#the footwork is so easy to see!

[resssistance]

so, i caved in and signed up to fuji on demand to watch jnats in peace for once. to try things out i went to check out 2021 jnats, and when i scrolled down on that page, there's "titles viewed together" section, and the first on that list is.. banana fish. i'm fucking laughing, but also feel attacked somehow

[amirasainz]

Please write one with Norris!reader. She is competing in the Olympics with pair ice skating. Her and her partner win gold. Lando who is sadly in a different country for a race watches the performance with the other drivers. Everyone, like really everyone, is so happy that she won and is celebrating. Proud older brother Lando

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

Golden

The bright lights of the stadium glinted off the ice, reflecting the high energy of the crowd as they waited for the final pair of skaters in the Olympic Pairs Free Skate competition: Y/N Norris and Thomas Liu. The audience had been buzzing for days about their challenging program, filled with complex lifts and intricate footwork. But while everyone in the packed arena held their breath in anticipation, there was someone thousands of miles away, nervously glued to a screen, who was probably even more tense than the crowd: Lando Norris.

Lando was in his race gear, sitting with a group of Formula 1 drivers in a hospitality suite that McLaren had set up for the race weekend. It was nearly midnight in this part of the world, but he’d made sure to arrange for a screen to be set up so he wouldn’t miss a single moment of his sister’s performance.

“Mate, you look like you’re about to race right now,” Carlos said, nudging Lando with a grin.

“Tell me about it,” Charles chimed in, laughing. “You’re sweating more than before a qualifying lap.”

Lando’s foot tapped against the floor nervously as he adjusted his position. “Guys, you don’t get it. Her program is… it’s insane. She and Thomas have been working on this routine for months, but it’s, like, terrifying. There’s this lift — he flips her over, mid-air — if it goes wrong…”

Max Verstappen raised his eyebrows, giving Lando a supportive pat on the shoulder. “You’ve got to have a little faith, man. She’s been working toward this for years. She’ll crush it.”

The feed cut to a shot of Y/N and Thomas taking their positions at center ice. Thomas’ hand reached out, giving Y/N a reassuring squeeze before the music started. Even from miles away, Lando could see the glimmer of determination in his sister’s eyes.

The routine began, and almost instantly, Lando’s hand went up to his mouth, his face contorted in a mix of pride and pure anxiety.

Carlos nudged him again. “She’s graceful out there, you know. Doesn’t even look nervous.”

“Yeah,” Lando replied, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. “She makes it look easy, but it’s not. Not even close.”

The other drivers had gathered around as well, all offering quiet words of encouragement, their own faces tense as they watched. Even Lewis, who was typically the calm and collected one, had his arms crossed tightly, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“She’s incredible,” Oscar murmured, shaking his head. “I didn’t know figure skating could be this intense.”

As the performance continued, Y/N and Thomas flawlessly executed their jumps and spins, moving in perfect sync, like two parts of a well-oiled machine. Then came the most challenging part of their program, the lift that Lando had mentioned.

Lando’s breath hitched as he leaned forward, gripping the edge of his seat. “Here it comes. This… this is it.”

Thomas skated backward, pulling Y/N into a complicated lift, where she twisted in mid-air before he caught her smoothly. For a moment, it looked like they might wobble, and Lando’s heart skipped a beat. But Y/N steadied herself and completed the maneuver with a look of pure confidence.

“Yes!” Lando punched the air, his face lighting up with pure, unfiltered joy. The drivers around him erupted in applause, patting him on the back, some even whistling in admiration.

The performance ended with Y/N and Thomas holding their final pose, frozen on the ice as the audience rose to their feet, the entire stadium erupting into cheers. Lando’s eyes were wide, his expression one of astonishment and pride as the scores flashed across the screen.

Gold.

“She did it…” Lando whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “She won gold. She actually won!”

The entire room broke out into celebration, with Charles and Carlos jumping around him, Max ruffling his hair, and Oscar giving him a quick, excited hug.

“Your sister’s an Olympic champion, mate!” George exclaimed, grinning widely.

“I told you!” Lando’s voice was loud with pride as he looked around the room, practically glowing. “My little sister just won gold. Do you all understand? Gold! Olympic gold!”

From across the room, Zak, who had been watching with a keen interest, raised a glass in Lando’s direction. “Congratulations, Lando. Quite the feat. She’s a Norris, after all.”

Lando laughed, his voice almost cracking as he replied, “Thanks. I think I’m more proud of her than I’ve ever been of anything.”

With a grin, Lando looked at the screen again, watching as Y/N and Thomas embraced each other on the ice, their eyes wet with happy tears as they took in the roaring applause of the crowd.

“Did I tell you guys she’s been skating since she was three?” Lando was practically bouncing as he regaled the room with tales of his sister’s determination. “She’d get up at five every morning to practice. And she’d never quit. Never.”

One of the F1 media team members overheard the conversation and couldn’t resist joining in. “I think we’ll need a press release from McLaren. ‘Lando Norris’ sister wins gold!’”

“Please do!” Lando laughed. “I’ll shout it from the rooftops myself if you don’t!”

The drivers laughed, and for the rest of the night, Lando didn’t stop talking about Y/N. Every person he passed, from engineers to team staff, he’d proudly announce, “Did you hear? My sister’s an Olympic champion!”

Carlos was laughing, shaking his head. “Lando, I think you’ve told everyone in the entire paddock at least three times already!”

“And I’ll tell them again!” Lando shot back, grinning ear to ear. “Did I mention? My little sister’s got an Olympic gold medal!”

Back on the screen, the ceremony began. Y/N stood on the podium with Thomas, a gold medal hanging around her neck. When they lifted their medals to the sky, the drivers raised their drinks in a toast to her from miles away.

“To Y/N Norris, Olympic champion!” they all cheered.

As the night went on, Lando’s pride didn’t wane for even a moment. He went on and on, telling anyone who would listen about her dedication, her talent, her hard work. And as he finally made his way back to his room, Lando couldn’t resist sending Y/N a message.

Lando: Y/N, I am the proudest brother in the world right now. I knew you could do it. You’re incredible, you know that?

A few moments later, his phone buzzed with a reply.

Y/N: I had the best brother in the world cheering for me. Thanks, Lando.

Lando smiled, putting his phone away, a warm sense of pride flooding through him. In his mind, there was no race, no podium, no championship that could ever compare to the feeling he had at this very moment. His sister was an Olympic champion, and he was—without a doubt—the proudest big brother in the world.

[augustinewrites]

what are reader’s thoughts about gojo’s black shirt look (similar to what we see in jjk 221) aka what does she think of that bod (＾▽＾)

afternoons were busy, in your experience. the school was awake and alive with energy, bodies moving to and fro as they worked through the day's tasks.

at this time, just after lunch, people typically stopped by your office. whether it was megumi stopping by for a reprieve from his larger than life friends, shoko coming to drag you out for a late lunch, or gojo coming to sprawl himself out on your couch.

so when the sun is high in the sky and no one has come to bother you, you're a little concerned.

when you inquire principal yaga about this, he says he'd last seen nanami headed towards the training grounds. naturally, that's the first place you go. surely he can help you round up your students and their other teacher.

when you arrive at the training grounds, you're surprised to see the first and second year students gathered there, including shoko, watching something just out of your periphery.

"what are you guys doing?" you ask, catching shoko's attention.

she simply gestures to the main area. "sight-seeing."

"sight-seeing?" you frown. "this is the training grounds."

"i know."

you follow her line of sight, curious to see what's gotten everyone's attention.

oh.

the summer breeze combined with the afternoon sun seems to have prompted nanami and gojo to shed a few layers of clothing as they sparred. nanami's abandoned his blazer, the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, and the topmost buttons undone.

gojo's thrown his jacket aside, leaving him in a nicely fitted black t-shirt.

wordlessly, you lower yourself to sit next to shoko.

with his loose-fitting uniform, it was easy to forget how brawny your fiancé was. now you could see everything. broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist and long legs.

he's handling himself in hand-to-hand combat against nanami with ease, footwork practiced and posture immaculate. his body is tight, muscular, rigid. the tension of his toned biceps just right as he swings at the blond. he smirks when it connects and the sorcerer is knocked backward a few steps. it's horribly attractive.

"hey," shoko interrupts your daydreaming when she nudges you. "did you need something?"

you're too busy tracking a drop of sweat rolling down the side of gojo's throat to recall. "i don't remember."

you can't really focus when he's panting like that, chest heaving and tongue darting out to glide across his bottom lip. he grunts with the effort of deflecting a hit, his muscles flexing as he maneuvers his torso to avoid a follow up. when his shirt rides up, you absolutely don't think about where that white trail of hair below his navel leads, heat pooling in your gut as--

"why aren't you both working?"

you both jump as if you'd been caught doing something illegal as principal yaga steps in front of you, arms crossed.

"sorry, sir," you apologize, bowing your head as your face heats up.

_____

gojo is equal parts confused and aroused when he steps into your office and you immediately lock the door behind him. this may or may not have been the beginning of a fantasy of his.

“noticed you oogling me earlier,” he smirks. then he pauses, thinking. “or is it ogling? am i saying it right?”

“satoru?”

“yeah babe?”

“shut up.”

he's half convinced this is a fantasy when you grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, hungrily pressing your lips to his.

he goes to lift them hem of his shirt up, but you stop him, muttering,

keep it on.

well, he thinks as you trail kisses down the column of his throat.

if you say so.

[yaespook]

Canines.

✧ Room Content: Dom! Top! GN! Werewolf! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Wriothesley, no gendered terms used for reader, reader has a cock with a knot, oral (reader giving), snowballing, rimming (reader giving), gratuitous mentions of spit, muzzle and leash with collar used on Wriothesley, knotting. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: [The bottom paws of the fortune cat appear on the front desk.]

Getting a new rookie transfer under him this late into the year wasn’t exactly what Wriothesley was expecting.

His office door opens abruptly but you seem almost as bewildered as he is at this surprise. No biggie, the issue is sorted out quickly and seeing that you don't have any case files or inmate registration papers on you (or any sort of personal records at all for the matter), he runs through the essentials before sending you off with a list of duties. 

He watches as you leave his office, you'll undoubtedly be an interesting case to handle.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Wriothesley finds you nice enough to be around during work. You're considerate and you work hard to get your job done. It's pleasant to have another regular familiar face beneath the depths and he's not above sharing his tea with you during your shared breaks. And growing closer, he asks you to box with him.

“Just some training, for fun, that's all.” He's lounging in his chair and cracks an eye open to gauge your reaction. “Feel free to say no if you don't want to. I won't die from the rejection.”

Wriothesley is assured in his combat skills, given his experience in the ring and his daily training. So how is it exactly that he's found himself in this position? 

Dragging out the spar by starting off defensive, dodging his attacks, it seemed as if you were going easy on him.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re going easy on me?” He throws a series of hooks and a particularly forceful uppercut.

But he wasn't interested in winning this friendly battle, he wants to see what you're truly made of. Hence, kicking it up a notch, he doubled the speed of the punches he's throwing, forcing you on the offensive. 

“You’re asking for it, Wrio!”

He's caught off guard when you start reciprocating and meeting him with the same speed and intensity in your attacks. Sure, your footwork and pivoting could use some work, but there's something surprising in the force behind your punches.

It ends when you manage to wrestle him into a headlock, the both of you sweaty and panting, his head pressed against your chest as he's suddenly aware of how close the two of you are. Tapping twice on your bicep hooked around his neck, he admits his defeat this time around. Freed from your restraint, he takes the time to massage his trapezius muscles as he gives you a once-over. 

“That was a good one, another next week?” 

You cough, “I think I’ll need more than a week to recover,” your tone sheepish.

It’s not often he’s beaten during spars, and for a rookie like you to do so? Extremely interesting. What exactly is your background? The secret to your seemingly supernatural strength? Since this incident, he’s found himself drawn to you even more.

However, keeping an extra vigilant eye on you means that he picks up on the smaller things that might be signs. The next Friday, you clock in later in the day, missing your shared tea breaks with him, and you clock out far earlier than usual, evident from the little note you leave at your desk when he looks for you.

“Sorry Wrio! Something urgent came up!”

He quirks an eyebrow up at this. What could have been so urgent that you had to leave immediately? Are you alright? Glancing around, he notices a bag left on your chair. Perhaps you left it here in your haste while leaving, but what if its contents are important to you? No matter, he'll see if he can pass it to you after work, it's a good chance to check up on you too.

But since you aren't around for the rest of the day, Wriothesley has strangely discovered that he's getting through his mundane paperwork and administrative duties a lot slower than if you were present. His brows furrow as he sighs to himself and sips his tea alone before continuing his work.

By the time he's done wrapping everything up and leaving, the full moon is already high up in the night sky. When he tears his eyes away from it, he spots you out of the corner of his eye. Though he would call out to you, your behaviour is suspicious, slinking around the shadows sneakily as you try to stay hidden. Wriothesley decides to tail you, just to make sure that you don't get into any trouble that he'll end up having to sort out. (And that he's also worried about you.)

His guard is up when you step into a wild forested area. The dim moonlight breaks in through the leaves of the canopy area, just enough for him to make out the ground beneath him. He watches where he steps in order to avoid generating any noise that might alert you but the second he looks back up for you, you’re nowhere to be seen.

Uneasiness starts to kick in. Wriothesley is uncaring of all the ruckus he’s making while rushing past trees and brambles as he scrambles to search for you. The thorns scrape and tear at his clothes but he pushes on, launching into high gear.

However, the deeper he gets into the forest, the more Wriothesley begins to notice things going terribly wrong.

There’s a heavy presence lurking amongst the dark shadows, one that has its eyes trained on him, watching his every move. Lumbering footsteps echo throughout the forest around him, as if getting closer and closer to his location. The sound of twigs nearby snapping sharply and the rustling of dry bushes. Trying to get to a better lit area within the forest, the chase is on.

He’s being hunted.

The vegetation begins to thin out slightly as he skillfully weaves between trees and he reaches a clearing. Catching his breath, he surveys his surroundings, keen eyes looking for any signs of movement. The moon hangs overhead, sharing its pale light.

And from the treeline, something pounces.

He stumbles back at the sudden impact, the wind knocked from his chest as he collides with the ground, eyes clenched shut. A beat passes before the weight on him suddenly lifts and he hears a gravelly yet oddly familiar voice, “...Wrio?” 

Forcing his eyes open, he finds himself at a loss for words. 

“I’m so so sorry. I assumed you were some kind of hunter stalking after me and…” your words spiral and trail on but he can’t seem to process anything you’re saying since he’s preoccupied with taking in this sight of you.

In this form, you’re a lot taller than he is and your physique is nothing short of intimidating. Is this where your impressive strength comes from then? Raking his gaze over your body, he pauses at your flexed thigh muscles from holding yourself above his pelvis. (You could crush him between them and he’d die a happy man.)

Your fur gleams under the moonlight, captivating him as a gentle breeze ruffles through it. By the time he tunes back into your spiel, all he catches is you saying, “I’ll make it up to you-”

“Make it up to me?”

“Yeah?” 

“Fuck me then.” He sees your ears shoot up as you try to gauge whether he actually means it and he tacks on, “I’m being serious. Plus no one will find us here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Fine, but pipe up if I’m too rough on you.”

A grin stretches across Wriothesley’s face at your agreement but it’s quickly replaced with a hiss when you drop and grind your dick down against his. Leaning forward, you have him completely pinned beneath you, your body heat and larger frame on his is simply dizzying.

“I’ll give you some kisses to start, hmm?”

He watches as your maw opens wide, showcasing your sharp teeth. He can feel your canines on either side of his face as you lick at his lips but there’s enough trust between the two of you that you won’t clamp down, your fangs gently grazing his skin. You wouldn’t hurt him after all.

You bury your snout in his neck, taking in his scent as the both of you grind against each other, a snarl leaving your throat as you feel how hard and soaked he’s getting under you. 

“So wet, Wrio. Are you that desperate?” Shifting and sitting up to strip him of his clothes, he chuckles as he replies, “Only for you.”

Taking off his shirt, you let out a low whistle at the man before you. His broad shoulders, salt and pepper chest hair on his pecs, the body hair and healed scars littered throughout, and not to mention his lovely happy trail up till his naval. Truly, a sight to behold.

Getting him out of the rest of his clothes, you nudge his legs apart and settle between them. Compared to your looming stature, Wriothesley gets a sense of how much smaller he is when your hands grasp at his thighs. (Or are they paws? Whatever. As long as they treat him real good tonight.)

Tracing the tip of a claw down his inner thigh, you watch him shudder, eyes widening as you get closer to his drooling cock.

“What? Already so turned on by me hunting you down and a little grinding?” You tease and a heat rises to his face, retorting, “Shut up.”

You bury your face closer in, snuffling as you lave a rough warm stripe against the underside of his length, the taste of his precum on your tongue. His legs clamp down slightly on your head when you do so and it’s apparent that he’s enjoying your attention on him. Almost as if he wants you to devour him whole.

Changing tactics, you shift your focus to enveloping the underside with your tongue before taking him into your mouth, careful to watch your teeth. The heat engulfing him has Wriothesley groaning loudly, his hips bucking into the warmth as his restraint starts to slip.

“Mffph… so good-!” He throws an arm over his eyes, more clipped moans escaping him while you swirl your tongue, working him to his peak.

But just when he’s about to tip over the edge, you let him out of your mouth, panting as he watches a thick strand of saliva stretch from your tongue to the tip of his dick.

“Hah… Why did you stop?” Sitting up on his elbows and supporting a frustrated scowl on his face, he looks laughably similar to a kicked puppy.

“Patience, dear Wrio, you’ll get your recompensation in due time.”

Moving one hand to his cock, you pump up and down languidly, aided by the copious amounts of precum and spit. His head spins when he feels you tonguing and lapping at his balls, your hot breath hitting the sensitive skin there.

You dip further down to lick at his rim, peering up to observe his reaction. And it’s amusing. His hands fly to grab at your shoulders, eyes shot open as his chest heaves.

“You liked that?” When he nods, that’s all you need to continue.

Manoeuvring him and hiking his hips up, he yelps at the shift but it quickly tapers into a moan as you press your tongue flat against his rim. You don’t stop stroking his cock as you slowly breach his hole, gingerly prying him open. Wriothesley sucks in a sharp breath at this and grinds down on your thick tongue, forcing it deeper, the pleasure in him building and spiking.

It’s not long before he’s spurting onto his tummy with a drawn out moan, walls clenching down on you and his hips stuttering up with his orgasm. Detaching for a second, you lick a long way up from the base of his dick to his dripping tip and his heaving abdomen, collecting his cum on your tongue.

“Open your mouth, Wrio.” And when he complies, you let your tongue hang out of your maw, a mixture of his cum and his saliva sloppily dripping from you and into his mouth. The ravenous look he gets when he swallows sends a shiver down his spine.

“So good for me, Wrio. Let’s move on shall we?” You give him a sly lick on his cheek. “Can you loosen yourself up a bit more? Wouldn’t want to rip you apart when you take me.”

After coating his fingers in your slick spit, you watch as he preps himself for you. Gazing around, you spy your bag discarded to the side on the ground. 

“Aww Wrio, were you trying to bring me my bag I left?”

“Mmph yeah-! I was worried- ah! -about you,” he grunts out his answer.

You respond with a low pleased rumble, stalking over to your bag and rifling through it to find what you’re looking for. From it, you retrieve a set of a collar with a leash and an accompanying muzzle. To Wriothesley’s surprise, it’s in his colours, complimenting shades of reds and greys.

“I bought it impulsively earlier today, thought of you while doing so. I think I’m in some sort of a rut,” you explain lowly, your eyes level with his and he feels as if he could be consumed with your gaze alone. 

Licking the shell of his ear, he can feel your breath fan across his nape as you continue, “Because of you, Wrio, no doubt.”

“Put it on me then,” there’s no hesitation in his voice when he says this and a satisfaction fills him when he sees your tail start wagging.

Carefully, you latch the collar around his neck, making sure it’s comfortable for him before moving on to fixing the muzzle on him. Finally, you attach the leash, the clip sound completing the set. 

As you take in how utterly delectable your Wrio looks for you right now, a filthy sense of pride rises up within you. You, a beast, managing to twist and warp and transform your human’s visage into one akin to yours, to have him leashed and muzzled as if he were the one with piercing canine fangs and a monstrous secret. And that he doesn’t cower or tremble with fear when pinned beneath you. It’s all too deliciously sinful.

The end of the leash is held in your claws as you eye him down. You manhandle him onto his fours and you line the tip of your cock at his hole. 

“I’ll take it slow, tell me if it hurts,” your head presses against his rim as it gradually pries him open, the wind is punched from his chest at your thick girth. Slowly sinking into him, Wriothesley’s vision spins as you split him open on your cock, the stretch an intoxicating one that has him wanting more. 

When your tip nudges against his prostate, he’s left seeing stars, a debauched moan slipping from his lips.

“Ughk!? Is it- hah! -is it all in?” You shush him, ghosting your claws on the skin above his arched spines.

“Just a bit more, you can take it, can’t you, Wrio?” An uncharacteristic whine rips from him when you finally bottom out in him, flush against the back of his thighs as you reach unfathomably deep in him.

You give him time to adjust to your size before you start moving, setting a relaxed pace to begin with. He squeezes down on your cock as you roll your hips, unrestrained noises escaping him as all sense is fucked from his mind. 

Picking up the intensity, you pull out halfway before slamming back into him, positioning your tip directly at where his prostate is while tugging on the leash.

“Hngk-! So big- AH! Fuck!” Wriothesley’s eyes roll back into his head, mouth hanging open.

Your repeated motions have him going crazy, his arms wobbling at the brutal onslaught of pleasure before giving out, the only things keeping him up are the knees folded under him and your hand clamping around the side of his hip.

Seconds blur into minutes and he doesn’t even know when you’ve started pounding relentlessly into him. Your thick shaft drags against his walls and he can feel every vein and twitch of your cock. 

Sensing you pulling on the leash, he turns and looks up at you, letting you see the drool dripping from his parted lips in the muzzle, his eyes unfocused and glazed over with nothing but raw lust. You give him a lick on his cheek, a kiss, before you fold your body over his, completely pressed against his back, pinning him beneath your massive frame.

“I’m close Wrio,” cooing into his ear again, your gravelly voice brings him back, “Want me to knot you?”

He babbles pitifully, “Uh- uh huh! AH! Yeah-! I- I want you!”

“You’re really asking for it now,” growling at his mindless pleading, you drive your cock in, a guttural howl leaving you as you climax, finally knotting your Wrio. The knot at your base stretches Wriothesley out even more and he can feel your cum filling him up inside. The searing pleasure causes him to pull taut, his back arching as he orgasms again, moaning as he tightens up around you, milking you for all you’re worth. 

The forest clearing is filled with the sounds of the both of you panting as you recover, checking in with Wriothesley to assure that he’s alright. While you wait for your knot to go down, you take the time to free him from the muzzle. The second you do, he leans in and presses a kiss to the tip of your snout, a lazy grin hanging from his face.

“Hah… I think you’ve made it up to me,” a glint in his eyes, “Another round next week?”

[> You add a muzzle, collar, and leash set to your collection.]

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[beenbaanbuun]

hii bunny! 🤍🤍

i was wondering if you maybe could write something angsty with mingi? like he’s had a long day and snaps at you a little after seeing your clothes on the floor or something.. like it would never bother him on a normal day but it’s just been a long day for him

it’s not too harsh but it’s the first time you’ve ever heard him have that tone with you so obviously it’s a lot for you 🫣 it doesn’t take him long to realize and regret it but by the time he does you’re already outside on the verge of tears and getting some fresh air.. he basically panics and texts you and calls you 😭 there’s no answer for around 10 minutes and just as he’s about to go outside and look for you, not even bothering throwing an hoodie on, he opens the door and sees you standing there with a little bag with his favorite snacks that you bought for him and he immediately starts apologising

sorry if this is quite specific i just hope it helps a little with your ideas! if you want to change anything you can! you can add smut and make it angsty or you can make it sweet and soft.. maybe even both 🤷‍♀️

i feel like he’s so gentle and definitely would love his partner too much, and just the thought of that he’s upset them could kill him

i cried writing this so i hope you enjoy it 🫡

——————————————————————————

to say that mingi’s day was hard would be an understatement. he barely slept the previous night, the constant beeping of the fire alarm begging for new batteries that they didn’t yet have keeping him awake into the early hours of the morning. he thinks it was sheer exhaustion that sent him to sleep at just gone 4am, and he was equally exhausted when san woke him two hours later for practice. he had half a mind to tell his friend to fuck off and just go back to sleep, but then he heard the beep of the fire alarm and decided he had no chance. he was going to have to stay awake.

then came practice, which was never easy, but for some reason was so much worse today. it started with yunho, who was being so much stricter than usual, jaw clenching and eyes filling with fire if anyone even dared to get a single step wrong. with mingi’s tired brain, he wasn’t afraid to admit that most of those glares were aimed at him; intricate footwork is more difficult when you can hardly string two thoughts together, it seems. annoyance doesn’t help with that either, yet with every pointed look at yunho gets him, he feels his blood boiling more and more.

then you have the troublemakers who seemed to make it their sole purpose today to annoy every single other person in that room. san and wooyoung were naturally loud people, but today they seemed to have the dial turned up to twelve. of course, yeosang was dragged into it too, offering quiet, but not unheard, snarky comments to go along with whatever nonsense the other pair were babbling about. mingi wasn’t sure how much more of that high-pitched cackle he could stand before it made his achy head explode.

and last, but certainly not least, there was hongjoong, perhaps mingi’s biggest issue out of his members. he too seemed to be in a bad mood, but unlike mingi who had yet to retaliate to any of the shit show going on around him, hongjoong just couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. someone misstepped? he’d yell at them. someone misspoke? he’d yell at them. it was just a constant wall of sound coming from his leader and mingi wasn’t sure just how much more he could take until…

“everyone just go,” hongjoong groans, anger and frustration laced through his features. “it’s clear no one is taking it seriously today so just go!”

a miracle.

mingi wastes no time in grabbing his bag and running out of the practice room without even a glance back at his members. perhaps later he’ll text them and let them know where he is, but for now he just needs you. he needs your arms to wrap around him and keep him warm as he sleeps. he needs your voice to float around his brain as he drifts away. he needs you.

he’s thankful that you live close because before he knows it, he’s at your door, fishing your key from his pocket. he fiddles with it excitedly, scraping it against the door a few times by accident before finally slipping it into the keyhole. he twists it and pushes it open, expecting to find you buzzing around your apartment like a cute little bumble bee.

instead he’s met with silence and darkness, curtains still drawn and your lively little self nowhere to be seen. there’s pots in the sink, mess strewn across the floor and the trash bag from last night still propped up by the door. mingi lets out a long sigh.

he knows it’s wrong of him to feel annoyed by all of this, and normally he wouldn’t. it’s just after the day he’s had, all he wanted was to cuddle up to you in a nice tidy, stress-free apartment. now he has to take your load on his shoulders as well. he has to pick up your pieces whilst he’s still desperately trying to hold all of his together. but this is it; this is his last straw, and the irritation and frustration he’s been barely holding back all day suddenly bursts free of its dam. he cant stop himself as he kicks off his shoes, not caring where they go (it’s not like it’ll make any difference with the state your apartment in is anyway) and storms his way down the hallway to your bedroom.

your door is already open, and through it he can see you still in bed. you’re curled up under the quilt, just like he has wanted to be all day. just like he hasn’t been able to because he has been busy. for some reason it only fills him with more annoyance, and he steps over the threshold into your room and slams the door behind him.

he can see that the sound startles you, but he can’t find it in him to care. he just stares down at you, a mixture of anger and disappointment twisting his features as you groggily sit up to look at him. your eyes are red, as are your cheeks, but mingi just brushes it off. the painful pang in his chest upon seeing you like that is hardly enough to outweigh everything else he feels.

“really?” he bends down to pick up a t-shirt before holding it up to show you. you stare at it blankly, not sure what he’s trying to get at.

“what’s wrong, mingi?” your voice is strained as if you’d been crying recently. if mingi wasn’t so blinded by everything, perhaps he would’ve noticed how fragile you seem to be. perhaps he’d be able to take a step back and see that you need him to comfort you, not berate you. it’s a shame his head is too full of his own feelings to even consider yours.

“what’s wrong?” he scoffs, throwing his arms up in exasperation, “this! everything!” he gestures wildly around your room as if it explains anything. “i don’t need to deal with this shit right now, baby! i can’t!”

he watches as your brows furrow in confusion, hurt washing over your features. there’s something in his that tells him that it’s enough, that he’s said and done too much already, but there’s still more on the tip of his tongue and he needs to get it out of him before he bursts.

“i have enough on my plate without having to take care of you, alright?” his voice comes out harsher than he means it to, more of a shout than anything else, and by the way your expression tightens, he can tell he’s hurt you.

that’s when it all sinks in for him, when you hum, nodding your head slowly as his words echo around your brain. your eyes look down at your hands, thumbs picking at one another awkwardly. he’s said too much, gone too far, he can understand that now. like, really understand it. he should’ve stayed silent. ignored the shit spewed across the floor and crawled into your bed like he’d been wanting to do all day.

well shit, he thinks to himself, he never meant to hurt you. he doesn’t know what he wanted to do by telling you those things, but this wasn’t it.

“sorry,” is all you say when you toss the comforter off your legs. you’re dressed in the same clothes that he saw you in yesterday; had you slept in them? “i, uh… i’ll get out of your hair for a little while, mingi. it seems like you need a little alone time… you’re stressed.” and with that you stand up. mingi lets you, unsure of what to say to you as you grab your wallet from your nightstand and push past him. your hand feels like a hot iron pressed against his shoulder as you side-step him, and he almost, almost, goes to catch it.

before he can, you’re gone, and all he does is stand there as he listens to you open the door and walk out of the apartment.

your apartment.

he sits on your bed, twisting his hands into the comforter as he tries to ground himself. he’d kicked you out of your own apartment because of what? he doesn’t even know himself. he can’t wrap his head around the sudden burst of anger that washed over him like a tsunami. there was no escape from it until it passed, and now he’s left with with aftermath; the pain of upsetting you.

he knew from the moment he stepped in your apartment that you weren’t doing well. the drawn blinds, the pots left over from last night; he’s seen it time and time again and he’s never been upset at you for it. there’s been no anger or frustration there. no cross words or disappointment. nothing except sympathy and the desire to make everything okay for you again.

so, what? he got jealous because you were allowed to sit and wallow in your bad mood and he wasn’t? he got mad that coming to your apartment wasn’t the perfect whirlwind of softness and affection that he’d hoped for? god, he feels pathetic for how he treated you. even more so at the fact that he still feels so desperate for your comfort. he knows he doesn’t deserve it, but holy fuck does he need it.

he lets himself sit there in the pain for just a little while longer. perhaps if he lets himself hurt enough, he might deserve to have you back in his arms. if he repents, everything might be okay again. you’ll forgive him for what he said to you and hold him gently like he needs. you’ll whisper sweet words and kiss his head like he wants. you’ll be kind to him despite the fact that he hasn’t been kind to you. you’ll let him rest…

when he feels enough time has passed, he slips a hand into his pocket to grab his phone. there’s a message or two from his members asking where he went, but he ignores them. they can wait, you can’t. he locates you contact, pressing his thumb against the call button and letting it ring. a few seconds pass before he hears it loud and clear; your phone in the other room. he perks up a little—maybe you’re still here! his legs carry him faster than he can process. he swings the door open with little care about the way it slams against your dresser, and tumbles into the kitchen… where your phone is abandoned… with you nowhere to be seen.

mingi’s heart plummets even further. you’re gone, and now he won’t even have a way to know that you’re safe. it’s still daylight outside but what if you get lost? what if you stay out too long and it gets dark? what if you need him? he lets out a cry of stress, hands flying up to grip his bleached locks tightly in his hands. he feels fucking useless.

for just a moment he lets himself play the blame game with himself. it’s his fault. all of it is. anything could be happening to you and it would be his fault. he upset you and he let you leave! it’s all him, him, him… that makes it his to fix too.

he doesn’t let himself think as he walks over to the door. he doesn’t bother with a jacket, his brain telling him it would take too much time to slip it onto his shoulders. hell, he barely bothers with his shoes! just slips his feet in, not sparing a single thought to the way his feet are currently crushing the backs down. that’s the least of his worries, anyway. he can buy new shoes, he can’t replace you.

his hand reaches out to grab the door handle. it’s just centimetres away, almost close enough to grab it. his fingers begin to curl around the metal, but someone else gets there first. the handle dips down, and the door creeks as it opens just the tiniest bit. mingi gasps, moving at the speed of lighting to pull the door even wider. he knows exactly who’s on the other side, and his desperation to see you can’t be contained. he barely even looks at you before scooping you up into his arms.

“ouch, mingi,” you squirm as he holds you tighter than you think you’ve ever been held before. “you’re trapping my hair! let go, you giant oaf.”

he doesn’t, but he does loosen his grasp just a touch. not enough to let you fully breathe again, but just so you can save your hair from being pulled from your head. you’re grateful for that, at least, but it doesn’t stop you from trying to wriggle free. “let me go,” you reiterate, body still moving as he holds you against his broad chest, “i need to give you something but i can’t when you have me trapped!”

“you don’t need to give me anything,” he pouts as he presses a wet kiss against your hairline. it’s all very sweet, but you can’t help but feel like now is not the time.

“yes i do!” you twist your body in a way that makes it impossible for mingi to keep hold of you, gasping in a dramatic fashion as if you’d been starved of oxygen completely. mingi can’t help but smile at your performance, even if his arms do feel a little too empty now you’re not in them. you are absolutely adorable, after all. “i need to give you this because it’ll melt otherwise.”

that’s when he notices the clear plastic bag in your hand. if he looks carefully, he can just about make out the pint of hazelnut ice cream and the bag of shrimp chips; his favourites. confused, he brings his gaze back up to your face, noticing the shy smile that rests on your lips as you raise the bag up for him to take. “for me?” he asks. you only give him a quick nod in response. “but… why?”

when he doesn’t take the bag, you roll your eyes and stomp past him to the kitchen. it hits the counter with a thud, and mingi flinches. are you angry with him? of course, you have every right to be but if he’s being honest, he’s rather that you weren’t. he really needs you right now. he slinks up behind you, watching as you busy yourself with taking the snacks out of the bag. his arms ache with the desire to be wrapped tightly around your waist, but he somehow manages to hold himself back.

“because you’re obviously not doing good,” you say as you yank the cutlery drawer open to grab two spoons. it doesn’t go unnoticed when you pull out the flat one with the thin handle alongside the deep one with the heavy handle; his and your favourite spoons, respectively. his chest aches with love as you, actually rather violently stab the container with both of them. he always has loved your silly little antics.

“yeah, well you’re not doing good either,” he tries to argue, but you shut him up with a glare.

“me not doing well doesn’t mean i can’t try to help you when you’re not doing well,” you shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “my feelings don’t negate your feelings and i love you, so i want to try and help you.” whether it’s a loaded statement or not, mingi can’t help but understand the irony. either you’re trying to teach him a lesson or the universe is. judging by the look in your eyes, he thinks it’s safe to assume that it’s you.

“i get it,” he nods, “i’m sorry for being a dick, you don’t deserve that.”

“i don’t deserve it, but i do understand it and i’m not going to torture you for it when it’s obvious you’ve been torturing yourself,” you point a finger up to his messed up hair, “what i am going to do is get in bed with you and eat a shit ton of ice cream, capeesh?”

“yeah, baby,” he smiles, “capeesh…”

[upsidedownwithsteve]

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.6K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh, won't you stay, just a little bit longer. Please let me hear, you say that you will, Say you will."

- Stay By Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs

IV. MOUNTAIN LAKE, VIRGINA: 1963

The man in front of you was not part of your vacation plans. He was half naked, sweaty, annoyed and scowling. The man in front of you was a stranger. 

Except he wasn’t. 

Was he?

You knew his name by now, something you’d only learnt on Monday, or perhaps the day before. Steve, Steve Herringbone or Barrington or something. He didn’t like it when you called him Steven and he certainly didn’t like it when you argued back. 

But this was supposed to be a getaway, a small summer break where you could maybe sneak a smoke by the lake when everyone had returned to their cabins and the geriatric morning yoga was done. Except your dad knew the owner of the summer retreat, a huge house settled in the Virginia countryside, the forest greener than it was back home. Bauman’s Mountain House was host to many golf courses, a fencing team, seventeen rowboats, an archery club, the best water aerobics in the state and an award winning dance show. 

The very latter included the man in front of you. 

Tall, broad shouldered and tanned from the summer, Steve Harrington was handsome and painstakingly so. Brown hair that he always tried to tame by pushing his hand through it, brown eyes and too many freckles to count. He wore a gold chain around his throat, black slacks and a leather jacket on his days off, driving around the resort in a BMW that made too much noise, but he didn’t seem to care. 

He cared even less about his bad reputation and loud ways when his partner broke her foot weeks before the final show, a tiny girl called Nancy that you were unreasonably jealous of at first sight. You watched them both on your first night, sat between your mother and father as they took to the stage, dancing flawlessly, fluidly, like they were one whole person. You watched the way she touched him, an easy familiarity that had your stomach feeling unsettled and something inside of you burned when her hand brushed the man’s neck, holding onto him as he dipped her low, her fingers trapping two little moles and hiding them from sight. 

You’d blamed the cheap cocktails and called it a night. 

But then your father found him arguing with Mr Bauman about the show and suddenly you were volunteered against your own volition, your parents talking loudly and proudly about talent shows and dance lessons when you were much younger, boldly exaggerating about how must’ve been a dancer in another life as you shook your head and tried to escape back to the gazebo by the shoreline.

Now you were left spending your evenings with Steve Harrington and his tight trousers in a cabin that was much smaller than your own. There was a leak in the corner, a consistent drip from a missing nail in the roof and rainwater splashed against the wooden floor as if it were counting down the seconds. 

As if it were counting down to— something. 

It had rained every night since you had started seeing Steve, the stifling afternoons giving way to humid evenings that always started to smell like rain by six o’clock, sweet tea and lemonade taken over by the scent of a new downpour. There had been threats of storms, chattering of it during breakfast in the main dining hall, grumbles of it from groundskeepers during bowling on the green. 

But nothing wild, not yet. 

Steve had scowled the entire time he was with you, minutes and hours spent with a frown on his face as he did his best to avoid touching you, mumbling something about getting the timings right, about learning the steps and the footwork before putting it all together. It was tedious now, repetitive and too warm in his small room and even with the bed pushed to the wall, there was barely space to avoid brushing up against him when you moved. 

You were flushed, skin shining with a thin layer of sweat and the same sheen made Steve’s lips look glossy, his hair sticking to his forehead in curls and flicks. You rolled your eyes when he hit rewind on the tape deck, a silent order for you to take it from the top. But you didn’t move as he made quick work on his buttons, undoing them one by one until his short sleeved shirt hung open, showing off far too much skin. Lean muscle and a smattering of hair across his pecs, more skating down the line of his navel and you sucked in a breath, pretending you hadn’t stood on your own foot. 

“It’s too fuckin’ warm,” he complained, circling you as he spoke, watching you for more errors, inspecting your footwork, your posture, the way your held your head up and squared off your shoulders. 

“No shit,” you couldn’t help but bite back. “How’d you think I feel?”

You wore denim shorts to his black slacks, but your cotton T-shirt was sticking to your torso now, the baby pink material too heavy and restricting for the heat inside the cabin. You pressed your lips together and moved, eyes on the wall ahead of you, your right foot moving in front of your left before you twisted your hips half a turn and—

“Take it off, then.”

You blinked, your framework going slack as you dropped both your arms and your jaw. You were hardly prudish, but something about this man had set you on edge since you’d first seen him. An electrical buzz every time you looked at him, fizzing through your bones, an invisible string tied to your insides pulling and pulling and pulling you closer. You’d ignored it until these dance practices, always turning in the other direction, putting the entire resort between you both. 

But now… now?

He was standing all of three feet away, cheeks flushed from the heat and his chest on show, his hands behind his head and his fingers buried in his hair in frustration as he stared at you. Like he was challenging you. The muscles in his arms were flexed, taut cords and lines that showed off how hard he work at his job and you couldn’t help but stare. 

“What?” You demanded it, a bite of an answer. 

“Your shirt,” Steve nodded to the pink material, brows raised like it were obvious. He almost rolled his eyes. “Take it off.”

Above you, the rain outside fell a little harder, a consistent din against the thin roof. 

You didn’t say anything. You just hoped you didn’t lose your cool as you reached for the hem of your t-shirt, untucking it from your shorts. The cotton stuck to you uncomfortably, dragging against your skin as you raised it up and over your head, the brief second where your eyesight was blinded a terrifying prospect. 

Was he looking? At you? Was he watching? Did he care?

By the time you’d balled up the offending fabric and tossed it in the corner, Steve had turned his back to you, pressing some buttons on the tape deck until the song - some kind of mambo - played for the beginning again. You couldn’t see his face but you wondered if he’d caught sight of your bra, as plain as it may have been. White cotton, thin with scalloped edges and a tiny pink bow between the cups. Hardly sexy, nothing near scandalous, but there was certainly a lot more skin showing now. 

Slick, damp skin that you wondered if he’d touch. It was like he wasn’t allowed to, the way he skirted around you all of the time, his hands shoved into his pockets when he wasn’t demonstrating the next step, a fist pressed to his chin as he watched you repeat his instructions, a wide palm always hovering just out of reach of your lower back when he scolded you for slouching, like he’d went to put his hands on you - only to pull catch himself at the last second. 

“You gotta loosen your hips,” Steve’s voice interrupted your thoughts as he turned back around. His eyes were on the floor before he finally dragged them up your legs and over your bare stomach. He sucked in a breath. “You’re too rigid.”

“You told me to hold my shoulders,” you retorted, knowing fine well that he’d bitched about your ‘noodle arms’ for days. 

“Yeah, your upper body needs to be squared off. Hold yourself tight from here up,” Steve gestured to your waist with the side of his hand. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiate from him. “But from here?” He tapped at the button on your shorts. 

You froze. 

“From here down, you need to put a bit of swing in the hips, alright?” He spun, putting himself behind you but you could see him in the mirror that leant against the cabin wall, an old looking thing that was too ornate to be here. Once gold, it had carvings of cherubs on the frame, tiny wreaths and rosettes intertwined with ancient style busts. “It’s a mambo, sweetheart, put a little heat into it.”

The tape begun again and Steve leant against a dresser, arms folded across his bare chest, his open shirt plastered to his skin. He watched you, waiting. The intro played and you counted the beats, nodding your head to each note and before you could hit the mark. Thunder rumbled somewhere outside and you were suddenly reminded of a man that looked like Steve, standing and watching you like that in a room much smaller than this, lit by firelight, dressed like a fighter. 

“You missed the count,” Steve sighed, exasperated. 

His hair had been longer, his face bruised and bleeding, but it looked just like him. A familiar scene, like you’d maybe seen it in a movie, but it felt more like a dream you didn’t recall having. You looked down at your feet, chest heaving, lips parted in confusion and you were only more dazed when you saw your bare legs and not the long skirts you expected. Your body didn’t feel like yours, not really. 

Like it was borrowed, or broken. 

You turned, facing Steve as if you expected him to be dressed differently, in leathers and studs and pleats, but he was still the same, just looking at you as if you’d suddenly fallen ill. Maybe you had. 

“Drink some water,” he ordered, and yes, that sounded like a really good idea. “Then we’ll go again.”

You chugged the bottle, the water tepid and hard to swallow but you gulped it down greedily, praying against heat stroke or whatever else it could be that could be plaguing you with such hallucinations. You swiped at your lips and closed your eyes before you turned back to the boy and when you did, he looked the same as he always did. 

Annoyed, tired, pretty. 

“C’mere,” Steve said briskly, crooking a finger at you. You stepped towards him, unsure of what he was asking you, lingering awkwardly with a few feet of space between you. Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I mean— here.”

He touched you then, his hand reaching out to grasp your own as he pulled you forward, closer than you’d ever been. There was barely space for a prayer between you both. 

You thought that his hand in yours would’ve made you feel something, a spark, a fizz, that buzz that you felt in your bones around him. But something else settled over you instead, a strange familiarity, a longing for a home you didn’t know or didn’t remember, like Steve touching you was hardly anything new. His touch made you think of the sea, of vast gardens, of islands and storms and great wars, ruby wine and promises that seemed impossible to keep. 

From the unsettled look in Steve’s eye as he stared down at you, you thought that maybe he felt the same thing. 

But then he was fussing, moving his feet into the right position and mumbling about your stance. His hand took you with him as he moved, less than an inch separating your bare stomach from his and you let him direct you as he pleased, waiting for the song to reply from the top. The drums began, a cacophony of instruments you’d never be able to name joining in. 

And then Steve was counting, his eyes suddenly fixed on yours as he nodded to the beat. “And five, six, seven—”

Steve’s other hand was on your waist. 

His palm felt huge, big enough to envelop your side and his thumb was pressed into the soft of your belly, just below your ribcage. His fingers were splayed out over your bare back, his skin warm against your own and you’d never felt so completely consumed by just one touch. You were reminded of white sheets and hazy mornings, the taste of fresh bread and an open window that looked out to blue skies and you could hear a fountain spraying water. 

But you were moving before you could consider it, what it meant, what it was, if it was possible to have someone else’s memories trapped in your head. Steve moved and you followed, your feet chasing his step by step as he walked you back and forth, his hips turning into yours on each beat, his shoulders set and his chin held high, ever the professional. 

“Don’t look at your feet,” he murmured, barely heard over the music. “Chin up. Look at me.”

You didn’t know how to tell him it hurt to do so, how looking into his eyes this close felt like giving in, it felt like being stitched back together without any medication. You had never been aware of any wounds in your body, but this man you barely knew seemed to fill the space very well. 

So you did, holding your breath until your chest burned, your eyes meeting Steve’s as you clasped his hand in your own and gripped his shoulder, letting him lead you around the cabin floor. The storm raged on, louder than before, more threatening now, like it was arguing, fighting, scolding. 

The rain poured harder and what little evening light there had been was now dampened, the setting sun hidden behind navy and violet coloured clouds - but the heat was just as oppressive. Steve turned you, a twist of his body that led into yours as you spun on your toes, and when he caught you— when he caught you, his hand moved lower, slipping down your overheated skin until his fingers grazed the denim waistband of your shorts. 

Maybe he saw you falter, maybe he saw your lips part, but Steve sucked in a breath and kept moving, his chest brushing your own as you stepped into his space as he danced into yours, torso meeting, separating, meeting, separating, meeting—

“Keep count,” he reminded you. “Keep counting the beats.” 

You nodded, Steve’s face startlingly closer than before, as if he’d forgotten his boundaries, the box he created with strong arms, the one that kept him professional as a dancer, standing tall and strong. Now his elbows were bent, his hand falling from yours so both of his palms could bracket your hips and it was too much, it was everything you’d ever wanted, it was something you felt like you’d once had. 

You just couldn’t remember who had taken it away from you. 

Lightning lit the cabin, the storm over the resort, the sky black. 

“Remember your hips,” he whispered, and god, god, his forehead was almost touching yours, his nose drawing a line against your own as his eyelids dropped and his lashes fanned his pink cheeks. His hands guided your waist, moving you from side to side, following the rhythm. “Listen to the beat.”  

You were sure he meant the music, but it was impossible to ignore the thud of his heart against your own chest. You could feel yours even more so, a constant drumming that seemed to seep into your bones, making them crack at the edges, something blooming between them, something new and old and familiar and exciting. 

Like driving into your street after a long vacation, like falling into your own bed after too many weeks away, smelling the laundry detergent that clung to everyone else that you loved. It felt hopeful, like the beginning of the morning when the only thing that had entered your thoughts was the way the sun looked in the sky, how pink it was, how the clouds seemed softer than the day before. 

Steve pushed at your hips, holding them as you swayed from side to side, your hands leaving the safety of his shoulders to slip up, holding the sides of his neck, the heat of his skin scalding your palms and he nodded, pupils blown wide and lips parted as he stared down at you in amazement, like he was seeing you for the very first time. 

Like he was seeing you for the first time after a very long time apart. 

“Good,” he told you softly, like he was still teaching you, like this was still professional. Like he hadn’t put his hand on your lower back and obliterated whatever wall someone else had built between you. Something that had once seemed so strong was knocked down so easily, like not even a god could keep it between you. “Good. Like that, just like that—”

He swore when you moved closer, emboldened by his pretty eyes and the way his gaze tracked down your chest, down your bare stomach. His fingers flexed on your hips, blunt nails tattooing your skin and you hoped the marks would stay there, you hoped they’d be there tomorrow so you could remember that this wasn’t a dream. 

His leg found its way between yours, the song finally slowing to the last few drumbeats and you knew this was the time where you were supposed to spin in Steve’s arms and raise your hand in a grand finish. But Steve tucked your hips close to his instead and let his thigh push into the seam of your denim shorts. 

The song that came on next was slower, lazier, languid. 

The singer had a deeper voice, the drums rolling with a dirtier beat and this wasn’t the mambo, this wasn’t a salsa and it certainly wasn’t anything you’d do in a ballroom never mind on stage in front of others. You’d seen this kind of dancing once before, the night after you first arrived at Bauman’s. You hadn’t meant it, but a walk along the lake after the sun had set had led you to a larger cabin at the back of the resort, where the lights were on and the music was loud. 

Music like this. 

A guy at the door with long curls and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips had appraised you, one eyebrow lifted at your little white summer dress and tennis shoes. 

“You work here?” He’d asked and you had shaken your head, ready to walk back the way you came. “You a snitch?” He asked after a pause. 

Again, you shook your head ‘no’ and listened as the music inside got louder. The man, who you were sure you’d seen on stage during dinner, playing the guitar for the dining  guests, just shrugged. He’d nodded to a stack of beer crates at the side of the building.

“Grab a case and keep your mouth shut, alright?” He’d opened the door for you, the music louder than ever, the smell of smoke and weed and sweat pouring out. You remember how’d he grinned at you as you took in the sight. “Have fun, princess.”

It’s where you’d seen Steve for the second time, in the middle of a makeshift dance floor with the bow tie and dinner jacket he’d worn during his evening performance long gone. Moving with a girl with his shirt buttons open, his hair a mess, grinding and manhandling her in a way you weren’t sure you would even call dancing. Everyone was doing the same, hips gyrating, skirts too short, men’s chests bare, the smiles meeting in an almost kiss.

It was nothing short of scandalous. 

You’d left, dumping the beer on a table beside a watermelon that almost rolled to the ground in your panic, turning from the crowd and walking out the way you’d came. The curly haired man had snorted at the sight of your wide eyes, calling out a goodbye between laughs. 

And here you were, not even two weeks later, doing the same, if not worse. Why worse? You and Steve were alone. 

Thunder cracked again, louder than before. 

It didn’t feel wrong to be doing this. In fact, for as much trouble as you’d be in if your father had had to catch you, everything about it felt right, like you’d done it before, like this man was yours to touch. But something that felt like danger lingered in the air, a threat far more serious than your dad or Mr Bauman. 

But still, you let your body move with Steve’s, a slow grind of your hips into his and when your hand found the nape of his neck and your fingers twisted into his hair, Steve’s palm cupped your ass, pulling you into him, making you feel how affected he was. 

It should’ve scared you. How this man was touching you, this person you barely knew, alone in a cabin and who you were so sure had hated you only a mere ten minutes before. But Steve looked as gone as you felt, eyes filled with longing, a passion that was visible, his brows knitted together as he stared down at you hungrily, lovingly, adoringly. 

It was almost too much to bear. So you let your head fall back, body slack as you kept dancing, trusting the man to keep you upright and against his own chest and you heard Steve let out a breath at the sight of your exposed neck, the long line of it offered to him like a sacrifice. 

“That’s it,” you heard him murmur. “You feel the beat now?” His words fell on your throat, your bare skin, the top of his nose drawing a line from the base of it to your jaw, his mouth following and you were so sure he wasn’t talking about the music anymore. 

But you nodded, clinging to him when he dipped you backwards, his hands holding you like you were precious, like you were made of marble and gold and suddenly you felt like Steve could’ve been. Like someone had taken a piece of the earth and grown this man from it, just for you. Like he had something ancient in his bones, like whatever he was made of you, you were created from the same thing too. 

When he pulled you back up, effortless and graceful, you were closer than before, impossibly so. Chests meeting in the middle as you both panted into each other's parted lips, noses meeting and foreheads touching. Steve’s hands were curled around your waist, fingers splayed across your naked back as if he couldn’t bear not to touch every part of you. Your hand was on his neck, your fingers brushing over two moles on his tanned skin, the ones you’d watched Nancy touch before you. 

But as you pressed your fingertips to them, your lips buzzed and Steve let out a sigh, like you’d unravelled a knot in his spine, like you’d found a magic button that fixed him. Like you’d touched a place that you’d once touched before. 

“You’ve never touched me before,” you whispered, voice cracking on each syllable because it suddenly was too much. 

Steve looked pained, lashes fluttering as his gaze dropped to your lips and he struggled to find the right words to give you. “I— I shouldn’t be doing it now,” he murmured. “I’m not allowed.”

“Why? Because of your boss? My dad?” 

He grinned, a smirk that faltered too quickly and he shook his head, still not moving from you, his nose nudging yours as he struggled to keep himself from shifting closer still. “You’d think that should’ve been enough to keep me away.” Steve licked his lips and you tracked the movement, so sure that he’d taste like summer and salt and the peach tea from the diner. “Not even the threat of losing my damn job and house can keep me away from you.”

His words had an effect on you, breath hitching, chest aching. “Then who said you’re not allowed?”

The song was still going, a lazy beat that was easy to sway to, Steve’s leg still wedged between your thighs and his hands were wandering, sensual and slow, a whole other kind of dance over your skin. Fingers gripped at your waist before one hand trailed down your hip, over your bare thigh, ghosting over the line of your torn off shorts. He brought your thigh to his hip, hitching your leg high, pressing you both together until you could feel him all, until he could feel all of you.

Laid bare enough for you to feel like he could take the very soul of you from your body.

You found that you didn’t mind the idea of it at all.

“You’ll laugh at me,” Steve murmured but he didn’t sound embarrassed at all, like he didn’t actually believe that you would.

You shook your head, nose brushing against the tip of his and if you moved another inch, just one, you could’ve been kissing him, mouth slotting against his. “I won’t,” you promised.

“I started having dreams when you came,” Steve told you. “Dreams where it always rained and the sky was always dark. And there was a man there, a thing, maybe. But he felt ancient, older than the fucking world and he told me to stay away, to keep away from you.”

You didn’t laugh. No. No, in fact, you didn’t say a damn thing.

Steve laughed, breathless and without any humour, and his hand trailed back up your thigh as your leg dropped slowly to the floor. He spun you both, lazy and languid, but the world around you both still blurred. The cabin faded away, a mix of the low lights and the colours of his quilt on the bed. 

You could barely hear the storm, but god, it was the loudest it had been.

“I want to do ungodly things with you,” Steve confessed and he sounded pained, his throat tight with the same kind of emotion you felt, like you were both sharing the same heart. “I want to do ungodly things to you.”

“Steve--”

“I know it sounds crazy, but there’s somethin’-- somethin’ in the sky or in the goddamn cracks of the earth that’s telling me I shouldn’t.” His bottom lip grazed your top one, an almost kiss, a whisper of one, a mere idea of it. Hardly a touch. “That something real bad will happen if we do.”

You couldn’t explain it, just like you couldn’t explain your sudden proximity to the man, the achingly familiar closeness you felt. But you knew, somehow, some way, Steve was right. 

Tears stung your eyes, a fiery nip that you tried to blink away and when the music slowed to a stop and the next song began, Steve kept moving, your body melted to his, no space between either of you to be able to determine where you ended and he began.

Your voice cracked when you spoke. “What should we do?”

Steve took a breath before he answered, one hand coming up to push against your hairline, his palm coasting down your cheek, holding you, cherishing you. His touch was hot with adoration. 

“We can keep dancing.”

[howi99]

Prince of Vale: The roof scene

It's a lot different than Canon.

Pyrrha: *look at her partner* You are hiding something.

Jaune: ... What?

Pyrrha: Your footwork during your fight against Cardin. It was impeccable, worthy of a true swordsman.

Jaune: *Laughing* I probably got it from my dance lessons. You saw how bad i was with a sword!

Pyrrha: *chuckles* I saw how you used your sword. Awful, truly awful... With a short sword. *Throw a saber in its scabbard to Jaune*

Jaune: *looking at the saber, one with a particular symbol on its hilt, then back at Pyrrha* Pyrrha, where did you-

Pyrrha: *Blushing a bit* I... Well, the headmaster gave it to me this morning. He said it was a gift from your mother...

Jaune: ... Did anyone else saw it?

Pyrrha: Only Ren and Nora.

Jaune: *sigh, looking at the royal symbol* I was actually planning on telling you guys. I just wanted to have a bit more time, you know? Being a normal kid.

Pyrrha: Yeah... Well, to us you are still just Jaune. And really, what does it change? It's not as if we act differently with Weiss, do we?

Jaune: ... *Chuckle* I guess not. *Taking the saber out* So, wanna see what i'm really capable of or?

Pyrrha: *smiling* Damn yes i want! I was waiting for this!

___________________________________________

Ren: *looking up from his book, seeing both Jaune and Pyrrha looking exhausted* Oh good, you stopped holding back.

Jaune: *sitting on his bed* Tell that to Pyrrha! She's going easy on us all! Damn, i had to use boxing at the end because i couldn't use my sword.

Pyrrha: *smiling happily* And you punched me good! God, my ribs are still hurting.

Nora: Oh! Who won!?

Jaune: *Laughing* Pyrrha of course! Hands against spears are completely unfair! But i already know how to beat her next time. By the way Nora, if you practice against Pyrrha, use more lightning Dust.

Pyrrha: Hey! Don't tell her how to beat me! That's cheating!

Jaune: And good practice for you!

[meazalykov]

girl in the ring

salma paralluelo x fem!reader

summary: salma didn't think that she would meet the love of her life at the gym

warnings: none, just reader being a huge flirt

the gym is quiet, just like every other night at this hour. 

the only sounds are the faint hum of the treadmill beneath salma's feet and the rhythmic thuds of your fists hitting the punching bag. 

salma didn't expect to see you here again—though, by now, she kind of hopes every time she comes. it’s been a few weeks, maybe more, since she first noticed you. you’re always in the same spot, hammering away at that bag like it holds all your enemies together or something. 

you’re captivating. the dark green matching set on your body flatters your skin tone-- and it’s becoming harder for salma to keep her eyes to herself. 

she tries to focus on lifting, tries to keep her mind on the routine—bench press, dumbbells, deadlifts—but out of the corner of her eye, she can’t help but sneak glances at you. 

your punches are so precise, sharp, like you’ve been doing this for years. the way your arms flex with each hit, toned and controlled, has her completely hooked.

after she finishes her lifts, salma makes her way to the treadmill for some cardio. 

her heart’s already racing, but she tells herself it's from the workout. the boxing ring is in her view now, and she watches as you climb inside, training with one of the coaches. you’re fast—like, really fast. your footwork is insane, and she’s mesmerized by the way you move, dodging and weaving effortlessly before landing a perfect jab. 

she looks at your fast feet and wonders if you're faster than her. your reflexes are insane, something that would've benefited you if you played football-- salma thought.

she knows she shouldn’t stare, but it’s impossible not to.

salma’s still caught up in watching you when she sees you move out of the rings. you look exhausted, yet content at the same time.

she assumes you’re heading to the locker room, but then you’re suddenly right beside her treadmill, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

"so... what’s a pretty girl like you doing here at 3 am?" you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

the treadmill was at an incline, so the barcelona winger lowered it so she was at the same ground level as you.

salma feels a flutter in her chest, momentarily startled but recovering quickly with a smile. 

"i could ask you the same thing, beautiful," she shoots back, eyes sparkling with amusement.

you chuckle softly, and there’s something easy about the way you talk to her, like you’ve known each other for more than just these passing glances. 

"fair enough," you say, running a hand through your slightly tangled hair. 

"i’m y/n, by the way."

"salma," she responds, feeling a small wave of relief. you don’t recognize her—no mention of barcelona or the fact that she plays on one of the biggest football clubs in the world. it’s refreshing.

"nice to meet you, salma," you say, and there’s a spark in the way you look at her, like you’re genuinely interested. 

"so, what brings you to a place like this at this hour?"

salma shrugs, trying to play it cool, though your attention is doing things to her composure. 

"i like it when it’s quiet. less crowded. i can actually focus on my workout."

"yeah, same here," you say, leaning casually against the treadmill. 

"plus, no distractions. unless you count the girl who’s been staring at me for the last thirty minutes."

salma’s smile heated up instantly. "i was not staring!" she protests, though her laughter betrays her.

"oh, you were definitely staring," you tease, your grin widening. 

"but don’t worry, i don’t mind. kinda flattering, actually."

salma rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. "you’re confident, huh?"

"just observant," you reply with a wink. 

"you know, i don’t usually chat up strangers at the gym, but you’ve got me curious. you’re fit too. wanna grab a coffee after this? or are you one of those girls who have a strict post-gym routine?"

her heart skips a beat, but she tries to keep her cool. unaware that you were feeling the same way.

"i don’t have a routine like that. actually, i was going to ask you if you wanted to grab coffee in the morning."

"why not now?" you counter, raising an eyebrow. "there’s a 24-hour café a couple of blocks from here that i go to. we can grab a drink after we get showers, of course."

salma smirks, finding your spontaneity refreshing. "alright, why not now?" she agrees, feeling an unexpected thrill at the prospect of getting to know you outside this gym.

after both of you shower and change, you head to the small café down the street. the place is cozy, and at this hour, it’s almost as quiet as the gym, with just a couple of people scattered at tables studying for school.

you order your drinks, finding a seat near the window. the conversation flows easily—there’s no awkwardness, no weird pauses.

"so," salma starts, stirring her coffee, "i have to ask. are you, like, a professional boxer or something? you’re really good."

you laugh, shaking your head. "nah, i’m not a boxer. just a hobby, really. it’s my favorite form of working out, but i don’t do it professionally."

salma raises an eyebrow, impressed. "you could’ve fooled me."

"thanks," you say with a small smile. "i’m actually an esthetician. way different from boxing, i know."

"wait, really?" she’s genuinely surprised. "i wouldn’t have guessed that. you seem so... tough."

"hey, i can be tough and take care of people’s skin," you joke, and she laughs, the sound soft and genuine. 

"but yeah, i love what i do. boxing’s just something i picked up because it keeps me in shape and helps me clear my head after a day of extracting blackheads and massaging people."

"i get that," salma nods. "football does the same for me."

your eyes light up in recognition. "football? you play?"

salma hesitates for a second, but then decides to tell you. "yeah, i play for barcelona... i’m a winger."

you blink, taken aback for a moment. "wait, like *that* barcelona?"

she chuckles softly, nodding. "yeah, that one."

"damn," you say, clearly impressed. "that’s really cool."

"thanks," she says, a little relieved that you’re not freaking out over it. "it’s fun. exhausting, but fun."

"i bet," you reply, sipping your coffee. "so, does this mean i’m on a date with a famous footballer?"

she bites her lip, trying not to grin too hard. "maybe. does it bother you?"

"not at all," you answer, leaning back in your chair. "just means i have to step up my game for the second date."

"second date, huh?" she smirks, intrigued.

"if you’ll have me," you tease, your tone playful but sincere.

salma’s heart flutters at the way you look at her, and she can’t help but flirt back. 

"i think i can arrange that. maybe you can come to one of my games. i’ll even get you the best seats."

you grin. "sounds like a plan. just let me know when, and i’ll be there."

the two of you spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, and learning more about each other. it’s easy—effortless, even—and by the time you walk salma back to her car, there’s an undeniable connection between you. 

as she gets in, she pauses, giving you one last smile.

"so, see you at the gym tomorrow night?" she asks.

"wouldn’t miss it," you reply with a wink. "see you around, salma."

and with that, she drives off, her heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with the gym.

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

[adrienneleclerc]

Do you think you can do a Carlos sainz jr imagine

Well YN is MMA fighter and I don't know they meet at one of her fights or at the gym however you want to put it I guess so yeah and I was the one who requested the Lewis Hamilton photographer one and I really liked that imagine in this very good so thank you very much xoxo 🇲🇽🫶🥰😘

Let’s see what I can do and I’m so glad you liked how the Lewis Hamilton imagine came out! I was a little worried there for a second

Love At First Fight

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x MMA fighter! Reader

Summary: Carlos meets Y/N at the gym and end up sparring together

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors

A/N: I have the idea in my mind, I can see it happening, can I put it into words? Let’s see. Also, sorry if it’s too short but I think it turned out cute for the prompt. Anyway, MY FIRST CARLOS SAINZ IMAGINE

Now that is is summer break and Carlos has announced he was going to Williams, he decided to go boxing with his trainer at the gym.

“Hola Carlos, ready to begin your session?” His trainer, Emilio asked.

“Of course, let’s get started, cabrón.” Carlos said. Him and Emiliowere doing some basic punching combos, Carlos was practicing his footwork, when he saw a woman walk in and immediately started using a punching bag. Since carlos was distracted, Emilio hit him upside the head.

“Focus, man, i thought you wanted to box today.” Emilio said.

“I do but who is that?” Carlos asked.

“You’re kidding.” The trainer said looking at the woman and back at Carlos. “I think it’s better if you stick to dating models.”

“Her name, cabrón.” Carlos said,

“Her name is Y/N L/N, she is an MMA fighter, she’s the UFC Featherweight champion for 2023.” Emilio said.

“You think I can spar with her?” Carlos asked.

“Ha! I’d like to see you try. L/N!” Emilio shouted, Y/N turned around.

“Gutiérrez, you know better than to shift my name in a public gym, what’s up.” Y/N said, walking towards the two men, taking off her gloves.

“My client here wants to spar with you.” Emilio said.

“Carlos Sainz, nice to meet you.” Carlos said, extending his hand, Y/N shook his hand.

“Think you can go toe to toe with me, pretty boy?” Y/N asked, stepping closer to Carlos so their noses were almost touching.

“Why not? I’ll give you the first shot.” Carlos said, Y/N stepped back, releasing his hand.

“Haha, okay, You’re confident, let’s see how confident you are in the ring.” Y/N said, walking toward the boxing ring they had further into the gym. Carlos was in shock but Emilio pushed him to start walking, Y/N was already inside the ring.

“Alright, I got these two helmets because Y/N would probably kill you since you suck at blocking.” Emilio told Carlos and Y/N snickered. “Y/N blue, you red.” They put on their helmets and Y/N put in her mouth guard. Emilio helped Y/N and Carlos lace up their gloves. “Great, touch gloves, and spar.

Carlos severely underestimated how it would be like to spar Y/N. You know how people feel pretty stupid one they find out Formula 1 is a serious sport and that driving a kart at 300 kilometers an hour isn’t easy? Carlos is feeling really stupid for wanting to spar with a UFC featherweight champion when he only boxes every other week (probably). Y/N was obviously winning, at one point, Y/N was straddling Carlos and had his wrists pinned to the mat until Emilio called time. Carlos winked at Y/N before she got off him and helped him up.

“Gotta hand it to you, pretty boy, you did pretty well for an F1 driver.” Y/N said.

“You know who I am?” Carlos asked.

“Well i obviously had to google you after meeting you since you’re Emilio’s client.” Y/N said,

“Well since I already had you on top of me..” Carlos started and Y/N laughed “..do you want to get lunch right now? I’ll pay.”

“That sounds great, I’ll shower and change so we can go.” Y/N said,

The End

Hope y’all liked it!

[latin5mamii]

Angel -Jude Bellingham

|WARNINGS: none |AUTHOR'S NOTE:I'm loving this fanfic😭 Previous part |SUMMARY:How could you know that a stupid nickname could change everything?

You couldn’t stop thinking about the date,which wasn’t really a date actually.That word never escaped his lips and you knew that this was just a casual meeting with your best friend, that’s all.You spent the whole day thinking about a good outfit,which wasn’t easy, of course.

You didn’t want to appear too elegant but also not too much casual,so you decided for a mini skirt and an embroidered black top,your favorite heels that weren’t too high, you weren’t a really tall girl, just right in the middle, but a pair of heels wouldn’t hurt anyone, he would still be higher than you;you then thought about wavy hair and some makeup. You then added the right amount of jewelry and surely you couldn’t forget your favorite perfume, now you’re finally ready and a texts lets your phone vibrate.

Jude:You ready?I’m here

You felt your heart racing and your cheeks becoming hotter, it’s just a normal date, right?

:Yes i’ll be out there in a second

You gave yourself a last look at the mirror and you felt a sense of joy and butterflies in your stomach.You didn’t care if it was a date or not, you only wanted to be with him honestly.

As you slid into Jude's car, the radio pulsed with the rhythm of "Eyes Without a Face." The haunting melody, with its lyrics about a love unseen, seemed to echo the unspoken desires swirling between you. You stole a glance at Jude, finding him already looking at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"So," he finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "where would you like to go, Angel?"

The nickname, a relic of your childhood, brought a warmth to your cheeks. "There's this great little jazz bar downtown," you suggested, surprised at your own boldness. "They have live music and amazing food."

A slow smile, genuine and heart-stopping, spread across Jude's face. "Perfect. I know just the place."

The drive was a whirlwind of comfortable silences punctuated by playful banter. You told him about your favorite childhood prank, and he countered with a story about a disastrous attempt to impress a girl with his soccer skills. When he chuckled at your teasing about his youthful clumsiness, a playful glint lit up his eyes.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you could have saved me a lot of trouble back then if you'd just let me impress you instead."

You scoffed, but a blush crept up your neck. "Impress me? With what, tripping over your own shoelaces?"

He feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Hey! Those were some fancy footwork maneuvers gone wrong."

By the time you pulled up to the jazz bar, tucked away on a quiet side street, laughter lines had etched themselves around your eyes. The smoky intimacy of the place, with its thrumming melody and warm candlelight, felt like stepping into a bygone era.

The hostess, a woman with a knowing smile and a mane of silver hair, greeted Jude by name. "Jude! Good to see you again. We've saved you a booth in the back."

He winked at you, a silent promise of a private corner. The booth, nestled against a brick wall adorned with photographs of jazz legends, was bathed in a warm glow. You settled in, feeling an electricity crackle in the air.

The menu, presented on a worn leather-bound cover, promised a delectable array of dishes. As you debated your options, you caught Jude stealing glances at your outfit.

"That top is amazing," he said, his voice a low murmur. "The embroidery is beautiful."

You felt a blush creep up your neck again. "Thanks," you mumbled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Actually, my mom gave it to me."

He raised an eyebrow playfully. "Your mom has impeccable taste. See, even without shoelaces, I manage to impress sometimes."

With every playful jab and shared secret, the tension between you crackled. It was a tension that mirrored the song playing softly in the background, a song that spoke of love and longing, a perfect reflection of your own unspoken feelings.

When dessert arrived, a decadent chocolate mousse that Jude insisted you share with him, a playful tug-of-war ensued over the spoon. Laughter filled the air as you both ended up with chocolate smeared on your smiles.

"Gotcha," Jude chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You swiped a bit of chocolate from his cheek with your thumb, savoring the warmth of his touch. "Seems like the only one getting impressed tonight is me, Mr. Soccer Star."

A playful glint lit up Jude's eyes as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "Well, Angel," he murmured, "consider this round one. There's plenty of time for you to get even more impressed later."

The heat in his gaze flustered you, and you quickly looked down at the lingering chocolate on your fingers. You knew you should probably steer the conversation back to safe territory, but the playful banter felt exhilarating, a stark contrast to the nervous energy that had simmered between you earlier.

Just then, the melody shifted, the smoky saxophone giving way to a sultry female vocalist. The lyrics, filled with promises of forever and declarations of burning love, hung heavy in the air. You stole a glance at Jude, wondering if the song mirrored the unspoken emotions swirling within him too.

"This song reminds me of something," he said, his voice a low rumble.

A nervous flutter took flight in your stomach. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

He leaned back in the booth, a thoughtful expression on his face. "There was this girl, back when we were just kids, who used to climb trees and get stuck. The same girl who'd get mad at her brother for calling her Angel."

His words sent a jolt through you. A playful smile tugged at the corner of your lips. "Sounds like someone has a good memory."

"The best," he replied, his gaze locking with yours. "Especially the memory of how brave she was, and kind, and beautiful..." He paused, his voice trailing off, leaving the rest unspoken.

The air crackled with unspoken tension, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you. You felt your cheeks burning under his intense gaze. Was he confessing his childhood feelings for you? Or was he simply reminiscing?

Before you could voice the question that burned on your tongue, the music swelled, drowning out any further conversation. The vocalist launched into a powerful rendition of a classic love ballad, its lyrics echoing the yearning in your own heart.

Jude reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours. A spark shot through you as your eyes met. In that silent moment, a million unspoken emotions hung in the air. The playful banter, the stolen glances, the lingering touches - it all seemed to culminate in this single, electrifying moment.

With a hesitant smile, Jude squeezed your hand gently. "Dance with me, Angel?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This wasn't how you imagined the night would end, but a thrilling anticipation bubbled within you. You couldn't deny the pull you felt towards him, a connection that transcended years of friendship.

With a shy smile, you nodded, allowing him to lead you to the small dance floor tucked away in a corner of the bar. The intimacy of the space, coupled with the soulful melody filling the air, created a bubble around you two.

Jude held you close, his hand resting possessively on your lower back. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, his cologne sending a familiar scent swirling around you. As you swayed to the music, a comfortable silence settled between you, a comfortable silence that spoke volumes.

The song ended all too soon, the applause of the other patrons breaking the spell. Yet, as you looked into Jude's eyes, you saw a reflection of the same yearning you felt burning within you.

The late-night jazz bar felt a world away now, replaced by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the car windows. Jude navigated the familiar streets with practiced ease, a comfortable silence settling between you.

The unspoken tension in the air thrummed with a different kind of energy now – a hopeful anticipation for what might lie ahead. You stole a glance at Jude, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. His lips were curved in a thoughtful smile, and you couldn't help but wonder if it mirrored the one playing on your own lips.

As he pulled up in front of your apartment building, a pang of disappointment shot through you. The night had flown by, and the thought of saying goodbye so soon felt unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to him, your voice barely a whisper.

"Would you like to come in?" you blurted out, surprised by your own boldness.

His eyes widened in surprise, then a slow smile spread across his face. "I'd like that very much, angel."

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

[jimmyneutron877]

"Keep Dancing With Me"

• Pre War Cooper Howard x Reader! Fluff!

(Cooper and you dance together 🥺)

“C’mon Coop! Please just teach me even a little step, pleeeeease”

You and Cooper Howard have been together for a while now, since after he and Barb got divorced, and you had been begging Cooper to teach you the Western line dancing he claims to know.

“No- c’mon- its embarrassin’ please-” He refused you every time saying he was embarrassed, he was “too busy” or he “wasn't in the mood”, but he wouldn't get away with it this time, you wouldn't have it.

You left the couch with a Hm, and disappeared into the bedroom, this was automatically suspicious for Cooper as you’d always persist and plead, and then he heard it… Johnny Cash. He got up from the couch, put his paper down and started for the bedroom, but not before you appeared in the doorway, you gestured for him to come closer with your finger, and when he moved forward you did too, until you both met halfway.

“Cooper Howard, you are going to teach me a dance, or I'll make you” Your voice got low and serious as you looked into his eyes.

He let out a sigh, defeated, “Fine, gimme your hand, put the other on my shoulder” he took your hand with his and guided his other hand down to your waist and gripped it firmly.

You always loved his hands, they were strong and big, and you almost fit into them completely, your hand disappeared into his, like his hands were made for you, and he loved that too.

He showed you the footwork to one he called “Lori's Cha-Cha”, and the beginning was easy, however, you kind of bombed out anything after that, so you two just stuck to the beginning part. It was nice, energetic and intimate at the same time, you were both laughing for the first time in a long time. Johnny Cash was definitely the best pick for this dancing.

“Havin’ fun?” He teased with a smirk, flashing his teeth.

“Yes, I can definitely see you are, you've loosened up, your shoulders aren't as tense” You noted, sending a cheeky smile to him.

“Yeah yeah, whatever” Cooper rolled his eyes.

“Why didn't you ever want to show me before?”

“I don't know, I never thought you'd be so interested in it, I always thought it was a cheesy thing we always had ta learn in school” he spun you around gently and his hand left your waist for a split second before you came back around.

“Aw Coop, you don't have to be embarrassed about it, I love it, I'm always interested in you..I find it really charming, and what better way to woo someone than with your line dancing?” you teased the last part and he scoffed but he knows you meant the beginning.

“I’m sorry for always shovin’ you off before, I also thought you were kinda just teasin’ me ‘bout it” he said that and stopped for a moment, “Actually I'm sorry for not really payin’ attention to you much at all lately, things have been…stressful, and painful, but you didn't deserve the distance, I'm sorry” he looked down and the dancing slowed.

You watched and listened to this, it made your heart ache thinking of everything that's happened to him. You loved him more than anything, more than life itself, but most people took him for granted, and that hurt.

“Coop, look at me” you took your hands and held the sides of his face to make him look down at you again, “It’s okay, I know what you've been through, I know it's been so stressful and you've been hurting, but I'll always be here for you, I love you so much, more than words, and I'll stand by you for the rest of our life together, I love you”

You pulled him down and his lips met yours, he melted into the kiss and wrapped his arms around your whole body, keeping your warmth against him. Letting out an exasperated breath, he relaxed and leant into you and your arms linked around his neck to further deepen the kiss.

When the kiss ended you two just looked into each other's eyes. His amber eyes radiated with the orange sky setting through the window, the green hints flickered like filtered leaves.

“You're beautiful you know that Y/N…” he said dreamily after a while of him studying your face too, “How did I ever deserve you?”

You smiled at his sweet words and gave him another kiss.

“I love you so so much Coop, now please keep dancing with me…”

A/N: Thank you for reading! It's been a while, but I absolutely love Cooper Howard/The Ghoul and the Fallout series, so here I am 😍

Do not borrow/translate/steal

[notquitecanon]

Tell 'em bout the Twinkie // Dr. Egon Spengler x extroverted!Reader

Summary: Egon takes care of you after a long night on the town with the other Ghostbusters. While somethings are always the same, you surprise him yet again.

I found this hand written in a notebook from two years ago while I was cleaning so I figured id type it up and post it since there wasn't much new stuff in the tag. Dinner is served.

Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, sober Egon (obvi), descriptions of scraped knees and cut hands, blood mention, and first aid. Lots and lots and lots of fluff. Possible cringe. shameless use of Twinkie as an emotional allegory

Dr. Egon Spengler was enjoying a rare night of quiet in the firehouse. Janine had scheduled the whole week around the entire group being free tonight. Peter had insisted a little R&R was due in spades. And for Egon that meant spending a quiet night in, lackadaisically charting his mold and fungus, and catching up on relevant literature at his leisure. 

But for the rest of the Ghostbusters staff, it meant going out to a nearby bar for drinks and music. That included you, the Ghostbusters resident research analyst (as you were listed on their payroll). 

You had been hesitant to leave Egon alone, especially on one of the few nights you wren’t working to the wee hours of the morning or having dinner interrupted by what Winston had dubbed the "bust alarm". Still, the scientist encouraged you to join the others, knowing deep down you wanted to go. 

One of the many reasons he admired you was your easy and outgoing nature, your desire to be out in the world. Due to his introverted and nose in his book habits (even worse when he was in college), your extroverted demeanor was probably the only reason you had managed to befriend him. And because he admired it and profoundly enjoyed your company, he never Egon ever wanted to be the reason you didn’t do the things you wanted to. 

However, that didn’t mean he had the slightest inclination to join you in a Friday night crowded bar: packed with sweaty people he didn’t want to touch, drinks he didn’t want to drink, loud music he didn’t want to hear, smoky air he didn’t want to breath, and sticky countertops he didn’t want to sit at. And that’s just the reasons he got out before Peter gave up trying to convince him. 

So, he was content to gently push you towards the door with the assured promise he’d be happily waiting with for your return with leftover takeout- both of your favorite ways to end a late night since meeting each other as Grad Students. Nothing better than cold noodles after coming home little drunker than you meant to- and well, Egon didn’t drink but did enjoy an excuse for a late night snack (and an excuse to be close to you).

And with the firehouse still and quiet, Egon was enthused, seeing how ectoplasm interacted and affected the growth of his molds, making mental notes to show you. 

Aspergillums wouldn’t grow at all, actively decaying at ectoplasmic contact. Cladosporium both grew and decayed erratically with Ecto contact, creating a cascading starburst affect. Alternaria first grew at unprecedented rates but wouldn’t produce spores. Penicillin frew at normal rates but produced an odd smell. Fusarium grew rapidly and abundantly at first but died off just as rapidly. 

"Spengie!" A recklessly loud shout, Peter no doubt, echoed from the main entrance, "You gotta marry this girl!” 

And thus his quiet night was suddenly over- con. But it meant you were home- pro! Venkman's shout was accompanied by the sound of quick footwork stomping and scuffing above him, and Egon could imagine him doing a little spin around the fire pole. It was Winston’s voice that following in scolding. 

"Peter if you don’t shut the hell up, I will leave you at the bottom of the stairs for the night. We both know you won’t make it up by yourself.” His voice was a warning, but Venkman’s voice was cheeky. 

"After all we’ve been through, Zeddemore?” 

"Especially after all we’ve been through.” 

Egon smirked at his friend’s antics, shaking his head as he removed the Trichoderma slide from the microscope, encapsulated it, labeled it, and sorted it into his hobby file base. A well practiced move as a set of footsteps clunked down the stairs to him. His eyebrows twitched. 

Those weren’t your footsteps. 

And while he loved his friends dearly, they had gotten your company and attention all night. Despite his insistence on your outing, he was feeling uncharacteristically territorial about his night time traditions with you. 

"I’d knock but I don’t have a hand." Ray’s voice called out, sounding three quarters of the way down, chipper tone underplayed by a touch of strain. His steps were unaccompanied and you hadn’t called out to him yet- not even a good night. Had you decided to skip takeout all together in favore of crashing on the upstairs couch? If anything, the couch he had in the basement would be better for your REM cycle. Not to mention Egon was also in the basement.

Nonetheless, Egon answered, inviting him into the lab as he rose from his work stool. Finally, Ray turned the corner, silently answering all the scientist’s questions. Because there you were, wrapped around Ray’s back like a proton pack, your own jacket hanging behind the both of you like a cape, your purse on Ray’s shoulder, and shamefully useless shoes in his hand. Rays arms looped under your lax knees, and your arms were loosely around his neck like the worlds drunkest scarf. Meanwhile, your face had tucked into Ray’s neck, between your arm and his collar, now smudged with your lipstick. 

There was a momentary flash of jealousy until it was squashed by Egon’s sudden attention to your knees. He tensed, seeing a patch of blood on both knees, staining ripped tights and dripping to your ankles. There was a more subtle smudge of injury on both of your palms. 

"What happened?" Egon’s voice was clipped, zeroing in on your wounds as he crossed the lab, suddenly much more worried that you hadn’t even twitched. You were breathing deeply, but hand’t made a sound…

Ray had been expecting this reaction and kept a calm face, "Just took a little tumble, Spengler, see?” 

With that, he shook one of the arms holding your legs, jostling you enough to rouse you a little. Without looking up, one of your bloody hands weakly formed a thumbs up before going limp again. Egon looked between your hand and Ray’s face in a mix of disbelief, worry, and irritation. Stantz swallowed thickly, shifting from foot to foot under his friend’s discerning gaze. 

"That didn’t answer my question, Raymond.”

It only took one more cold look for Ray to start rambling the truth.

"Awww, don’t Raymond me, Spengs, it was all Peter’s fault, honest! It was like graduation weekend all over again. Venkman wanted a rematch, and, you know, (Y/N) had just enough to drink that she was feeling competitive. They agreed to the same stakes as last time and since you weren’t there (Y/N) placed a bet on your behalf." Ray explained quickly, not managing to hide his happy smile as he moved to gingerly deposit you on the couch. Egon was following like a shadow, taking great care to keep your head from falling back uncomfortably. Graduation Weekend had been the last time you had been carried home like this, only Egon had done the carrying that weekend, after going shot-for-shot with Venkman. After that and the subsequent hangover, you had vowed to 'grow up' and never get too drunk to walk for yourself. Until tonight apparently, Egon mused, brushing some hair out of the dried sweat on your forehead and noting your breathing, heavy but shallow. Not unusual after alcohol consumption. As Ray unlatched your knee from his hip, he perked up, "On the bright side, Peter’s cleaning the soot out of the Proton packs’ exhaust vents for a month! Lost on a technicality.”

"Hmmm." Egon hummed, adjusting you into a more comfortable sitting position as you slowly started to wake up, "Get the first aid kit for me?” 

"Sure thing." 

Egon watched your slow, scrunched blinks and how you slowly lifted your head to look at him, squinting before deadpanning until the blurry shape came into focus. It was hard to be irritated with you when your flushed face broke out into an unabated, silly grin, half lidded eyes brightening as you called in sleepy excitement, "Egon!" 

Spengler took the opportunity to analyze the dilation of your pupils-  glassy and dilated, but responsive. Good. He offered you a dry smile to appease you as Ray put the first aid kit beside you. In his other hand were three bottle- another college tradition. A non-FDA approved electrolyte and mineral enriched drink, formulated by Egon when he lived with Peter who was insufferable when hungover. Venkman called it "Liquid Rewind" and begged Egon to patent and copy right it, only after convincing him to add flavoring to mask the terribly bitter taste. 

Spengler nodded a thank you as he plucked the red one from Ray’s hand, giving it to you. Ray watched you pressed the chilled bottle against your warm cheek. This left the already opened grape to Ray who sported a purple ring around his mouth and orange for Peter. 

"Egon, red is Pete’s favorite." Ray pointed out as Egon started unpacking the first aid kit.

"I know." 

"He hates orange." Ray reminded him. 

"I know." 

Ray nodded slowly, he knew how petty Egon could be when he was irritated, and he didn’t plan to attract the scientist’s wrath. Instead, he cheerfully patted Egon’s shoulder and moved towards the staircase, "Alrighty then, she’s all yours now. G’nite, Spengs." 

"Goodnight, Ray. Thanks for getting her home.”

"Well, she sure didn’t make it easy. For a research analyst, she’s pretty slippery." Ray laughed, mostly to himself as he shuffled up the stairs most likely to the bunk room while Spengler pulled on a pair of medical rubber gloves. Egon also knew this from experience- Graduation Weekend he had also done the chasing when you pulled honestly impressive feats of escapism. Now, alone in the lab, Egon was kneeling in front of you in record time. 

He took the first aid scissor and made quick work of ripping off your already shredding tights with such an efficiency that if you were in your right mind you probably would have been too flustered to think straight. 

Egon ignored your little noise of protest, attractive scientist or not, those had been your good tights. The scientists offered you a cocked eyebrow as he rolled the tights down your legs. You simply sighed as he started gentle strokes to clean the blood off you now bare skin.

"Did you have to give Ray such a hard time?” 

The scolding was playful even though delivered with his usual level of directness, still, even drunk you knew him well enough that it made you smile. 

"Well, I was actually giving Peter a rough time, Ray just happened to be collateral damage." Sleep was starting to wear off, leaving your words only a little slurred, as if you were taking great efforts to make sure they were clear. 

"And what did Peter do to deserve your ire this time?" Egon dousing some gauze with antiseptic. He didn’t flinch at the acrid scent, and usually you wouldn’t either, but this time your nose scrunched as Egon moved in even closer. However, you didn’t flinch in the slightest when he started dabbing at the shredding parts of your knees. Instead, you took the chance to appreciate the view of the good doctor kneeling in front of you, overhead lights casting a halo on his dark curls. It would be the perfect distance to lazily run gentle fingers through those curls. You seriously contemplated, but decided not to. You didn’t want to get blood in his pretty, soft hair. Wait- you were supposed to be answering his question… 

"Made an uncouth comment." You sniffed as Egon moved to the next knee to clean the scrape. He hummed again noticing your non answer but not commenting- one problem at a time.  

"Most of his comments are uncouth." He pointed out, pausing to smirk up at you, sighing in relief when you giggled. The was a comfortable pause as Egon focussed in on the deepest gash, but not for long.

"How is the ectoplasm variant going?" You asked after going quiet long enough that Egon wondered if you had fallen back asleep. 

"I’ll have to show you tomorrow. I want your thoughts." Egon informed, a slight smile and point of pride that you had inquired after his work even in your current state as he dabbed antibiotic cream on your knees, "The Cladosporium is behaving particularly erratic." 

"Ugh, my bet was on the Asparagus." You sighed, prodding at the edge of one of the deeper cuts at the top of your knee. Egon gently, but sternly, nudged your hand away, giving you a warning eyebrow before taping large bandage on over one knee. 

"Aspergillus." He correct, almost sounding amused as he moved to the next knee, applying the bandage with just as much care, "Hands." 

"Yes, doctor." You teased, offering both your palms. Egon gently took your left in his larger hand, using his other to repeat the same process. These scrapes were much less deep, mainly superficial, a product of catching yourself before your head hit the pavement, your knees had taken the brunt of it, but Egon was nothing if not thorough. It was quick work to clean and bandage both palms. 

"There, that should prevent an infection." Spengler informed you, holding both of your treated hands in his after disposing of his gloves, he gave them a quick, tender squeeze before pressing the bottle of red ~liquid rewind~ into your grasp, quickly cracking the lid off for you, "Drink that." 

"You know I’m not even that drunk." You scoffed, giving him a playful glare but obeying anyway, taking a long pull of the bottle, only stopping to swallow and breathe before going back in. This time both of his brows were raised as he stood, taking the trash from his impromptu clinic to the nearest bin. 

"How much have you had to drink, exactly?" 

You thought to yourself for a second, raising your eyes to the ceiling and mouthing numbers before tallying them on your fingers while you mentally replayed the night. Egon waited expectantly as he removed his lab coat, getting increasingly more concerned the longer the tally went on. 

"Lets see…. approximately pi cubed divided in half times 1.5, minus six." 

Egon didn’t even have to think about the calculation, instead being bewildered by the sheer amount of liquor you had managed to imbibe. His voice raised just a bit, mostly in disbelief and concern, "17 drinks?! (Y/N)." 

His disbelief sounded more like frustration to you, and your lip wobbled a bit as you lurched forward, regretting the sudden move but powering through as your eyebrows knitted up, looking up to the scientist pleading, voice a whine, "Don’t be mad." 

Egon shook his head with a deep sigh, catching your hand as you reached for him.

"I’m not mad. Surprised you’re coherent? Yes. Impressed at your current equational prowess? Definitely."  He listed as you weakly pulled him back towards you. Egon nudged the forgotten red stained bottle, "C’mon, a little more." 

After a long swallow, you nodded, "Well, after I slipped the boys, I made it pretty far uptown before they found me-" 

You had started almost sheepishly, this time expecting Egon’s crinkled eyebrows and interruption. 

"They lost you?" He repeated lowly, but you just shrugged, squeezing his hand as you continued your tale. 

"Only for an hour, but it was a long walk back home. Well, it was for Ray at least. So I had plenty of time to workshop my math, Ray doublechecked it for me. And I still had time for a nap." You seemed pretty proud of yourself. Egon opened his mouth, eyebrows raising then falling as his mouth closed. 

"I see. Is there a particular reason you needed to escape?" 

"Noooo…."You dragged out, using his hand to pull yourself out of you slouched sitting, using him to keep yourself steady. Egon didn’t budge, allowing the contact. His head cocked ever so slightly to the side, looking at you over the rim of his glasses. You crumbled instantly, "Yes." 

With an innocent smile, you fished into your jacket pockets, patting yourself down with increasing franticness, "I kept going until I could find a 24 hour bodega." 

"You ran off inebriated by yourself in the middle of the night to a late night convenience store in New York City? This neighborhood is basically a demilitarized zone. We’re definitely going to have to discuss that." He muttered, checking you over for any injuries he or Ray might have missed. You were undeterred by his scolding because you had found whatever you had been searching for.  

"Well, where else was I gonna find these at this hour?" You asked earnestly, revealing two only slightly squished Twinkie's. It was your turn to quirk an eyebrow, "What? Did you think I would forget about our late night snack?”

You were interrupted by a overpowering yawn, eyes suddenly drooping, "Gonna be honest though, don’t think cold Thai food is a great move for me at the moment. 

Egon took the slightly squished confection out of your hand, giving it an appraising gaze, before breaking into that signature sideways smile as you leaned into his chest. With all the secrets of the night in the open, you didn’t have much else fighting to keep you awake. Egon his arms around your back, using one hand to rub soothing circles on your back. The good doctor allowed you to stay like that, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. As your breathing slowed, more and more of your weight slumped against him. 

Egon didn’t mind, finally getting that close contact he’d been waiting all night for. Instead, he stared down at the twinkie in his hand. The cream was squeezing out of the sponge cake and smearing onto the crinkled plastic wrapper, but you had ventured countless blocks out of your way, escaping three of New York’s ghostbusters, just to pick up something you knew he’d like.  Even with 17 drinks actively shrinking your neurons, you were always so thoughtful. 

Egon was well aware of how much his friends loved him, and he would always be grateful for finding each of them. But there was always just something different about your love. If Egon possessed a more artistic disposition, he might describe it as a warm ocean wave washing over a beach. Gentle, yet unstoppable. All encompassing. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve someone like you to love him like you did, but whatever it was he’d do it a thousand times over- even if it meant cleaning you up after a long night out on the town. 

"Did you have a good time tonight?" He asked quietly, feeling you nod into his chest . His sweater was soft against your cheek and he smelled as wonderful as always: earthy yet clean and the slightest hint of something smoky like a full trap or lab experiment gone wrong. After a deep inhale you nodded again through another yawn. 

"Mmmhm. ‘missed you though." Your voice had slowed back down to its sleepy, slow tone that Egon would never admit to loving as much as he did, the warmth of him and quiet lulling you. You were fighting to stay afloat, but Egon’s thumbs working slow circles into your back were winning as he answered. 

"I missed your company as well." 

-

And it was later, when you had fallen into a deep unbothered sleep on the lab’s couch after stealing one of Egon’s t-shirts- the ones he would wear under his jumpsuit-, and using his lab coat as a blanket, that Egon thought about all this, taking a slow bite of his slightly squished gift.

Peter was right. One day, he needed to marry you.

-----

so I tried two somethings new. 1.) tried writing this more from his perspective, which isn't something I really do with any character. 2.) Paired him with a more extroverted out going reader, because I feel like we usually see him paired with more introverted types

anyways I typed this up at 3 am after crying for five hours so please excuse any typos.

[stormsthatrage]

Short snippet from the Bleach I Knew You AU.

But before I begin. *Insert deep sigh here.*

Secretlypansexualmango, if you see this, it was supposed to be a response to your ask. Unfortunately, it took a hard left-turn and ended up in. Uraichi shipping territory? Look, IDK, I'm asexual, I don't get it either. Anyway, since I don't know your shipping preferences and don't want to accidentally respond to your ask with something that squiks you, I will be officially responding to your ask in another post that is less likely to be unexpectedly unpalatable. Thank you for your patience, and, uh, I hope this doesn't turn you off the au! (*laughs nervously*)

Without further ado, the snippet:

Breaking into the Shiba family grounds is easy. By sheer comparison, breaking into Shiba Ichigo’s room specifically is almost a challenge, but it’s not anything that Kisuke hasn’t planned for.

The strange, modified kido, and the odd wards Ichigo has placed, are simple to bypass with a bit of fancy footwork and precisely-timed counter-kido. It’s practically child’s play to get past them, now that he's roughly figured out how they work and where they all are.

His job is made even easier by the fact that, for some reason, Kisuke’s spiritual pressure doesn’t wake Ichigo up. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seems to sleep deeper when Kisuke is nearby and has let Benihime out a little.

He has theories about that.

He’s tired of them being theories.

He’s here to get evidence.

Kisuke bypasses the final seal and slides Ichigo’s window open, slipping into his room. He lets his spiritual pressure permeate the air a little thicker than he would in normal company, and as expected, Ichigo’s spiritual pressure slows down as he falls further into slumber.

… And Kisuke is supposed to believe that the first time they met was two months ago? When this is Ichigo’s reaction to his presence? When Ichigo is one of the most paranoid people Kisuke, an ex-onmi agent, has ever encountered?

Kisuke is a genius. He doesn’t need to be in order to see the flaw in that logic.

Kisuke steps further into the room, gliding softly over the old wood floorboards. He pauses in the middle, taking a moment to debate where to start.

Well. Why not with the simplest?

He’s caught it a few times, the barest trace of his own power lingering around Ichigo. A fascinating phenomenon, when he can’t recall a single time he’s drawn shikai around him, let alone used enough power to leave a long-lasting trace.

He draws closer to Ichigo’s bed, until he could reach out and touch him if he wished.

Ichigo breathes deeply, evenly, no sign of waking up. At some point, his covers ended up half kicked-off. Possibly from the heat, probably from nightmares. Regardless of the reason, Kisuke can’t help but think that he looks strangely fragile this way, surrounded by the evidence of his restlessness.

He puts a hand on the the hilt of his soul-partner. “Awaken, Benihime,” he murmurs.

She stirs within him, gently, in a way that is oh so rare. Like the softest, most gradual of ocean tides, she rises, her fragrance of wet iron washing through the air around them.

And together, channeling her power through his eyes, they see.

Glowing crimson threads that they have no recollection of weaving wrap protectively, lovingly, around Ichigo. A thin but strong filament, sewn through the skin from just below Ichigo’s ear all the way to his opposite shoulder, sutures closed what must have once been a deadly throat wound. Another one, obviously originally meant to keep shut a gash down the length of Ichigo’s forearm, keeps it companion.

And beyond the battlefield sutures there are more threads. Hundreds of intangible and deceptively thin and absolutely unbreakable strands of Benihime’s power wrap around Ichigo, crisscrossing over themselves — around his throat and across his face and down his torso and up his arms, visible wherever his bare flesh is exposed — seemingly serving no purpose.

Benihime’s power surges at the sight, a hot delight running through her as she sees Ichigo so thoroughly caught in her webs. Kisuke’s fingers suddenly, urgently ache with the urge to touch, to tighten, to add more.

Soul King.

No purpose other than, it seems, to satiate their own possessiveness.

Kisuke exhales a shaking breath. Closes his eyes for a brief moment. Gets the heat in his blood under control.

No purpose other than to alert themselves, perhaps? Did they know that one day they wouldn't recognize Ichigo anymore, and left this as a clue?

(And oh, what a clue. What a clue it is.)

He lets Benihime’s power fade, taking his hand away from her hilt. He’s self-aware enough to know when he needs to stop tempting himself, and he’s gotten the evidence he came for — far better proof than he could have ever anticipated.

He takes a step back, and the motion is the most unnatural thing he’s done in a long, long time.

He has questions. He has a few theories, too. Amnesia, caused by a very specific type of parasitic hollow. Dimension travel. Time travel. He doesn’t have enough information yet to figure out which is most likely, but he has finally confirmed beyond doubt that Ichigo is his, has been his, and something tried to steal that from him.

Fury flares within him, burning through his veins, and he can’t do this right here.

He takes another step back, this one just as unnatural as the last.

He can’t ask, yet. He can’t get closer, can’t wake Ichigo up with a soft hand on his cheek, can’t tell him that he’s there now, can’t promise him to take care of it all if he would just let him in again.

No.

Shiba Ichigo is in the middle of a chess game — a dangerous one, a complicated one — and Kisuke can’t see the whole board yet. Tipping his own hand might trigger a whole plethora of traps, including another round of amnesia, and he refuses to risk the knowledge he’s regained.

He will have to be careful. He will have to move cautiously.

He casts one last look at Ichigo, lets his eyes trace over that delicate throat that he now knows almost bled out. That delicate throat that had to be held together with Benihime’s webs. That delicate throat that he doesn’t remember stitching back together, despite the fact that he used his bankai to do it.

He was made to unknow a person he loves. He was made to unknow a war. He was made to unknow the fact that danger lurks still in the shadows of Soul Society.

He will know the end of this game. And Ichigo will learn that there is no universe in which Kisuke does not protect what’s his.

Kisuke turns. Takes another unnatural step away from his favorite, infuriating puzzle. And then he wrenches himself out of the room, out into the night, closing the window behind him and leaving as unnoticed as he had come.

[millyh23]

Consolation Prizes

Katie McCabe x Reader

word count:

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The day of the Arsenal fitness tournament had finally arrived, and you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of competition coursing through you. The team had hyped it up for weeks, and with Katie’s competitive streak, you both knew it was going to get intense.

Round one: Sprints.

Katie, known for her quick feet, gave you a smug grin as you lined up. She leaned over, murmuring, “Don’t expect to keep up, love. This one’s mine.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “We’ll see about that.”

The whistle blew, and you both shot off, legs pumping, the turf flying by underfoot. Katie edged you out by a split second, throwing her arms up as soon as she crossed the finish line, beaming.

“Told ya!” she shouted, casting a satisfied smirk your way.

You jogged over to her, smiling despite your loss. “Alright, alright. One down. Don’t get cocky, McCabe.”

Round two: Agility drills.

Katie started out confidently, weaving through the cones with speed, her footwork sharp and precise. But as you stepped up, you could see her smile falter as you powered through the drills, beating her time by a few seconds.

Katie’s brow furrowed as she watched, her hands on her hips. “Alright, show-off,” she muttered under her breath.

You raised an eyebrow, grinning as you passed by her. “Not so easy, is it?”

She glared, but the fire in her eyes only made you more competitive.

Round three: Endurance.

As the run began, you set a steady pace, glancing over to see Katie’s expression already tightening. The minutes ticked by, and you watched her frustration grow as you pulled ahead, her determined gaze fixed on your back. When you finally finished, you could see her jaw clenched, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath.

“Feeling alright, babe?” you asked with a mischievous smile.

Katie scowled, wiping the sweat from her brow. “You’ve been practicing,” she grumbled. “There’s no way you’re actually this good.”

You chuckled, patting her on the back. “Maybe you’re just off your game today.”

She shrugged off your hand, her eyes narrowing. “Last round’s mine,” she said firmly.

The final round: Strength.

By now, Katie’s irritation was palpable. As you both lined up for the weighted sled push, you could feel the competitive tension buzzing around you. She gave it her all, muscles straining, face set with pure focus as she pushed the sled down the length of the field.

But when it was your turn, you beat her time by just a second.

Katie stared at you, her mouth open slightly, frustration brewing in her eyes. “That was… that was a fluke,” she mumbled, crossing her arms as if that would shield her from her mounting irritation. “You couldn’t do that again.”

“Oh, sore loser, are we?” you teased, grinning as she scowled.

“I am not a sore loser!” she protested, but the blush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her.

You moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a hug despite her attempt to squirm away. “Alright, alright. How about I take you out for a pint to ease the pain of your… thorough defeat?”

Katie groaned, finally letting out a reluctant laugh. “Fine. But you’re not gonna let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “Just remember, I’m the reigning champ now, so if you want a rematch, you’ll have to work for it.”

She shot you a playful glare, finally relaxing in your embrace. “Next time, I’m leaving you in the dust.”

“Oh, I’ll be looking forward to it,” you replied, savoring the spark of challenge in her eyes that you knew would keep things interesting, in and out of competition.

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

The End

[giveafike]

omg i’m obsessed with your NSFW alphabet post for ben!!!!! i need more about him after a rough match, constantly watching you in the stands making gestures towards him during breaks getting him all worked up before you guys go back to the hotel room ooohhhh i know he wouldn’t hold back at all

TLDR: SO I ACTUALLY CHANGED PROMPT SLIGHTLY.... Girlfriend!reader x BenShelton have locker room sex after a bad match…..🫵☹️

Word count + info: 3.3k! Dialogue (sex talk).

Warnings + Content Ahead: NSFW - Minors DNI!! Somewhat rough sex, unprotected, creampie, fingering, hickeys, v v v light mention of throatplay (barely), kinda public sex...this one kinda nasty chat...☹️🧍‍♀️

Azzie Notes ✚: So...I was thinking of having reader be super distracting but then I was like hm, would Ben acc even look during a game...idk and then secondly...would Ben even wait to make it to the hotel...idt so...yeah.......unsuspecting reader getting freaky in the locker room…you're NASTY anon! 🫵☹️

Did I finish writing this half way through the Basel final...shut up....🧍‍♀️

Socials + Updates: twitter ( @azziegivesafike) - feel free to follow and msg me about non requests there, I'll be posting life updates, story + req updates and spoilers/teasers alongside other things, so it'd be nice to have a community over there!

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High Stakes - B.T.S.

Your leg bounced nervously as you watched Ben rise from his bench. The first few points seemed fine, almost routine for Ben. But it didn’t take long before you began noticing subtle cracks, maybe even before Ben himself had realised. His footwork lagged by fractions of a second, and his serves, normally ruthless, razor-sharp, started drifting. Then came the returns from his opponent, each one landing like a blow. Every small mistake, every lost point, seemed to pile on, and Ben’s frustration grew, simmering in his narrowed eyes, his tense posture, the way his hands tightened around his racket. At one point, he even muttered something under his breath, his voice taut with a tone you knew all too well. When the ball hit the net, you winced. You could feel the frustration in his stance, the way his shoulders squared too rigidly, his jaw clenched like a steel trap, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. And that telltale twitch in his fingers as he adjusted his grip.

His opponent was skilled, sure, but it was something else gnawing at Ben, an invisible pressure like a shadow he couldn’t shake, slipping the game out of his hands, inch by inch. As he readied his next serve, you bit your lip, watching him closely. You knew he’d spent hours obsessively drilling this exact serve, pushing himself to the limit. Lately, he’d been rocking between overconfidence and gnawing self-doubt, a rare state to see. Usually, Ben cleared his head before the fog even had a chance to settle. But not today.

You exhaled, bringing a hand up to your mouth, the other wrapping around yourself as if to brace against the tension. Your fingers tightened around the soft fabric of your knitted sweater, your pleated skirt neatly folded on your lap. Watching him like this was agony, knowing he’d been swallowed by his thoughts, by the frustration gnawing at his confidence.

Just then, your attention snapped back to the court. One serve, just one brutal miss, one that should’ve been easy, slipped from his grasp, and you could see him grit his teeth, his head tilting back as he let out a frustrated shout. The crowd shifted, murmuring, their collective breath held. You knew the signs, Ben was losing himself in the frustration, letting it drive him to the edge.

And then it happened.

It was a rally he should have won. His opponent sent a high shot, and he should’ve had it. But his timing faltered, just a hair off. The game ended then and there, the win slipping away in a flash, almost as if it had never been his. Frustration bubbled over, and with a furious yell, he threw his racket across the court, watching it clatter and skid.

You held your breath, standing up slowly as the crowd’s murmur rose, eyes locked on Ben as he stormed over, picked up his racket, and turned toward his opponent. He forced himself through the handshakes, his nod barely a formality, his expression set and unyielding. He didn’t look at the crowd, didn’t acknowledge the thin applause scattered here and there. Instead, he headed to his bench, his eyes low and movements stiff as he packed his bag with mechanical precision, each item stashed away with clipped efficiency. Without a glance back, he made his way toward the locker room, his face a mask of tension.

As he gathered his things, you took a steadying breath before you made your way to his private room, feeling nothing but raw empathy and heartbreak for him, each step heavy with the weight of what you’d just witnessed. You leaned against a locker and took a deep breath, readying yourself for your boyfriend to open that door in his truest and rawest emotional and mental state.

The door swung open, and he stepped inside, his gaze darkening the second he saw you waiting. He threw his bag down, jaw clenched, a flash of anger still alive in his eyes. The sweat on his brow glistened, his breathing rough, and his fists clenched as if he were ready to fight the whole world.

"Ben," you whispered softly, stepping forward. But he only shook his head, as if you couldn’t possibly understand.

"Don’t. Don’t try talkin' or therapising me down right now, Y/N, I don't need-" he hissed, voice thick as he dropped his bags on the floor, his accent twisting his words almost into a snarl, his eyes roaming up your body until they meet your eyes. “I don't need you tryin’ to fix this.”

"I’m not trying to fix anything, I’m just here for you, baby" you replied, your voice sweet and steady, knowing he was running on pure adrenaline and emotion. You held your hands up like you were surrendering, showing you meant no harm or malice. His eyes were focused on rummaging through his bags, not even caring for your words.

You pressed on, stepping closer until you could feel the heat rolling off him in waves. "It was just a match, baby. You'll get them next time."

His head snapped up, eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. His rummaging stops as he takes in your words. There was something primal in that gaze, something that spoke of barely contained chaos. "Next time," he scoffed, the words dripping with disdain. "You think I care about next time?"

You reached for him, fingers brushing against the stubble on his jaw. "I just want you to calm down. It's not the end of the world."

A bitter laugh escaped him, and in an instant, he was on his feet, towering over you, his presence overwhelming.

"Calm down?" he growled, and the sound rumbled through you, igniting a fire deep in your belly. He was towering over you, his attention fully concentrated. "You think I need to be calm right now? You wanna know what I need so bad since you're so eager to fix everything? Hm?" He cocked his head, eyes narrowed, challenging you.

His eyes locked on yours, intense, and then before you could say another word, his mouth was on yours, rough and desperate. There was no caution, no holding back, only a white-hot, almost bruising need that swept you both up. His hand gripped the back of your neck, tugging your hair, his other hand moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You couldn't help but let out a small whimper into the kiss, feeling so meek in his intensity.

"Ben-" you gasped between kisses, but he didn’t let you finish. “Anyone could knock and w-walk in or see-”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he murmurs his voice a low growl that sends a thrill of apprehension and arousal through you. “Let 'em fuckin' come. I’m past carin’. All that matters right now is you fixin' me.”

Before you can even think of a protest, his lips are locked back onto yours, the kiss more aggressive as he bites and sucks your lower lip, gliding his tongue across it before slipping in, the taste of his frustration mingling with your desire.

His hands roamed your body, rough and insistent, as if mapping every inch of you could somehow soothe the storm inside him. You gave up on protesting, finding it hard to be anything but submissive at this moment; after all, this was what he needed, right?

You did try to pull back, trying to find some, any, shred of grace and poise left in you to restrain yourself until you were in private or, rather, to offer words of comfort to Ben, but he wouldn't let you. His fingers tangled in your hair, tight and tugging, holding you captive to his need. His tongue fights yours, both of you stifling moans into each other's mouths.

"Ben, we don't have to do this now," you murmur, trying to maintain some semblance of control. There was no real conviction in your voice, you could feel the heat pool within you, your skin set alight by his grip, your heart beating in a deafening thump inside your head.

"I don't wanna think or talk," he rasped, his voice a low growl against your lips. "I just want to feel."

With that, you felt any atom of composure leaving your body, quickly replaced by striking hot need.

Ben had gone beyond the point of reason, his frustration driving him forward. His hands went to the back of your thighs, lifting you off the ground with ease, making you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms tossed over his shoulders and lost in his damp curls, your nails scraping his scalp. His head dips to your jaw, kissing and grazing his teeth roughly against your smooth skin, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that seared your skin. His teeth grazed your collarbone, a low growl rumbling in his chest that resonated through your very bones. Ben comes back to take good care of your neck finding that sweet spot, making your eyes flit shut, soft moans escaping your lips.

He backs you up towards the lockers, still hoisting you up on him as the cold metal hits your back and his hands slide up under your sweater, gently palming your breasts. In one fluid motion, he breaks the kiss with a grunt, throwing the sweater over your head and onto the floor, his hand cupping your left breast before tugging it out from your bra, unbothered to even unclasp it.

You could taste the salt of his sweat, and feel the rapid thud of his heart against your chest as he pressed you back against the cool metal lockers. The contrast of heat and chill along with the breeze of air hitting your torso sent a shiver racing through you, igniting every nerve, heightening every sensation. The cool air brushed against your bare skin, raising goosebumps that he chased away with his mouth, his tongue tracing a fiery path down your chest. His fingers roll your nipple, tweaking as he connects himself back to your collarbones, making his way down to your breast. Ben pushes his mouth onto you, sucking your nipple while his hands roam down, gripping your ass before trailing your inner thigh slowly.

You pant as Ben's free hand travels down to your skirt, the other prodding into your hip. His hand moves painfully slowly as it works its way up to palm through your underwear, his fingers work relentlessly. You feel yourself getting wetter, knowing full well that anyone could catch you both in the heat of the moment, the thrill sending shivers down your spine. His touch is commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

He pushes your underwear to the side, lifting one of your legs higher up on his waist without warning. You gasp as he enters you with two fingers, his thrusts hard and fast, no time for you to adjust. You were clamping around him, feeling your slick folds engulf him as he brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing in rough circles, matching his aggression. Beads of sweat from his match and the passionate scene unfolding rolled down his neck as he watched your face contort with pleasure.

"I wish I could get in you right now," he murmurs into your breast, his voice hoarse with need. He pulls his head back to look you in the eyes. "But I need to work you up to that. Look at me with your pretty eyes, don’t you dare look away."

You tried your best to open your eyes, biting down on your lower lip to muffle your whimpers and moans as your back arched up, almost inviting your breasts right back to the height of his mouth, which he greedily took while his fingers worked in and out of you.

As moments passed with you two intertwined, Ben pressed his hips against yours, his shorts failing to hide his hard length. You could feel his need pressing against you, an insistent reminder of just how much he craved you, how much he needed this. You couldn't help but feel yourself grind involuntarily against his fingers, your hips bucking for more as your arousal pooled hidden beneath the pleats of your skirt. You could feel yourself about to come undone on his fingers, before Ben removed his fingers, sucking on them as he held your gaze. He then brought his hand down to free himself, his member immediately standing erect against her inner thigh, already leaking precum. You can hear that he's breathing hard against you and that the sounds he makes are primal and animalistic. You can smell the musk on him, it turns you on so much.

He tapped his tip on your clit, then dragged it all the way up and back down along your soaking entrance in painfully slow strokes. His fingers dug into your flesh as he guided you down onto him, a groan escaping both your lips as he filled you, slow but rough, the sensation a shockwave that rippled through your entire being. Your head hit the lockers in pleasure, feeling your legs wobble like jelly around his waist as he held you tight against him.

“Please,” you beg him. You need this just as bad as he does; you'd be lying if you said you didn't love him like this.

He doesn't even say anything, instead, he pulls your leg higher and grunts as his cock gets even deeper. You whimper as his cock pushes against your cervix in breathtaking strokes. Ben takes a second to adjust before he pulls out and slams back into you.

You can't help but let out a low dirty moan, this time louder, it's so hard, but oh so good. His hips begin to slam into yours, each thrust sending waves of sensation through your body, his girth stretching your walls as he sheaths his cock deeper and deeper, inch by inch. You can’t help but whine, your voice blending with his grunts of exertion, shameless and raw in your hasty passion. Ben's hand holds your skirt up to your hips so he can watch himself pound into you, his other hand roaming over your body, lightly gripping your throat, squeezing your boobs, digging into your waist, gripping your ass; anything he can hold onto. He was relentless, each thrust a statement made in the heat of the moment, each movement a testament to the primal dance that only the two of you knew. Your hands roamed over the broad of his chest, his shirt clinging to his slick torso detailing each groove and muscle that lay underneath. Your nails deliciously traced over his skin, making him let out a breathy moan, only fueling his primal desire more.

"You're takin' me so well, doll. Just like that, so good" he nibbled at your earlobe, his voice like gravel sending trembles through you.

The world outside faded away, replaced by the rhythm you created together, the sound of skin against skin, the gasps and moans that filled the small space. The lockers rattled with the force of your movements, the sound echoing around you, mingling with the symphony of your shared pleasure, creating a sexual symphony around you. He drove into you with a fervour that bordered on madness, his breath hot against your ear with each grunt and groan that escaped his lips. Your nails drilled into his shoulders, desperate to keep you in place as you threw caution to the wind as he forced out moans and squeals from you, praising him, begging him for more, his name rolling off your tongue like a mantra, each one slightly louder than the last which just egged Ben on faster, harder, further. Your eyes rolled back, your mouth agape, a fucked-out expression painting over your features with each strong thrust, relentlessly hitting all the right spots to no end, with no thoughts or words in your mind other than how fucking good Ben was giving it to you.

"Love seein' your pretty eyes roll...fuck, babe" he hisses as he throws his head back, curls plastered over his forehead.

You could feel yourself near, your walls clamping down, your whines reaching a fever pitch only for Ben to remove himself. You whimpered at the lack of contact, feeling the new emptiness in you, but it didn't last long. Ben swiftly placed you on the ground, throwing a leg over his shoulder as he realigned himself. You couldn't even form a sentence to the quick change of positions, not that you had anything to protest.

Ben plunged in with a whole new deeper depth, making your back arch immediately. You didn't have to worry about slipping off his waist here as you wrapped your legs around him, holding him with each deep entry while he tugged your hair, his eyes focused on your pretty, messy mound. Ben starts thrusting faster now, he's grunting against you and it feels so amazing. His sweaty skin is against you, rubbing against you as his cock goes deeper.

You feel our orgasm build up more and more, his cock is hitting your sweet spot over and over again. “Oh my god, Ben,” you whisper, almost tender; you're not sure how much you can take.

"Touch yourself for me" he mutters, almost too quietly for it to be a command. You can feel him getting closer, his eyes never leaving your dripping cunt, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room, mixing with your moans and his grunts. He’s relentless, pushing you beyond your limits, taking you in ways that leave you gasping for breath.

Your hand shakingly circles your clit, moving in slow rolls, driving you into another level of bliss. You can't hold back between the reckless strokes and the feeling of your clit rolling beneath your fingers as the waves roll through you peaking, making you tremble as you surrender, letting the world outside fade away until there was nothing but the heat of his skin against yours, the sound of your mingled breaths echoing in the empty room. You cry out as you clench around him, your legs holding him tight to you, your fingers working fast on your clit while your free hand tears into Ben's shoulder.

Ben follows right as you ride out your high, his thrusts become even harder, his rhythm erratic as he nears his release. He’s completely lost in the moment, his mind consumed by the primal need consuming him entirely. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give you any respite. He’s in complete control, his body driven by a need that surpasses his frustration. And then, with one final thrust, he lets out a guttural roar, his body tensing as he spills inside you as you arch against his body. The force of his release sends shockwaves through your body, and you cling to him, unable to stop the cries that escape your lips.

Time lost all meaning, measured only in the rise and fall of your bodies, the crescendo building until it consumed you both, leaving you suspended in a moment of pure ecstasy. He collapses against you, still inside you, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. For a moment, there’s silence, just the sound of their combined panting echoing in the empty locker room. You were both left breathless and trembling, it was in each other's arms that you found the calm after the storm.

Ben doesn't say anything but drops his head onto your shoulder, planting soft kisses as he pulls out of you. Your legs fall back down and he pulls his cock out of your pussy, sticky strings of your mixed arousal as he moves away from your entrance. You lay there completely warn out, trying to catch your breath, as you continued to process what happened while he planted soft tender kisses on your neck and jaw, a change from how he was just seconds prior.

Ben looks at you and smiles back. “Thank you, baby,” he says and kisses your lips gently. “Sorry that was a little rough,” he adds.

You bite back a laugh, still coming to your senses as you raise an eyebrow.

"A little?"

[esthelle-wanders]

The Chain: Dancing Headcanons

Because this poll sparked a train of thought, and it’s such a fun concept to explore!

Fairly detailed, so more beneath the cut:

Sky was actually the hardest— but I think he’s the kind of dancer who’s good, but you don’t really notice because he’s not trying to make it beautiful. His swordsmanship is graceful, powerful, and focused, and enough carries over from that to make footwork easy for him. When he’s dancing in a group, though, it doesn’t even occur to him to apply that degree of care and attention, because he’s relaxed and just having fun. He’s game to try anything and learns steps very quickly, but his stamina has limits. Takes frequent breaks and is definitely on the sidelines for the final stretch, applauding and/or nodding off. Likely to get a little goofy when he’s with a group of friends, if somebody pulls off a silly stunt he’ll try it too. Never steps on anybody’s feet.

Time doesn’t really dance in public. We all know he can— those moves in Majora’s Mask were smooth as butter— but most of what he knows is relatively “strange,” things he learned from the Kokiri or his Goron friends or Skull Kid etc., and while he’s not shy or secretive about it, it’s not the kind of thing he wants to exhibit to a room full of strangers. He’s learned from Malon too, so he’ll dance at home or at their own festivals and gatherings, but drag him onto a random floor and he’ll play up being awkward and uncoordinated until you leave him alone.

Wind is an excellent dancer! Kinda like Sky, though, he doesn’t see it as an art form. He has an outstanding sense of rhythm and general musicality; on top of that, he picks things up almost instantly, and can improvise at the drop of a hat. Can and will dance with anyone, anywhere. However, I think he prefers the styles he’s used to from Outset and Tetra’s ship— lots of stamping, clapping, flinging one another about, and singing until it becomes a test of endurance and you collapse. The kid’s all about exuberance, pulse, and the communal aspect— he’s the one pulling people onto the floor, he likes to set the pace, and he’s usually the last one standing— but as long as the music’s good, the aesthetic of the thing is kinda irrelevant to him. (Music does matter to him, though. Screw up the rhythm and he will canonically call you out in front of everybody, RIP Legend).

Twilight doesn’t strike me as a dancer. He knows his own from Ordon, and probably a few “elite” numbers from Castle Town, but he’s only really there for the camaraderie. Gets mixed up a bit and steps on a few feet, but he’s so good-natured about it that nobody minds. Solid stamina, but he’ll drop out relatively early so he can watch and talk to people. A dedicated hype man. I think he’s also the type to get a bit wistful, lonely, and withdrawn as the night goes on, so it’s a good idea to look out for him as much as he’s looking out for everyone else.

Four’s largely an enigma, because he’s the friend at the party who sits at the table and “people watches” all night. If he’s feeling especially sentimental you could probably drag him out on the floor for one or two dances, and he’s pretty decent, but it’s just not his thing. Not that he isn’t participating— he’s collecting memories like everyone else, but he likes to observe, and trade quips with whoever’s dropped out at the moment, and think his own thoughts. You can tell he’s really paying attention, because if anybody reminisces about it later and goes “does anyone remember when —?” Four is the one who recalls exactly what happened. The decisive authority on any disputed chain of events. Rather heartwarming, and shows he really cares (but also he has so much blackmail material).

Hyrule is like the polar opposite of Sky— his footwork’s shabby and he lacks poise, but his movements are so natural and agile that he’s delightful to watch in his own careless, homegrown way. Context and setting really matter with him: he‘s self-conscious in a high-class establishment, but put him somewhere he’s comfortable and he’s the one pulling goofy stunts and teasing people. In the latter environment, he’s the type who gets swept up in the experience and starts laughing. Frequently botches the rhythm, and it takes a while for him to warm up to the locale and the crowd, but once he gets going his endurance is high and he’s there until the music stops or everyone goes home (he may or may not be an extrovert, but the boy LOVES people).

Warriors is a mixed bag— he has beautiful posture, careful footwork, and he’s exceedingly graceful, but like Hyrule, how comfortable he is depends on the setting. Unlike Hyrule, though, he’s far more confident in a formal environment, because he knows what to expect and it’s easier to keep track of people. Dance is more of a social rite for him— not one he dislikes, but not the best conductor for vulnerability or expression. This seems ironic, since he’s also very familiar with the highly informal contexts he encountered during the war— impromptu dances in the barracks or around the campfires between campaigns, along with whatever he’s picked up from moving from place to place and interacting with citizens. To him, though, this is just another facet of dance as a social tool— a way to get to know other people on their own terms and in their own way. This doesn’t mean he’s cold or detached about it; on the contrary, he genuinely values it as a way to bond with people he cares about. It does mean that he’s not very demonstrative or inventive as a dancer, and unless there’s a social reason not to, he’ll also drop out fairly early to talk to people and keep tabs on everyone. He and Twilight are sideline buddies.

Wild’s a better-then-average dancer, but he gets moody, so it really depends on the day. When he’s feeling it, he’s smooth, playful, and creative. Like Time, he knows a “strange” smorgasbord of dances (possibly more than Time knows, though arguably less odd overall), but he doesn’t mind performing them wherever he is, and he isn’t afraid to play around with strange combinations during any given set. Since bits of his knight training have stuck, I figure he’s the type who can be comfortable virtually anywhere— not because he learns the dances quickly, but because he’s probably done something similar before, even if he can’t remember. On more melancholy days, he’s circling the periphery, chatting with Twi or sitting quietly with Four. The self-designated photographer, also has lots of blackmail. The mood and atmosphere have a big impact on him— tense situations really stress him out, but if everyone’s happy, he probably is, too.

Legend is, to nobody’s surprise, the best dancer of the group. Hands down, no contest, everybody else go home. Not only does his travel experience give him the broadest collection of styles, genres, and traditions to draw from, but he possesses the complete Triforce that nobody else quite has together: poise, care, and expression. Outstanding form and balance, and confident enough to make it his own, but he’s also invested in doing it “the right way,” and rarely mixes styles. Has mastered both focus and ease— everything is deliberate, but it looks almost nonchalant. Honestly enchanting to watch. He won’t dance every number, and he spends at least half the night heckling from the sidelines, but once he’s on the floor he’s serious. So good that you won’t even notice if he gets a liiitttle bit off-beat. (Wind will, though. Wind will notice. And Legend will take offense every time. One of those things in life to be relied upon).