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satellite-evans · 2 months ago

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all I need

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: Lando gets furiuos when you get fined for swearing after your crash.

Word count: 2.9k+

Warnings: fluff, swearing, injuries, angry lando

Request : Hi could I please request a lando x reader fic where the reader is a driver and she gets in a big crash and the team radio is like asking if she is okay and shes like answers after a bit and is in pain because she just CRASHED and then she accidentally swears on radio and she gets fined and the media is going crazy and like lando is just being a good protective boyfriend and is defending her in interviews and stuff? Thanks!! xoxo - anon 🍟

A/N:

Hi love, thank you so much for sending in a request and trusting me enough to write your idea!! I hope I did it justice xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

One moment, everything is fine—you’re fighting for position, pushing the car to its absolute limit, heart pounding with adrenaline as you navigate the treacherous corners. The next, it all goes horribly wrong.

The rear tires lose grip. A sharp twitch, then a full spin. Time slows, but your mind races. Your hands react on instinct, desperately trying to correct, but it’s too late. The world outside the cockpit blurs in a sickening whirl of colors—track, barriers, sky. Then nothing but gut-wrenching weightlessness as the car lifts off the ground.

The impact is catastrophic. Metal shrieks against metal, carbon fiber shatters like glass. The force slams through your body, rattling bones, squeezing air from your lungs. Pain flares—sharp, immediate—radiating from your ribs, your shoulders, your skull as the cockpit jolts to a brutal stop. Static crackles in your helmet.

For a moment, everything is eerily still. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the stunned gasps from the crowd, the commentary scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Your breath is ragged, shallow. The world tilts nauseatingly around you.

Then, the radio buzzes to life.

"Y/N, Y/N, are you okay?!" David's voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. There’s a tightness to it you’ve never heard before, and that alone terrifies you more than the crash itself.

You try to respond, but pain flares when you shift. A groan escapes before you can stop it. Your fingers fumble for the radio button, and when you finally manage to press it, your voice comes out weak, breathless.

"Fuck—yeah, I think so." A cough, a wince. "That hurt."

Across the track, in his car, Lando watches it all unfold in real-time. His stomach drops, breath catching as he sees your car crumple against the barriers. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The images flash across the big screens, slow-motion replays dissecting the crash from every angle. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Is she okay? Is she responding?!" His voice is laced with panic, the desperation evident.

His race engineer hesitates. "We're waiting on confirmation, Lando. Focus on the race."

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? The car, the track, the championship—all of it fades. Right now, none of it matters except you.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Please—can you keep me updated? I need to know if she's okay." His voice wavers just slightly, the emotion threatening to spill over.

A pause. Then, softer, "We will, Lando. Just focus for now."

He exhales sharply, forcing himself to keep driving, but his eyes keep flicking to the screens around the circuit, searching for any sign of movement from you. His heart pounds as he waits—praying to hear your voice again.

A beat of silence stretches after your message. Then, Race Control’s voice cuts through.

"Y/N, reminder that all radio transmissions are broadcasted live. Watch the language."

Despite everything, a strained, breathy laugh escapes you. "Yeah, yeah, noted. Ow."

The medical car is already pulling up, orange lights flashing, marshals swarming the wreckage. You can hear them shouting, their voices urgent but professional. Someone taps on the side of your cockpit, checking for a response. Your fingers twitch, slow and uncoordinated, but you give them a thumbs-up.

The crowd, stunned into silence, exhales as one. The commentators try to fill the dead air with reassurances, but the tension is thick. On social media, the crash is already going viral—clips looping endlessly, speculation running rampant.

The straps of your harness dig into your bruised shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off, replaced by a dull, spreading ache that makes every breath feel like a struggle. The world around you is a cacophony of noise—sirens wailing, the frantic chatter of the marshals, the dull roar of the crowd beyond the barriers—but it all feels distant, muffled by the ringing in your ears.

"Try not to move too much," one of the medical staff instructs gently, his gloved hands already working to unbuckle you from the mangled remains of your car. "Can you feel everything?"

You give a small, shaky nod. "Yeah," you breathe, wincing as you shift slightly. "Just sore. Really sore."

The relief on his face is immediate, but the tension in the air remains. They move carefully, extracting you from the cockpit as gingerly as possible. As soon as you're free, your knees threaten to buckle, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"You’re alright, we’ve got you," another voice reassures, steadying you as they guide you toward the waiting medical car. The flash of cameras in the distance, the low hum of anxious murmurs from the pit lane—it all feels surreal.

The moment the checkered flag waves, Lando doesn’t care about anything else. Not the debrief, not the podium celebrations—none of it matters. His car screeches to a halt in parc fermé, barely lined up properly, but he’s already halfway out before the engine even fully shuts down. His hands rip off his steering wheel, then his helmet, tossing it aside as he breaks into a full sprint toward the medical center.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow down. The only thing driving him forward is the sheer panic gripping his chest. His mind replays the crash on an agonizing loop—the way your car crumpled, how long it took for you to respond, the thought of losing you was eating him alive. He pushes past team personnel, ignoring their calls, shoving the medical center doors open with enough force to make them slam against the walls.

"Where is she?" His voice is sharp, almost desperate.

A nurse barely has time to react before he spots you. Sitting on the edge of the examination bed, bruised and battered, your race suit scuffed with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Your arm is wrapped around your ribs, and there’s a gash just below your glove, crimson seeping through the fabric. Your right knee is swollen, and every inhale looks like it stings.

But you’re alive.

Lando exhales a shuddering breath, his entire body sagging with relief. He crosses the room in seconds, reaching you like you might disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, gripping it tightly like an anchor. His fingers ghost over your bruised knuckles, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Jesus, Y/N…" His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of the fear still clinging to him.

You manage a small, tired smile despite the pain. "I’m fine. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks."

His jaw clenches, eyes scanning you like he doesn’t quite believe you. "Not as bad as it looks? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. Ever."

The intensity of his words makes your chest tighten—not just from the bruises, but from the raw emotion behind them. You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

Later, after the doctors clear you—bruised ribs, mild concussion, but nothing broken—you limp out of the medical center, Lando’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Every step sends a dull ache through your body, but at least you’re standing.

David intercepts you, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "So, uh… don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re getting a fine for the team radio."

You blink. "You’re kidding, right?"

Before David can even answer, Lando scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. "She just survived a high-speed crash, and they’re fining her for swearing? Seriously?"

David sighs, handing over the paperwork with an apologetic shrug. "Yeah… FIA wasn’t too happy. Regulations and all."

You stare at the notice for a beat before letting out a tired, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, okay. Next time I crash at 200 mph, I’ll be sure to say ‘gosh darn it’ instead."

Lando shakes his head, jaw tight with frustration. "Unbelievable."

But instead of dwelling on it, he just pulls you in closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of his embrace eases some of the lingering tension in your body. "Don’t worry about it, love. If they want to fine you for being human, let them. You’re still the toughest person I know."

You smile, leaning into him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Because at the end of the day, a fine means nothing when you still have Lando by your side.

And, as expected, the media goes absolutely wild.

"Formula 1 Driver Y/N Y/L/N Fined After Shocking Radio Message Post-Crash!"

"Did Y/N Deserve Her FIA Penalty? Fans Debate Over Radio Outburst!"

"Y/N’s Crash Sparks Controversy: Was the Fine Justified?"

The headlines flood every social platform within minutes. Slow-motion replays of the crash loop endlessly on TV screens, side-by-side with grainy images of you wincing as you climbed out of the wreckage. Every angle is analyzed, every expression dissected.

Your post-race hospital visit is barely over when reporters start circling like vultures, bombarding you with questions before you even have the strength to face them, but Lando was having none of it.

Seated in front of the media, still in his race suit, Lando’s jaw is tight, hands clenched on the table as microphones are shoved toward him.

"Lando, there's been a lot of discussion about Y/N’s penalty for language over the team radio. Do you think the FIA was justified in issuing the fine?"

He scoffs, jaw tightening. "Are we seriously focusing on a fine when she just survived a massive crash?" His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. "She was in pain. She was shaken up. And she swore—who wouldn’t? It's ridiculous."

The journalists shift uncomfortably, but another one presses on. "Rules are rules, though. FIA has strict guidelines about profanity on public transmissions. Do you think it sets a bad precedent if they don’t enforce them?"

Lando lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, if your first thought after seeing a crash like that is to talk about a penalty, maybe rethink your priorities."

Another journalist jumps in. "But don’t you think it’s important to maintain professionalism on the radio? A lot of young fans look up to drivers."

Lando rolls his eyes. "Right, because what’s really damaging to young fans isn’t the fact that someone just had a life-threatening accident, but the fact that she said ‘fuck’ while trying to breathe properly again." He leans forward, voice lower but no less cutting. "If we’re talking role models, maybe start by making sure the sport actually supports its drivers instead of fining them for reacting like a human being."

His words are already making waves, clips spreading across social media.

And while you’re still exhausted, still aching from the crash, there’s something about seeing him so openly, fiercely in your corner that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Even after the official interviews, the media frenzy doesn’t stop. Paparazzi crowd outside the paddock, desperate for a statement. Team members act as buffers, but there’s only so much they can do.

As you slowly make your way out of the motorhome, Lando’s arm firmly around your waist, cameras flash, voices overlapping as reporters shout over each other.

"Y/N, do you think the FIA’s decision was fair?"

"Do you regret your words on the radio?"

"Lando, how did it feel watching the crash happen live?"

He tenses beside you. "How do you think it felt?" His voice is sharp, protective. "I watched someone I love crash at full speed. So no, I don’t really give a damn about some radio penalty right now."

You squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. He doesn’t have to be this involved, but he is. Always.

Another journalist turns to you, voice softer but no less intrusive. "Y/N, how are you feeling after the accident?"

You exhale, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the lingering pain. "Sore, obviously. But I’m okay."

"Will you be racing in the next Grand Prix?"

Lando answers before you can. "She’s focusing on recovery first. That’s the priority."

It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s enough to hold off the speculation—at least for now.

The chaos of the day finally starts to feel like a distant memory as you curl up on the couch in Lando’s apartment. An ice pack rests gently on your ribs, offering some comfort against the bruising, but it’s Lando’s presence that truly calms you. His arm drapes protectively around you, pulling you in close like he never wants to let go, his warmth surrounding you in a way that makes you feel safe. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles on your arm, the rhythm gentle and steady.

It’s such a contrast to the frantic energy of the day—the flashing cameras, the endless questions, the tension in the air—but now, in this moment, all of that feels like it belongs to another world. This is where you’re grounded.

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder, letting the quietness of the room wrap around you like a soft blanket. But there’s something still heavy in the pit of your stomach, a lingering feeling that something was unsettled. You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes tracing the faint lines of worry still etched across his face, the tension that’s only now starting to ease from his features.

"You didn’t have to go that hard for me," you murmur, your voice soft, though you know the words don’t quite do justice to what you’re feeling. You had been overwhelmed by everything that happened, but he—he had been beside you every step of the way, his every move showing how deeply he cared.

He scoffs, shaking his head slowly like the idea is completely foreign to him. "Of course I did. It’s bullshit," he mutters, his voice laced with frustration that hasn’t quite gone away. "You should be getting support, not fined for a stupid word." The words come out with a little more heat than he intends, but it’s the underlying softness in his voice, the way he’s speaking to you like he wants to protect you from the world’s unfairness, that makes your heart flutter.

You chuckle softly, a tired sound that makes his grip on you tighten just a fraction, like he’s afraid you might slip away. "Guess I owe you, huh?" you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando’s response is immediate—he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His hands shift, cradling you with a tenderness that almost feels too gentle, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. "Just don’t scare me like that again," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, as though the thought of you being hurt again is more than he can bear. "And we’ll call it even."

You smile up at him, heart full of warmth for this man who always seems to put your well-being before his own. But you can’t promise him that. You know how the sport works, how unpredictable it is. You’ll never be able to give him that guarantee.

But there’s something you can promise him, something more important. You squeeze his hand, the simple act grounding you both in this moment. Your voice is steady as you look up into his eyes, locking your gaze with his. "No matter what happens," you say, the words firm but soft, a promise from the deepest part of you, "you’ll always have me. I’ll always have you."

His expression softens in a way that makes you think he’s heard every unspoken word in your statement, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels full—full of shared understanding, full of the love you have for each other, full of the promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the risks, you’ll face it all side by side.

For a long moment, Lando is quiet, his thumb still brushing over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes. But then his breath catches slightly, and when you glance up, you see it—the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. His jaw tenses as if he’s trying to hold it all back, but the emotion is too heavy, too raw.

"I thought I lost you," he admits, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the fear he’s been holding in. "When everything was happening, and I couldn’t reach you..." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to push the memory away, but his grip on you tightens like he never wants to let go again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—"

"Hey," you interrupt softly, your hand moving to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the dampness on his cheek. "I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere."

That seems to break whatever wall he was trying to hold up. Lando lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he closes his eyes. "I just... I can’t lose you," he confesses, the words raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Not you."

You press a soft kiss to his lips, hoping it conveys everything words can’t. "You won’t," you promise against his mouth, your voice unwavering. "I’m right here."

He nods slightly, like he’s trying to believe it, and when he pulls you into his arms again, it’s with a desperation that speaks to how close he felt to losing you. But in this moment, with his heart laid bare and your arms wrapped tightly around each other, there’s nothing else that matters.

Lando kisses you gently on the forehead, his lips lingering there for just a second longer. "That’s all I need," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Then, his arms pull you even closer, his warmth radiating through your bones.

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rules-are-cool · 6 months ago

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pokes helm outside, -!

is that? oh my unicron it is- uhm walks outside and picks it up- scurrying back inside with it

steals a blanket thats just lying around and losely wraps it around it

uh- uhmm- theres probably someone in the liberar-

crying

wha- oh- oh no. uhmm-

walks into the liberary looking for an adult

crying vary loudly

( @tfdaycare )

#transformers #multiverse #transformers au #transformers multiverse #transformers sparklings #daycare au #transformers daycare au #transformers roleplay #idw whirl #shattered glass whirl #HELP ME PLEASE #I NEED AN ADULT

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taelophone · 3 months ago

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Poolboy ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆˙⟡ — Luigi Mangione x Reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ TWs: Frat Boys™ . Reader never catches a break like once . Reader is the Phi-Si sweetheart . Slight Angst (?) . Porn w Plot . Penetration . ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ this fic is literally 6k words. bye.

What happens when you take one young woman, cram her into a frat group chat, and send her off on a summer vacation with said frat?

Hoots of joy and teal water splashed from the deep ends of the pool sounded against your eardrum as you flipped through a 2005 Vogue magazine. You had just arrived at your frat brother's summer villa, courtesy of Carson’s rich father.

You were the sweetheart of Phi Kappa Psi, a title you don’t even recall earning before being dragged along by your foot by a bunch of techy dudebros with a strange fixation for beer and computer science. More times than not, you felt like you were babysitting toddlers who treated their lives like toys they could fix.

When things went wrong and the brothers began to fight, you’d hear your name being shouted in deep whiny tones before two or more men would approach you with annoyed expressions. Heads tilted up, shoulders slouched, and their hands stuffed in their hoodie pockets before angrily talking over each other about whatever they were mad about.

What children.

But besides being the driving force for many makeups and peacekeeping, you valued your brothers deeply. Perhaps that was why they dragged you along by your unwilling ankles— because they knew you’d cave eventually…or they could just kidnap you.

Kidding! They’re not. It was a joke until you felt 5 pairs of hands dragging you out of your little apartment room while all clamoring about a chapter retreat and how they needed you to tag along.

So now you’re sitting on a scorching hot chaise recliner with a little glass full of some sort of alcoholic bomb that was probably mixed in a bathtub over seven thousand kilometers away from home.

You watched as each of them splashed around in the pool, their shouts of joy filling the air as they did their best to drown the person nearest to them. Empty beer bottles clanked and collided together in the pool water, the grace of god keeping them from shattering and raining hell on the impish boys.

You turned your head around, ensuring things were alright at the grill as saw two shirtless brothers named Logan and James manned the grill with plastic tongs and debated whether or not to pour another bottle of bear on the brisket.

“Yo!” A loud voice said, cutting through the noisy chaos as he adjusted his black and grey baseball cap. “We found a fat fuckin’ stack of Playboy mags in the basement by the bar. Don’t start running or we’ll all know you’re a virgin.”

A wave of tame laughter washed over the young men before the splashing and thrashing went back to normal. You counted the amount in the pool, ticking off each head of black, blonde, or brunette before you realized you were missing at least one brother.

You sat up, immediately shifting your sunglasses to rest on your head and doing another head count. But the question remained; Where’s Luigi?

Luigi was arguably the most level-headed of the frat or at least the one with a prefrontal cortex that hadn’t been completely damaged by alcohol poisoning. But boy, that man could drink.

“Hey guys, I’m gonna go look for Luigi. Please chill, don’t kill each other. And clean the pool, please, that’s fucking disgusting” you sighed, tucking your sunglasses between the stretchy black fabric and your heated skin.

You stood up, fixing your hair a little and making sure your baby hairs didn’t look fuzzy and crazy before waltzing into the large, neoclassical villa in pursuit of the missing man. On your way through the hall, you caught sight of 4 men standing in a circle around a TV with beers in their hands while completely entranced with some hallmark movie that they more than likely rented.

“Hunter!” You called before grimacing at the amount of beer cans that littered the floor.

The group of boys whirled their heads, facing you for half a second before the raven-haired boy mumbled a “yeah?” from his television-fueled trance. You toddled up behind them, peering above their shoulders so you could see what they were watching.

A Paris Proposal. On the Hallmark channel.

You bit back a laugh, watching their eyes lock themselves into the terrible acting like it was a gift from the heavens. They were locked in— watching in complete silence with slightly parted lips.

“Have you seen Luigi?” You asked, your brows pinching together in confusion before you turned to face Hunter.

“Uhhh…He was just playing foosball with Brennan a while ago…He should be down in the basement still,” he mumbled, not even sparing you a second glance as he watched the television with pin-straight posture.

“Thanks,” you said, making your way out of the large living room and sliding down the hall on some random white caster board lying around the smooth, glossy hardwood floors. You wobbled side to side, your ankles doing all of the work before you hopped off the board in front of the basement stairs.

When you reached the bottom of the basement stairs, you were greeted by only four brothers. Two at the foosball table, and two fighting for dominance over a Ms. Pac-Man arcade machine. But still no sign of Luigi.

“Hey, guys. Have any of you seen Luigi?” You asked, stopping at the side of the Foosball table to watch Anthony and Israel begin to sweat from manning each handle and rod.

“He’s in the back playing pool by himself. He’s being weird, he won’t talk to us. I think he had his AirPods in but we couldn’t see cuz he wouldn’t take that fuck ass Adidas hoodie off,” Anthony mumbled, looking up from the playing field for half a second before Israel shot a speeding goal into the open space between his second goal of players.

“DUDE! What the FUCK, bro!” He groaned, slamming his fist down onto the table.

You stifled a giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground as you folded your hands together and made your way to the back of the basement. Back past the bar, you passed a group of men huddled together reading some sort of magazine.

The further back you moved, the more the background noise seemed to fade away into a quiet buzz. Soon you made it to the pool room, the walls decorated with various sports memorabilia and jerseys signed by deceased football players.

When you heard the dull marbled noise of phenolic resin knocking against each other, you saw the familiar deep brown curls leaning over the pool table with a smooth pool cue between his thumb, pointer, and middle finger—the hold of a closed bridge.

He was focused, his hoodie up over his head as his eyes darted across the green fabric in a search for the best way to get all object balls in each hole. You tapped his shoulder, giving him a gentle indication of your presence before he turned his head in your direction.

His eyes were still trained on the pool table, almost like he was in some kind of stupor. He hummed, a low acknowledgment of your presence as he continued to ponder his next move across the table.

“I saw that you weren’t outside. Couldn’t find you so I wanted to make sure you were good,” you said, your hands resting on the reddish mahogany.

He paused, darting his pupils up in thought before he cleared his throat and turned to face you fully.

“Sorry…I was really focused. Yeah, I’m okay,” he nodded, leaning his pool cue against the table and crossing his arms. “The noise was just too much for me.”

You nodded in understanding, the epiphany sinking in as you crossed your arms against your chest as well. To say outside was overstimulating was an understatement— everything in the world seemed to be happening at once in such a short amount of time.

“Yeah, that’s…valid,” you said, a hand coming up to your forehead as you gently caressed the wrinkles that formed as you raised your brows.

“If you want, like…space, I guess? I could go back upstairs or try and get like…the guys out of the basement. Or you could go upstairs, but I’m sure there’s at least someone upstairs,” you offered, propping yourself up on the pool table to give your aching ankles a break.

“Nah it’s fine…you can stay, I was getting bored,” he murmured, picking up his pool cue once more and bringing his attention back to his solo pool match.

You nodded, clearing away from the pool table to drag a stool over to your semi-quiet corner of the basement. He seemed content with just sitting in silence while you watched him play, and It was honestly better this way, as he wasn’t completely alone and he had someone else to talk to.

“Did you know that the color goes all the way through the resin? It’s not just on the surface,” he murmured, holding up the blue ten-billiard ball.

“I didn’t know that actually…that’s pretty cool,” you nodded, a fraction of a second passing before the voices from the game room began to get a little too loud, indicating a festering fight between someone that you’d ultimately have to mediate or stop entirely.

“Okay, I’m so sorry, I have to go. If they break shit we’re all getting banned and I actually like this villa, have fun!” You scrambled, nearly falling off of your stool as you zoomed towards the conflict.

He watched as you toddled away, giggling under his breath at your panicked expression and the way you stumbled a little as you got up from your seat. Adorable— like a clumsy little bunny struggling to find their footing while it ran through a field.

Albeit a sticky, beer-coated field full of bottles and shiny with pool water. But it’s ok, global warming will get us there in 50 years or less.

After a long day of mediating ear-piercing petty fights between the brothers over the stupidest things— like who keeps drinking all the beer or whose turn it is to take out the trash, the sun began to say his goodbyes as he dipped between the trees and the hills to make way for his wife of the night.

Her big, gaudy, and full being slowly began to rise, bringing her many twinkling sons with her while kissing the day goodnight. Now, the only source of illumination was the thick veils of pale white light shining over the calm black waters of the pool.

Some brothers found themselves unconscious at the poolside, the Natural Light brand beer knocking their lights out as the alcohol kissed the surface of their medullas. Some found themselves passed out on the patio chairs, too tired to even get up and migrate to the warm villa.

Shirts were strewn about, followed by a shoe now and again, and the usual loud yells of freedom and joy seemed to quell into snores that were almost as loud as their triumphs over the skies. When you verified that everyone was okay and nobody had overdone it, you snapped a picture of everyone’s sleeping forms.

A core piece of your memory that you had managed to capture in the small confines of a digital screen.

You made your way back inside, upstairs and to the left in pursuit of the large room you secured for just existing amongst the sea of men. You gathered your little shower crate of things, your pink and fuzzy Ralph Lauren bathrobe, and your dental care before making your way into the bathroom to have a hot shower.

The gentle droplets ran down your skin, freeing your body from any early morning grime or lingering dead skin. Soft soapy suds cleansed your soul, relaxing the tangled and knotted wires in your mind as you took a quiet moment to process.

With the rough layer of your sleepless morning freshly shed, you stepped out of the shower feeling fresh and new. You brushed your teeth, finished your skincare, and detangled your hair before putting it into two braids so you could manage it in the morning.

Your head finally hit your pillow, the cozy silk cooling the side of your face as you closed your eyes, ready to repeat the morning in just a few hours.

And oh boy, did it repeat.

Before your eyes could even crack open, you heard the low murmurs of multiple men as they discussed if they should wake you up or if they should just order food. As soon as your eyes opened, ripe annoyance bloomed at your temples as you saw six pairs of eyes staring back down at you.

“What the actual fuck,” you sighed, watching as they stared down at you like some sort of foreign object.

“Can you make us pancakes?” Brennan asked, eliciting nods and murmurs of approval from the other young men around him.

“What…pancakes—what the fuck are you…no. No, I cannot make you pancakes. Go door dash or something,” you huffed, sitting up and rubbing your eyes before stretching the drowsiness away.

There was a loud conjoined sound of disapproval, swears, and murmurs of “I told you it wouldn’t fucking work” as they all filed out of your room one by one.

You got up following their absence, throwing on a pink zip-up hoodie, a white tank top, and some pink fuzzy shorts. Once you were ready for the morning, you made your way downstairs to greet the survivors of last night.

Once unconscious, twice dead, and three times the headache as they all recovered on the couch, all occupying the living room while watching some sports channel.

Somewhere between the lines of you starting the sleek, smooth, and electric stove in the kitchen, the pack of animals that sat on the floor of the living room decided to all go on a morning run to get breakfast. Leaving you with the whole villa to yourself for about two or three hours.

You made yourself a stack of 3 fat pancakes with a side of scrambled egg whites with American cheddar and herbs. Wait, where are the plates, maybe they broke them when—

THUD!

What. The. FUCK.

You whirled your head around, your neck jetting out to find the source of the noise while you held onto the wooden handle of the metal spatula.

Silence. Thick and heavy…impenetrable as you stood amongst the quiet kitchen. The longer you stood, the heavier it got.

Until Luigi emerged from upstairs, sporting a tired and pained expression with a hand pressed to the side of his face. It didn’t take long for you to put two and two together— Luigi had fallen out of bed.

“Morning…” he rasped, immediately making his way to the kitchen digging in the massive cooler, and placing a cold can of beer on the side of his face.

You watched in slight concern, scanning his features to check for any visible bruises before returning his greeting with a quiet “good morning” of your own.

“Where’d they all go?” He asked, scanning over your form as you cut strawberries into hearts to put on your pancakes.

“They went on a run. And then they’re gonna go get breakfast cuz I told them I wasn’t gonna cook for them,” you murmured, popping a sliver of sweet strawberry into your mouth.

“Oh. Damn…” he sighed, looking down at his feet with a slight pout.

“They literally just left like twenty minutes ago, but I can make you something. I’d rather cook for one person than like thirty,” you shrugged, giggling at the cutely shaped berries on your plate.

“Actually…” you murmured, pulling out a second plate and adding one of your three pancakes onto the plate along with some of your scrambled egg whites.

“Your protein intake must be in the negatives…” he chuckled, graciously accepting the white and square porcelain plate from your hands. “No meat, no egg yolk, no protein shake.”

“God forbid a girl makes a meal to her tastes,” you sighed, rolling your eyes before adding honey and light syrup to your pancakes. “Frat boys and their fuckin’ protein talk…”

You snorted, a smirk on your face as you began to eat your pancakes while using your free hand to fill a mug full of the only non-alcoholic substance in the house. Skim milk.

“Sorry, that’s my bad,” he chuckled, removing the near-frosted beer can from the side of his face and flicking open the tab with his teeth. He chugged most of the can in one go before setting it on the counter and crushing it with a flex of his forearm.

“Thank you for the food. You didn’t have to share, that was really nice,” he smiled, pulling open the utensil drawer in the counter, pulling out just a fork before digging into his soft and fluffy strawberry pancakes.

You nodded, giving him a thankful smile as you finished your breakfast together in silence.

If you had to choose between any of the brothers, you’d choose Luigi without a doubt. Not only was he respectful and actually used his brilliant mind, he seemed to have an almost intimate amount of compassion for you.

Way before the title of sweetheart and the pledges of Phi Kappa Si, Luigi was just some dork who you hung out with in your dorm room. Cooped up with your knees to your chest, you would sit with a couple of friends and just chat back and forth about whatever came to mind.

Life, intimacy, Italy, the green Luigi, different types of Pokémon, and various types of plants. When your time wasn’t always occupied by someone else, or when it wasn’t weird to be alone together, your quiet bond had the potential to sprout into red roses of intimacy.

Over time you had grown closer with shared laughs and stupid inside jokes. Back-and-forth banter grew casually sexual, heavy innuendos slipped from both of your lips with even heavier eye contact with every word.

There were days when you’d find yourself on his flexed thigh, just sitting there and doing nothing but holding a casual conversation. Those were the days of your early freshman and sophomore college journey.

But now you had your foot out the door— freshly graduated with both feet on a rocky path to independence. Luigi no longer was your flirty best friend who carried the weight of your deepest testaments, but just another acquaintance in the frat you monitored.

It was upsetting, of course, but things change and people can grow apart with time. It seemed as though that was just what happened between you and Luigi.

“Don’t drink that, it’s got spit in it,” Luigi warned, nodding his head upward subtly as you went to take a sip of your skim milk. Your eyes ran over the clear glass, a grimace forming on your face as you pushed it away from you.

“Do we not have water?” You asked, crossing your arms and setting your plate down on the counter next to Luigi’s.

“Nah… just get some from the sink,” he shrugged, scraping the remnants of his breakfast from the plate and shoving it into his mouth like a human garbage disposal.

After all, his name meant big eater. He seemed to live up to the name.

“Embodying your last name I see…” you joked, your eyes flicking back and forth between his plate and his face, his lips slightly glossy with the honey, syrup, and the blood of strawberries on his bottom lip.

“Absolutely… All I heard growing up was,” he began, pausing to let his tongue dart out to clean his plush and pink bottom lip.

“Mangia, mangia! Sei troppo magro!” He recited, his tone growing a bit smoother following the sudden switch of his tongue. Italian— the romantic language of southern Europe, where the towers lean and the men preen.

Your eyes fought the urge to widen as shock and slight arousal flooded your mind— his boyish giggles following his wave of authentic nostalgia were the sweetest hymns of joy. His voice was already attractive, but nothing was more sexy than a man who knew his native tongue.

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian…” you said, failing to mask the slight breathiness in your tone as you clumsily slotted your dirty dishes into the sink, the honey-maple and strawberry residue falling atop Luigi’s plate with a loud clink that almost made you jump.

“Really? I thought I told you…” he hummed, his brows raising a fraction as he stared down at you. He leaned back, his palms gently gripping the edge of the marbled counter as he kicked a foot back. “I probably didn’t, actually…I don’t speak it often.”

You hummed, tilting your head to the side slightly as you traced the outer shell of your ear to calm your nerves.

“Wait, say something else” you asked.

“That’s exactly why I don’t,” he chuckled, his arms crossing over his chest.

“C’mon, please?” You smiled. “I’ve gotta hear it from you now.”

He sighed sarcastically— a long, drawn-out, and heavy gust of sweet wind from his lungs as he rolled his eyes as far as his sockets would allow with a smirk.

“Only because I love you,” he chuckled. “Farei qualsiasi cosa per te, ama. Sei così carina.”

It was like a pink and gaudy glass pane shattered into a thousand glimmering little pieces— slicing through your mind as you replayed the words again and again in your mind. You had no idea what it was he said, but it sounded so good coming from his mouth.

From his little proclamation of loving you, clear evidence that the spark between the two of you still flickered with the flames of burning fascination, to the quick work his tongue made enunciating his Italian dialect. Everything about this moment was intoxicatingly attractive.

“What does that mean?” You asked, an innocent tilt of your head as he chuckled at you.

“It means you have a really big forehead and your little frog face is cute,” he joked, stretching his arms up a little to alleviate some of the tension stored in his spine.

In that moment you stopped to admire what he was wearing— a navy blue zip-up hoodie and black sweatpants with a white drawstring. When he stretched his hoodie traveled up a bit, revealing his defined V-line and trimmed happy trail.

Good fucking god this man is so hot.

You cleared your throat, pulling down his hoodie before he finished stretching with a chuckle.

“Whore. Cover your midriff, slut,” you joked, giving him a disapproving glare and a tut-tut-tut of your tongue.

“Slutshaming me for stretching is crazy,” he laughed, a gentle furrow of his brows as he bonked your head gently with his large hand. “C’mon, let’s go play pool.”

You chuckled, holding onto his arm gently like it was a natural reaction. Cold nostalgia flooded your brain, the light and freezing liquid invading every crevice of your brain as the memories of long nights spent holed together in a dingy old dorm that had seen its fair share of emotions.

“What is it with you and pool?” You sighed, still following him through the kitchen and down to the game room anyway.

“Pool,” he began, his head leaning forward a bit as if it was helping him enunciate his words. “Is like chess. I like thinking about what I can do before I do it…helps me focus and it’ll help me think critically later in life.”

You nodded, chatting away with Luigi about pool and different types of ways to hold a pool cue as you ran your manicured nails along the walls. The drywall made its parched and scratchy sounds under your nails, the stimulation ceasing as you withdrew your fingers from the wall and greeted the pool table once again.

“I feel the need to tell you now that I don’t know how to play pool,” you blurted, picking up a pool cue in your dominant hand and tapping it on the floor twice for good luck.

“It’s okay, I’ll show you,” he smiled, tossing his cue back and forth between each of his large palms before it settled in his left hand.

He lifted the triangle from the object balls carefully, making sure each one was in place before beckoning you to come closer to the table. You obliged, quickly slinking your way beside Luigi.

“So hold it with your right hand…yeah, like that. Then you put it over your thumb…mhm… and bring your pointer finger up,” he instructed, his hand ghosting over yours to correct any errors in your hold.

“And then lean over and push the cue forward” he nodded.

You leaned forward, your hips awkwardly hitting the table as your pool cue missed the very thing you were aiming at. Oops.

Luigi choked back a loud laugh, turning around to face the wall and taking a deep breath before sighing with a wide grin. When he calmed down, he turned back around and placed his arm over yours, his hand wrapping around your wrist as his chest pressed against your back.

You could feel his body's warmth. If you focused hard enough, you were almost certain you could feel the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat in his chest.

He leaned forward, taking you with him until your upper body was almost parallel to the grassy green fabric of the pool table. Your breath caught in your throat, and an fire crept up your cheeks as you tried not to inhale his scent like a weirdo.

Aftershave, nautical soap, and warm cotton.

“Like this, see?” He asked, driving your dominant hand forward to hit the object ball. “If you don’t lean forward you’re gonna miss your shot. It makes everything so much easier when you’re just starting.”

As Luigi forced your arm forward, helping you hit the cue ball again and again, you swear you could feel his crotch brush against the fat of your ass once or twice. A sign you hoped you weren’t overlooking.

“What’ya doing back there?” You mused— a light and flirtatious tone to your words that he could easily shoot down if he wanted to. But the thing about Luigi and his sneaky self…is he didn’t want to.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he chuckled, his hands snaking their way down to your gentle hip bones as he leaned up off of you. You missed the warmth of his chest on your spine already, longing to bask in his layered scent once again.

“I think you do, but that’s okay,” you chuckled, dropping your hold on your pool cue to wrap your hand around Luigi’s instead, lacing your fingers together. “You’ve never been a liar, don’t start now.”

He chuckled, guiding your hips back and forth against the steadily rising tent in his sweatpants. Of course— he was fake-banging you while giggling like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“Luigi, you're acting like a middle schooler… don’t be crude,” you chuckled with a light eye roll.

He laughed in response, shaking his head free of his immature thoughts as he gave a final sigh. He ceased his movement against your behind, his heavy palms rubbing up and down your sides with the feather-light touch of all the saints above.

How he wanted to ravage you whole, they’d have to cover their little cherub eyes with the soft feathers of their wings while their hands covered their mouths to muffle their scandalized gasps. The heavens would tremble with each loud little whine and moan he’d pull from you that echoed up to the skies.

“I’d do you so dirty on this pool table…” he murmured, more or so to himself as his hands came to squeeze your hips possessively.

You hummed, poking your hips back against him as your nails traced random shapes into the green fabric. You heard him sigh, deep and heavy as he suddenly went still.

“Now you’re just being a brat,” he chuckled, pulling at the fabric of your shorts. “This okay? We can stop if you want—“

“Do not,” You began, gripping his wrist with the force of an agitated bull, red and fiery with lust and want. “Stop. Keep going.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smiled, his hand hooking into your shorts and sliding the pretty pink fabric down your knees.

“Pretty…” he murmured to himself, running the pad of his thumb down the soft cotton fabric of your panties.

You shuddered a bit at the scandalous contact, the gentle but firm touch sending sparks of electricity across the planes of your skin. He was so deliberate with every touch to your body…almost like he had years of practice.

Which you knew wasn’t true, as he had only been with roughly two people across his lifespan. As tragic as it was to admit out loud, Luigi was just really really good with anything involving his hands.

He earned a quiet whine from your soft lips, your hands dropping your pool cue clumsily as it clattered on the hardwood floors. Your hands gripped the edge of the pool table, the cherry-tinted dark wood as he continued to fidget with your achy clit through the fabric.

“Luigi…” you sighed, your brows furrowing with frustration and light taps of euphoria. “Stop teasing, you’re being evil.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he purred, an impish smile on his face that you wished you could see. He lowered his sweatpants, just enough for his rigid and raging bulge to become visible from the thin cloth of his boxers.

He chuckled, the sound ruminating deep in his chest as he gently pressed his sheathed bludgeon against you, rocking you back and forth along his length with small sighs and quiet whines. He could feel your pretty panties dampening with his slow and deliberate thrusts, a knowing smirk forming on his cherub cheeks.

“You better pray the guys don’t come back soon…” he laughed, freeing his girthy dick from his boxers, the shiny pearls of precum dribbling down the grapefruit-pink tip onto the floor.

He hooked his fingers in your panties, pulling them down with angelic affection before he bumped his fat tip against your glistening cunt. Sticky, sloppy, short-lived noises reverberated through the game room, bouncing off the walls and striking your eardrums with sin.

“Sorry,” he murmured, an apology that confused you slightly as he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just like rain, designed to warn you of lightning that would leave you cowering and trembling with its loud cracks of thunder, you failed to heed the warning he gave you.

He pushed in, eliciting a sharp inhale filtered by his teeth. He was huge and thick like the fat beer bottles that lay stagnant on the floor in various locations in the house.

You yelped a little, the mix of precum and slick doing little to nothing to aid the stretch as he speared you apart and filled you up. It took everything in you not to kick your legs as he slowly slotted himself between you.

“Aww, it’s okay…I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed, gently holding your hand as you squeezed around him— both your hand and your cunt.

You moaned out, broken and dissonant as you pressed your free hand to your mouth like your life depended on it. Even though you were pretty sure everyone was out of the house, you didn’t want to wake up any potential late sleepers who could very much still be two floors up.

“Ah, no,” Luigi said, withdrawing your hand from over your mouth. “Don’t do that, get loud…let the world know who’s sweetheart you really are…”

He began moving, his hips moving against yours slowly. He could feel you soaking your inner thighs and his dick, the slick and slippery sounds growing louder as he began to piston in and out of you with increasing speed.

You could feel him abusing that spongy spot deep in your core, dragging across the inside of you and sending sparks of electricity through your veins. Each breathy moan and whine he pulled from you only served as motivation to keep him going, postponing his hips against yours like a fervent bull.

By now you should be embarrassed; the table beneath you had begun to subtly rock with the force of his thrusts, your arms were trembling, and your face was pressed into the green fabric of the playing field as pathetically loud moans spilled from you.

“Tight—! God, you’re squeezing me I can barely fucking move..” he grunted, putting in extra work to refrain from squeezing your hand hard enough to fracture your bones. He huffed above you, deep moans of his own escaping from the back of his throat.

There was a whiny and high tone in his words like an angel crying above you as he sucked in deep breaths of air that only satiated him until the next. The frequency of your moans grew as the knot in the pit of your stomach began to tighten, warning you of your looming orgasm.

“Close…!” You whimpered. If it wasn’t for Luigi’s strength, or maybe the added support of the pool table, you were positive your legs would have buckled and given out a long time ago.

“I know,” he purred, his free hand coming up to your neck and gently squeezing around its sides.

It wasn’t long until your limbs seemed to lock up— ice froze your limbs in place as your lower legs kicked in place. With a loud moan, your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you painted the man behind you with a pretty shade of white.

Oh my god, he isn’t slowing down.

Your eyes shot open as quickly as they could when you felt his chest lean against your back again, his low grunting in your ear as he continued to fuck into you. He kissed your temple, muttering soft “I’m sorry, baby’s” into your right ear as your moans began to grow hoarse and whiny.

“I’m so sorry…you feel too fuckin’ good, you can give me another, right?” He coaxed, turning your face toward his with a firm hand on your jaw.

You were panting, all in your fucked-out glory as your eyes welled with salty tears; a testament to your overstimulated arousal. He had never seen something so beautiful in his life.

From what you could see through your fogged and warbled vision, his nose was an affectionate rose. Rouge and rampant with his rough thrusts, the stimulation was driving you more insane than you swore you were.

You reached back, weakly pushing at his toned pelvis in a last-ditch effort to save yourself some dignity.

“Move your hand,” he instructed, his eyes staring sternly into yours as he slowed his near cervix-bruising pace.

“Too much…too much, can’t—…Can’t take it” you babbled, not even sure if that was what came out of your mouth. Your brain was much too foggy to process words, much less say them.

“You’re going to take it though,” he cooed, letting go of your jaw and standing up straight, instantly revoking his body heat from your back.

He grabbed your wrists with his large hand, keeping them still above the curve of your behind. Seeing his large hand restraining your smaller ones unearthed a strange fuzz in his mind that sent his dick twitching madly, triggering a strained string of profanities to fly from his lips.

His muscles and bones tensed up, the veins in his hands and arms flexing slightly as he stilled. Being aroused hadn’t rendered him stupid, though, and with a grunt of your name, he pulled out of you and spilled hot and sticky ropes of cum all over your behind.

You yelped, immediately whining as he fucked you into a twitchy and sensitive second orgasm, a shaky breath pulling from your lips as you went limp on the pool table.

“You sound pretty, too.”

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione thoughts #luigi mangione x you #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione x y/n #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione fic

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karanseraph · 1 year ago

Text

This art has zero to do with my fic, but seeing this and knowing what I just wrote, I feel like they are standing in the trans-dimensional foam....

"Can you keep a secret?" Skywarp asked.

"No," Whirl said, "No. I don't think so. Probably not."

"I'll tell you anyway." Skywarp leaned in, letting the walking stick lean against the kiosk and putting his left gauntlet atop the counter. "There was a more ancient universe, apparently, at least one. And it got destroyed, I guess. But there are these...soft spots where reality can bleed between dimensions or universes. Like there's space-time here and then there's unspace, but it you imagine space being folded, then in places, reality is rubbing up against itself - or each other - and wearing and bleeding through and so we can end up with pockets, like bubbles of lubricating foam generating between the folds, and stuff's just different there. And if you know where the soft spot is you can sorta break through and go there and find fossil remains of older and other realities all mushed together."

"This is so hot," Whirl said.

"Right! So, I went there...."

(except from my WIP)

彼のスパークはどこに行くのか

#transformers #starscream #jetfire #skywarp #whirl #shattered glass #menonia #trans-dimensional #precursor world

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the-modern-typewriter · 3 months ago

Note

In a recent post you said most of us weren't here for vampires but I beg to differ; your vampire snippets are literally enthralling. If you're in the mood to write another one, here's an excuse for you to do so (pls they're so good-), preferably with an enemies to lover vibe? Who doesn't love a little dramatic tension, right? Thank you!~

"Don't turn around."

The human paused, heart slamming in their chest at the voice. The hall of mirrors was eerie around them, all shadows and neon and flashing lights and distorted glass that offered them no sign of the vampire behind them. After a beat, the hunter kept walking, gaze trained to the wall of mirrors lining the left.

Somewhere, in the distance, they could hear screaming. It was difficult to tell if the sounds were horror or delight.

"What happens if I turn around?" the human asked.

"I'll have to kill you, and neither of us wants that."

"I'm a hunter. I'm pretty sure we both want that fight. Kinda how it goes, you know?"

Yet, the hunter didn't turn around. They had a weapon on them, of course, because they always had a weapon on them. But they hadn't come to the fairground to wage battle against terrible evil. The night was supposed to have been a fun one, candy-floss sticky and sweet with first kisses. A stupid lump wedged in their throat. They hastily wiped the remnant tears from their eyes.

They felt the vampire move next to them, though they heard no steps and felt no breath. Only the slight emanating chill of the undead. Despite themselves, despite knowing better, they searched the glass for any sign. There was nothing.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

"What do you want, coming here?"

"I didn't know this was vampire territory."

"I suppose you are just a baby hunter. How old are? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," the hunter snapped.

The vampire chuckled. "Seventeen," they echoed. Musing. There was something in their voice that the hunter couldn't quite read.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The hunter rolled their eyes. They supposed they should have been terrified - on any other day they would have been. They hadn't technically done their first solo hunt yet and even one vampire was not a creature to be taken lightly. Everything in their head was too loud for terror. Too raw.

"Is it the girl you liked, or the boy?" the vampire asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The boy and the girl who were kissing here, not long ago. That you saw. I saw you see them. You looked like you'd been staked through the heart. Which is the one you liked?"

The hunter whirled, furious. They caught a blur of movement before an icy hand clamped over their eyes, slamming them back against the glass hard enough to knock the breath out of them. They were surprised the mirror didn't shatter. Their head throbbed and a low whine of pain slipped free of their throat. The vampire caught their wrist before they'd finished reaching for a weapon, grinding that into the glass behind them too.

"I said," the vampire's lips pressed against their ear, voice a sudden lethal hiss, "don't turn around."

"And I don't take orders from vampires!"

"Touchy subject, was it?" The vampire's grip tightened hard enough to hurt.

"If you're going to kill me, just kill me!"

The vampire was silent, at that. They did not retreat, but their grip eased enough to be only iron instead of something painful. Their body felt hard and lean and strong against the hunter's. Dangerous and gorgeous. Nothing like the gentle wholesomeness of-

"The boy," the hunter said. "Eddie."

"Eddie. And you are?"

"Fuck off, leech."

"You're hot," the vampire said. "Eddie's an idiot."

It startled the hunter enough that the venom died on their tongue and their mouth dried. They'd expected - well, anything but that perhaps. They would have gaped at the vampire if they could see past the press of darkness over their eyes. They were sure their jaw dropped.

Hot. A vampire had just called them hot. Maybe they had concussion. A shiver ran down their spine.

"Want me to kill her for you?" the vampire asked, conspiratorial. "Bet I could make it look like an accident."

"No! She's my friend."

"Some friend. Want me to kiss you?"

The hunter - the hunter had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Well. They knew what they were supposed to say. No. Nada. Absolutely not. Vampires were vampires, and the only acceptable way to deal with them was to stake them.

The vampire chuckled again, presumably at their expression. They pressed a kiss to the hunter's throat, above their jugular. The hunter's breath hitched anew.

"God, you're so angry and so hurt," the vampire said. "I want to eat your heart. You're gorgeous. You can cry again if you like, I won't mind. I won't judge."

Vampires, their parents always said, craved life. It was why they were found so often in bars, or fairgrounds, or the other high points of the night. It wasn't just hunting. They were drawn to the sound, and the vibrancy, like ravenous ghosts clawing at the wounds of the world.

Somehow, it made the hunter feel less pathetic. For all those chuckles, it felt a bit like power. They could only imagine what their parents would say to that. No doubt they would berate the hunter for their unforgivable stupidity, because vampires killed hunters and hunters killed vampires and if the fairground was actually a travelling coven then -

"Do you want to kiss me?" the hunter asked.

"Yeah."

"That's embarrassing for you."

The vampire scoffed.

"And crying alone in a funhouse over some boy who doesn't even know vampires exist is cool?"

"I thought you weren't judging."

"Vampires are all shameless liars. Didn't your parents teach you that?"

Despite themselves, the hunter snorted.

"It's because you're not normal," the vampire said, in a different voice. Quieter. Suddenly serious. "Not like them. Can't do the things they do, because you're too busy stuck trying to slaughter the likes of me. Eddie's normal. Safe."

The hunter swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," the vampire echoed once more.

The vampire kissed them then, or maybe it was the hunter that started it, but it was clumsy and shockingly gentle and good and definitely the dumbest thing that the hunter had ever done. But they weren't thinking about Eddie anymore. It was impossible to think about Eddie with that cold perfect mouth and the adrenaline searing heat through the hunter's body. Every instinct in their body screamed danger and it was the most glorious distraction from heartbreak.

Their body arched against the glass, pressing foolishly closer.

They were left panting.

Then the vampire kissed them again, and it was a little less clumsy, more claiming, like the vampire was learning how to do it. Like maybe they'd never kissed anyone either. Like maybe they really were seventeen, and had thought their life would all work out differently.

"Next time," the vampire said, and nipped their lip just enough to draw blood. "Don't turn around. I've gotta go."

They shoved the hunter away, and - the hunter wasn't sure if they were left alone with the empty reflections, because they didn't turn. They looked at themselves, all dark eyes and hurt and confusion, in the glass.

All hunger.

They smiled, wiping their own blood from their lip.

They did look hot, actually.

For at least a moment, they walked out of the hall of mirrors feeling better than before.

#vampires #vampire #vampire x hunter #hunter x vampire #enemies to lovers #kinda #it's something #writing snippet #my writing #original fiction #writeblr

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mariasont · 10 months ago

Text

Laundry Day - A.H

a/n: 1000 words for 1000 followers!!!!!!!!! i am in complete disbelief honestly, you all are so amazing and im so thankful for each and every one of you <3

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

summary: hotch begins to notice a difference in the way his clothes smell, wonder why?

wc: 1k

Hotch had been wrestling with the unsettling notion that he might be ill, or worse he had a brain tumor, manifesting through phantom smells. Whatever it was, it had been driving him crazy because the persistent aroma was undeniably yours, his nanny. As much as he didn't to admit it, this would usually be a welcome scent, soft and florally, like he had just stepped into a flower field.

Today, however, the scent was nothing short of an irritant. Every fleeting whiff had him jerking his head up, expecting to see you standing in the doorway of his office. But you were never there, of course, which only intensified the frustration gnawing at him.

There it was again, and despite his better judgement, his gaze darted to the door, unfortunately only to find Morgan casually propped against the frame.

"Hey, boss, got a minute?"

The scent had momentarily clouded his focus, but he quickly regained his bearings and closed the file, giving a firm nod. "What's up?"

"We've got a lead on the case in Richmond," Morgan started, handing over a document. "Local PD spotted a vehicle matching the description of our unsub's."

Hotch took the file, fingers thoughtfully brushing his chin as he scanned the pages. Morgan stepped closer, his nose giving a slight twitch before he took a seat in front of the desk.

"You know, Hotch, I gotta ask," Morgan prodded, a sly smile spreading across his face in a way that made Hotch uneasy. Morgan wasn't known for his filtered comments. "You got a girl or something? It smells way too good in here for just paperwork."

Point in case.

Hotch's eyes flickered up from the papers. "What? No, I--"

"Come on, man," Morgan chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't play coy with me. Whoever she is, she's got good taste. I think Savannah uses the same perfume."

Hotch clamped the file closed, his mind racing faster than he could keep up with. So for one, it wasn't just in his head which was a good thing. He could rule out a brain tumor. But on the other hand that leaves the question of why the hell he smells like his nanny?

It was all he could focus on all day, paralyzing his work capabilities, reducing him to a state of mere motion without meaning.

It wasn't until the office AC malfunctioned, and he found himself stripping off his jacket, did he discover the source of the floral scent. His own jacket. He inhaled it cautiously, feeling slightly perverted before quickly stowing it away in a drawer, slamming it shut to dispel the borderline inappropriate thoughts.

When he finally arrived home, jacket in hand, he headed straight towards the sound of your humming. Normally, he'd make his rounds--first to Jack's room, who was usually napping at this time, then to the kitchen for his nightly scotch, and finally to his home office. But today was different.

The jacket hung loosely over his forearm, briefcase now abandoned at the door as he made his way towards the sound of your voice. It was the damn scent that greeted him first, drifting from the laundry room, and then, finally, the sight of you.

But what caught his attention, besides you and your slightly too short skirt, was the undeniable evidence of you misting his clothes with your perfume.

He said your name, almost in a scolding way, which he quickly realized his mistake when you whirled around, gasping as the bottle slipped from your fingers, shattering on the tile floor.

"Don't move," Hotch commanded, heart racing as he watched the glass scattered around your bare feet.

He moved towards you, stepping over the glass, carefully scooping you in his arms and setting you safely on the counter. He then knelt down, gathering the broken pieces.

"Mr. Hotchner, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to sweep me off my feet." Your legs were dangling from the counter, swinging back and forth. He gave you a deadpan look, his eyebrow raised every so slightly. "You're no fun."

You pouted, attempting to slide off the counter, but his hand was on your ankle in an instant.

"Stay put," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. He sighed, collecting the last of the glass and tossing it before standing up straight. "Also, is there a particular reason my suits now double as air fresheners?"

"Mr. Hotchner, you wound me with your accusations," you said, hand over your heart, crossing your legs in a criss-cross apple sauce fashion.

You were going to be the death of him.

Hotch cleared his throat, willing his gaze not to dip in between your legs. "You're wearing a skirt."

"Oh whoops," you giggled, fixing your position.

"And for the record, I actually didn't accuse you, but your defensiveness and the fact that I caught you red handed tells me everything I need to know." He took a step towards you. "Care to explain?"

"I...um, wanted to make sure you're always fresh?"

"And you chose your own perfume for that?"

"How do you know it's mine?"

With a step that erased any remaining space between you, Hotch bent slightly, his nose near your collarbone. "It's hard to miss."

He took a step back, giving you room to breathe.

"I just wanted to make sure any girls on the street didn't get the wrong idea," you said, the corners of your mouth turning up.

Hotch let out a chuckle. "You do realize you're my nanny not my wife, correct?"

"Tomato, tomahto."

"Careful."

You swung your legs off the counter, standing up straight. "Any chance to buy me another perfume bottle? It was kind of expensive, and well, you know my salary..."

"No." It wasn't as firm as he wanted it to be and it only took him a second to give in, this happened a lot when it came to you, handing over his credit card. "Fine."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath

#aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x nanny!reader #aaron hotchner x nanny reader

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

Text

Don’t Touch Her

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando will do whatever it takes to ensure your safety after the unthinkable almost happens during a night out

Warnings: spiked drink, attempted SA, descriptions of seizure, hospitalization, and the implied murder of a minor character

You sway your hips to the pulsing beat, the colorful lights of the club flashing across your skin. Lando’s hands rest lightly on your waist, guiding you to the music. You lean into him, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the tang of sweat in the humid air.

“I’m parched,” you say, turning to face him. “Want me to grab you a drink?”

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can get them, love. You keep dancing.”

You shake your head, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the lips. “I need to get off my feet for a bit anyway. Same as usual?”

“Please. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

You make your way through the crowded dance floor, weaving around gyrating bodies and flailing limbs. The bar is packed, patrons jostling for the bartenders’ attention. You manage to wedge yourself into a tiny gap, shouting your order over the commotion.

While waiting for the drinks, you check your phone. A few missed texts from friends, asking where you are. You fire back quick responses before pocketing the device just as the bartender slides two glasses toward you.

Vodka cranberry for you, rum and coke for Lando. You pass over a few bills, waving away the change, and turn to head back to the dance floor.

You take a long sip of your drink as you walk, the bubbly sweetness refreshing after all that dancing.

Lando is easy to spot, standing out due to the size of the crowd surrounding him. He smiles when he sees you coming, his whole face lighting up. Your heart flutters at the way he looks at you, like you’re the only person in the room.

You’re halfway to him when the first wave of dizziness hits. You stumble, drinks sloshing over your hands. Sudden nausea swirls in your gut. The room starts to spin, lights blurring into a kaleidoscope.

“Hey ...” You blink hard, trying to clear the fog creeping over your thoughts. “I don’t … feel so good.”

The glasses slide from your grip, shattering on the floor. You try to take a step toward Lando and the ground rushes up to meet you. Strong hands grab your arms, keeping you from collapsing completely.

“Whoa there, looks like someone started the party a little early.” The voice is unfamiliar, masculine with a hint of mocking laughter. You try to pull away but your limbs feel like lead.

“No, I ...” You shake your head, which only makes the dizziness worse. Through your dimming vision you can see Lando pushing through the crowd, his eyes wide.

“C’mon, there’s a back door this way. Let’s get you some air.” The man starts to guide you away, arms wrapped around your shoulders. Panic shoots through you and you try again to wrench yourself free, but it’s useless.

The cold night air hits you as the door swings open. The alley swims before you, dingy bricks and overflowing dumpsters. The man keeps walking, bearing you along while your weak protests fall on deaf ears.

Fear claws at your insides. You catch a glimpse of streetlights at the other end of the alley before he steers you into the shadows halfway down.

“S-stop,” you mumble, tongue heavy in your mouth. He just chuckles, pressing you against the brick wall.

“Shh, just relax. I’ll take good care of you.” His hand squeezes your thigh, rucking up your dress. Somewhere in the recesses of your fading mind, terror shrieks at you to fight, to run, but your traitorous body refuses to respond.

As the man leans in, the alley floods with light. Heavy footsteps pound on the pavement.

“Get your hands off her!” Lando’s voice booms with more fury than you’ve ever heard from him. The man holding you whirls around just as Lando’s fist connects with his jaw. He reels back with a cry, grip loosening. Lando catches you before you can slide to the ground.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you.” His touch is infinitely gentle compared to the bruising hold of the stranger. He strokes your hair back from your face, eyes searching yours. “Can you hear me, love?”

You try to respond but only manage a faint whimper. Lando swears under his breath. Scooping you into his arms, he carries you swiftly from the alley. You press your face to his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline as he strides toward the street. Each jostling step sends the world spinning again.

Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Lando lowers you onto a bench outside the club, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “Talk to me, please. What’s happening?”

You lick your dry lips, forcing words out with monumental effort. “Dizzy … everything … blurry ...”

Lando’s face creases with worry. He pulls out his phone to dial for help, but pauses when you suddenly convulse, muscles seizing. Your back arches, head slamming against the hard bench.

“Shit! Hold on, I’ve got you.” Lando slides his hand under your head, cradling it gently as the seizure wracks your body. Tears stream down his face as he murmurs soothing words, helpless to do anything but wait it out.

After endless moments, the convulsions stop. You go limp, gasping raggedly. The world fades in and out of focus, Lando’s anguished face floating above you.

“Please, baby, stay with me,” he begs, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. “The ambulance will be here any second.”

You try to respond but darkness crowds the edges of your vision. The last thing you see before slipping into unconsciousness is Lando bent over you, shoulders shaking with sobs as he clutches your motionless hand.

***

Beeping.

Hushed voices.

The astringent scent of disinfectant.

You drift somewhere between waking and oblivion, grasping at fractured memories.

Lando’s face, streaked with tears.

Dancing bodies.

Pulsing lights.

The weight of unwanted hands, dragging you into the shadows.

With a sharp inhale, your eyes fly open. You’re in a hospital room, IV line taped to the back of your hand. Pale morning light filters through the blinds. The beeping comes from a monitor tracking your heartbeat.

“Hey.” Lando sits in a chair beside the bed, leaning forward when he sees you’re awake. His eyes are rimmed with red, hair disheveled. “How are you feeling?”

You try to speak but your throat is painfully dry. Lando grabs a cup of water, angling the straw so you can sip. The cool liquid soothes like a balm, washing away the cottony feeling in your mouth.

“What … what happened?” You rasp out finally.

Lando’s expression turns grim. “Someone drugged you at the club. Probably targeting an easy robbery, but ...” His jaw clenches, hands balling into fists. “If I had been even a few seconds later, he would have ...”

Unable to finish the thought, Lando buries his face in his hands. His shoulders tremble. Your heart aches, and you reach out to comb gentle fingers through his hair.

“But you weren’t,” you say softly. “You saved me.”

He looks up, eyes shining wetly. “I never should have let you out of my sight. If I lost you ...” His breath hitches, raw anguish written across his face.

“Hey, no.” You catch his hand, squeezing firmly. “This wasn’t your fault. You found me in time. That’s all that matters.”

Fresh tears spill down Lando’s cheeks. He brings your entwined hands to his lips, pressing a trembling kiss to your knuckles.

“I was so scared,” he chokes out. “Seeing you like that, helpless, shaking ...” He clenches his jaw, looking away. “And not being able to do anything. Just having to watch ...”

He breaks off with a shuddering breath. You tug gently on his hand, urging him up from the chair. He perches on the edge of the bed, enveloping you in his tender arms. You cling to each other, tears mingling as the enormity of what almost happened sinks in.

After long moments, Lando pulls back to cup your face in both hands. He searches your eyes, still flooded with relief and lingering fear.

“I could have lost you,” he repeats in a shattered whisper.

You cover his hands with your own. “But you didn’t. I’m right here. With you.”

His breath leaves him a rush, the frightened tension easing from his frame. Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours. The beeping monitor and distant hospital noises fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this quiet intimacy.

When Lando finally lifts his head, the fire in his eyes makes your heart stutter.

“I love you,” he says, low and fervent.

You meet Lando’s intense gaze, equally overcome by emotion.

“I love you too,” you breathe.

He cradles your face again, thumbs sweeping feather-light over your cheeks. Slowly, he leans in and presses his lips to yours in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s soft yet saturates you with his passion, fear, relief — every shade of the feelings coursing between you in this moment. You sink into it, hands coming up to twist in his rumpled shirt, keeping him close.

When he pulls back, you’re both a little breathless. Lando smooths your hair, regret pinching his features.

“I should let you rest. The doctor said you’ll probably feel weak and foggy for a few days.”

You give a small shrug. “I don’t feel that bad right now. Just … stay with me?”

He smiles softly. “Of course, love.”

Settling next to you on top of the sheets, he loops an arm around your shoulders. You nestle against him, comforted by his familiar warmth and scent. For a long moment, you simply savor being wrapped in this bubble of solace.

“Do they know who did it yet?” You finally ask, unable to quell your lingering unease about the attack.

Lando shakes his head. “The police looked at security footage but the guy’s face wasn’t visible. They’re still investigating.”

You nod, chewing your lip. Lando tilts your chin up to meet his eyes.

“I won’t let him get away with this,” he says, quiet but fierce. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find him and make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

There’s cold fury underlying his tone that you’ve never heard from him before. It reminds you viscerally of that brief glimpse in the alley — Lando transformed in the heat of protective rage.

But now the fire in his eyes is fanned and smoldering. A determination that won’t relent.

He tightens his arm around you, pressing his lips to your hair. You settle against his chest again, comforted by the steady thump of his heartbeat.

***

A few days later, you’re curled up on the couch with Lando, a movie playing quietly in the background. You’re mostly zoning out, still feeling residual exhaustion. Lando plays idly with your hair, a comforting sensation.

When your phone buzzes with an alert, you grab it lazily, expecting a text from a friend. Instead, a news headline makes you bolt upright.

Lando notices your change in demeanor.

“What is it, love?”

“That man, the one from the club … he was found dead. I would recognize his face anywhere.”

You continue to scan the article. “Doesn’t specify much, just that he was found in an abandoned building across town. Ruled a homicide but no suspects or motive yet.”

You wordlessly tilt the phone screen for him to see. He looks at it blankly, face impassive.

“Oh. Well, perhaps some justice has been served after all.”

You narrow your eyes at his mild tone. “Did you ...”

“Did I what?”

“Have something to do with this?”

Lando presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Me? Now why would you think that?”

“Lando.” You level him with a knowing look. “Did you?”

He meets your gaze steadily for a moment before sighing. “I told you I’d make sure he never hurt anyone again. A man like that doesn’t deserve to keep stealing breaths.”

You absorb this, unsure how to feel. “So you ...”

“I didn’t personally do anything,” Lando hedges. “But I have … connections. People who know people who can handle things quietly.”

You bite your lip. “You had him killed.”

Lando takes your hands in his. “Hey. Look at me. That bastard drugged you, dragged you into an alley. He would have ...” His jaw flexes. “I did what needed to be done to keep you and others safe.”

“I just ...” You wrestle with your conflicted emotions. “I don’t know how I feel about you essentially ordering a hit.”

He drags a hand over his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled. “All that matters is he can’t hurt you or anyone else now. Try to remember what he did to you — how you felt. Helpless. Frightened. I wasn’t about to let him continue terrorizing women.”

You take a shaky breath. “No, you’re right. It’s just a lot to wrap my head around.”

Lando caresses your cheek. “You have the biggest, kindest heart of anyone I know. But some people are simply too dangerous to be allowed to go on hurting people. I don’t take this lightly, but there are times when permanent solutions are necessary. Do you understand?”

Up close, you can see the storm of emotions he’s battling to contain. Anger, satisfaction, hints of doubt and guilt. You cup his face.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For protecting me, even if it meant ...”

Lando closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. “I would do anything for you. Anything to keep you safe.” His thumb strokes along your jaw. “You never have to worry. You’ll always be safe with me. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you, no matter what.”

His voice rings with quiet conviction. You cover his hand with your own, meeting his solemn gaze. In this moment, you truly comprehend the depths he’s willing to go for you.

“I know you will,” you whisper. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Lando searches your face, shoulders losing their rigid tension when he finds only acceptance and gratitude shining back at him.

“I would be lost without you,” he murmurs.

You lean in, kissing him softly. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Drawing back, you offer a tiny smirk. “And clearly, I should never get on your bad side.”

Lando huffs a surprised laugh. The lingering shadows in his eyes fade as he pulls you close. You sink into his embrace, heartbeat steadying against his.

Whatever lengths Lando went to in order to protect you, to remove the threat hanging over your regained sense of safety, you know you’ll forever be thankful for this devoted, fierce, and tender-hearted man you love.

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darinawrites · 2 months ago

Text

—Protective touches—

Pairing: Sang woo x implied f!reader

Summary: you were so sure this was it. You lost your group, and with your weak figure you were a target to Deok su. Closing your eyes, accepting the embrace of death, a coarse hand pulled you out of the pit of darkness. (Sang woo saving you in lights out).

Content: fluff/comfort, Sang woo trying to cover up his feelings, weak reader, violence, treating wounds

A/n: the 5 Sang woo fans are going to love this (I'm apart of the 5 fans). But, seriously, I'm going to go insane if there aren't more fics of him. This was written on the verge of passing out from tiredness btw, so it might have a bit of ooc moments/rushed writing. Not my proudest work 😓 (my titles are getting worse each time too, im so screwed).

Word count: 1.5k

･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

You couldn't wait to finally lay down and relax after this torment of a day. You barely got out of the game 'Dalgona', almost running out of time, the adrenaline still not backed down from then.

Your heartbeat softly beating, yet loud enough to be audible. Your usual mellow mood gone, replaced with a small frown and eyes with anxiety whirling inside. A lugubrious sight for anyone that glances at you.

As you let your head hit the hard mattress, you slowly regretted parting with your group. Initially wanting to have a moment to rest the aching in your body, now accidentally leaving them as the woman's voice rang trough the speaker, only having a few more minutes.

The uneasy feeling in your stomach couldn't stop rumbling, the tension thick between the players. But you shouldn't worry so much, you were an amiable person whom most people enjoyed being around.

Yet, at the same time, you were a target to some. Your scrupulous personality making you talk when not needed. Annoying players, whom were 3x bigger than you, with your words. Worrying that your gestures might lead to your death.

You were much too tired to think any further though, the exhaustion in your body overflowing your needs. Deciding you were overreacting, you let the softness of the pillow now take control of your thoughts, letting your overthinking ideas fly away. Forgetting yourself in the bliss of ignorance, your eyelids growing heavier by the moment, the lights now out as the time ended. It was a nice moment, one you looked forward to every day.

This time, the moment was ephemeral. A scream immediately picking up the weights of your eyelids. You frantically searched where the sound came from, your eyes hurting from the sudden flash of lights.

It all happened so fast, sleepiness vanishing immediately as more screams abrupted, people acting ferociously beneath you. Your seemingly overreaction now becoming a reality.

Heart beating faster now, your breaths quicken. Even from the top bunk you could see the glass shatters and blood on the floor, keeping to yourself as you hoped the nightmare wouldn't reach you.

The tension of players now acting opon it, from the corner of your eye you could see your group get in trouble too, transfixed on the blood that came out of them as they got cornered. Shaky limbs now clutching the blanket, forcing your gaze away from the sight, an urge to vomit coming over you.

Shifting around your bed, trying to quietly find a safe place. You were quickly interrupted by your weight seemingly getting lighter. Gushes of wind swirling around you as your mind tried to comprehend the situation.

Those fuckers flipped the bunk.

Your voice was stifled, not even a scream allowed as you hit the floor. The impact making you whine, your left leg completely destroyed as it let out a loud 'crack'.

Groaning, as you slowly picked yourself up. Luckily, none of the players noticed you, yet. Leaning against the wall to steady yourself, limping slightly. Small whines flooding your throat, the pain now setting in once the adrenaline died down. This all felt so surreal, must people really be this desperate?

Your thoughts couldn't go any further than that, your eyesight landing on player 101. Oh gosh, a guy that wasn't particularly fond of you. You tried your best to run, anywhere. But you couldn't. The man was much bigger than you, and once you saw a shiny object in his hands, you just gave up.

His smirk only fueled your hate and fear, eyeing your injured form.

"Where are all your words now? Shaking so much, how pathetic." Its like he was playing with you, his voice being the last words you heard to show off, your weak body just listening and glaring. Wiping off some blood on his face, clutching the knife, you knew he was ready now. Simply closing your eyes, not allowing him to have the pleasure of seeing your eyes fade, you prepared for him to pounce on you.

A 'smack' was heard, yet your body hasn't felt any contact. A groan that wasn't yours echoing in your ear as you noted a tight grip on your arm, quickly pulling away. Even once you opened your eyes, you couldn't tell who was in front of you, your eyes hazy and wet with tears, the flashing lights not helping out either.

The pain was unbearable, uncontrollable whines coming out of your mouth, the small distance that you ran seemed like a marathon. Still panting when you finally came to a halt.

Your eyes a bit clearer now, you could see your surroundings better. A few familiar gazes beside you, and the one whom was your savior you immediately recognized. Sang woo.

Panting as you bent down slightly, the dizziness and pain making your trembling body not stand up properly. A concerned question was asked from the player beside you, your eyes falling on the number '456' on the tracksuit.

"Hey Sang woo, where did you find this girl? She's seriously injured" his question wasn't answered though, an unfortunate sight now staring up at the group that took you.

Deok su and his minions nearing you, a protective hand quickly gripping you as he hurried you behind him, a piece of metal in his other hand, stained with blood. You clinged onto him, letting his back block your view. Small pants and whimpers still in the air as you heard kicks and punches being thrown out, pathetically watching as they fought while you couldn't even move.

Once all of of his minions were seen together, another man emerged from the dark, swinging a huge metal bar that was once screwed into the bed, making them step back. Geez, how strong is that guy.

Both sides glaring at each other as the lights finally came back on. Yet his grip didn't falter, keeping you close to him. Pink guards coming in to shoot the ceiling, everyone flinching back. Your legs shaken as you were forced to let your hands roam the air, nothing to hold on to steady yourself.

Coarse hand immediately gripped your shoulders to help you once the guards let you go. The same hands that pulled you to safety.

Mumbling out a thanks, your voice still silenced from fear as you sat down beside him, player 218.

"Miss, are you okay? Are your injuries bad?" your ears picked up on the same concerned voice, lifting your head to see a man, girl with a smaller frame on the left on him and the other strong friendly guy on the right.

"Broken leg, some bruises. It'll be fine." you give a hushed out response, worry evident in his eyes, but he stayed silent, the few people now sitting down.

The group was surprisingly welcoming and very friendly. Your other group...gone, you stayed with them. Indulging in their conversation, making you forget the throbbing pain. Your focus only on the conversation, yet you still couldn't help to notice the glares Sang woo gave to either your leg or you in general.

Once he finally had a chance to be alone with you, the others gone for a moment, he immediately spoke up.

"You can't just leave that wound unattended." hands pulling off his jacket, your eyes drifting up to meet his.

"I'll be fine, others here are worse and are doing better than me. I'm simply weak" you sighed out, but his eyes didn't budge. You couldn't help notice his impeccable features. Eyes lingering, his hands sliding down to your leg to pick it up.

And when your pants were pulled up enough, the sight was brutal. A big slice down your knee, dried blood and bruising all around it. Picking up his jacket, mumbling out a warning before tying and tightening it around your knee.

"Sang woo.." whining out his name, the pain exploding back, his jacket tight around the wound.

"Keep it on as long as you can." was said once he was done with the task, pants huffing out of your mouth.

He couldn't completely understand why he helped you. He saw your smart tactics in red light green light. The way you got the hardest cookie to cut yet still managed a way to pass. While weak in physical strength, your strategies would help immensely.

Yet that didn't explain his eyes following you constantly, looking out for you. The protective touches, the small smile he let out with every giggle you could manage. His brain choosing to ignore the underlying tenderness his touches gave, emotions under all the strategic thinking.

Even now as you hugged him, properly thanking him for what he did. The slightest hint of a blush warmed his cheeks. Gracelessly letting his hand wrap around your back, returning the favor.

It was obvious what this all meant, but he couldn't let that cloud his mind off of the main point. He couldn't.

#squid game s2 #squid game #squid game x reader #squid game x you #cho sang woo #sang woo #player 218 #sang woo x reader #squid game fic #sangwoo squid game #sangwoo x reader #Squid game season 2 #cho sangwoo x reader #cho sangwoo x you

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