divine. disheveled. ruinous.

his hands are warm when they cradle yours. calloused from centuries of war, yet careful. trembling, just barely. he lifts your fingers like they might dissolve in his palms.

he bows his head to the ring—hephaestus's ring, forged in fire, in resentment, in the echo of zeus's command—and kisses it. once. twice. the third time, his lips linger.

then—he bites.

there's no warning. just a clean snap. metal splits beneath his teeth like fate surrendering. the ring breaks. falls. its fragments scatter across the marble like shattered promises.

and you exhale, shivering. not from fear. from recognition.

his mouth finds your bare finger again, lips dragging slow over skin where the band once sat. his teeth press again—gentler now, but no less possessive. he doesn't break the skin.

but the mark blooms anyway.

golden ichor wells to the surface. one drop. warm. pure. precious. it gleams like molten starlight, catching the flicker of torches. it doesn't harden, but it remains—a glimmering, radiant mark that pulses like a gem, impossibly beautiful against the curve of your skin.

no forge. no chains. no vows.

only power. only him.

his ring. your ruin.

he doesn't move. doesn't rise. just kneels there, his mouth hovering over your skin, his breath soft and reverent like a prayer whispered at the altar of something sacred. his eyes flutter closed, and there's a tremor in the air between you.

he lifts his head just slightly, the weight of his gaze pulling you deeper than any touch could. his voice breaks the silence, low and broken, the words crackling with something raw.

“this... is the only semblance of a ring i can give you.” he murmurs, as if the words are both a gift and a confession, an admission of a longing that has no end.

it carves through you like lightning.

you should pull away. remind him of the vows you wear like shackles. of your station. your symbols. that zeus did not gift you to hephaestus out of kindness, but as a solution. a ceasefire.

but instead—your hand lifts. as if guided by something older than reason. you cradle his face in your palm, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek. your golden ichor paints him—bright against pale skin, like warpaint. like a claim.

“you'll get me killed one day.” you say. the words float out of you soft and slow, silk soaked in prophecy.

he laughs, low and broken and full of something starved.

“only if someone gets to you before i do.” he turns his head, catches your fingertip between his lips. kisses it. reverent. ruinous.

his lips trail down your wrist, slow—like he's savoring not flesh, but fate. your breath hitches. somewhere behind you, the world still feasts. but here, in this quiet ruin, it's only the two of you. the war god, and the goddess he was never meant to have.

“do you want me to stop?” his voice cracks, a threadbare rasp that trembles with something dangerous.

you don't answer, not right away.

your body shifts, the fabric of your chiton whispering against your skin, slipping like liquid gold, pooling at your hips, revealing just enough to stoke the fire smoldering in his gaze.

his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue entirely, consumed by the weight of you.

satoru, the untamed. satoru, the one who has never known restraint. satoru, brought to his knees by the soft curve of your thighs.

you lean down, your breath warm against his ear, lips grazing the shell, barely there. “then kneel properly.”

and he does.

the groan of his armor is deafening, the pressure of him against you—heat and steel—his forehead against the crest of your hip, his nose tracing the curve where skin is softest, most vulnerable. his hands, large and calloused, find the firm flesh of your thighs, not with the intention to mark, but to learn, to remember. every small movement you make, every breath you stifle, he maps them, tattooing them in his mind like a strategy, like war.

his tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, not a conqueror's claim but a prayer. grateful in it’s intensity.

you arch into him, your back a taut bow, the world blurring for a moment as the weight of his touch splits you in half.

the torchlight bathes your skin, casting molten gold over the sweat-slick column of your throat, the flutter of your lashes so delicate, like wings caught in the flame. your fingers twist in his hair, not guiding—never guiding—just holding on.

as if you fear the heavens might tear him away from you, pull him from your reach.

he notices. of course, he does.

satoru, who feels the tremor before the spear flies. satoru, who senses the precise moment an enemy's resolve crumbles to dust.

his hands slide upward, fingers finding the curve of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows beneath your ribs. it's a question without words. a question only you can answer.

and you do.

you roll your hips once, sharp, precise, and his groan cuts through you, the sound shaking your bones, a crack of thunder in the silence of the room.

“satoru—”

your voice breaks, a whimper caught between prayer and curse. the ceiling above, painted with the gods' own hands, seems to sway with the weight of it—or maybe it's just your vision, blurry at the edges.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, glistening, intoxicating.

“louder,” he demands, voice as dark and thick as smoke from war-horns. “let them hear.”

you kick him, weakly, a distant protest, your heel sliding off his pauldron with a dull clang.

his laugh is ragged, breathless, a sound that rattles the air between you then he dives back in.

no hesitation. no mercy. just hunger, raw and relentless, like he's been dreaming of this moment for centuries. his hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to remind you who you belong to. his mouth moves with the kind of skill that comes from obsession—from nights spent imagining exactly how you'd fall apart for him.

and oh, you do.

It builds slow, then all at once—a coil tightening in your stomach, your back arching off the throne, your fingers twisting in his hair like you're clinging to sanity itself. you bite your lip hard enough to taste ichor, but it's no use.

the world simply narrows to heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue and you break.

a choked gasp rips from your throat as your back arches off the throne, thighs clamping around his head like a vice. golden ichor spills—not the slow trickle of a wound, but a flood, a surrender, dripping down his chin, painting his lips in liquid radiance.

he doesn't pull away.

he drinks.

greedy. reverent. as if this—your ruin, your release—is the only ambrosia he'll ever crave.

when he finally lifts his head, it's with a slow drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring every drop. his breath fans hot over oversensitive skin as he surveys his handiwork—your trembling limbs, your heaving chest, the mess glistening between your thighs.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. his thumb swipes through the gold streaking your skin, smearing it like war paint. “all that pretty composure, shattered.”

your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you kick at him again, but it's weak, the force gone, the desire too heavy.

he catches your ankle with ease, his grip unyielding. his lips pressing to the arch of your ankle, tender, almost reverent. then his teeth find it—sharp, a bite.

you jolt beneath him, a shiver running through you like lightning.

“still sensitive?” his voice is dark with satisfaction, low and predatory. he runs his tongue along the mark he's left, soothing it, his mouth just as cruel as it is tender. “good.”

a/n : ares gojo brainrot so bad i wrote this instead of continuing my wips... dunno if i made some misconceptions since im not that invested on greek mythology but if i did yall can expect my apology video w/ tears 😔✌🏻 first time actually trying to write smut omg dont jump me i did my best... part 3 someday idk

[ddarker-dreams]

any sunday crumbs for us? 😽

He's doing it again.

If you were conscious during a brain surgery, this is what it'd feel like, you think. The general anesthesia would render you immobile and deny your body the ability to process what it's being subjected to. But on some level, you would know. The metal implements poking and prodding and pulverizing defenses never intended to be breached.

Get out, get out, get out!

Squeezing your eyes shut, you fixate on memories that tie your intestines into knots. Your first love's puzzlement over who you were. The looming threat that the same fate could befall others you care for. How not even your mind is a haven in this padlocked 'paradise.'

The pressure in your head recedes.

"... You're upset," his voice is as soft and smooth as velvet. "It's understandable. Still... you should be able to tell. There's no malice behind my tuning — only consideration for your wellbeing."

You rub your temples, still throbbing from his abrupt departure. Even a perfectionist like Sunday wavers when confronted with the sheer depth of your loathing.

"A lie is a lie, no matter how pretty you spin in," you reply. "I think... I'm supposed to be mad at you. I am mad at you, I just can't remember why."

You turn to face him and smile wryly. "That's clever. Pulling the problem up from the roots instead of trimming it down. You learned from last time, huh?"

"Easing your resentment isn't solely for my sake," Sunday deflects your accusation. His countenance is solemn, like he's bearing a burden you couldn't begin to understand. "You're torturing yourself to make a point. If you'd just let me—"

"—Oh no, you don't get to sound fed up," you march up to where he stands and jut your pointer finger against his chest. "Acting all— righteous and like... like some kind of a martyr! I'm so sorry I'm not tripping over myself to thank you for fucking around with my head!"

You're trembling with fury, every vein in your body boiling. His countenance is neutral, if not a touch stern, but he allows you your cathartic outburst. Eventually, you pull your hand back, slumping over from exhaustion.

It's then that you throw in an additional jab for good measure.

"No matter what you do, or how many times you do it... I'll always find a new reason to hate you."

Sunday's eyes gleam as he replies:

"And I'll be here all the same."