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heejake-hoon · 5 months ago

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Enhypen hyung line and cockwarming (mdni)

A.N: this ended up longer than i intended sorry TT. Also i don't like the way this turned out but anyways, enjoy 🧡🧡 also this is not proofread.

Heeseung:

You kneel on the plush carpet between Heeseung's spread thighs, breath already coming in shallow pants in anticipation. His big screen is illuminating his handsome features in a soft blue glow as he fiddles with his controller, getting set up for an intense gaming session.

With a subtle raise of his hips, Heeseung silently signals you to take your position - the only warmth and comfort he'll need during his digital battles. Eagerly leaning in, you mouth along the impressive bulge tenting his thin shorts, nuzzling against the thick, heated outline of his half-hard cock through the soft fabric.

"There's my good little cockwarmer," he rumbles in approval, large hand instinctively drifting down to caress the back of your head as you lap hot kitten licks up his rapidly stiffening shaft. The heavy, intoxicating scent of Heeseung's virile musk surrounds you in a thick, arousing fog.

With deft motions, you slip his shorts out of the way just enough to free his growing erection, the thick, veiny length springing out to slap heavily against his chiseled abdomen. An involuntary mewl of desperation escapes as you drink in the magnificent sight - plush lips parting in greedy anticipation.

"Easy there, pet," Heeseung chuckles, amused arousal glinting in his dark gaze as he hooks a thumb into the corner of your willing mouth to pull it wider. "You're doing such a good job slobbering all over my cock already."

Whining around the thick digit stretching your lips open, you lean in to engulf the swollen, spongy head between your slickened lips as Heeseung's attention has already returned to the game. His cock throbs heavily on your greedy tongue, the rich flavor of his pre-cum already beading on the tapered tip.

You slurp it up hungrily as your head begins to bob in a well-practiced rhythm, contentedly working your hand in concert with your mouth to slather every impressive inch in saliva. This is one of your favorite duties - to take good care of Heeseung's magnificent cock while stoking his arousal on low-simmer as he focuses on other matters.

Once he's sheathed to the hilt in the tight, wet heat of your willing throat, you simply hold there and let his impressive girth rest heavily on your dexterous tongue. Your senses narrow to the steady pulse of his fat cock in your mouth, the rise and fall of his clenched abdominals as he breathes through a particularly intense gaming sequence.

When his character pulls off a flawless, multi-kill combo, Heeseung growls out a gruff "Fuck yeah!" and impulsively ruts his hips upward to stuff the rigid column down your convulsing throat. You gag harshly, drool sputtering around the seal of your lips as you forcibly repress your gag reflex.

"Good girl," he pants raggedly, eyes still locked on the bright screen even as he starts to brutally face-fuck you - thick, slurping thrusts of cock pumping against the back of your mouth. "Get nice and ready for my fat load while I kick some ass..."

The intensity of Heeseung's thrusts steadily builds as he gets more and more worked up over his game, each successful kill or close shave fueling the savage jolts of his hips. Your eyes are rolling back helplessly, saliva pooling around his pistoning shaft to drool obscenely down your chin. All you can do is cling to his powerful thighs and desperately breathe through your nose whenever he pulls back enough to allow a sliver of air.

"Fuck yes, taking my cock like a perfect little cumdump," he growls without looking down, the wet squelches of rigid meat slamming against your gasping lips adding to the cacophony. Every nerve is set alight from the brutal overstimulation, your own slick drenching your thighs with each punishing face-fuck.

When a massive combo culminates in victory, Heeseung roars out his excitement and tightens his grip on your scalp, utterly taking control. He hammers into your mouth with wild, punishing abandon, the heavy impact of his full sac pounding your chin making your eyes water.

"Open up wide and get ready, whore," he snarls, right on the cusp of climax. "I'm gonna make sure you're overflowing with my thick seed all the way down your sloppy gullet..."

With a hoarse shout, Heeseung's hips seize as he holds you impaled fully on his cock. You feel the first hot, syrupy blast of cum erupting directly into your abused throat - thick, potent ropes continuing to pulse out in an endless, stifling deluge. He doesn't pull out until his softening cock stops twitching, leaving your entire mouth, throat and chin caked with his pearly spend.

Jay:

You settled obediently between Jay's muscular thighs under his desk, already feeling a rush of arousal as his musky male scent surrounded you. His thick cock hung heavily from the open vee of his suit pants, the flushed head glistening with a bead of precum.

Licking your lips, you leaned in and dragged the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft in one long, torturous lick from root to tip. Jay sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers stilling on the keyboard briefly. Encouraged, you swirled your tongue around the swollen crown, teasing the slit until more of the salty fluid leaked out.

"Fuck..." Jay breathed out a groan as you lathed the engorged head with kitten licks. "Been thinking about this sweet mouth all day, baby."

You hummed in delight and finally parted your lips, taking the bulbous tip into your wet heat. Inch by delicious inch, you sank down on his throbbing length until the coarse hair at the base tickled your nose and his impressive girth stretched your lips obscenely wide.

Keeping your movements tantalizingly slow, you massaged the underside with the strong muscles of your tongue as you pulled back up to suckle at the sensitive crown. Jay cursed again, one large hand dropping to fist in your hair as you set an agonizing rhythm.

"That's it, sweetheart... Gonna keep my cock nice and warmed up down that greedy little throat," he growled, the gravelly timbre of his voice sending a shiver of need through you.

You whimpered around his thick shaft, your core clenching needily. Drool quickly escaped the corners of your stretched lips, but you were too far gone to care about being messy. All that mattered was pleasuring your lover and feeling his heavy cock sliding between your lips.

Jay's grip tightened in your hair as his hips began rolling slowly in time with your bobs, his tip nudging the back of your throat with each shallow thrust. Determined to take him deeper, you focused on relaxing your mind and muscles, allowing him to ease further into your convulsing channel.

"Oh fuck... Gonna lose my mind feeling you swallow around me like that," he groaned, his free hand still typing intermittently.

Salty precum flooded your senses as his cock throbbed and jumped on your tongue. You moaned around the girthy stretch, the vibrations making Jay shudder and bottom out in your spasming throat.

Emboldened, you fondled and massaged his heavy sac, reveling in his ragged curses and the tight grip in your hair. His movements grew more erratic, his breathing harsh,

until finally Jay pushed his chair back from the desk. You pulled off his spit-slicked cock with a messy slurp, looking up at him with lust-blown eyes and swollen lips.

"Up here. Now," he growled, voice rough with need as his intense gaze roamed over your disheveled state.

You scrambled eagerly into his lap, grinding your dripping core against the rigid length trapped between your bodies. Jay captured your lips in a searing kiss, his clever tongue plundering your mouth as he yanked impatiently at your clothes.

Soon you were naked from the waist down, skirt shoved up around your waist as Jay's thick cockhead nudged insistently at your sodden entrance. You whimpered into the filthy kiss, shamelessly chasing friction by circling your hips.

"You want this big cock filling you up?" Jay rasped against your lips, calloused fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass to grind the weeping tip through your slick folds.

"Please, please..." you babbled shamelessly, rolling your hips to take him deeper with each teasing pass.

Chuckling darkly at your wanton Display, Jay shifted his grip and hauled you down in one smooth thrust, impaling you completely on his impressive length. You threw your head back with a broken cry, feeling so deliciously full and stretched around his thick shaft.

He gave you no time to adjust before setting a punishing pace, his rigid cock sawing in and out of your fluttering, cream-soaked channel. The lewd noises of skin slapping against skin and your high-pitched mewls of pleasure filled the room as he used you for his gratification.

Overwhelming sensations blazed along every nerve. Your nails scored desperate lines down Jay's back, his harsh grunts and the drag of his cock against your over-sensitized inner walls driving you swiftly toward delirium.

"That's it, sweetheart, gonna fill up this greedy little cunt," Jay snarled, his hips pistoning with relentless force. "Take my load like a good girl."

Jake:

Jake let out a frustrated groan as he stared down at the textbook open in front of him on the desk. He'd been trying to focus on his college homework for what felt like hours, but his mind kept wandering. Until you crawled into his lap and slowly impaled yourself on his thick length.

"Fuck..." he hissed out between clenched teeth as your scorching heat enveloped him in one agonizing descent. "Supposed to help me concentrate, not drive me crazy, babygirl."

You shuddered at the harsh rasp of his voice against your ear, already feeling his heavy cock start to swell and harden further within your fluttering walls. Per your agreement, you stilled completely, your slick internal muscles gently massaging his throbbing length.

Jake tried valiantly to turn his attention back to the books and papers strewn in front of him, but the obscene stretch and smoldering heat gripping his dick made it impossible to focus. He hadn't realized just how deliciously torturous this idea would be.

His cock twitched forcefully inside you as rivulets of arousal trickled down your trembling thighs, soaking the material of his sweats where your pelvis met his. He bit out a muffled curse, fists clenching on the desktop.

"So fucking tight..." Jake ground out, hips flexing with the slightest abortive thrust before he caught himself, teeth gritted.

You couldn't bite back the whimper at the electrifying burst of sensation, already feeling drunk on the heavy stretch and throbbing heat spearing you open. Your pussy clenched greedily around his solid invasion, fluttering and muscles rippling in a desperate milking motion.

Jake dropped his head against the back of the chair with a broken groan, muscles tense and cords of tendons straining in his neck as he fought to remain still. Every flex and convulsive grip of your inner walls had his toes curling, so close to losing control.

One large hand dropped between your parted thighs to stroke through the copious arousal coating your folds and trailing down his taint in lewd rivulets. He gathered the musky essence, coating his fingers before bringing them to swirl around your swollen clit.

The electric jolt caused you to clench harshly around his throbbing cock, frantic choked whimpers spilling from your lips. That only encouraged Jake, fingertips working tight, frenzied circles against the throbbing bundle of nerves.

You were reduced to a mewling wreck of sensation, body practically vibrating with pent-up need as Jake ruthlessly stroked you higher while locking himself in an iron rigid line of restraint behind you.

"Fuck, fuck, you feel so goddamn good," he growled against the sweaty curve of your neck, the words ragged torture. "Need to move so fucking bad..."

White-hot pleasure licked down your limbs, muscles growing taut as a bowstring as you barrelled toward the precipice. Jake captured your desperate cries on his tongue, one hand still stroking your clit as the other fisted in your hair to angle your mouth for a soul-scorching kiss.

The whiplash of ecstasy ricocheted between your joined bodies in an endless feedback loop of pure hedonistic bliss until the swirling vortex of rapture finally broke, crashing over you both in shattering waves.

Your pussy clamped down like a vise, convulsing and gushing around his iron length as Jake's restraint snapped utterly in your climax. A broken roar tore from his chest as he finally unleashed himself, jackknifing his hips to drive his cock in hard, pounding strokes through your fluttering, spasming core.

Jake painted your milking walls with his scorching seed, his cock throbbing and jerking with each thick pulse. Neither of you slowed or softened your delirious thrashing until his balls were drained and your honey was smeared in obscene streaks across the bulging cords of his flexing abdomen.

It felt like an eternity before you finally collapsed, boneless and quivering against Jake's heaving chest. The hoarse groan that escaped him was utterly satisfied as his softening length slipped free with a lush gush of combined release.

"No fucking way I can focus on homework after that," he rasped, voice gravelly with spent lust.

Sunghoon:

The thick bulge in Sunghoon's pants was already straining against the material as he slid into the driver's seat of his car. With a heated look, he crooked his finger at you. "Get that sweet ass over here, baby."

You hurried to obey, eagerly climbing into his lap and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Sunghoon's big hands were rough as they gripped your hips, yanking you firmly against the rigid line of his trapped cock.

"Need to be inside this greedy little hole..." he growled, biting sharply at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

You whimpered at the delicious sting, grinding shamelessly against the promise of his thick length as he hurriedly unfastened both your pants. With your leggings pushed down to your thighs, Sunghoon's cock sprang free - flushed, veiny and leaking at the tip.

Licking your lips, you reached between your bodies to grasp the velvety steel of his shaft. Sunghoon hissed as you smeared the pearling bead of precum from his slit and used it to slick the way.

You both moaned in unison as you slowly sank down on his rigid heat, his thickness stretching you so deliciously wide. Once fully sheathed, his cock pulsed and throbbed deep inside your clenching channel.

"Fuck, you're so goddamn tight," Sunghoon bit out, flexing his hips to work his cock deeper.

Crying out at the intense stimulation, you clenched around the thick, sensitive head as he started the car. The heavy throb of the engine only enhanced the shockwaves of pleasure sparking through your core with every lurch of the vehicle.

Bracing his hands on your waist, Sunghoon effortlessly held you impaled as he navigated the streets. He grunted every time you clenched around him, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks.

The obscene stretch and slide of his cock in your aching pussy made your thighs tremble. You couldn't help but squirm and rock in his lap, desperately chasing more delicious friction while he drove.

"Keep that greedy cunt still," Sunghoon growled in warning, one hand leaving your hip to lash across your ass. The sharp smack of flesh on flesh made you jolt and whimper. "Or you're gonna get this dick jackhammering into you at every red light."

Despite his threat, his chest was heaving with ragged breaths, giving away how turned on he was at feeling you clench convulsively around his embedded length. Still, you forced yourself to stillness, mewling pitifully as torturous tingles sparked along your over-sensitized nerves.

Finally, Sunghoon slammed on the brakes at a red light, the rough jolt making you cry out in blissful torment. His grip on your hips wasbruising as he hauled you up until just the thick tip remained stretching your entrance.

Time seemed to still as you whined and thrashed, hole clenching greedily around his crown, desperate for more of his thick cock splitting you open. You stared into Sunghoon's lust-darkened eyes, feeling delirious and wanton.

"You want it?" he rasped, the single worded question somehow filthier than any elaborate dirty talk. You could only nod frantically.

Then he slammed you back down, burying his entire punishing length in one brutal stroke as you screamed in euphoria. Any sense of rhythm or restraint shattered in the wake of his pounding thrusts and hoarse grunts of exertion.

His cock plunged wildly in and out of your spasming, cream-slicked channel, using your body shamelessly for his own release. The lewd sounds of harsh skin slapping mixed with strangled moans and muffled curses filled the car.

Every intrusion of his thick cock battered against your over-stimulated inner walls, dragging agonizing shrieks of pleasure from your raw throat. You lost yourself to delirium, body seized and convulsing without control.

Sunghoon didn't let up, relentlessly hammering his rigid length through your shuddering inner-vice. With a guttural roar, his pace turned frantic and hips stuttered erratically. Scorching ropes of his release flooded and stretched your pummeled hole, his cock jerking with each obscene pulse.

The burning heat of his seed seemed to sear along your sensitized nerves, triggering your own devastating climax. Every muscle locked as you shattered apart with a wail, cunt spasming wildly to milk every last drop from Sunghoon's cock.

Eyes glassy with residual bliss, you can barely move when he effortlessly hauls you up until just the swollen tip of his cock is caught in your fluttering entrance. But then the light turns red once more.

Sunghoon doesn't say a word, just brutally sheathes his entire length inside you again with one punishing thrust. The scream rips from your raw throat unbidden as he pulls almost all the way out and slams home again.

And again. And again - brutal and relentless.

You flail and claw at his shoulders, deliriously overstimulated, but he just pins your wrists against the steering wheel with one iron grip. His free hand at your hip is merciless, controlling the angle and force as he pile-drives his cock into your helplessly convulsing cunt.

The slick sounds of his pistoning thrusts are obscenely loud with each rapid stroke through your mess of mingled juices. The entire car shakes and rocks from the force of his assault as he ruins your battered hole on his thick cock.

Tears stream from your eyes from the overwhelming stimulation. Your voice gives out into hoarse whimpers punctuated by the lewd squelching between your bodies.

You can do nothing but take the ruthless reaming, gasping like a landed fish each time his hips slam home and jackhammer his dick fully into your spasming depths. Each inward stroke seems to punch deeper - stretching, battering, ruining.

Just when you're certain you can't handle another second of his savage possession, just when wavering darkness invades the corners of your vision...

The light turns green.

Sunghoon instantly drags you fully down onto his cock again, grinding deep as you sob around the thick pulse and throb of his length locked inside you. He lets out a rumbling growl of satisfaction at your pitiful whimpers.

"Hold it in, sweetheart," he rasps into the sweaty curve of your neck. "Not a drop can spill from that pretty, ruined cunt."

You choke back a wail as he uses his grip on your wrists to make you grind in tiny circles on the base of his cock. The torturous movement has it dragging and shifting through your swollen, abused walls, smearing his seed deeper.

Every muscle shivers and clenches, desperately trying to obey his filthy command. You're his cockwarming fleshlight, forced immobile and impaled while he resumes driving.

At the first roll of the next red light, he rewards you by unleashing another round of brutal, short thrusts, wrenching hoarse cries from you over and over as his cock batters home. He repeats this vicious pattern, timing each ruthless, punishing series of thrusts to the red lights.

You soon lose all sense of time and space, reality reduced to nothing but the endless cycle of Sunghoon's cock ravaging through your ruined hole, only to have you brought back to torturous stillness on its thick depth.

You drool and sob helplessly, enduring the obscene torment as he uses your body without mercy. All the while, his cum slowly seeps from your gaping, convulsing entrance to dampen his pants and seat beneath you...

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arieslost · 10 months ago

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little spoon | ln4

summary: lando is the little spoon for the first time.

word count: 835

masterlist — join my tag list here!

you’re half asleep when lando finally gets into bed.

you don’t mean to fall asleep, fully intending to stay awake, but the jet lag is really getting to you. you were hellbent on staying up in order to spend some extra time alone with your boyfriend after such a tumultuous day, especially because your flight to jeddah had been delayed.

you had only caught a glimpse of him before he had to get in the car, so you couldn’t do your pre-race ritual. instead, lando had sprinted to where you stood at the side of the track, hoping to at least give him an encouraging thumbs up, and kissed you so quickly that you barely even felt it before he was running back to his car.

so yeah, a little private time to decompress together sounded really nice. you’ve been trying everything you could, but you’re fighting a losing battle with your heavy eyelids.

the dip of the mattress has you blinking your eyes open, rubbing a hand over your face as lando slips under the covers. you give him a soft smile, and he returns it.

“hey, sleepy,” he whispers.

“hey,” you whisper back. “y’okay?”

“yeah. tired. still kinda pissed off.” he admits.

the race had gone so well, for a little while, at least. the rush of adrenaline you felt when your boyfriend led the race was like nothing you’d ever experienced before, and then he crossed the finish line in p8. you’re still learning the ins and outs of race strategy and whatnot, but you know that something had gotten lost when it came to lando’s strategy.

“sorry, baby,” you reach out and brush your fingers through his curls, still damp from the shower. “things will be better next race.”

“at least one of us is optimistic.” he grumbles, pressing himself further into your hand when you move it from his hair to caress his cheek.

“it will be,” you insist. “and i will be there, ready to say ‘i told you so.’”

he rolls his eyes playfully, and you push his face away in return. “you are so rude.”

“but you looove me,” he coos, grabbing your waist and pulling you into him.

“lucky you,” you make a face at him.

he laughs, sliding a hand to the back of your neck to pull you in for a long kiss.

you hum happily, appreciating how warm his body is and how good he smells. you want nothing more than to cuddle him close to you, pet his head, kiss his shoulder and his neck…

the lightbulb goes off in your head, and you break the kiss, causing lando to whine in dissatisfaction.

“baby…”

“you’re never the little spoon.” you say, like that explains why you’d want to stop kissing him.

“yeah,” he shrugs, pressing another kiss to your lips. “so?”

“so,” you begin, giggling when he goes in for yet another kiss, “maybe tonight you can be.”

“really?” he furrows his eyebrows. “you want to do that?”

“mhmm,” you affirm against his lips when he kisses you again before you can answer. “wanna hold you. you had a long day.”

“i did have a long day.” he agrees, sighing dramatically. “fine. one more kiss?”

“if you insist,” its your turn to playfully roll your eyes as he kisses you, smiling all the while and making an obnoxious mwah sound before he shifts onto his side away from you.

you scooch closer to him and a little further up the bed in order to get one of your arms between his neck and the pillow. the other goes under his own arm and rests against his bare chest.

“this okay?” you ask.

he nods, kissing your forearm.

“good,” you smile against his shoulder. “i love you, lan.”

“love you so much, my baby.” he murmurs, tangling your fingers together.

your heart beats a little faster at his use of my. for as long as you’ve been with him, you’ve never quite gotten used to that lovestruck feeling you get whenever he refers to you as his. you leave little kisses across his shoulder and his neck until his breathing evens out and your eyes fall shut.

when you wake in the morning, you’re sprawled out on your back with one lando norris still fast asleep and attached to your side like a koala. your left arm is still around his shoulders, but his face is snuggled into your neck, his arm is looped around your waist, and one of his legs is in between both of yours. you’re a little chilly courtesy of the blankets being stuck between your bodies, so you slowly move onto your side to face him so you can wrap your other arm around him and pull him closer.

he never says anything about it, to preserve his “macho-ness,” as he likes to put it, but every time he gets into bed and rolls onto his side after that night, you always know exactly what he’s asking for.

note: i warned y’all this would happen and here i am. also i’m still exhausted from going to a concert and then staying up for quali so if there’s any mistakes that i missed pls tell me otherwise i will die of embarrassment 💪🏼💪🏼

my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika

tags: @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @sweatrevenge5436-blog @kimis-gloves @mia-rrrs @decafmickey @customsbyjcg-blog @bigheartsthings @tania2748 @scuderiadevils @iloveyou3000morgan @ctrlyomomma @hiireadstuff @daemyratwst @arian-directioner @evelyn-ny @avg-golden-retriever

#blurb #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fluff #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris

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amywritesthings · 7 months ago

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press four for more options. | part one.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. | masterlist

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”

God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.

A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.

God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.

Maybe, up to this Friday evening.

You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.

Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.

Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.

(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)

The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.

Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.

Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.

(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)

Well, no missing that now.

Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.

The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.

In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:

You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.

She wasn’t kidding.

Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.

So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.

Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.

Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.

Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.

“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.

Did she already have a match?

Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?

She's always so chill. It would make sense.

There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown.

At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?

Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.

So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.

At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.

The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.

The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.

“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”

Tempting.

Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.

“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”

“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.

“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”

For a solid five minutes you wait.

Contemplating.

Deciding.

You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.

After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?

The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”

You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.

Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.

It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.

“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”

A name.

You should give a name that isn’t your real name.

But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?

“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”

“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.

Petra laughs musically.

“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”

Why are you doing this again?

“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin.

Did Annie have a fake name with this service?

“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”

Real or fake?

Committed or just testing the waters?

“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.

Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.

“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.

Are you going to be seriously this easy?

“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”

“Female.”

"Pronouns?"

"Um, she and her."

“And you’re over eighteen?”

“Definitely over eighteen.”

“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”

You want to scream.

Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.

“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”

“I have just the person.”

You pause.

Blink.

But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.

A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.

You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.

“Wait, you do?”

“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”

A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.

Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.

(Or a clue.)

“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”

“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”

You can’t hide your surprise.

“Really?”

“Really!”

Ha, your fucking luck.

“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”

You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.

“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.

You hear something shift on her side.

Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?

God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.

“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”

Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.

“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.

A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.

Is that even a real kink?

Has the bar really gotten that low?

Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.

As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.

Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.

You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.

Moment of truth.

With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Holy fuck.

Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.

While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it.

A rumbling.

At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.

You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.

You don’t even know your home address.

You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.

“You there?”

Right, you’re meant to talk back.

“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”

“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”

The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water.

His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.

“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”

All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.

“I’m…”

What do you even say?

How come you have to say anything at all?

Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?

Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”

Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.

“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”

“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.

How mortifying.

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”

“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”

Silence.

You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.

Did you scare him away?

Was that too much of a depressive dump?

You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.

But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.

“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”

“Listen?”

“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”

It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.

“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.

“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”

The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.

“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”

Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”

“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.

“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”

“A what?”

“A wet dream?”

“No, the other thing — ASMR?”

“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”

“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”

For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.

God, you could scream into your pillow.

If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.

“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern.

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

No, this entire night is weird.

If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.

“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…”

You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.

“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”

There.

It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.

You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.

“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”

“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”

“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”

The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.

His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.

“Nope.”

His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”

The demand does something to you.

Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.

“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”

“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.

“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”

“Even if it’s just to talk?”

“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”

The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”

“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”

One second the bottle of water is in your hand.

Next it’s on the floor.

“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”

“Not cheap.”

“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”

It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”

Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.

“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”

“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”

“Shut up.”

“You do, and you are.”

“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So a lot.”

“Confidential.”

“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”

“It’s per minute, so.”

“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”

“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”

“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”

“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”

“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”

“Fair, can’t blame you there.”

There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.

Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.

You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah, baby?”

It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.

Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.

Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.

Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—

Whoa.

You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”

Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”

“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”

(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)

You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.

“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone’s voice, apparently.

“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”

You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”

“It’s a movie?”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”

“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”

“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”

“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”

So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face.

Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.

His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Or boxers?

Maybe nothing.

Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.

Contemplating.

Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.

“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”

“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”

“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.

But—

“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”

“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.

14:02

So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.

God damnit.

Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your extension?”

Because you have to know.

Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.

Levi waits a moment before responding.

“Two-five-one-two.”

2512.

You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!

“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”

You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.

(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)

“I’m not sure if—”

Click.

“Hello? Levi?”

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”

Out of time.

You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.

Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.

— —

Saturday is a wash.

You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.

For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.

Levi.

Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.

(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)

Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.

Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.

The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.

The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.

You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.

You could call.

It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.

Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.

Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.

Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.

[A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?

[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.

(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)

[YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.

[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)

[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?

[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.

Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.

[YOU]: Can I ask his name?

[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?

[YOU]: jfc annie

[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert

So not Levi.

For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.

Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.

Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.

You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.

Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.

The number is already in your phone.

Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.

One more call can’t hurt.

Levi may not even be working.

Hell, he could be talking to someone else.

A regular.

Several regulars.

For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.

(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)

The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think.

You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

You continue staring.

Are you really doing this?

It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.

A distraction.

A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.

How bad can it get?

“If you’re looking for someone specific —”

You press one.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.

There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #levi ackerman fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #fic: press four for more

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bitchinbarzal · 7 months ago

Text

Handshake | L Sargeant

summary: after some heated words, Logan realises how big of a mistake he made.

He had misplaced his anger.

He was furious when they told him he wouldn’t be racing in Australia. To the cameras he was polite, calling himself a team player but in his driver room he was throwing things, shouting and you managed to be at the brunt end of it.

He’d left you in tears, to walk out and take an early flight home on the Saturday.

You hadn’t even been there for 48 hours before you were heading back.

He tried to call you but reached your voicemail with your phone being on airplane mode. He left messages and texts but when you landed back in the UK you weren’t interested in listening.

The way he’d acted, the words he’d thrown at you they were vicious and hurtful. You’d been together for so long now and couldn’t remember a time he’d ever said such things.

You’d fought before, everyone does. This was different, you felt scared and like you didn’t know the man infront of you.

He’d given you space, sending goodnight and morning texts only all gone unanswered. He didn’t blame you, he knew what he’d done crossed a line. He was embarrassed.

The team headed from Australia to China, no stop home first so he was none the wiser to anything happening.

You were supposed to be there, you were always there. In all the years you’d dated there was only one race you’d missed and it was all due to a delayed flight.

You had a pre race ritual of the handshake you both did before kissing your thumbs and you wished him a safe race. That’s all you ever wanted, him to be safe.

You didn’t care if he won; not the race, the championship. You wanted him home at the end of the day.

You watched all the coverage from home on Friday and Saturday. You knew Logan had texted you and you had yet to respond.

It wasn’t until Saturday, someone on the broadcast team made comment about him

“And Logan Sargeant looks worse this weekend than last- not in the car that is! Just in person, he’s down and gloomy… I wonder what’s going on in the Williams garage that has him like this”

It was you, you knew it.

The camera showed him sitting in the Williams garages with his head in his hands, eyes rimmed red.

That’s how you ended up in Shanghai on Sunday.

You were cutting it close to the race after battling your way to a cab, to the paddock and through everyone to the garages.

You could see on the big screens erected across the paddock showing live footage that the drivers were getting ready and into their cars.

You were worried you would be too late and began picking up the pace. You got a few weird looks from barging past people but you didn’t care.

When you made it to the back of the garage you left out a sigh of relief, yanking the door open and rushing in. You could hear the noise of the mechanics, praying he wasn’t in the car yet.

When you emerged out front you couldn’t see for the guests in your way, trying to squeeze past them.

Your heart dropped when you saw his car wasn’t there, wasn’t parked in its spot on the left side of the garage.

You huffed to yourself, feeling so stupid for messing this up.

“Yeah exactly like that and we’ll be good!” You heard his voice, you knew that voice.

You looked to the right and saw him, about to climb into his car on the other side of the garage

“Logan!”

His eyes went from his helmet to you, softening immediately at the sight.

You rushed around the mechanics towards him, taking him into your arms ever so briefly

“You’re here” he gasps

“I’m here”

He lets out a shaky breath “Listen, I’m so sorr-“

“Logan we gotta go!” Someone called for him and he looked between you and the voice with strain.

You shook your head “Go! We have time, now-“

You held your hand out for him, watching as he began your handshake and the two of you finished kissing your thumbs, briefly followed by him swatting away your hand and just kissing you.

“Logan!” The voice called again, sterner this time.

You giggled at him rolling his eyes “You got this, stay safe and come home to me”

“Always if you’re there!”

#logan sargeant x reader #Logan sargeant imagine #f1 imagine

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revasserium · 4 months ago

Text

burn

umemiya hajime; 3,307 words; mostly fluff, tiny bit of angst, young/freshman!umemiya, pre-canon events, lapslock, no "y/n", librarian!reader, childhood friends to lovers, vague ref to ch. 152, ume is a dumbdumb

summary: "it's a pleasure to burn" - ray bradbury, fahrenheit 451

a/n: am i writing umemiya now? who knows. this takes place 2 years before wbk manga events (the first year ume&co are in boufuurin) so pls excuse the slightly ooc ume...

001. the art of war

the library is entirely your idea.

“mah… you’d have to be the one to keep track of all the books though,” umemiya says, grinning as he watches you stock the shelves, your hair twisted up into a messy bun, your arm straining to reach the top-most shelf with a bundle of paperbacks with fraying covers and broken-in spines.

“of course i would! it’s not like there’s anyone else here i’d trust with that.” you turn to fix him with a stare that is already too “librarian-like” and he laughs, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

“okay then, consider me your first patron! gimme something to read,” umemiya says, smiling wide as you narrow your eyes. your lips twitch up at the ends — it’s a familiar movement, an unconscious gesture, but one that’s plagued his all sleepless nights and most of his endless days.

“well…” you say, drawing out the word as you slowly saunter towards him, propping your hands on your hips as you pull level with the table in front of him, “what do you want to read?”

“anything you’d wanna lend me,” he says easily.

“boo, that’s such a boring answer,” you shoot back, shifting to press your hip against the edge of the table, crossing your arms as you turn to look back at the half-erected shelves.

you don’t see the way umemiya’s eyes flicker down to the bend of your waist, or the way he licks his lips as he tracks the plush of your thigh as you move to hoist yourself onto the desk, balancing on the edge.

he swallows, clearing his throat, trying not to think about the strange, burgeoning signs of growing up pestering you both at this vital juncture (just last week, his voice had cracked so hard you’d laughed at him for a whole hour straight; and the week before that, he’d almost rammed into a telephone poll watching you jog down the flight of stairs that leads to your tiny apartment).

“then maybe reading a few books will make me not so boring, hm?”

you roll your eyes, hopping off the table to comb through the handful of books. umemiya lets out an internal sigh of relief, feeling the heat in his cheeks recede ever so slightly as you disappear behind one of the taller shelves.

“here. let’s start with this.”

you pop out from behind the shelf, lobbing a thin volume towards him; he catches it out of reflex and stares at the cover.

“the art of war…?”

you grin, all cheek and no shame, “yeah. i mean… fits, doesn’t it? aren’t you starting at boufuurin next week?” you blink before turning back to look around at the small, abandoned storage facility, tucked between a ramen shop and what used to be a dollar store. there’s half a dozen dusty shelves, a few cabinets along the walls, and even a small stepladder that touma had dug out of the back closet for you.

at fifteen, you’re probably the smartest person he knows (and the prettiest, but that’s neither here nor there); at fifteen, umemiya hajime is an iron-wrought confluence of teenage ambition with big ideas and even bigger dreams (who doesn’t have time for things like crushes or girls… really).

“yeah,” umemiya runs a finger along the cover of the little book and flips to a random page, his eyes catching on the line —

the greatest victory is that which requires no battle at all.

002. pedro reyes

three weeks later, he stumbles back with two black eyes and a matching pair of bleeding knuckles.

“that book you lent me?” he says, dropping into a chair with a groan, “kinda bullshit.”

you make a half-startled, half-annoyed noise as you hurry over, setting down an armful of magazines to lean over and look at his face.

“what the hell happened?”

umemiya winces as you reach out to wipe a trickle of blood from his cheek.

“couple of fights — tough ones, but… well, i’m still here, aren’t i?” he says, managing a lopsided grin even as you tut, hurrying away to grab a first aid kit, returning with a warm, wet cloth and a scowl on your face.

“i thought you had a plan,” you say, unable to keep the acid from your voice.

umemiya groans as you press the damp cloth to his bloodied fingers, watching as you wipe each one down, the shocking white of the towel slowly darkening until it’s stained and blotchy with red.

“yeah. i did — punch everyone out till i get to the top.”

you tsk, frown deepening even as he shifts forward to let you wipe at the wounds on his face.

“pretty sure that’s not what sun tzu suggests,” you say, dabbing some kind of cooling gel to a cut right below his eye.

“sun tzu’s never had to deal with the guys at boufuurin.”

you roll your eyes, sighing before pulling back, “there’s an article i read today —” you jerk your head back towards the stack of magazines, “about an artist in mexico.”

“yeah?”

umemiya closes his eyes and lets you do the slow, diligent work of bandaging up his knuckles, one by one.

“he took a bunch of illegal weapons the government had confiscated and melted them down — pistols, knives, shotguns — and made them into musical instruments instead.”

the quiet that follows is thick and steady as churned butter. you don’t look up, your eyes still trained on the careful task of bandaging umemiya’s fingers.

he shifts, pulling closer, his breath fanning out warm against your cheek.

“do you know how hot a fire has to be in order to melt metal?” you ask after another brief silence, finally lifting your eyes as you finish with his hands.

umemiya cocks an eyebrow, “how hot?”

“about 2,700 degrees, fahrenheit.”

umemiya whistles below his breath, “sounds hot.”

“it is. at that temperature, you can apparently force a weapon to forget that it’s a weapon, to remake it into something new — something that wasn’t made to take lives… but to give it instead.”

you wrap your fingers around his, your skin contrasted against the dark blossom of bruises.

umemiya feels his smile slash into something jagged, lopsided and sharp.

“then… i guess that’s how hot i’ll have to burn to turn this whole place around.”

003. grey’s anatomy

looking back, umemiya wonders if that’s the night he changed — the night that you’d held onto his hands as if they were something precious.

he looks up the melting point of metal and the story of the artist in mexico. he thinks about what it must feel like to turn a pistol into a flute, to be the one to teach it to hold a note instead of a bullet —

he stares down at his bandaged hands, feels the dull ache in his muscles and wonders.

once, he remembers when the pair of you were still kids, hollow and lonely and full of a childish rage at the indifferent world — how you’d laughed as he pushed you on a neighborhood swing, but cried when he knocked a guy’s front teeth our for asking where your parents were.

and a week later, he’d found you hidden under the jungle gym with a tomb of a book clutched in your hands. the air had been damp with thunder, the sky grey and electric.

you’d looked up at him with bright eyes, holding out a closed fist —

“ume! did you know that the human heart is the same size as a fist?”

he remembers crawling under the jungle gym to squeeze in beside you, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, peering at the opened book, at the page with a diagram of the human body an all it’s labeled parts.

“oh, cool.”

he’d held up his own fist then, and stared, feeling the beat of his heart reverberating through his chest. he wonders if you can hear it when you’re pressed this close; he wonders, if the sky weren’t breaking apart above you, if he’d be able to hear your heartbeats too.

“isn’t it strange?” you’d asked, leaning over to bump your fist against his.

“what’s strange?” he hadn’t pulled away; neither had you.

your hand relaxes then, fingers loosening till he can see the blood rush back into their tips, tinting them pink. you’d turned your hand and placed it over his still-closed one and squeezed.

“that… a heart and a fist are the same size but… they weren’t made to beat the same.”

004. romeo & juliet

“he loves you, y’know.”

you look up from the makeshift front desk.

tsubaki is sitting with their legs crossed on one of the tables, arms propped on either side of their hips.

“library’s not open for another few days,” you say by way of an answer.

“it’s nice,” tsubaki says, looking around, “you did a good job with it.”

“thanks.”

they hop off the table to peer down one of the aisles of books — all the shelves now labeled with your loopy handwriting, the books clustered by a loose combination of genre, authorship, and spine-coloration.

“it’ll be good for us,” tsubaki’s voice is slightly muted by the layers and layers of books, but the click of their heeled boots rings sharp against the smooth linoleum floors, “having a library — the pen being mightier than the sword, and all.”

they’re smiling when they finally come back around the last row, fingers linked behind their back.

“that’s the hope, anyway,” you say, lips pulling into a wane smile.

you glance up and your eyes catch on the bandage at the edge of tsubaki’s lips, the dark stain at the collar of their otherwise impeccable uniform.

sighing, you run a hand along a yet-unsorted stack of books, shaking your head.

“we’re too young to know anything about love,” you answer, finally.

tsubaki joins you, bending down to pick up the first book at the top of the pile, waving it in the air with a rueful grin.

“i think romeo & juliet would beg to differ.”

you bite your lips, “you know that’s a tragedy, right?”

tsubaki shrugs, “sure, but… wasn’t it beautiful while it lasted anyway?”

you don’t have an answer, and instead, tsubaki giggles, tapping the top of your head with the book.

“can i borrow this? i promise i’ll return it!”

you wave them away with a soft smile.

“that’s kind of how a library works.”

005. fight club

“how long have you been here?”

you jerk up, your entire body screaming with the movement after having been still for so long.

“ume —! you’re awake!” you nearly collapse by the hospital bedside, dropping your head into the pristine white sheets.

above you, umemiya makes a choked off sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, his hand coming up to pat your head. you melt into the feel of him, the weight and warmth of his fingers as he treads them through your hair.

“where’s —”

“they left — all of them,” you say, lifting your head slowly, “takishii and endo and… all of them.”

umemiya frowns, his hand stilling for a second, “what do you mean?”

you shrug, pulling back till you’re curled up in the bedside seat once more, tugging your knees up into your chest.

“after the fight, they just… picked up and left.”

“so… i lost,” umemiya’s voice is soft.

you shake your head, “no.”

he frowns, “but that’s —”

“you knocked each other out at the same time — it was technically —” your voice snags in your throat as you remember the grizzly scene before you, the crimson sprays of blood, the dirt damp beneath them, their uniforms torn into dark ribbons, the rooftop howling with a savage, winter wind.

“a tie,” umemiya says in a flatlined voice, reaching up and covering his eyes with his arm.

“right.”

you clear your throat, reaching for the tall glass of water on the bedside table.

“here — drink,” you hold the water out to him. he takes it wordlessly and drains nearly the entire glass. you watch, silent, as a drop of liquid trails down his jaw and trickles into the bandages at this throat.

your eyes cut away as he grins, smacking his lips and setting the water glass down.

“ah — that feels much better!”

you’re quiet, sitting vulturine still, refusing to meet his gaze.

umemiya finally slumps back to stare at the ceiling.

“you’re mad at me.”

“i’m not.”

“we’e known each other our whole lives, i know when you’re mad —”

“i’m scared, okay?” there’s a thin, unsteady quiver to the tenor of your voice as your head snaps back up. it’s then that he notices your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

“s-scared? of what? takiishi and endo are gone — you said so your—”

“of you!”

umemiya blinks and feels the blood in his extremities going cold, and for a second, he’s not sure if he accidentally dislodged his iv drip.

the look on your face is inscrutable, anger and uncertainty, but most of all — fear. something about that look makes his stomach curdle inside him.

“i —” he tries to find something to say but nothing else comes out. there’s no excuse, no explanation. he searches you eyes for a tether, for a spark of that familiar warmth and finds none.

slowly, you soften back into the seat and turn to stare out the window.

“it’s not like i’ve never seen you fight… and i’ve never liked it but this…” you bite down on your bottom lip, “it was like… you turned into someone else. someone i didn’t recognize.”

“i’m… i’m sorry.”

you swallow, still not looking at him, your eyes flickering down to your own hands, now lying limply in your lap.

“and then i thought — what if i did this? i — i had to go and make that stupid metaphor about the metal and the melting and —”

at this, umemiya laughs, reaching out to tug you closer. the ease with which he does so startles a hiccup out of you.

“you don’t really think i went and fought like that because of an article about a dude in mexico, do you?”

you purse your lips, cheeks going blotchy with heat. umemiya reaches forward to squeeze your nose, making you jerk back.

“dummy,” he chides, grinning now from ear to ear, but his smile falters slightly as he takes your hands in his, “i’m sorry that i scared you. promise i won’t do it again.”

“hn.” you don’t make to pull away, and umemiya takes that as permission to tug you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you. he buries his face in your hair and breathes in, out, in —

“hm… you really think you have that much power over me?” umemiya asks, a wanton sort of amusement underlying his voice as he finally lets you go, if only to revel in the way your cheeks flood with color.

“shut up! i was — i was freaked out and you were unconscious and i —”

“cause you do.”

your words cut off as abruptly as a dropped call.

umemiya chuckles, scratching at the back of his head, ruffling up his already pillow-mussed hair.

“been meaning to tell you but… i figured you already knew — “ and for once, he sounds his age — young and halting and shy.

after a breath that feels like a century, you finally break into a helpless fit of laughter.

“i can’t believe it…” you say, burying your face in your hands.

“can’t… believe what?” umemiya blinks at you.

“that it took you nearly dying for you to admit that you liked me.”

“hey! in case you haven’t noticed, i’ve been kinda busy this year!”

you roll your eyes, “yeah, yeah — had to go save the world first. then you get to kiss the girl, right? end movie, roll credits.”

umemiya cocks his head, “well, i dunno about the world but definitely — wait, what did you say about kissing me?”

you crinkle your nose, “i didn’t.”

“yeah you did.”

“i did not — i was just making a general statement about cliches in superhero movies —”

“oh, so you think i’m a superhero?”

“ume! stop it — mph!”

later, umemiya would recall fondly to anyone who will listen that yeah, he does get to kiss the girl after all.

006. fahrenheit 451

“451,” you say, standing at the door of the newly minted makochi library.

it’s dark outside, and umemiya stands by your side, stretching his arms over his head with a wide yawn.

“huh?”

“451 degrees,” you say again, turning to press a small silver lighter into his hands. he stares owlishly at it before looking back at you, clearly at a loss.

“that’s how hot it has to be for paper to catch fire.”

umemiya stares.

“i was thinking,” you say, turning back to the dark, but pristine library.

“uh-oh — oof — ow!” umemiya makes a show of clutching his side as you jerk your elbow back for another blow. he dodges out of your way with a dopey grin.

you sigh, turning back to the library, “but i was thinking that… there’s gotta be a better way — an easier way, right?”

this time, he stays quiet to let you speak.

“because yeah, it’d be nice to melt all the weapons in the world and turn them all into nicer things but… there’s a better way to do things.”

“yeah? and what’s that?” umemiya turns the lighter around and around in his palm.

you turn and head for the door, locking it behind you. the moonlight washes your skin in a ghostly silver as you turn to face him.

“we rewrite the story,” you say.

umemiya flicks on the lighter and lets the fire dance between them. his breath catches on the liquid gold in your eyes.

“is… that even possible?” he asks.

you reach out a steady hand, letting the tips of your fingers barely skim over the shifting flame.

“sure it is. all of human history is just a story written by the victors. and… 451 degrees isn’t nearly as hot as 2,700.”

umemiya smiles then, letting the lid of the lighter click shut. the fire snuffs out, leaving only a thin trail of spiraling smoke behind.

“sounds a lot more reasonable, too. much less scary,” he says.

you laugh, turning towards the main street. he watches you go for a second before pocketing the lighter and making to catch up. when he levels himself with you, he reaches out to take your hand.

“fires don’t have to be scary,” you say, giving his hand a quick squeeze, “for most of human history… it’s brought people together — over a hot meal or a good story. a lot of the time… it’s the only reason we get to survive.”

umemiya pulls you in to loop his arm around your shoulder.

“hm. i like the sound of that way, way better.”

bonus:

“so… just makin’ sure — you don’t want me to burn down the new library you spent all this time setting up, right?”

“no you dumbass! it was just a metaphor.”

“oh. right — yeah, a metaphor, duh.”

160 notes · View notes

broooooo · 5 months ago

Note

Have you thought about doing a story from a coach point of view maybe fucking a couple jocks along the way to see some new perspectives and maybe couple cum soaked jockstrap for good measure?

Coach Jason is a large muscular man, he wears tight lycra alot and loves his boys. He crafted each on of them , the perfect big, dumb, horny, football jocks, mindless and obedient to him, he can't get enough of the thrill of watching ugly poor nerds grow and drool , until they cum their brains out. He sometimes allows the jocks to fuck him, pleasure him, just the sights of there cum stained dripping jock straps is enough to get him hard. His boys are always ready to welcome a new jock into the team, all rock hard dicks and drooling, vacant eyes, they jack off sniffing their cleats in the locker room a lot

Coach Jason loves his life, turning boys into men, having them obey him , fuck him, and pleasure him. He's always thought this is where his life would be.

But one day, while coach jason Was in his office, he looked at his recent transformations team file, aaron, a shy small boy, an artist, lonely, he can still recall the drool, the dumb slac grin, and his rock hard dick cumming his brains out. It was everything. But then he had a thought

What would it be like to join them? The thought confused him, why would be want that, he's there coach, that's insane, but the idea permeated his mind, what would it be like to see it from there prospective?

He tries to focus on something else , trying to forget the idea

A while later at practice, he sends the jocks out to run laps,

But

he still can't let go of the thoughts, his hard dick betraying his objection, he tries to move past it but his dick stays hard, his heart pumping, and his mind constantly in a battle of focus, coach Jason stands on the side lines as he watches, their muscles bugle, their cleats shine, their bulges large ,the huts and grunts of them running, free of care, and worry, only sex, winning, only football on their minds, coach thought to himself, maybe they would all gain a bit of free will if he did join them, to no longer need a master to guide them, he tries to shake the thoughts, the shine of their helmet in his eyes, he cant help but wonder what it would be like, to be like them, maybe they would all just be gain some will back , being jocks and they would grow up into notable jocks, including him, or would he be destined to obey another coach , like his jocks , even though he himself would loose everything and become like them, he wouldn't be able to return, to him it's a permanent change, he would become a dumb drooling football jock, never to remember his coach life, he would just be a jock, he had to make a choice, be a jock, or a coach,.

soon enough the jocks notice coaches quietness and try questioning coach if he's doing ok, Aaron speeks up in a big bro voice, dumb, but concerned, lots of bro ,dude and brah language with this one, he flexes and drools a bit asking, his eyes vacant like the rest, his bulge big and hardening*

Coach Jason looks up, oh. Yeah Aaron, I'm good, just thinking about plays *smiles fakely* please go back to practice,

The team jogs up, forgetting the incident almost instantly, turning their minds to football, they all drool dumbly as they run.

Coach Jason stands there leaning against the wall, his heart beats fast, sweating, his dick raging, throbbing in his pants, becoming sensitive and leaking pre, his mind in a frenzy. The thought so strong in his head, clouding his judgement.

*fuck fuck fuck... Coach exclaims ,

Beh can't take it, he needs its it, he wants it, his throbbing cock trying to control his emotions, he goes to the locker room and finds Aaron's cummy extra jock strap and cleats the smell of Aarons sweat, warm and ripe, stained with cum, he can't take it, the urge to be a jock, but he wants to resist , but, remembeirng how Aaron resisted at first, .. coach takes this throbbing cock out, and straps the cleat and jock strap to his face, breathing in the jock fumes, immediately making him so horny he spasms and cums a puddle , constantly load after load even drooling, he hopes his will clam him down, Aaron is bright in his mind, the thought, the desire , his muscles, his smell, his cleats, his drool... His cum... Bro., he hears Aaron, in his head, like an illusion , he can see himself... No.. a jocked version of him, after the helmet, drooling, eyes dull and a big dumb grin standing next to Aaron, jock jason telling coach To cummmm joinnn them, , over and over , Put on the helmet... To join them.. aaron keeps whispering into coaches brain... Join them... Aaron holding a helmet and moving to towards the coach .. join me...becum... Free ... Brooo you know you want too bro....., just cum join meeeeee...

In this haze if arousal , coach allows the vision of Aaron to put the helmet on his head, , his mind shuts down, his cock like a hose of cum, and his mouth drooling, as his mind is destroyed and wiped, draining from him, his muscles grow and bulge, but he gets shorter, younger, more muscular, a short crop hairstyle and a 12 Inch dick to match. His mind being filled with nothing but football. Sex and his bros, his bro..Aaron...

The former coach remembers at that moment.. he was just Jason.. a big . Dumb, football, jock .

His mind frenzy ends as he takes off the jock strap and cleat, drooling and still leaking cum, sitting in a puddle of his own cum, he immediately becomes hard again

*Yeahhh brahhh fuc brahhh .. so fuckin horny* he jacks off his dick again, cumming again in 4 jerks, he layed in his cum puddle for a while, letting his dick leaks and his mind fog up with sex

A while later the team comes back to the locker room, and finds Jason.... There new bro.. but they all know Aaron's his long time bro.. they all huddle around and begin drooling and jacking off laughing.

Jason. And Aaron laugh together

Yo bro... Ya gud? Aaron said

Yaaa bruhhh fuck imm hung .. broo, Jason said back

Fuck brooooo same... ,

Their vacant horny eyes meet,, north drooling, sweaty,, covered in cum, they get closer together and they start to fuck

The team joins in, a big dumb jock orgy

They are all oblivious to the fact their coach is gone or that jock jason only now became real .

To them Jason was always there , at least to Aaron that is, they were best bros..

Just two big, dumb, muscular , football, jock

As it was always meant to be

____

Another story, crushed! Nailed it

I hope you enjoyed it!

170 notes · View notes

nanamineedstherapy · 3 days ago

Text

Controversial Opinion: The Anti-Sugar Baby Manifesto

Okay, so... does anyone else not want to be Nanami’s sugar baby, Gojo’s dependent, Sukuna’s servant, or insert your favorite emotionally unavailable man’s sidekick?

I’ve read (and loved!) plenty of fics where the reader is in one of these roles. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying them—power to you if that’s your vibe! But if we’re talking canon or even slightly realistic scenarios… yeah, I just can’t.

Before you start throwing tomatoes 🍅, hear me out. I promise this isn’t a hate post—just my thots.

Alright, buckle up because I’m about to destroy your sugar baby and servant fantasies with my unsolicited, unhinged takes.

Nanami Kento:

You wanna be Ken Doll’s sugar baby? Cute, but be serious. This man is one passive-aggressive comment away from throwing himself into traffic because he hates capitalism that much. He chose exorcisms and certain death over Excel sheets. Excel sheets, babe. If you think he’s gonna work overtime to buy you Versace, you’re delusional.

If I were with him, I’d work harder at my job (I hate corporate too, but not more than I love Nanami) and funnel my salary straight to him. He’d handle it responsibly because I’d just blow it on expensive pens, another PC, and iced tea. But also? I’d keep an emergency fund. Trust no one. Not even your man.

Let’s not forget the workplace romance trope. This man is the epitome of professionalism. He’d never date his coworker, let alone his secretary. Not because you’re not amazing, but because the power imbalance would haunt him. Like, he’d wake up in a cold sweat thinking about HR policies. And I respect that about him bcs same.

Also, please don’t get involved with someone who promises love and then runs to HR if his job’s on the line. (Not Nanami but in general advice.)

The stats don’t lie, and I’m not about to become the next cautionary tale in a LinkedIn post.

Gojo Satoru:

You wanna date Gojo? Cute. Except he wouldn’t date you, let alone spoil you. He wouldn’t date anyone. He’s emotionally constipated, a walking trauma fest, hyperfocused on being the strongest sorcerer alive™️, and allergic to vulnerability.

Most fics turn him into this suave flirt, but let’s be real—canon Gojo struggles with human interaction beyond being a troll. He’s a nerdy dork, so his game is shit even if he wanted to date you.

Y’all write him as this rich sugar daddy, but in reality? He’d spend your entire relationship trolling you, gaslighting you into thinking he’s a “normal guy,” and then disappearing for weeks because he’s busy babysitting teenagers and battling his inner demons.

Also, sugar babies love his money, but be honest—you don’t even like him; you like his black card. Gojo deserves better than being your walking ATM, and you deserve better than a man who’d eat your last snack just because he can.

Gifts are cute, but if he’s doing all the work while I’m chilling? That’s just freeloading.

I'm yet to come across a fic where he takes the time to realize he even wants a relationship, instead of being a pre-established fuckboy who suddenly changes because he found the 'right person.' Let’s be real, that’s not how it works. We shouldn’t glorify men for changing after finding the right person or excuse their past behavior, including any STDs they may have/had.

(Note to self: In future fics, explore his struggle to admit he wants a relationship and the challenges he faces in figuring out how to be in one.)

Haibara Yu:

So, you’re thinking about dating Haibara? Buckle up, ‘cause you’re signing up for a rollercoaster ride where the tracks are constantly under construction. Haibara’s got the energy of someone who just found out about sarcasm, but also the emotional depth of a puddle.

This guy’s all fun and games until you realize he’s like a cat that wants attention, but only on his terms. He’ll say the most unbothered things with that sunshine stare of his, but don’t be fooled. That’s his way of hiding his entire emotional baggage.

One minute, he’s sarcastic and aloof, and the next, he’s unexpectedly clingy, wanting to know if you still like him (even though he’d never admit it). You’ll spend half your time wondering if he actually likes you or if he’s just in a perpetual state of "I’m too cool for this."

Does he care? Absolutly. Expect texts like "I'm fine" followed by a cryptic emoji and zero context.

Dates? Don’t hold your breath. He's too busy trying to be taken seriously.

He’s not a millionaire either. Don’t expect a big grand gesture. His idea of spoiling you? Buying you a drink from the convenience store, giving you stale candy and maybe, just maybe, sending you a playlist of sad songs that “remind him of you.” Yeah, romantic, I know.

He’s not gonna spoil you with gifts, but he’ll share his last pack of gum like it’s the greatest act of love ever. Don’t expect consistency, just an occasional burst of affection sandwiched between long silences and sarcastic banter.

Would he be loyal? Absolutely. Would he constantly second-guess himself and need reassurance that you're not going to leave him because he doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings? Definitely.

Prepare to give him more emotional support than you ever signed up for. Would he adore you? Yes, but he’ll probably think it’s too much work to actually show it. But hey, if you’re into emotional chaos and not knowing where you stand, Haibara’s your guy.

You probably only like him because you know nothing about him.

Ryomen Sukuna:

The “servant/concubine” trope is insane. INSANE. You think Sukuna, the literal King of Curses, is gonna treat you like anything more than a chew toy? The power imbalance isn’t sexy—it’s electric chair. You’d either die mid-hookup (his hands alone could snap you in half) or be tossed into a volcano because you sneezed too loudly.

Be fr—he’d accidentally (or on purpose) kill anyone he sleeps with. The man’s a giant sadist, naturally rough, and has zero chill.

Romance? Nonexistent. Sukuna’s idea of flirting is probably something like, “You’re less annoying than most humans. Barely.” That’s not romantic; that’s verbal abuse with extra steps.

Toji Fushiguro:

This one hurts because Toji’s hot but this man has no money. None. Zero. If you want to date him, you better be ready to cover rent, groceries, and his “post-mission beer fund" because his entire paycheck goes toward sharpening his sword, buying protein powder, and gambling.

Let’s not forget he has a dead wife, and he went off the deep end after her death. Even if you could somehow 'fix' him like the unlicensed therapist you are because you have nothing better to do, he’s a vengeful widower who would leave you randomly for missions—and might not return because he’s driven by the insecurity of proving the Zenins wrong, which would get him killed.

Plus, he’d bring up his dead wife in every argument, saying things like, “She wasn’t this nagging; she didn’t do this or that.” People tend to glorify the dead, and he’d be the prime example of that. How could you compete with the memories of someone his mind has declared perfect?

He’s everyone's wet dream, sure, but do you really wanna date a guy who’d ghost you and leave you with his kid?

And don’t even get me started on his love language. It’s probably, “I killed a guy for you.” That’s cute until the cops show up at your door asking questions.

He might toss you a bone (not like that, calm down), but the idea of me paying for someone who might not even text me back? Pass.

Kamo Choso:

Sweetest man alive. Too pure for this world. But dating him would be like adopting a sad, traumatized puppy who cries every time you leave the room. You’d spend your entire relationship comforting him and Googling “how to help my boyfriend stop mourning his 17 dead brothers.”

He’s too busy laser-focusing on Yuji and going through an identity crisis to even think about being in a relationship. I’d want to protect him, not date him.

Also, his skincare routine is probably better than yours, which is cute until you realize you’ll never be the pretty one in the relationship.

Geto Suguru:

Ah, Babygurl Suguwu. Love him to death (pun intended), but dating him sounds like lifelong therapy.

Do you really wanna date a guy who’s juggling a cult, unresolved trauma, and genocidal tendencies?

His love language is probably “eliminating humanity,” and unless you’re down to join his pyramid scheme of sorcerer supremacy, this is not gonna work.

Also, you will forever be second place to the Gojo-fucking-Satoru.

Be serious. You will never win that chase. He'll leave you mid-sex to go see his 'one & only' babe.

Kashimo Hajime:

Kashimo would date you for the sole purpose of fighting you. He doesn’t want love; he wants violence—he’s looking for someone who can throw hands.

Imagine coming home after a 10-hour shift at work, exhausted, and this man’s standing in your living room like, “I’ve been waiting to test my new technique on you.” No, sir, I want a nap.

And don’t think you can just say no. He’d follow you to the grocery store, the dentist, your grandma’s funeral, like, “We fight now!”

Hiromi Higuruma:

Now, this man’s tempting. Responsible, classy, knows how to argue (a lawyer, duh), but... he’s also on the verge of a midlife crisis.

Do you really wanna date someone who’s one bad day away from snapping? You’d spend most of your time convincing him he’s not a terrible person, and honestly, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that. Therapy is expensive, and I already have PTSD from my ex.

Also, he’d probably start arguments just to win them. You think you’re ready for that kind of intellectual warfare 24*7?

Shiu Kong:

Do you like mafia drama? Because that’s what you’re signing up for. Mafia life isn’t sexy—it’s stressful.

You’d be dodging bullets, interrogating his “coworkers” about his whereabouts, and wondering if he’s about to betray you for a promotion.

Also, he's an asshole who's going to disappear after he's done with you; go see the scene before Toji died. Hard pass.

Kusakabe Atsuya:

This man is the king of doing the bare minimum. His love language is probably “napping,” and while that’s cute in theory, it’s less cute when he cancels date night because he “forgot” he had to sleep.

Honestly, he’d be a great friend, but as a partner? You’d be babysitting him.

Takuma Ino:

You wanna date Ino? Adorable. But let’s be real, you’re signing up for 24/7 unpaid emotional labor. Ino’s a golden retriever boy who desperately wants validation, and you’d basically be his therapist, hype woman, and emotional punching bag all rolled into one.

He’d shower you with attention (cute, right?) until you realize he’s also incredibly insecure and needs constant reassurance that he’s “doing a good job.” You’d be his number one fan and his HR department.

He’s not rich either. Like, at all. His idea of spoiling you would be buying you snacks from the konbini and taking you to the movies with coupons. Don’t expect luxury here—expect a man who puts in effort but forgets anniversaries because he was too busy stressing about being a sorcerer who no one takes seriously.

Would he adore you? Yes. Would you want to be adored by someone who still Googles “how to ask her out” while you’re already dating? I’ll let you decide.

Final Thots-

At the end of the day, I’d rather have my own independence than rely on someone else to “take care of me.”

I want a partner—not a sugar daddy, not a servant-master dynamic, not a walking red flag, and definitely not a paycheck.

I'd rather have a househusband who's retired and relaxed than an overworked sugar daddy—or worse, a dead one. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, this is just my opinion!

If you love those tropes—go off; that’s totally valid. I’m not yucking anyone’s yum. We all have our preferences, and that’s what makes fandom fun.

No hate, just vibes.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. I’ll see myself out. 👋

If you still wanna fight, my comments are open, although I will reply like the guy you are fighting for.

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presleyslilbaby · 1 month ago

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~Take It All Night~

(70’s!Elvis X Reader)

(TW: P in V sex, light slapping, crude language, name calling, rough sex, Daddy used in a sexual way-)

Elvis lay in bed, forearm draped lazily over his eyes. He’d been getting older, heavier, his energy more likely to deplete faster than it would just a few years ago. His career was simply exhausting, though he enjoyed what he did. When he wasn’t being forced to do something he didn’t want to, that is. “What’re you thinking about?” Y/n, Elvis’s beautiful Fiancée, had wondered. “Hm?” He hums in confusion. “You’re frowning.” Realising that she was right, he rubs his mouth as if to dispel his negative thoughts, turning his head to look over at her. “Didn’t realise, Honey.” He says, grunting as he moves on his side, the bed rocking slightly. His eyes rove over her beautiful figure, licking his lips instinctively. “Ya’ look beautiful tonight. But I s’pose you always do.” Y/n smiled at his compliment, laying down on her side as well, propping her head up with her fist. “Thank you.” “What made you wear Daddy’s favourite outfit?” Elvis cooed huskily, reaching out a large hand to trace a long finger over the fabric of her lingerie, then down the apex of her thigh. She doesn’t answer, although she does bite her lower lip rather sensually. He sat up, grabbing her jaw gently and turning her head to face him. “Y/n. Did you want Daddy to give you pleasure? Answer me.” Y/n looked into his eyes, swallowing lightly before finally answering his question. “Yes…”

“Do you want to bend over for me? Take Daddy’s cock?” Hearing his query sent heat pooling down to her already pulsing cunt, causing her to shift, nodding rapidly. “Yeah…I want Daddy’s cock…” She whimpered in want. “That’s nice to hear.” Elvis hummed, pulling her in closer by the hips. “But you’ll have to wait. I want to get you ready for me.” With that being said, he captures her lips in a slow, sensual kiss, his lips moving against hers with intent. She kisses back, folding her arms around his neck so lovingly. A moment or two passes before his tongue swiped across her lower lip, requesting entry into her mouth with which she granted. His hot, Pink organ pushed its way into her mouth, battling against her own tongue as his hands began to wander over the plane of her body. Y/n moans into the kiss when Elvis pushed her onto her back, the plush mattress only serving to remind her of what was to come.

He gently pushed her thighs apart, his fingers finding their way to her core, lubricating themselves with her essence. “So wet…” He growled, pushing a finger into her tight depths. She gasped, opening her legs wider for him. “Elvis…” She whispers his name when he began pumping his finger into her in a steady motion. It didn’t take very long before Elvis slid in another finger, increasing the pace little-by-little, increasing her pleasure. She moans, breaking off their kiss in the process, arching her back when he suddenly started fingering her fast. “Oh-! D-Daddy-!” She squealed out, her walls clenching around his long digits. “Yeah…Sing for me, Birdie.” He murmured against hers with intent ear, feeling his cock stirring awake. “Faster?” He wondered. “I-I want Daddy’s cock…” Y/n whined wantonly, gasping when Elvis lightly slapped her thigh. “Quiet. You’ll get Daddy’s cock when he wants you to have it.” He huffed. “But I want it now…!” She continued to whine like a brat, uncaring of how he was to punish her. He swiftly removed his fingers, practically ripping off her lingerie before flipping her on her stomach.

“You want Daddy’s cock?” He harshly asked, working as quick as he could to remove his clothes, his length springing free, pre-cum beading at the Reddened tip. He tugged her hips upwards, lining himself up at her entrance. “Then you better take it, slut.” Elvis suddenly plunged his cock straight into her awaiting heat, bottoming out in only one powerful thrust. Y/n cries out in a mix of pleasure and pain, gripping the bedsheets beneath her. He began to thrust, only steady for a few seconds before immediately picking up the pace. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, as well as the needy moans spilling from Y/n’s lips. “Daddy!” She cries in pure pleasure, the pain not having mattered anymore. “Yeah, you better take it, Baby…Take it all night long…Fuck, your pussy’s grippin’ me like a vice…” He grunted, already beginning to sweat from the work of thrusting hard into his sweet Fiancée. As much as he knew that his body would hate him for this extensive use of energy, Elvis certainly wasn’t complaining about how good his cock felt inside her sopping wet cunt. “You take me so well, Birdie…” He praises, moving a hand between her legs to rub insistently against her clit with intent, almost as fast as he was thrusting. She howls in pleasure, arching her back against his broad body.

“Gonna come?” He queried, sweat pouring down his forehead where his bangs stuck, dripping from his nose and chin down onto her back. “Y-Yes-! Oohh fuck-“ Y/n nodded rapidly, her walls beginning to flutter around his shaft. “I-I’m gonna- Fuck- Daddy!” Her orgasm swept over her like waves crashing against rocky shores during a storm, her body convulsing beneath Elvis as he eagerly chased his own high. “Shit, I love when you come like that,” Elvis grunted, grasping her hips in an almost bruising hold. Without any precursor to his climax, he cried out in both surprise and pleasure as the sudden hot ropes of his thick and sticky seed poured deep into Y/n’s canal, his hips stuttering as he then fell forwards on top of her, exhausted. But hell, it’s been so long since he’s felt so young again.

#smut #70s elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvisaaronpresley #elvis imagine #elvis photos #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x you #elvis presley x reader #elvis fans #elvis fandom

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yannisdesk · 2 months ago

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I disagree with the arguments going around that Vander's past was poorly handled in season 2 of act 2, or that it somehow "cheapens" his and Silco's character. This initially was just a paragraph, but it got a little long, so I broke it down.

"Vander and Silco knowing the sisters' mom pre-prologue is bad writing because she didn't know them in season 1." - If Vander and Silco knowing Vi + Jinx's mom pre-prologue is bad writing then that means the bad writing goes back to the very first scene in act 1 season 1. She's shown in the prologue dead after fighting in the battle that Vander orchestrated and led. He clearly recognizes the girls and when they give him that pleading look, he turns in the exact direction that Felicia and Connol's corpse was in, which communicates that he knew exactly who they were and who they were looking for. Their parents and Vander always knew each other, it just wasn't obvious how. Now we know.

"It makes Silco's character unnecessarily dark." - It really doesn't change Silco's character as much as you'd think. Yeah, it darkens him, but only by like 5% more. Silco throughout all of season 1, especially act 1, is extremely a "do whatever it takes" type. He wanted power, he wanted to free Zaun, and was willing to do some heinous things, some "base violence" to set off the domino effect he desired for his rise to fame. One of the first things we're shown him doing, is using Zaun's children to experiment with shimmer. He has no sentimental ties to anyone but...Vander, and even then we see that it can only go so far. Come act 2 and 3, and he's clearly different, because he raised Jinx. We see Silco post-fallout with Vander. This Silco is simply different from the one we see in the flashback, but there are still shades of him throughout season 1 as we see with his relationship with Jinx, which yes, was extremely messed up, but he did care for her in his own way. Like how the Jinx we see at the beginning of season 1 act 2 is extremely different from Powder - this Silco has been through a lot, and has a completely different outlook. But similar to how Powder is never gone from Jinx, pre-fallout Silco is never fully gone from post-fallout Silco, as he embraces Powder rather quickly. Like Powder, pre-fallout Silco always there, bubbling just beneath the surface. He's just better at drowning out that part of him.

"It cheapens Vander's anti-violence stance." - No, it doesn't. He could still very much be disturbed by how many Zaunites died during the battle (a lot of his people were lost, just look at the prologue) and draw the line at that, but Felicia's death in particular is what drove the wedge between him and Silco, and that's a separate thing. As we see in season 1, Vander does care about his people beyond his adoptive children. He doesn't say "Okay, everyone but the kids can fight!" No, he straight up says no one will fight. And when push comes to shove, he offers up himself to protect Vi, which was probably coming anyway because he said during the bridge scene in season 1 episode 2 that he didn't know what to do in terms of handling the apartment explosion. So no, Vander caring about the people of Zaun is not all of a sudden tossed out of a window because he cared about a friend who died tragically.

"It means Vander, Vi, Jinx, Claggor, and Mylo are no longer a found-family."- How? Vander isn't related to Vi or Jinx by blood. Going by the watercolor memory segment, he was a family friend who was active in Vi's life, sure, however that doesn't mean he was some sort of surrogate father to her pre-prologue. He was a trusted adult figure in her life, and he became much more than that once her parents were killed. He became a father to her, Powder, Claggor, and Mylo, who also became their brothers. They were a found family. They never would've developed that dynamic if their bio-families were still around - or at least, not to the extent that it did.

There are things I could drag act 2 for - namely the pacing and how Vi's character is handled. But, I'm fully behind Vander's lore expansion.

#vander #silco #vi #vi arcane #claggor arcane #mylo arcane #jinx #powder arcane #arcane #arcane season 2

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luna-rainbow · 9 months ago

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RE: People giving Bucky a hard time over his "I'm invisble, I'm turning into you.." line being "selfish" That whole scene is Bucky displaying behaviour consistent with depression or traumatic stress. He's drinking by himself in an isolated area, isolating himself from social situations by not sitting with the ohers - he doesn't initiate the convo with Steve and he's apparently smoking. Although a lot of people did that then we didn't see any sign of him smoking before? Not that I recall anyway. And I don't believe he was jealous of a woman paying attention to Steve instead of him or "taking" Steve from him. Bucky's a true friend (I'm not a shipper full stop): and true friends aren't possessive nor do they take issue with you spending time with others or flirting with the same person as them.

I think Bucky was simply testing himself. He wanted to see if he could still muster the confidence and charm to convince a lady to dance with him which he'd probably never had any problems doing before. Its the first time he initiates a conversation the entire scene.

When it didn't work was when he knew there was something wrong. I don't think it was just the super-soldier serum. It's interesting that after that Steve is really the only person he interacts/talks to having been very sociable and outgoing before. Some people have also noted that his tone of voice chances as well, he seems to speak less often, more softly and his tone is quieter. So maybe "I'm turning into you" is actually a kind of role-reversal. Bucky is now the quiet, less confident, introverted one and the one who has been victimized (and is about to be again by HYDRA). Kind of interesting as well that the serum now means Steve is taller than him too.

Poor Bucky. Cut him a break and give that man a hug. And a cookie. A cookie can't hurt.

Hey nonnie, I'm not sure who's been giving Bucky a hard time over the "I'm invisible" speech but I'm glad I haven't seen it XD

I had a meta a while ago about that particular line. It's not a fixed headcanon by any means, I was just running with the flow of Bucky's thoughts to see how he might have ended up in that moment.

And yeah, I agree, I think he was in a very vulnerable place at that time. Not just what he went through during imprisonment, but he's also traumatised by what he's seen so far in the war, and now someone who matters very much to him is in danger (Steve) and he can't do anything about it. I'm basing my projections on what Sebastian had said about Bucky in the "let's hear it for Captain America" scene -- that no, he wasn't jealous of Steve in that moment, he was just horrified he wouldn't be able to protect him anymore. He's torn between admiring Steve for the courage, and the very realistic fears of seeing Steve come to harm, but he also knows Steve too well to talk him out of it. So he's not in the best headspace in that moment.

I do want to gently disagree in that jealousy in a friendship doesn't make it less pure or less good, it's simply a very human response to what is at its heart a fear of abandonment. Even if you logically understand that you need to let your friend have other relationships, you can still feel jealous if that eats up time you'd normally have with your friend, and apprehensive about what else you might lose. It's what you do with those emotions that defines your morality. This is why a lot of fans say that Bucky has had a villain origin story but has come out the other end a hero -- he's gone through an arc of loss and fear and jealousy, but come out the other side still staunchly Steve's friend, and that's a heroic arc.

As always I think Sebastian did a fantastic job with Bucky. The change in Bucky pre-war and post-war is considerable.

His voice is lower and coarser, his mannerisms are much more "schooled" rather than boyish, it screams less bravado and more of a quiet assurance, and that frown never lifts from his brows. But yeah, a lot of that is battle-hardened professionalism, but I think a lot of that is also Sebastian factoring in Bucky's mental health. And his eyes are on Steve a lot more even when they're not conversing -- shipping angle aside, Steve is his commanding officer, and my other thought is that...his eyes are always on Steve because the danger to Steve is much higher now, and he's always made it his personal mission to make sure Steve's going to be okay.

(I mean there's also a lot we can say, or has been said, about that particular scene in terms of male writers writing female love interest badly, but that's an entirely different topic)

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #asks #sebastian stan

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shirefantasies · 11 months ago

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Hello again! I have another request that came to me as I was submitting a different one. How do you think Thorin's or the LOTR companies would react to reader having a buzzcut. Especially for dwarves who pride themselves in long intricately done hair and braids. Would they think something bad must've happened to the reader for them to have short hair. Cue misunderstandings and fluff, with maybe hair petting(buzzcuts are super soft!) Hope this sounds interesting enough to do, have a good day again! :)

(I literally lied on my last post THIS is my last pre-op post by the 45 minutes left before my operation appointment)

Heck yeah friend I love this! I don’t quite have a buzzcut but my hair’s far shorter than the average lady’s & definitely so for a dwarf, so I wonder about this too 😁 hope you enjoy 🥰 Warnings: a little violence in one reaction, injury mention in another

Thorin’s Company When You Have a Buzzcut

Balin

“You’re causing quite a stir with everyone, you know that?” Giving a chuckle at Balin’s cheeky look, you lean forward with your chin upon your hand. “And why is that?” “At risk of offense,” the older dwarf answered, “they all want to know what happened to your hair.” “Yourself included,” you shot back with a grin, “or else you’d not be asking.” Taken aback, Balin stutters a bit. “Ah, well, I confess I am a bit curious, after all. Reminds me of when my brother first took all his off. What a stir over something so silly. Do what you like, I was just wondering if Dwalin was trying to get you all painted up too.” “Not yet,” your smile softens and you give him a wink, “but if he does you’ll be the first to know. Ahead of all the sensation.”

Dwalin

You start the conversation on this one, seeing that Dwalin is the other company member with little to no hair upon his head and considering it a bonding opportunity. “Well, I’ve got a reason,” he shoots back to your comment of similarity, arms crossed but expression teasing, “what’s yours? You need some tattoos up there at least.” “No thank you,” you tell him, “if I’m adding any tattoos it won’t be on top of my head! Feel how soft it is up here.” Dwalin looks at you, prompting you to take his hand and put it on top of your head, his eyebrows raising at the sensation. And perhaps because touching one’s hair is a much closer and more intimate thing for him than perhaps you realize. You are quite forward, aren’t you?

Thorin

Pays little mind to how you wear your hair…or lack thereof. In fact, by your appearance he gauges you to be a warrior of some kind, thus taking command of your actions in a fight and seeking proof of your prowess. Before your first encounter with a threat the king’s questions are more along the lines of “What is your weapon of choice?” and “From where in these lands do you hail?” The day the company fights a pack of orcs, you manage to take down more than Thorin expected and at one point, you even jump in front of Dori to parry before a potentially deadly strike takes him off guard. Rising from the struggle of battle, black blood splattered across your layers and even your shaven head, you feel a hand upon your shoulder. Thorin. "It can be hard for us to look beyond our own kin," he tells you, "but you have well proven yourself today. We may not always understand each other, but there is a beauty in that, too, I see."

Oin

Wincing despite your gratitude, you shifted in your seated position while Oin packed the poultice into the wound your side had suffered. "Don't worry, you'll go numb in a bit. If it stings, that is quite alright, that simply means you are getting clean again." Thanking him through heavy breaths, you watched as the dwarf reached a hand up toward your head, running a hand over the soft, shorn little bit of cover it had. "And this one's healing quite nicely, quite nicely indeed. Why, I cannot even see the scar!" The sting in your bloody side faded down a bit as you tilted your head to fix Oin right in the eyes. "What scar?" "Did they not have to sew up your head at some point? Figured that's why they shaved you down," he answered, finally removing his hand from your head. You giggled at that, regretted stretching yourself at a new, though much smaller, arc of pain. "No, my dear Oin, I am afraid the only thing my head has suffered is my typical madness," you teased, waving your hands mystically and grinning at the way the healer laughed.

Gloin

"Pardon me, my dear," your name rolled smoothly off Gloin's tongue as he shuffled forth, hands folded in front of him in the picture of innocence. Oh, this was going to be good. "Yes?" You indulged him, swiveling to give your full attention. The auburn-haired dwarf pointed to his head, his own flowing locks. "What happened t'yer hair?" Perhaps sheepishly, his voice suddenly quickened. Feeling your eyebrows involuntarily raise, you tilted your head- this was not exactly what you’d expected, after all. “I cut it,” you shrugged, “got tired of how it was before. Simply wanted a new beginning, you could say.” Gloin’s eyes never left yours. “So no accident?” “No.” “Ha!” The dwarf bellowed, waggling a hand at his brother and a small scattering of company members a ways back. “I was right! By choice! Now pay up and remember I told ya it was worth the risk!” Shaking your head, you playfully smack him on the shoulder. “I’d better get a cut from this, you ol’ scallywag!”

Bifur

Catching Bifur signing, you turn his way, seeing the motions he performs by his head. “Did you cut your hair yourself?” You realize he is asking. “No,” you sign back, “another did it for me.” “You must trust them a great deal.” Simple enough words signed and yet there is something in the way his eyes shine, the fond inquisition in his smile, that brings a little shock of joy to you. Barring royal dressings, it was far more common for one to do their own hair or entrust it to a loved one, and you could see intimacy in the act. It almost brought a pang of regret that it was just some small-town hairdresser that sheared it at your asking and payment. Your hands freeze for a moment as your eyes search Bifur before you finally sign a response. “I suppose. Perhaps if you ever want to do something different with your hair, I could help you, too.”

Bofur

A mix between caring and teasing, he offers you cover! “Your head looks cold. Need to borrow my hat?” Thinks he’s so funny he laughs at his own joke whether you roll your eyes or joke back. “But really, any particular reason you took it all off?” "It was uncomfortable having it long," you admit, "I was tired of it all being in my face." The way everyone spoke of dwarven culture, you half expect disapproval, but this is Bofur you speak of. Instead he nods acceptingly, smiling in that way that always has you feeling seen and reassured. "I understand that." "You do?" "Sure I do! Why do you think I keep mine braided out to the sides like this?" At that, you smile back. "Besides," he continues, "helps me see all the best sights. The trees, the flowers, that smile of yours..."

Bombur

“Singe all your hair off?” Bombur nods sagely despite the fact that he couldn’t be more wrong. “I’ve been there. Burned my beard leaning too far over the stove.” You can’t even correct him right away because you’re too busy laughing. Finally, though, you explain to him that your hair was simply so unhealthy it needed to start over. “Ah, I see, I see! Trying to take better care of it, then?” At that, you nod. He looks at you with new interest, eyes shining eagerly. “So what would you like to do with it next? I’ve got some things you might like to put in it, and I think it would look mighty nice if you wanted to try…”

Dori

"Sometimes I wish I could do that, too," Dori remarks one day, rolling blue eyes illuminated beneath the sun that peeked between the branches. Shifting carefully so as to not disturb your pony, you turned back to face him. "Do what?" "Cut all my hair off just to save some time in the morning!" He replied with a wave of a hand in your general direction. Chuckling, you gave a conceding nod. "I suppose you would gain back an hour, wouldn't you?" At that, it was Dori's turn to laugh. "But then again," you continued, "then you couldn't wear as many of those nice clips and cases. That is one thing I miss about having it all." Puffing up like a proud little bird, Dori smiled. "They are quite nice, aren't they? You know, if you ever get so bored you're tempted to let it all come back, I could make you some of your own."

Nori

Abrasive as it was, Nori's question found you in a way that raised such amusement you forgot to be upset with him entirely, instead simply falling back with a bark of laughter before you answered. "Looks like you're tryin' to hide your identity. You on the run from someone?" He continued musing, in fact, as you laughed. "Law somewhere? A scorned lover? Simply run off with something too valuable not to do that?" Finally, your voice returned. "All this because I've sheared my head down?" You burst out incredulously. "Ever consider," you gasped in mock-scandal, "I like it like this?" "Sure, but that's not exciting," Nori shot back with a smirk, "I like a good story." "Well," you crossed your arms, "perhaps I still have some of those, too."

Ori

Shuffling up to you was the youngest dwarf in the company, sweet Ori; Ori was one of the dwarves who accepted outsiders most readily, and you spent plenty of time at his side watching his drawings and records come to life. That day, though, what was in his hand was not his book, rather a bundle of fabric. "I made this for you." Eyes widening, you extend your hands to accept the soft knitting, peering back at Ori. "I thought your head must get cold," he explained his craft as you unfolded it, revealing a thick, sturdy cap you immediately began pulling onto your head, "does it fit?" Yarn hugging your head perfectly, you nodded. "It's just my size. Thank you." Before he could speak again, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. "This is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in some time. Thank you."

Fili

“One of my braids came undone. Kili?” The younger Durin prince seemingly did not hear the request for his presence, so you stepped forward. “I can help.” Goggling at you, Fili posed a question. “Do you even know how?” Hand falling to your hip, you shot him a look. “Though I may not possess them myself, I am quite capable of doing them up.” The golden-haired dwarf looked sheepish, a bit of the mischief fading from his blue eyes. “Suppose I assumed you didn’t much enjoy doing them either,” he told you with a nod toward your head. “Well,” a teasing smile drifted across your face, “I certainly would…unless you are scared.” You were no fool. You knew how the Durins were with challenges. And if you remembered correctly, you knew how dwarves were with braids…

Kili

He cares some of the least out of the dwarves being the least traditionally presenting himself. He’s sort of the type to be a little attracted to everyone, enjoying the unique traits of all types of people. You still cannot help being a bit surprised when he flirts with you, though, not expecting someone with a cut like yours to catch his eye or draw his teasing. “Not one for a courting braid, I see? No one worthy of putting one on you, no doubt.” For all his jesting questions, he never actually demands an answer, though. Instead he simply launches into a story about a haircut prank he pulled with his older brother once to keep light conversation flowing. “Well, by the end of it our uncle looked quite like you! Except he didn’t pull it off half as well.”

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins | Let me know if you'd like to join!

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wisteria-lodge · 2 months ago

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wait there are no house elves in malfoy manor? i mean it's possible that during the time voldemort and the others where there the house elves could just be in prison or they are there and jkr just didn't mention them

because let's say there aren't house elves and voldemort and the death eaters are there, who would have prepared the meals or whatever things guest needs when they visit or stay in someone's house

In Harry Potter, we see a few other strategies for maintaining and running a magical house. Let’s break it down.

OPTION ONE: NON-MAGIC PEOPLE vs HOUSE ELVES

Yep, we are going to be dropping some Filtch lore today.

So in canon, it’s really hard to explain why that man (who isn’t able to do magic) has that job (caretaking an entire magical castle.) But I’m going to do my best to make it work. Because pre Statute of Secrecy, it actually makes a lot of sense that old medieval buildings like Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor would have been staffed by muggles.

I mean, the only reason you build castles (big, easily defensible fortresses) is so they can be the last line of defense if anything happens to the serfs who are renting/farming your land. The peasants supply food/clothes/weapons/luxury products to the Lord of the manor/castle, and in return they are protected (in theory.) That’s feudalism. If anything, being a wizard would just make you a better Lord. There’s no way the Malfoys or the Founders would have been sitting at the center of a community of only wizards, there aren’t enough wizards. Also, if you want someone to run/maintain your house and you’re choosing between Muggles and house-elves… in a lot of cases, muggles are actually better.

Like okay, house-elves are slaves, which means they would be cheaper than Muggle peasants, but like… not a lot cheaper. Also, there’s got to be some upfront cost of time/money/effort in order to catch a house-elf and bind them to your house. Once you start getting generations of house-elves that’s not a problem, but when you’re setting up a household… yeah I think getting in a staff of muggles would be quicker and easier.

The other thing house elves have in their favor is that they’re really really powerful. A single house-elf is much more effective than a single human servant. But… they’re also kind of too powerful? If you have a human servant who betrays you, does a bad job, or that you just don’t like… you can fire them, imprison them, and (if you’re a wizard) oblivate them so they can’t tell anyone your secrets.

None of that works with house-elves. Unlike a human you can’t bribe them (because they have a culture that doesn’t value money.) You can’t imprison them (because whatever magic prevents wizards from apparating doesn’t work on them. Dobby gets in and out the Malfoy dungeons just fine.) I’m also assuming you can't obviate them, because if you COULD then oh my god, Barty Crouch Senior would have 1000000% obviated Winky.

Until house-elves are freed they do seem to have some magical compulsion that prevents them from speaking ill of their masters… but they can clearly still mess their masters up pretty badly if they want to. Dobby spends all of Book 2 undermining Lucius. Kreacher spends all of Book 5 undermining Sirius (and honestly is the catalyst for the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.) This doesn’t even seem out of the ordinary: Tom Riddle framed Hokey for Hepzibah Smith’s murder, and apparently everyone bought it. That's another reason a muggle would be a solid choice: even if they wanted to kill a wizard, it would be nearly impossible. But Kreacher and the Hogwarts house-elves actively fight wizards during the Battle of Hogwarts.

So if you have a house-elf that you can’t trust, basically your only option is to free them. Which is bad, because they know all your secrets and can now talk to whoever they want (Dobby absolutely bad-mouths the Malfoys after he's freed. And it’s super plausible that Winky could’ve said something about Barty Junior while she was smashed off Butterbeer.) So really… the only truly safe option is to kill them. And it seems like you have to kill them, by hand, with a sword. The Blacks did sign up for this, and we can see their wall of decapitated house-elf heads as proof. House elves do make more sense for the Blacks, because I'm thinking if they became powerful at around the same time as the Statute, they would have been setting up new muggle-less households, not adapting old ones to the new paradigm. But then, not everyone is as hard-core as the Blacks. The Malfoys, for example, actually seem quite squeamish about violence. Also, Draco is very happy to refer to what Hagrid does as "servant stuff," which means he's comfortable with that particular worldview.

Now, Hogwarts has house-elves, and they certainly don’t seem to kill them. Of course it's a school rather than a house - if one of those elves went rouge, what damage could they really do? Compare that to Dobby. Like, if he wanted to put Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban… he could've given some really damning evidence. Lucius Malfoy’s defense was that he was under the Imperius curse. Dobby knows that’s not true. Dobby knows where all the contraband in that house is, Dobby knows that diary belonged to Voldemort, he knew Lucius was threatening Hogwarts on purpose... Maybe elves aren’t allowed to testify in front of the Wizangamot, but Dobby - bring that info to Arthur Weasley. Bring it to Dumbledore. If I were Lucius Malfoy, I would be terrified. Even if I had other house elves, I don’t know if I’d keep them around after second year. Definitely not after Kreacher went rouge and betrayed Sirius, which *Narcissa* knows all about.

Hogwarts also has Filch (and Hagrid, who *also* can't do magic, at least on paper.) And I guess I could see an interpretation where if Hogwarts was initially designed to be run by Muggles, then maybe there are certain functions of the castle that can only be performed by Muggles. Like we all know there’s something weird going on with Mrs. Norris. She’s too smart, she’s the only animal who shows up on the Marauder’s map, she’s telepathically bonded with Filch. So, maybe she is the manifestation of some magical function that oversees the castle, and maybe you need someone without magic to properly access her magic. Like if a witch/wizard tried to bond with her, their magic gets in the way of the castle’s magic. I’ll buy that.

Eventually though, Salazar Slytherin started becoming wary of Muggles, so maybe he started a process of phasing out any muggle servants working in the castle and replacing them with house-elves. That makes sense to me. And if the castle needed non-magic workers… squibs would be a good compromise.

OPTION TWO: AUTOMATED MAGIC

So we know you can cast a spell on an object, and then that object will just sit and do nothing until the spell is triggered. Fred and George’s hats don’t do anything until you put them on - and then they turn your head invisible. You are not doing anything to cast the spell, it’s all in the hat. Presumably their cloaks and gloves that deflect curses work the same way.

We see a lot of this kind of delayed-action magic when it comes to magical protections for locations. Dumbledore has spelled Grimauld Place to send specters at anyone who comes through the door. Muggle-repelling charms don’t do anything until a Muggle is in proximity. Voldemort’s inferi cave is filled with magical objects that don’t activate until certain conditions are met. Also, these are not single-use protections that you need to replace every time they’re triggered. Once they're set up, it seems they keep working until they're taken down.

We also know there are plenty of spells that make running a household easier. We see Mrs. Weasley use spells to cook, to make clothes, she has whole books full of household magic. So my thought is - if you can bewitch the outside of a house to respond to certain conditions, then why not the inside of a house? How hard would it really be to bewitch a fireplace so it turns on every time someone walks into the room? I bet you could get beds that make themselves, carpets that clean themselves, make it so that certain meals are always cooked at certain times, and served in specific places. The house probably cycles through a set number of meals, and some of the food options would be slightly eccentric because that piece of food-magic was set in 1702. But it all seems very doable, in a programmable smart-house sort of way. Especially if you’re the Malfoys and have nothing but money, time, and a love of the ~*~*aesthetic*~*~ Because the aesthetic of a house like this would be absolutely peak. Very spooky fairytale, invisible servant, romantic Beauty-and-the-Beast vibes.

I think this is the option that Malfoys would have chosen, when they no longer had access to Muggles to run their house for them. Apart from the heightened security and a cooler aesthetic, the Malfoys were very against the Statute of Secrecy, so I bet that (for a while at least) they were kind of hoping that it would be reversed and things would go back to the way they were. So, not as motivated to start building up a household staff of house-elves, which is a pretty irreversible decision.

The Malfoy also like to keep secrets. In the present day of the book, we know they have contraband cursed objects, contraband poisons, a hidden room to keep all of their contraband in underneath the drawing room floor. I don’t think this is a particularly recent state of affairs. Going back to the 1700s, if the Malfoys were ordered to cut off all these very profitable ties with the muggle world… yeah they’re not doing that. They are definitely hiding income coming in from the muggle world, or muggle retainers that they were kind of supposed to obviate and didn’t.

In the main timeline of the books, I think it makes a lot of sense that Dobby is a Black family house elf that came over with Narcissa when she and Lucius were first married. And I say that because… Dobby is a mess, and Lucius Malfoy puts a lot of stock in looking good while out in public. The Hogwarts house elves look neat and presentable. Winky’s tea-towel toga looks clean and neat. Dobby is shambling around in a snot-stained torn pillowcase, is Lucius not embarrassed?

My thought is that he kind of resents Dobby: he’s the Black family passive aggressively saying that Lucius can’t take care of Narcissa, or maybe he suspects that the Blacks are sending Dobby over as a spy. But whatever the reason, he can’t get rid of him - first because he doesn’t want to offend his in-laws (Dobby as the equivalent of an ugly lamp that you keep in the closet unless the people who gave you the lamp are visiting.) Then Dobby witnesses the entire first war, which makes him way, way too much of a liability to free.

So that’s my answer. tl;dr - the Malfoys are a very private family with a long-standing distrust of the Ministry, with a house that was set up to be run by Muggles. It makes the most sense that they have retrofitted that house with automated magic, until it’s basically able to run itself. And then, whenever they’re throwing an event, or something a little too complicated for the house's magic to handle… they just hire in a staff of wizards to work one or two nights.

#hp #malfoy family #black family #house elves #hp worldbuilding #hp critical #watsonian analysis #hp close reading #history stuff #argus filch #dobby the house elf #kreacher

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thissupposedcrime · 11 months ago

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Zolu in One Piece Video Games

I put 65+ hours into One Piece Odyssey, a game in which the Strawhats are robbed of their powers and must relive memories of key events/battles (Alabasta/Crocodile, Dressrosa/Doflamingo, etc.) to earn them back. Post timeskip/pre-WCI so no Jinbe on the crew.

Zolu are wild in it, so enjoy the highlights.

Their general nonsense:

When they reunite early in the game, Luffy/Zoro greet each other first/only despite the whole crew being there

Shared brain cell of agreeing that “Charging through a marine outpost sounds like fun”

Don't communicate with words in battle and somehow both know what to do in Alabasta when their memories 'change'

During a fight with Aokiji in Water 7, Luffy is frozen solid, and only Sanji and Zoro can bring him back to the Merry. Zoro flawlessly navigates through the entire city and even points out what directions they must go in, much to Sanji’s surprise.

AKA the only time Zoro knows directions is when Luffy needs him most

While Luffy is injured and a conflict with the marines starts, Zoro takes the lead because “my crew is frozen”

Towards the end of the level, Zoro has a unique reaction (no one else does individually) when Luffy can’t beat Lucci and is the only strawhat to realize the Lucci in their memories is stronger

Once Luffy wins, Zoro’s unique dialogue is, again, “Seriously, you almost scared me back there.”

When going to Marineford memories, Zoro is the only one to comfort/check in with Luffy, asking if he’s alright/ready to do this. Luffy responds ‘yeah’ - and in that section, Zoro is the only person Luffy speaks to

Clicking on other crewmates just has them speaking, not Luffy responding to them

Similarly, post-Marineford, Zoro is the one to respond to Luffy’s “I’m glad everyone’s okay” with a ‘yeah’, because they don’t need to talk about it further.

In multiple situations, Luffy and Zoro are the only ones to realize an enemy is tracking them or ”not right” and will check with the other about it- “Did you notice?/Yup, they’re getting closer”

Since they’re usually placed together in cut scenes, Zoro is almost always the first crewmate ‘shown’ reacting to Luffy and often has minor, unique dialogue just for him

Zoro whines/demands to Luffy that he wants to fight in the coliseum in Dressrosa this time.

“I don’t want to, but if Luffy says so.”

At the game's ending, Zoro places himself in front of an injured Luffy to protect him (and had done that through the game)

“We’re more about the future than the past now, right Luffy?” “Right!” (their final lines are together).

Their unique ‘battle’/gameplay conversations are a riot:

They talk about killing specific monsters because they’re hungry

Zoro spots a swordsman and wants to fight them/Luffy cheers him on

Are very happy to keep fighting when the other ‘pushes’ an opponent into their area of battle (Nami is not!)

Zoro claims Luffy shouldn’t have to fight certain weak enemies and that he’s already about to beat them, even though Luffy complains he wants to fight too!

When they finish a battle, Zoro will sometimes reference the Baratie vow and that he’ll become a master swordsman, concludig with “Got a problem with that King of the Pirates?” as Luffy laughs and says "Nope!"

"You're in MY captain's way. Time to move it or lose it!"

Odyssey is focused on the whole crew and the island mystery they’re solving, but there was so much heart between everyone (Sanji saves Usopp, Robin affectionately calls Nami their reliable navigator). It was very obvious how much these two rely on each other and that Zoro isn’t just the swordsman but the first mate

#zolu #monkey d. luffy #luffy #one piece #one piece odyssey #let me know!#luzo #zoro #if anyone is interested in other crewmate interactions let me know #but god these two! THESE TWO!!!!#roronoa zoro

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niallerspayno · 10 days ago

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Don’t Call Me Love - Part 2

Masterlist

You and Louis can’t seem to stop clashing, each one of you stubborn and unwilling to back down. But as the tour goes on, the constant tension between you begins to shift. What once was pure hatred starts to blur, and the line between love and hate becomes harder to define.

Tags: Louis x reader, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, slight violence

Part 1 | Part 3

…

The room is buzzing with the usual pre-concert energy as the boys of One Direction—plus the band—prepare for soundcheck. You’re tuning your bass, trying to focus, but Louis keeps throwing glances your way, his eyes full of that same irritation. The air between you two is thick with unresolved tension, and neither of you is willing to back down.

Josh, Dan, and Jon are chatting in the background, warming up and going through their instruments, while Niall and Harry are off to the side, talking about something that’s clearly distracting them from the ongoing battle happening between you and Louis.

But you’re not distracted. You can feel Louis’ gaze on you. It burns.

“Try not to break anything this time,” Louis mutters, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You stiffen, shooting him a glare. “What’s your issue now, Louis?”

Louis shrugs, his expression one of feigned indifference. “Maybe I just don’t like your attitude.”

“Oh, really?” You roll your eyes. “Maybe I don’t like your condescending tone, but here we are.”

He scoffs, turning back to his guitar. “Maybe if you actually listened, we wouldn’t have to do this over and over again.”

“I’m listening,” you snap, your voice low. “But you’re the one who can’t keep your mouth shut.”

Before things can escalate any further, Paul steps onto the stage, cutting through the tension like a knife. He surveys the room, taking in the bickering between you and Louis, the way everyone else is awkwardly pretending not to notice.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Paul announces, his voice sharp. “I’ve had enough of this. You two are going to work together, and I’m not hearing another word about it. Understood?”

Louis opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Paul doesn’t let him get a word out. He’s had enough of the drama.

“You’re going to write a song together,” Paul says, his tone brokering no argument. “Right here. Right now. I’m done with you two throwing daggers at each other while the rest of the band tries to ignore it.”

The rest of the boys exchange uncomfortable glances. Niall leans toward Harry, muttering something you can’t hear. Harry chuckles, but even he knows the air is about to get even more heated.

“What?” You blurt out, still stunned by the request. “Are you serious, Paul?”

“I’m absolutely serious,” Paul replies. “You two are going to figure it out. If you can’t make it work today, then I’ll make it worse for both of you. No more excuses.”

You exchange a sharp look with Louis, your hands itching to argue, but you know there’s no use. He looks just as frustrated as you are, but the decision has been made.

“Fine,” Louis grumbles, crossing his arms. “We’ll do it.”

You nod, clearly just as irritated, but you don’t say anything. Paul, satisfied with the agreement, turns and heads toward the back of the stage.

The boys watch the two of you closely, sensing the underlying tension, but no one says a word as Paul disappears from the room.

The silence lingers for a moment before Josh, trying to lighten the mood, grins and says, “So, what’s it gonna be? A love song? A breakup anthem?”

You shoot him a glare. “We’ll figure it out,” you mutter.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Whatever.”

The band gets back to tuning and warming up, but you and Louis are still stuck in the same space, the air between you crackling.

You can’t shake the feeling that this song-writing session is going to be a disaster.

…

You knock on Louis’ hotel room door, trying to ignore the knot of tension in your stomach. The concert buzz is still running through your veins, but the thought of being in a room alone with him makes you uneasy. You can already feel the simmering anger between you, ready to boil over.

The door swings open, and Louis leans against the frame, his eyes scanning you from head to toe with that familiar smirk. His shirt is slightly undone, and you can’t help but notice how damn good he looks despite the annoyance he causes you.

“You made it,” he says, voice low, almost too smooth for comfort.

You step inside without answering, trying to ignore the way his presence fills up the room. “Let’s just get this over with,” you mutter, setting your bass down on the nearby table.

Louis tosses his guitar on the bed, clearly unbothered by your irritation. “Sure, because writing a song together sounds so much better than getting some sleep, doesn’t it?”

You bite back a sharp retort, but he’s already starting to strum his guitar, the sound cutting through the air like an invitation to continue your usual war of words.

“I’ll start on the beat,” you say, grabbing your bass and walking toward the corner where the soundboard is. You’re not about to make it easy for him.

Louis shrugs, still strumming lazily. “Fine. I’ll take care of the lyrics.”

You start playing, focusing on getting into the rhythm, the notes grounding you in a way that nothing else can. The music should be a release, but with Louis in the room, it’s anything but.

You catch him glancing at you out of the corner of your eye, and he starts scribbling something down in the notebook. The room is heavy with the sound of your bass and his guitar, and the air between you is thick with unspoken animosity.

Minutes tick by, and when you finally glance over, you see him writing the title of the song. Your eyes narrow at the words scrawled across the page.

No Control

You can feel the anger rising in your chest, the title practically daring you to snap.

You can’t help yourself. “‘No Control?’ Seriously? What is this, some sort of joke to you?”

Louis looks up at you with a wicked grin, not missing a beat. “What? You don’t like it? Seems fitting, considering you can’t control yourself around me.”

You feel your blood boil, the words like a spark setting everything off. You push the bass harder, slamming a string. “I’m not the one who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

Louis leans back on the bed, still smirking. “Oh, I can keep my mouth shut. I just choose not to.”

The sound of his voice sends a wave of heat through your body, a mix of rage and something else you’re not ready to admit. You want to hate him. You do hate him. But why does it feel like there’s something else lurking beneath the surface?

You shake your head, trying to push the thoughts away. “Focus on your lyrics, Louis. I’m not here to argue.”

He stands up, taking a few steps toward you, that cocky confidence never wavering. “Oh, I’m focused. I’m just wondering if your little bass here is your only talent, or if there’s more to you than just attitude.”

You bristle, stepping closer, not about to let him get away with that. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Louis looks at you for a moment, like he’s trying to figure you out. “I think I do. You’re all bark and no bite.”

“That’s funny, because I was about to bite your head off,” you snap, barely holding back your frustration.

Louis chuckles, but it’s laced with something darker. He glances back down at the notebook in his hands, the title mocking you. “You know, we could make a song about how much you really hate me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you growl, barely keeping your temper in check.

He walks over to the window, his back turned to you as he writes more down. “Whatever you say, love. Let’s see if you can keep up with the rhythm.”

The tension between you two is palpable, the room vibrating with it. As you keep working on the beat, you can feel Louis’ eyes on you, watching, judging, like he always does. You push forward, determined not to let him get to you, but every time you glance over, he’s there, standing by the bed, tapping his pen against the notepad.

“You done yet?” Louis asks casually, his tone teasing. “Or are you going to keep playing that same loop all night?”

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your cool. “I’m not done yet. You’re just impatient.”

“Impatient?” he chuckles, moving toward you. “You mean you’re not getting it right.”

You shoot him a sharp glare but ignore him, focusing on the bass. It’s like every note you play is a battle, every pluck of the strings a challenge he’s daring you to take on. You hate it.

Louis finally grabs his notebook, flipping it open. He reads the lyrics aloud, barely glancing at you. “‘Waking up. Beside you, I’m a loaded gun.’”

You stop playing, the words stopping you in your tracks. “Are you seriously writing about… that?” you ask, your voice low with disbelief.

He looks up, that smug smirk on his face. “What? You don’t like it?”

You walk over to him, ignoring the way your chest tightens when you get close. His eyes follow you, but he doesn’t flinch. You glance at the lyrics, your mind racing with irritation—and something else. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Waking up beside you, I’m a loaded gun?” you repeat, letting the words hang in the air. “That’s a metaphor for morning wood, isn’t it?”

Louis grins wider, clearly entertained by your reaction. “What can I say? It’s honest. It’s raw. You should try it sometime.”

You feel your face flush with a mixture of anger and something you hate to admit is… embarrassment? “You’re unbelievable,” you say, shaking your head. “You actually think that’s good?”

“I think it works,” he replies easily, flipping the page and writing more down. “It’s real. No one wants some fake love song. I’m giving them the truth.”

You scoff. “You’re just trying to be edgy.”

Louis shrugs, completely unfazed by your criticism. “Maybe. But it’s better than whatever you were playing a minute ago. Sounds like elevator music.”

Your hands tighten around the neck of your bass, but you keep your voice steady. “I don’t need you to critique my sound, Louis. I’ve got enough experience to know what works.”

He steps closer, now standing just a few feet away from you, his gaze burning. “Oh, I know you’ve got experience. But we’re doing this together, remember? So maybe try listening to my ideas for once.”

You look him up and down, everything in you screaming to push back, to show him you won’t be intimidated. “I’m not here to do things your way, Louis. I’m here because I have to be.”

His expression flickers for a second, that cocky edge softening. But only for a second. “Right,” he mutters, but the challenge in his voice never leaves. “Well, we’re still gonna write this song, and I’m still gonna show you how it’s done. You might learn something.”

You lean in, not backing down an inch. “You really think you’re better than me?”

Louis meets your eyes, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your heart race in spite of yourself. “I think I’m better than you at a lot of things.”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken words and anger, but also something else. Something that neither of you wants to admit. You can practically feel the electricity in the room, your pulse racing with the weight of it.

Louis stands just a little too close, his smirk never wavering. You’re close enough to smell his cologne, that faint mix of musky vanilla and something more expensive than you’d ever want to admit. It drives you crazy, and you’re pretty sure he knows it.

“You know,” he says casually, his eyes drifting over you, “you should take a note from me. I’m good at what I do.”

You narrow your eyes, refusing to be intimidated. “And what exactly is that, Louis? Writing crappy lyrics and acting like you’re the only one who knows how to create anything decent?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but you can see the challenge in his eyes. “I’m not the one with the attitude problem, love.”

The use of “love” hits you like a slap in the face, and you clench your fists. “Stop calling me that,” you hiss.

Louis tilts his head, the smirk playing at his lips. “Make me.”

That’s it. Something inside you snaps. Before you can even think, you shove him hard, the force of it pushing him back a step. He stumbles, but he’s quick to recover, his jaw tight as he steps back toward you, his eyes now cold with fury.

“You wanna play rough?” he mutters, his voice low and dangerous.

Without waiting for a response, he shoves you right back, his hands pressing into your shoulders to steady you as you stumble a little. Your heart is hammering, blood rushing in your ears. You want to scream at him, but the frustration is too much.

You shove him again, harder this time, causing him to stagger back slightly. You feel a momentary surge of satisfaction, but it’s quickly replaced by the rush of heat between you both. His chest is heaving now, as if he’s struggling to keep his own emotions in check, and you realize that it’s not just anger building between you. It’s something else—something more.

“You really want to test me, huh?” Louis growls, his eyes flashing dangerously. His hand grips your arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to make you flinch.

“I’m not the one testing anything, Louis. You’re the one who started this,” you snap back, face inches from his. The closeness of him is making your skin tingle in ways you hate. But you can’t back down. You won’t.

He steps closer, his breath hot on your face as he looks at you with that infuriating, cocky smirk. “Then maybe I’ll finish it.”

Before you can react, he pushes you back again, but this time, it’s not just a shove. His body slams into yours, pinning you against the wall. His hands are on your arms, his grip firm, but not painfully so. You could break free if you wanted to, but you’re frozen. His body is so close, and that damn attraction you hate creeps up again, making your heart race in ways you can’t explain.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The air is thick with tension, the only sound the heavy breathing of both of you, mingling in the space between. Your eyes meet his, and you can see that he’s just as frustrated, just as confused. His gaze softens for a split second, but then it hardens again, and you can feel the rage rising in him.

“You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” Louis growls, his voice low, almost dangerous now.

“I don’t need you to tell me I’m tough,” you snap, your voice shaking just slightly, the proximity to him making it hard to stay composed. “I’ve got nothing to prove to you.”

Louis leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks in a voice that sends shivers down your spine. “Oh, you’re tough alright. But I bet you can’t handle this.”

Before you can react, Louis presses his body against yours even more, the heat of him radiating off of you. Your breath catches in your throat, and you realize you’re not sure if it’s the anger or the attraction that’s making your head spin.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, your mind clouded with everything you want to say—and everything you’re holding back. You hate him. You hate him. But there’s something else underneath that, something that makes your heart beat faster every time he gets too close.

“Let go of me,” you mutter, but the words come out softer than you mean them to.

Louis doesn’t move, his grip tightening just a little. “Make me.”

You push against him again, but this time, it’s more of a reflex than a challenge. You’re both stubborn, both refusing to back down, and yet, it’s like something is pulling you toward each other. Something you can’t ignore.

But just before things go any further, the sound of someone knocking at the door breaks the moment, and you both freeze. Your pulse is racing, your body still pressed against his, and for a second, neither of you knows what to do.

The voice from outside is muffled, but it’s unmistakable. “Oi! You two still fighting, or should we come back later?”

It’s Niall, and his words snap you both back to reality.

Louis quickly steps back, the heat between you both dissipating as he brushes a hand through his hair. You do the same, trying to compose yourself, though your mind is a whirlwind.

Neither of you says anything more as you walk toward the door, and when Louis opens it, he’s back to his usual smug self. Louis leans against the doorframe, throwing Niall a look that could curdle milk. “What do you want?” he snaps, his voice sharp, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

Niall glances between the two of you, taking in your flushed cheeks and the charged silence lingering in the room. His grin widens, as if he’s stumbled onto his new favorite source of entertainment. “Just checking to see if you’d killed each other yet. But from the looks of things…” He pauses, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’d say it’s more like a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Shut it, Niall,” Louis mutters, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. His composure is mostly intact, but you catch the slight twitch of his jaw.

You, however, are not in the mood. You grab your notebook and make for the door. “We’re done for the night,” you announce briskly, brushing past Niall. But as you pass Louis, you can’t resist one final jab. “Good luck finishing your ridiculous lyrics, love.”

Louis bristles, his head snapping toward you. “At least I’ve got lyrics,” he fires back. “All you’ve done is bash out some mediocre beats.”

You whirl on him, your anger flaring again. “Mediocre? I’ll show you mediocre when I shred over your sad excuse for a melody tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” he retorts, his smirk back in place. “Can’t wait.”

Niall bursts out laughing. “God, you two are exhausting. You ever gonna write a song, or is this just foreplay now?”

Your glare shifts to Niall. “Go away.”

Still chuckling, Niall steps aside to let you storm past. “Alright, alright. Just saying, don’t work too hard tomorrow. Wouldn’t want all that unresolved tension to give either of you a heart attack.”

As you stalk down the hallway, Louis’s voice calls after you, low and taunting. “Sweet dreams, love.”

You don’t look back, but your teeth grind. Sweet dreams, indeed. If you even manage to get any sleep after this.

…

The next day the steady hum of the engines fills the cabin, blending with the occasional rustle of papers and the muted laughter of the boys at the front. You’re tucked away at the back of the plane, sitting far too close to Louis for your liking, the notebook on your lap feeling heavier with every passing second.

Louis shifts beside you, tapping his pen rhythmically against the edge of his seat. He’s angled toward you, his leg brushing against yours in a way that feels deliberate, and when he leans in, you catch the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy, sharp, and entirely too distracting.

“Alright, love,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “Let’s talk about the next line.”

You tense, glancing toward Paul at the front of the plane. He’s still typing away on his laptop, seemingly unaware of the brewing tension behind him. “What line?” you ask, your voice low, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

Louis flips open his notebook, the page titled No Control catching your eye. He points to the next lyric:

Taste on my tongue. I don’t want to wash away the night before.

You blink at it, the double meaning hitting you immediately. Heat rises to your cheeks, and you whip your head toward him. “Are you serious?”

“What?” Louis whispers back, his grin infuriatingly smug. “It’s evocative.”

“It’s obscene,” you hiss, trying to keep your voice low.

“Good. Obscene gets remembered,” he counters, leaning even closer, his lips practically brushing your ear now.

Your breath catches, the warmth of him sending a shiver down your spine. You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how much his proximity affects you. “We’re supposed to be writing something meaningful, not a track from your personal diary.”

Louis chuckles softly, his voice dripping with amusement. “Meaningful and memorable aren’t mutually exclusive, love. You’d know that if you let yourself loosen up.”

You glare at him, turning back to your own notebook in a futile attempt to ignore him. But when his hand rests lightly on the back of your seat, and he leans in again, you’ve had enough.

To retaliate, you slide your hand onto his thigh, gripping tightly. His smirk falters for just a second, his eyes snapping to yours.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, his voice lower now, strained.

You lean closer, your lips barely moving as you reply, “Keeping you focused. Problem?”

His eyes narrow, but you see the flicker of something else—something he’s trying to hide. “Not at all. But two can play that game.”

He shifts closer, his leg pressing firmly against yours now, and you realize you’ve only added fuel to the fire.

From the front of the plane, Harry glances back, squinting at the two of you. “Oi, what’s going on back there?”

“Just working,” you reply too quickly, yanking your hand back as though burned.

Louis chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the effect he’s had on you. “Nothing to see here, mate,” he calls out, his voice casual.

Niall grins, leaning into the aisle to get a better look. “Aye, Paul, your bonding plan’s working wonders.”

You glare at Louis, hissing under your breath, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he whispers, leaning in one last time for good measure.

You snap your notebook shut, standing abruptly. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

Louis sits back, still grinning as he watches you stalk toward the front of the plane. “Looking forward to it, love.”

As you flop down into an empty seat near Liam, you feel his curious gaze on you. But you don’t explain, instead crossing your arms and staring out the window, vowing to ignore Louis Tomlinson as much as possible for the rest of the flight.

…

The stadium vibrates with energy, the roar of tens of thousands of fans blending into the pounding beat of Midnight Memories. You’re locked in, your bassline weaving seamlessly with the rest of the band. Sweat beads at your temples under the blinding stage lights, but you don’t care. The music, the crowd, the sheer adrenaline of it all—it’s addictive.

Niall flashes you a grin as he strums his guitar, stepping closer to jam with you mid-song. You meet him halfway, letting the rhythm guide you as you move toward the edge of the stage. The moment feels untouchable, like nothing else exists but the sound.

Then, just as you dip your head, lost in the groove, you hear it. A faint hiss.

It barely registers, muffled by the wall of sound around you. But Louis hears it.

He’s mid-chorus, his voice carrying across the stadium, but his eyes flick toward you, narrowing sharply. His stomach drops when he sees where you’re standing—too close, way too close to the pyros lining the stage edge.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, dropping his mic to his side.

Before you know what’s happening, Louis is crossing the stage, weaving through the chaos of lights and sound. His heart pounds in a way that has nothing to do with the performance, his focus zeroed in on you.

You’re completely unaware, still riding the high of the crowd’s energy, when suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

“What the—” you gasp as you’re yanked backward with enough force to knock you off balance. Your bass lets out a dull thud as it bumps against your hip, and you twist your head to see Louis, his face inches from yours.

The heat hits you a second later—a wall of fire bursting upward where you’d been standing only moments before. It’s blindingly bright, the roar of the flames momentarily overpowering even the screaming crowd.

Your heart slams against your ribs as realization sets in. The pyros.

Louis doesn’t let go immediately, his arm a steadying presence around your waist. You can feel his chest rising and falling against your side, his breath warm against your ear as he growls, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t—” you stammer, still trying to catch up with what just happened.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snaps, his grip firm as he steadies you on your feet before finally letting go.

Your skin burns where his hand had been, the absence of his touch almost as jarring as the flames themselves. You step back, but your gaze lingers on him. His face is flushed—whether from anger, exertion, or something else, you can’t tell.

“Thanks,” you mumble, though the word feels foreign on your tongue.

Louis’s eyes meet yours, his jaw tightening as he brushes past you. “Pay attention next time, love.” His tone is sharp, but his eyes linger on you for a beat longer than necessary before he turns away.

As he strides back toward his mic, the crowd oblivious to the near-disaster, you’re left standing there, your bass still hanging from your shoulder. Your pulse is erratic, the memory of his grip and the sight of the fire looping on repeat in your mind.

“Oi!” Niall’s voice cuts through your haze, and you glance toward him. He’s smirking as he mouths, “You okay?”

You nod quickly, shaking off the residual heat that has nothing to do with the pyros.

The song finishes, and as the lights dim for the next one, Harry leans into his mic, his grin mischievous. “How we feeling tonight, huh? Everyone having fun? Still in one piece?” His gaze flicks toward you, his tone teasing. “Careful out there, or you’ll end up a part of the special effects.”

The crowd laughs, and your face flames hotter than the pyros. Your glare shifts instinctively to Louis, who’s watching you from across the stage. He smirks, his expression infuriatingly smug, and then—because of course he does—he gives you a slow, deliberate wink.

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening around your bass as you turn your focus back to the music. But even as the next song begins, the lingering warmth of his arm around you and the sound of his voice in your ear refuse to fade.

…

The chaos of the concert fades into the backstage hum—roadies packing up equipment, faint conversations echoing down the hall, and the muffled roar of fans outside. Your bass is slung over your shoulder as you navigate the maze of corridors, replaying the moment on stage in your mind.

You hate it, but you owe him.

Rounding a corner, you spot him leaning against the wall outside his dressing room. His damp hair sticks messily to his forehead, a water bottle dangling from his hand. He looks up as you approach, his brow arching.

“Well, well,” Louis drawls, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight. What, miss me already?”

You roll your eyes, stopping a few feet away. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Your voice is steady, but the knot in your stomach tightens. “I just… wanted to say thanks.”

Louis blinks, caught off guard. “Thanks?”

“For pulling me away from the pyros,” you clarify, your words clipped as though they might sting less that way. “I didn’t realize how close I was.”

His lips twitch, fighting a smirk. “Well, I wasn’t about to let you turn into a human fireball, love. It’d ruin the vibe.”

You bristle at the nickname but force yourself to ignore it. Instead, you take a step closer, locking your eyes on his. “I mean it. Thank you.”

His smirk softens, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than you expect.

For a moment, the world seems to pause. It’s just the two of you, the weight of the crowd and the lights and the music far away. The usual fire between you simmers, but this time, it feels different—warmer, less sharp.

Before you can overthink it, you lean forward, pressing a quick, featherlight kiss to his cheek.

The action surprises even you, and when you step back, Louis is frozen, his eyes wide and his jaw slightly slack.

“That’s for not letting me get roasted,” you say, your voice casual as you turn to leave.

Louis recovers quickly, though the faint pink tinge on his cheeks betrays him. “Well,” he calls after you, his voice a little less steady than usual, “if you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

You glance back, your expression sharp. “Don’t push your luck, Tomlinson.”

His grin is back now, though there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes as he watches you disappear down the hall.

Louis brushes a hand over his cheek, trying to suppress the stupid smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long while, you’ve left him utterly flustered—and he hates how much he doesn’t mind.

…

Part 3

#louis tomlinson x y/n #louis tomlinson x reader #louis x reader #louis x you #louis tomlinson x you #one direction fanfiction

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scrollonso · 11 days ago

Text

You Did This — Isacksteban

The pre-race atmosphere at Yas Marina Circuit was electric. Mechanics swarmed around the cars, last-minute adjustments being made under the watchful eyes of engineers. The scent of burning rubber mingled with the desert breeze, and the roar of fans created a symphony of anticipation. Amidst the chaos, Isack found a moment of quiet with Esteban in the Haas hospitality area.

Isack leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, watching Esteban as he zipped up his race suit. "You know, this whole 'final race of the season' thing is overrated," Isack joked, trying to mask his nervous energy. "Let’s just skip it and head straight to planning our wedding."

Esteban chuckled, his familiar, easy smile lighting up his face. He crossed the room and gently tugged at the hem of Isack’s fireproof undershirt. "Oh, really? And let all these fans down? Besides, you’ve got a championship position to fight for, mon amour."

"Yeah, yeah," Isack muttered, rolling his eyes playfully. But his expression softened as he reached out to straighten Esteban’s collar. "I just want us to both get through this race in one piece. I’ve been thinking about us all week. Summer break can’t come soon enough."

Esteban stepped closer, resting his forehead against Isack’s. "It’s the last race, Isack. Just one more, and then it’s the off-season — time for us." His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with warmth. "Time to start the rest of our lives together."

The call to the starting grid came over the radio, cutting into their moment. Esteban sighed and stepped back, adjusting his gloves. "Duty calls."

"Wait," Isack said, grabbing his wrist. "Before you go..."

Esteban turned, his expression softening further. Without hesitation, he cupped Isack’s face and kissed him deeply, a brief yet tender moment of connection amidst the frenzy of race day. When they pulled apart, Esteban’s gaze lingered, filled with unspoken promises.

"Stay safe out there," Isack murmured.

"You too," Esteban replied, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the same underlying worry. "I’ll see you at the finish line, hm?"

With a final smile, Esteban jogged toward the Haas garage, blending into the flurry of team personnel. Isack stood still for a moment, watching him go, his heart both heavy and full. He couldn’t shake the feeling that today held something significant — though he didn’t know whether it would be joy or heartbreak.

Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the VCARB garage, ready to face whatever the race had in store.

The Yas Marina Circuit hummed with the energy of the season finale. Esteban and Isack were both locked in their own battles on the track, yet their thoughts seemed intertwined, each mindful of the other amidst the chaos of the race. Esteban, piloting his Haas, had been performing admirably, holding his own despite being in a midfield car. Isack, on the other hand, had spent the season proving that his rookie status belied his raw talent. His team was far more competitive than the year before, and he was on track to finish third in the championship if he could just finish above Charles in his Ferrari.

From the start, the race had been a test of endurance and skill. Esteban found himself defending his position lap after lap, his car dancing on the edge of control as he fought off challenges from more powerful machines. His radio crackled with updates, his engineer urging him to push harder.

“Esteban, keep the line. He’s closing in.”

“Got it,” Esteban replied, his voice calm despite the storm around him. He knew Isack was just a few places ahead, fighting his own battle. A flicker of pride warmed his chest. They’d always supported each other, no matter the rivalries.

Isack, meanwhile, was in his zone, threading his car through the tight corners and long straights with precision. But every so often, his thoughts wandered. Where’s Esteban? Is he okay? He checked his mirrors instinctively, hoping for a glimpse of the familiar black-and-white Haas livery.

By Lap 45, tensions were rising. Esteban’s tires were degrading, and his grip was starting to falter. He radioed his team. “Rear tires are gone. Can I pit?”

“Negative,” came the reply. “We need you to hold your position for two more laps.”

Esteban gritted his teeth, fuck. “Copy.”

Behind him, another driver closed in, his car looming large in Esteban’s mirrors. Esteban defended aggressively, shutting the door as they approached Turn 3. It was a risky move, but he had no choice. A driver he couldn't quite identify attempted to overtake, forcing Esteban to brake harder than he’d anticipated.

And then it happened.

The rear of Esteban’s car snapped out violently as he exited the turn, the worn tires losing all grip in an instant. The back end kicked wide, and before he could react, the car was careening across the track. He tried to overcorrect, but it was a futile effort. The car spun uncontrollably, a streak of bright red and black, before slamming side-on into the barriers at catastrophic speed.

The sound of the impact was deafening — an ear-splitting crunch of carbon fiber and metal, a sickening, almost wet crack that seemed to echo across the circuit. The front of the car caved in, the chassis folding like paper as debris exploded in every direction. The barriers crumpled under the force, shards of broken carbon flying into the air, some striking the track like shrapnel, some scattering over the crowd. The marshals scrambled into action, waving yellow flags at first, but that quickly turned into a sea of red as they realized the horrifying extent of the crash.

In the cockpit, Esteban's vision blurred, his world spinning uncontrollably. His body was jolted violently, every bone in his body screaming in agony. The pain was unbearable, a surge of fire coursing through his limbs as his head snapped forward, hitting the steering wheel with sickening force. For a split second, it was like everything froze. But then, the crushing silence was replaced by the horrible hiss of air rushing out of punctured tires and fluids leaking from the car. His body was a wreck; everything was a blur of blood, mangled metal, and suffocating chaos.

The world went dark.

Isack, trailing closely behind, had a front-row seat to the horror unfolding in front of him. His mind couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Esteban’s car was a twisted, smoking heap, the barriers almost entirely destroyed by the force of the impact. Time seemed to slow down, and his chest tightened as he watched, helpless, as Esteban’s body slumped in the cockpit, motionless. His breath caught, a panic rising in his throat.

“Red flag!” The team radio crackled in his ears, breaking his trance. “Isack, return to the pits! To the pits, now!”

But his eyes stayed fixed on the wreckage, on the crumpled car that had once been his fiancé’s. His heart pounded as he tore his gaze from the scene, trying to pull himself together. “Is he okay?” His voice broke, barely a whisper as he demanded answers. His mind was racing, his whole body trembling with fear.

“Medical team is on the scene, Isack,” his engineer’s voice was calm but strained, as though even he couldn’t fully process what had just happened. “We need you to focus. Get back to the garage. We’ll update you.”

Isack’s hands shook violently as he navigated his car back to the pits, his heart thundering in his chest. Esteban — the man he loved — was out there, bleeding, broken, and he had to retreat to the safety of the garage, his race forgotten, his own future fading in comparison to the nightmare unfolding. The rest of the world, the championship, the race — they all seemed irrelevant.

The medical team had arrived swiftly, but even from a distance, Isack could see the devastation. They were pulling Esteban from the wreckage with brutal urgency, his body unmoving, his head lolling. His limbs were contorted at unnatural angles, and the blood that was pooling around him painted the track with a horrifying clarity. Every movement of the medics seemed painstakingly slow, as though they feared the worst but had to keep trying. Esteban’s body was a ruin — unrecognizable from the person Isack had kissed goodbye only a short hour earlier.

An ambulance was already waiting to take him, the doors slamming shut as they rushed him away, leaving Isack in a state of utter disbelief.

Isack couldn’t stay in the garage. He couldn’t bear to stay behind while Esteban was alone, suffering, so far from him. His rookie season, his hopes of finishing third — none of that mattered. He tossed the helmet aside, ignored the calls from his team as they begged him to stay put. None of it mattered. He was going to be with Esteban. That was all.

Ignoring the protests, Isack sprinted out of the garage, his mind a blur, his breath ragged. The hospital felt a world away, but the longer he stayed on his feet, the more he realized he wasn’t ready for what awaited him.

At the hospital, the sterile walls felt suffocating as Isack waited for news. Lance was quick to join him — though no one else followed suit. Not even the very driver who caused the disaster. Not even members of the team that told him to stay out despite the dangerous conditions.

Hours dragged on, each passing minute stretching endlessly, intensifying the storm of fear and helplessness that consumed Isack. His mind couldn't escape the image of Esteban’s car, a twisted, mangled wreck, crashing violently into the barriers. The sound of the impact still echoed in his ears, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had happened in slow motion, the fleeting moment of terror replaying endlessly in his mind. Lance, though equally shattered, tried to comfort him, offering shaky words and a hand that trembled as their fingers interlocked. They sat together in the sterile, emotionless waiting room, caught in a state of limbo, waiting for the doctor to walk through the door and say the words they desperately wanted to hear — everything is going to be fine.

But when the doors finally opened, the words that met them were not the ones they’d prayed for. The doctors’ faces were grave, their eyes filled with a sorrow that hit harder than any impact on the track. "Esteban is alive," the lead doctor began, his voice heavy with the weight of the news. "But his condition is critical. Multiple fractures... internal injuries... We’re doing everything we can, but his survival is uncertain. It’s a matter of hours now."

The world seemed to collapse around Isack, his knees weakening beneath him as the doctor’s words settled in his chest like a lead weight. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t process what he was hearing. Esteban, the love of his life, his fiancé — the man he was supposed to marry in just a few months — was fighting for his life, and there was nothing he could do.

The motorsport world, in a rare moment of unity, flooded the hospital with messages of support, prayers for Esteban’s recovery. But for Isack, the world outside these walls had lost its meaning. He was no longer part of that world — he was tethered to Esteban, clinging to his side, desperate for some sign that the man he loved would return to him.

As the hours ticked by, Isack remained at Esteban’s bedside, his fingers never leaving Esteban’s, his heart aching with each shallow breath Esteban took. He ran his thumb gently over Esteban’s bruised knuckles, as though trying to reassure him, trying to bring him back. His thoughts raced through the life they’d planned, the dreams they’d shared. He thought of the wedding, the quiet moments they'd promised to steal away together after the season ended. It all seemed so far away now — like another life, one that would never come to pass.

He leaned in, his voice barely more than a whisper as tears welled in his eyes. "You have to fight," he murmured, his words raw, trembling. "We’ve got too much left to do. You promised me you’d be there, Este. You promised me we’d get married after this, after everything we’ve been through. Please... Fuck, please don’t leave me, mon amour."

But as the first light of dawn crept through the hospital window, casting a faint, fragile glow over the room, Isack knew. He knew it was over. The doctors had warned him, and the signs were becoming too clear. Esteban’s body, once so full of life, was weakening, slipping further away with every passing second. His grip on Isack’s hand, once firm and reassuring, had become limp, unresponsive. His breathing was shallow, and his pulse — barely detectable.

Isack could feel the life draining from the man he loved, could see it in the way Esteban’s face had become pale and drawn, his body broken and battered beyond repair. He couldn’t hold on any longer.

As the machines around them hummed and beeped in rhythmic monotony, Isack pressed his forehead gently against Esteban’s, his tears falling freely now, mixing with the cold, sterile air of the room. "I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll always love you."

But it was too late.

With a final, shallow breath, Esteban’s heart slowed, then stilled entirely. The beeping of the machines, once steady, faltered and faded, marking the end of the fight that had been too much for his body to bear.

Isack sat there, his fingers still curled tightly around Esteban’s, but it felt like the warmth was already fading, leaving only an icy void. The machines that once kept him tethered to his love now felt like a cruel reminder of what had been lost. His chest heaved, not with sobs, but with a growing fury, an anger so raw and vicious that it burned through him like fire. His body was rigid with the shock, but his mind was alive with a storm of violent emotions — rage, grief, helplessness, and betrayal.

Esteban was gone. Gone. The life they’d dreamed of, the wedding, the future — it was all ripped away in an instant. And the one thing that remained was the crushing weight of rage. Isack couldn’t sit here any longer. He couldn’t look at the empty shell of the man he had promised to spend forever with. His heart was breaking, but in its place, fury grew. He didn’t care about the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He didn’t care that his body was shaking with the force of the grief and the anguish that had taken over.

He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and stormed out of the room. His steps were erratic, his breath shallow, his heart pounding like a war drum. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew one thing — he needed to find the driver who had caused this. He needed to make them feel the same devastation, the same loss, the same gut-wrenching pain.

The pit of rage inside him led him through the halls of the hospital, ignoring the calls from his team, the concerned looks from medical staff. He didn’t hear any of it. His mind was consumed with the face of the driver, the one who had put his Esteban in the hospital, who had ripped his future from him in a violent flash of metal and speed. That driver was the reason Esteban was gone. That driver was the one responsible.

Isack pushed through the paddock in a haze, his eyes blurred by tears and rage, his hands trembling violently. He could hardly breathe, his chest tight with the weight of grief and fury that surged through his veins. The pit crew and engineers moved out of his way without a second thought, either too busy or too afraid to stop him. He didn’t see them. He didn’t see anyone. His only focus was finding the driver — the one responsible for taking Esteban away from him. The one who had destroyed his world.

Finally, his eyes locked onto the figure. The driver. It didn’t even matter who he was anymore — Max Verstappen, a champion of the sport, a man who was revered by millions. In that moment, all Isack saw was the person who had caused the crash. His mind, clouded with rage, barely registered the driver’s face or his name. It was just him. The one who had taken everything. His Esteban.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Isack surged forward, his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as he reached the man. His hands grabbed the front of Verstappen’s fireproof suit, yanking him toward him with a force that made the other man stumble. Isack’s eyes were wild, his chest heaving, as he shook him violently, his voice ripping through the air like a guttural scream.

“You killed him!” Isack’s voice was raw, cracking with the intensity of his grief. His hands trembled, his body shaking from the force of his emotions. “You took him away from me!”

Max tried to push him off, his face a mixture of confusion and fear. He stammered, struggling to break free. “Isack— let go— what are you—?”

But Isack didn’t hear him. He didn’t care. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of Max’s suit as he shook him again, his body trembling with rage and sorrow. “He was my life!” Isack shouted, his voice breaking as the words tore out of him. “He was everything to me! And you— you killed him! You fucking destroyed everything, Max!”

Max’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in disbelief, but Isack wasn’t finished. The pain and anger welled up inside him, forcing his next words out in a scream. “You’re a killer! You did this! You—” He choked on the words, his throat raw, his breath hitching as the sobs came violently, tearing through his body, but they didn’t stop him. “You took him from me! He was mine! You had no fucking right, you know that? Do you have any idea what you just did to me? To Lance? To someones fucking family?”

With a roar of frustration, Isack shoved Max away, the force of his hands sending the driver stumbling backward. Max fell to the ground, landing hard on his knees, his hands bracing against the tarmac. The impact barely registered in Isack’s mind. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that Max was on the ground. He didn’t care about the growing circle of onlookers, the whispers and gasps of shock from the crew members. All that mattered was that Esteban was gone — and this was the man who had caused it.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any fucking remorse?! Guilt!?” Isack’s voice cracked, his fists clenching at his sides as he stood over Max, trembling with fury. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. “I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice. Never feel his arms around me again. You took that from me!” The words were strangled, choked out by grief and the weight of a world that had just fallen apart. He bent down, leaning over Max, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper. “You killed him. You took my everything.”

Max, still on the ground, shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. “Isack… I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to… Please…”

Isack’s chest tightened, his head spinning. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear excuses. He didn’t care if it had been an accident, if it had been a mistake. All he knew was that Esteban was gone — and Max was standing there, alive and whole with a girlfriend and new child, while his fiancé was in a hospital bed, growing cold, shattered beyond recognition.

Tears were streaming down Isack’s face now, mixing with the sweat and the anger that still burned inside him. His hands were shaking, his whole body trembling with the force of his emotions. “Why?!” Isack screamed, his voice cracking as he collapsed to his knees, his face pressed against the cold tarmac, the world spinning around him. “Why him? Why did it have to be him?”

Max recoiled, his face twisted with guilt and confusion, his voice shaky as he tried to apologize, to explain. “I never wanted this, Isack. I’m sorry. I… I never meant for this to happen.”

But Isack could barely hear him over the roar of his own grief. His mind was a whirlwind, his heart shattering all over again. He clutched the ground, his hands scraping against the asphalt as he sobbed uncontrollably. “Why him?” The question echoed, unanswered, in the empty space between them. The crowd around them was silent now, but the tension was thick. The moment was a raw wound, an open scar that bled emotion and destruction.

Suddenly, a few of the team members from Max’s side moved toward them, trying to separate them, but Isack wasn’t ready to let go. He slapped one of them away, his body trembling violently as he screamed at Max, the words coming out in a disjointed, painful mess. “You took him from me! You— you— Max, you are the reason he’s gone!”

People were starting to pull Isack back now, trying to hold him, to get him away from Max. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Esteban was gone. And Isack didn’t know how to keep breathing without him.

Suddenly, a few of the team members from Max’s side moved toward them, trying to separate them. They grabbed at Isack’s arms, attempting to pull him away from Max, but Isack wasn’t ready to let go. He shoved one of them away with a raw, desperate motion, his body trembling violently, his chest heaving with the weight of his emotions. The anger and sorrow that coursed through him bled into his voice as he screamed at Max, the words coming out in a disjointed, painful mess, each one laced with grief and fury.

“You took him from me! You— you— Max, you are the reason he’s gone!” Isack’s voice cracked, hoarse and broken. His body shook uncontrollably, his fists clenching and unclenching, his eyes wild with an overwhelming cocktail of rage and loss.

Max, still on the ground, looked up at him, his own face twisted with guilt and regret, but all Isack could see was the man who had caused it all. The man who had stolen his future.

As more team members rushed in, trying to hold Isack back, his strength began to falter. He struggled against their grip, but it wasn’t the physical restraint that broke him. It was the realization that he was powerless to bring Esteban back. He didn’t care about Max, or the team, or the world that was watching, the media snapping pictures of the altercation, of the tears streaming down Isack's face, the desperate pleas leaving his lips. All that mattered was Esteban, and he was gone.

Isack’s body gave in to the crushing weight of his grief. His knees buckled, and before he knew it, he was collapsing into the arms of one of the Red Bull team members, his body shaking with sobs that wracked through him like violent tremors. The hands that had tried to pull him away from Max now held him close, but all he could do was weep.

He buried his face in the man’s chest, the fabric of the suit soaked with his tears. His heart felt like it was breaking into a thousand pieces, and he couldn't make sense of anything anymore. The world had gone silent, and the only thing he could hear was the deafening echo of his own heartbreak.

“Please… please,” Isack whispered through the tears, his voice barely audible. His hands gripped the man’s suit, his fingers curling into it as if trying to anchor himself to something, anything. “This can’t be real. Please, wake me up. I just… I just want to wake up in Esteban’s arms. Please.”

His words were desperate, each syllable laced with a pleading, painful ache. He wanted to believe this was some horrible nightmare, that any moment now, he would open his eyes and find himself back in Esteban’s arms. He wanted to believe that this wasn’t real, that the crash hadn’t happened, that his fiancé hadn’t been torn away from him in an instant.

But nothing changed. The team member’s grip tightened as Isack’s sobs grew louder, more desperate, his chest heaving with the raw agony of a love lost. The reality of it hit him like a punch to the gut, and he couldn’t breathe through the crushing weight of it. His entire world had just crumbled, and he was left there, broken and gasping for air, pleading for something that could never be again.

“Please… let me wake up. Please, I don’t want this… I don’t want to be alone.”

The words came out in a broken sob, and he collapsed further into the man’s chest, the tears falling without end. He didn’t know how to keep going without Esteban. He didn’t know how to live in a world where Esteban was gone.

In that moment, all he could feel was the hollow, aching absence of the man he had loved, and the suffocating pain of never being able to hold him again.

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