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starcrossedxwriter · 2 months ago

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Still Standing Part 1 (Smoke x Black Reader)

Warnings: attempted assault, depictions of violence

A/N: idk how this became two parts yall 😭 I need self control. But this is just everything I love about Smoke in one fic lol enjoy!

***

With enough focus, Smoke could filter out every distraction except his target. And tonight? His target was you. His wife. Who had no business in a place like this by yourself. He made a note to chastise you about that after you cussed him out for his near decade disappearing act. He braced himself for that the entire train ride.

Eight years.

And now analyzing you from a distance, his body felt every painstaking moment of every single moment without you.

He supposed if you were going to be tending bar anywhere, it was safest at your Aunt Hattie’s, where he would have trusted your brothers to maintain a watchful eye. Though, at the moment, their eyes were doing more wandering than watching.

You could handle your own, you always could. He just wished every problem was not always on you. His eyes followed your movements as you charmed every patron with a smile that held all the warmth of the Delta. You continued to be the town’s favorite amongst the Williams family. Your wit, your charm, your grandmama’s healing gifts were traits every person in the town gravitated toward, shielding you from the troubles your brothers got into.

Grace shared that you still worked out of the house he built for you, off the beaten path. How you spent most of your time taking care of everyone in town without slowing down or caring for yourself. He imagined that was why you were even here now. Eight years ago, you barely liked to step foot into Hatties unless you could hold onto him. But now, you worked the bar as if you’d done it your entire life.

That dazzling smile that made him fight for every sunrise to get back to you, the gentle and sensual sway of your hips that made him want to grab hold of your ass and hold you against him, your sweet giggle that somehow rose above the jazz melody straight to his ear. A sound that had long started to fade in his mind. But now, it felt like the first stroke of warmth against his heart since he last saw you.

Mere moments back in you proximity caused all his safeguards to crumble into pure ash. The true extent of his everlasting love for you filled his being, a rush of everything he pushed deeply inside to survive in Chicago. He felt the burning flame in his heart he forced himself to reduce to a simmer, the rushing waterfall he slowed with a fortified dam.

“Just go n talk to her, nigga. Know you want to. Sulkin’ over here like you scared or some shit,” Stack muttered, both their hats dipped low enough to further obscure their identity and presence.

“Ain’t never been scared,” Smoke muttered back. Which was a half truth. He had been scared in his life, but it was too long ago to remember.

His inability to approach you yet had little to do with fear. He knew there would be anger, resentment. And it would be righteous. He would accept his licks like a man, apologize for abandoning you as he did, do whatever it took to earn your trust again.

But what you two shared? He had to believe there would be forgiveness once you said your piece. A belief only solidified by the ring dangling from your neck as you leaned over. His mother’s ring.

More than anything, he wanted to simply watch you. See if the you that danced through his dreams every single night was still… you.

His hand twitched toward his revolver more than once as niggas’ hands touched your body, even just to shove a few coins into your hands or shift around you. He was always ready to move but he found that he did not need to. You artfully dodged touches that lingered beyond acceptability, letting the men who vied for your attention down with the perfect balance of kindness and finality.

He was surprised at how long he and Stack were able to go unnoticed in the dim corner. The few who recognized them kept it to themselves, giving the twins a wide berth. The poor lighting provided the perfect cover. He could study you and you did not seem to know he was there. But you were always the perceptive sort, could always sense his presence somehow. So he was not shocked that, every once in a while, he noticed your eyes lingering amongst the crowd as if you were searching for someone but could not find them.

Occasionally, your honey smooth voice caught his ear again, healing some of the wounds he gained while away. All the intricacies and oddities he fell in love with at 14. seeing you brought it all rushing back into sharper focus.

He still remembered the moment he realized he was in love with you. Decades ago but it was as fresh as if it were yesterday in his mind.

Stack’s body had been a heavy weight to support all the way to Mama Mabel’s. But his father had done a number on him and the little bit of ointment and bandages he had left wouldn’t cut it this time. And it was far faster to take him to her than run there and back. And… it got them away from him.

So he walked a mile with his arm around Stack’s back, heaving his weight along as his feet tried to maintain his own weight.

“I can walk, Elijah.”

Smoke did not let go of his hold, knowing his brother just didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

He glanced up at Mama Mabel’s porch, unsurprised to find Miss Evie sweeping. She only looked at them once, noting the panicked look on his face, before immediately discarding her task.

“Mama! Twins here.” She called over her shoulder before rushing out of the shade to help him the last few feet. “Let me help you, boy.”

“I got em.”

“Yo pa?”

“Passed out. Drank so much, he won’t wake up till tomorrow.” His voice was matter of fact, no emotion. He didn’t know if he even had any left these days. “Worst day so far.”

She nodded, grabbing Stack’s other arm, though Elijah was reluctant to yield any of his weight to her.

He had him. He always did.

She helped Elias lay down on the cot in Mama Mabel’s shop, the sharp smells of her brews hitting his nose. He looked down at his brother, his usual slick smile diminished, his thin body bruised and bloodied from their father’s blows.

“Ran outta what I gave you already?” Mama Mabel emerged from her back room. However, when she took in Elias’ state, she simply bowed her head, cursing under her breath. She threw the damp towel in her hand to her daughter who took charge of dapping the sweat from the walk off his brow.

“Some men don’t deserve the blessin’ of life. Ole drunk,” Miss Evie muttered to her mother in irritation, quiet enough that Elijah shouldn’t have heard them. But he did.

“Hush now, girl. Sayin’ that in front of them.”

But it wasn’t something he didn’t think about every single day himself when he laid down at night.

“Yall gon’ stay here tonight.”

Elijah immediately shook his head. “We don’t wanna be no burden. Just didn’t have enough to bandage him up.”

“Well I’ll bandage him up n you’ll stay the night.”

He opened his mouth to argue but corrected himself. He knew arguing with Mama Mabel was futile.

He leaned against the wall in the corner, his body relaxing ever so slightly with every cut and bruise she tended to with such care. Some minute part of him envied receiving that, the healing touch of a mother. He did not know what that felt like anymore, what it felt like to be cared for. He supposed he would never know either.

The only thing guaranteed in life was suffering and the end. He didn’t expect much else.

“Go out there for me n see what’s takin’ that gal so long. Head always in the damn clouds when I need her workin’,” She called over to the teen watching her every move with precision.

He glanced out the open back window, a young woman kneeling in the soul of their garden with a woven basket by her side. The wind swayed the plaits falling down her back as she faced away from the house. Y/N kneeling in front of her garden with a basket.

He glanced back at Elias before she waved him along.

“He safe with us. Promise. Helpin’ Y/N will help me help him.”

And with that, he trudged out the back door and toward the garden where you sat.

Your voice reached him first, the soft humming you used to occupy yourself in the peace of your garden. It was soft, like a sweet melody. He liked it. So he did not interrupt at first, he just stood a few feet behind you, watching.

Your humming ceased as you sensed the silent presence of another. “I know, Granny. Movin’ too slow, I’m comin’” You turned, dusting off your knees. “Oh. E-Elijah. S-sorry, thought you were my...”

Your words fell off awkwardly as you teetered on your heels. His face twisted up in surprise. No one could truly tell them apart unless they were side by side. When they were separate, it always took a few minutes for someone to know who was who.

“Elias stay showin those teeth of his, always talkin. He easy to spot. Everythin’ alright? You ok?”

“Mama Mabel asked me to come check on you. See what’s takin’ so long.”

His eyes focused on your near empty basket, you shyly grinned, your eyes glancing at him with a childlike guilt in them.

“I was doin’ it. Promise. But I noticed some weeds n… Granny say I spend too much time tendin’ to the garden when I should be pickin’. Head always in the clouds. But I told her, “ain’t that where all the spirits and ancestors you teachin’ me bout are?’ Mama popped me in the mouth for that one.”

His lips curled into a rare half smile, which made your smile grow even brighter.

Shit.

Your smile felt like pure exhilaration. He considered it to be the most beautiful thing he had laid eyes on and there was God-given beauty all across the Delta. But it all paled in comparison to your sweet smile that held the warmth of the Sun.

“So you do smile… never thought I’d see the day. You should do it more,” you offered, your voice quieter as if the thought was more for yourself than him. Umm yea, tell her I’ll pick it up. Be in soon.”

He glanced around before rolling up his sleeves and dropping to his knees to help her.

“Oh you ain’t gotta-“

“I know. But then you can tend to your garden n I can pick for you. Mama Mabel won’t know the difference.”

Your smile became softer as if you were not used to help. But he knew the young people in any house were the help, there was no rest for able bodies.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

You quietly hummed This Little Light of Mine as you two worked, you taking care of the roots and soil while Elijah picked what you directed.

“How you doin?”

“Elias needed Mama.”

“Didn’t ask about Elias… know yo daddy, know how he doin if you brought him here. I asked about you.”

Elijah found that he still did not know how to answer that. So he lamely just answered, “Well, he ain’t hit me.”

“Don’t mean he ain’t hurtin’ you. Makin’ you watch it. Don’t mean you ain’t wounded or hurt just cause he the one in there. Hearts hurt just like a black eye. Just can’t see it n it don’t heal as fast.”

His movements stilled, your words an emotional gut punch he had not expected while gardening. He tried not to think about it, when their father hit them. The emotional agony it caused to watch Elias be subjected to the brunt of their father’s drunken rage. Some was due to his smart mouth, though it still never seemed to warrant the vitriol his father directed toward Elias. But Elijah knew that his father also recognized one unfortunate truth. Punches had no effect on Elijah. He offered no reaction, no anything. But hurting his brother did. So Elias often bore the brunt of their punishments.

And he hated his father for it.

“I have somethin’ that’ll help?”

“Don’t know if anythin’ help except…”

Your mother’s words cycled through his mind, a sentiment he felt more often than not when his father hit them. To just end his sorry existence so they could be free of him.

“Try. For me?” You asked, sweetly. “You gave me a smile… can’t give me one more thing?”

I want to give you the world, a small voice whispered in his head. An uncomfortable warmth spread in his chest and his stomach that had nothing to do with the sweltering Delta heat.

“Besides, can’t make you feel worse if it don’t work.”

Your eyes remained on his, inviting him to break a few rules with you, as your feet moved backward toward your family’s live oak tree in the distance. He didn’t immediately follow, torn between his intrigue with this perfect angel who captivated his being with one smile and his desire to stay close to his brother.

“Don’t worry. We ain’t goin’ far. Somethin’ happens, we can still hear them callin. Trust me, Elijah.”

His name on your lips sounded like every beautiful thing, the river bank by their shack, the sunrise on a new day, the calm of a rain storm sweeping the horizon. He’d pray for every sunrise to hear you say his name again.

And with that, you took off running toward the giant tree off in the distance. And he immediately took off after you, abandoning his task of helping you pick herbs faster.

Your running turned into a race as he caught up to you in seconds. Your laughter blended with the wind whipping past his ears, the sweetest melody he had ever heard. He only felt this relaxed, this free when he and Stack ran to the river to escape their father. Just pure exhilaration and freedom for a brief moment.

It had always been the rarest, fleeting air. One he thought he could only feel with his brother, his other half. But he could feel it here with you.

You both needed a moment to catch your breath once you were under the cool shade of your family tree, generations buried in the soul surrounding it.

“Granny brings me out here. Says healers need a place to heal themselves, release the pain we confront every day. Started makin’ me come out here when she started trainin’ me. It’s a good spot to feel it all.”

He glanced around. “What do you do?”

You shrugged as your body leaned against one of the low sweeping branches. “Whatever you wanna do. Cry, scream, just sit. Whatever feels like what you need. Whatever fills your spirit so you can take care of him n yourself tomorrow.”

You slid down onto the soft soil, your skirt billowing out into the grass, closed your eyes. He did not know if he believed this would accomplish anything but he also didn’t want to walk away. Not from you.

He plopped down unceremoniously next to you, both your backs pressed against the tree.

He remembered just sitting there, staring at your house in the distance. He didn’t even realize how you both unconsciously shifted closer and closer to each other until your small shoulder brushed against his.

He watched you mutter prayers under your breath, caught his and his brother’s names in your prayer for safety and protection. Then quiet. Stillness.

You slouched a bit so you could rest your head on his shoulder.

His entire body tensed beneath you. Not from fear but something else he couldn’t recognize. Like the action stole his breath away. The tenderness you offered was so unlike all he knew, all he remembered in his life. The last woman to hold him tenderly died shortly after giving birth to them. And then touch became a danger to combat, not a comfort to lean into.

You seemed to not even realize what you’d done, immediately popping up, a guilty look on your face.

“Sorry. Touch is… important to me. But I should know it ain’t for everybody.”

“Nah nah… it was… fine,” he offered lamely. “My shoulder’s all yours if you need it. Want it.”

You grinned, resting your head back where it was. Something in him settled again with your weight against him.

“A smile and your shoulder? I think that means we friends now.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Ain’t too good at friends.”

“I gotta feelin’ you’d be good to me.”

His head rested on yours and you just sat, in utter silence. Elijah sniffled as he felt a tear fall as he sat. He tried to lift his arm to whisk it away discreetly but you rested a hand on his arm.

“Nobody gon see you out here. N no one will hear it from me. Rest, Elijah. Let em fall if you need it. I’m here.”

And there, under the weighing branches of your tree, he rested. He allowed himself to feel all the pain he bottled up day after day to survive in their corner of the world, to survive in his own home.

It hit him in peaks and every time he felt himself wanting to clam up, close himself off again, you just grabbed his hand. And when he heard your sniffles, saw your tears, he just returned the favor.

He didn’t know how much time passed, he found that with you, he didn’t care about the time. And you only moved when you both heard your mama calling for dinner.

You both sighed, a sadness at the end of your quiet moment feeling like more of a sharp pain than anything else. He didn’t want this to end. But he needed to check on Elias.

“Granny’s gon’ kill me,” you muttered as you scooped up the only half filled basket Elijah discarded once you were back in the yard.

And while she didn’t kill you, thankfully in Elijah’s opinion, she did cuss you seven times to Sunday for wasting an afternoon and taking your time when there was work to do. And after dinner, instead of getting to go to sleep, you were tasked with cleaning up her shop and restocking her brews when she finished them - whatever time that would be. Since “you already rested enough for the day.”

You were quiet the rest of the day, forlorn and despondent through dinner, so you didn’t say much to him as night fell and everyone in the house prepared to rest.

Everyone except you two.

When your grandma finally went to sleep herself, leaving you to your task that would take the rest of the night, Elijah finally came inside from the porch. Your back was to the door but you sensed him yet again, how your hand stilled over the giant pot of whatever your grandmother brewed.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to get you in trouble, takin’ care of me.”

You shook your head and abandoned your task to close the space between them. Peace. It disappeared when they left their spot under the tree. But he felt it when you were close.

“Don’t. Knew what trouble I was bringing myself when I did it. But if it helped you, it was worth it.” She paused, chewing her lip as she timidly asked. “Did it? Help?”

He found himself nodding. “It did. You got a gift, Y/N.”

“Good. Then one night of lost sleep ain’t a thing. Now you go to sleep, brought that out for you.” She pointed toward a small cot and pillow situated beside his brothers. “I’ll keep an eye on em.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He slid into bed as he tried to quiet the litany of confusing thoughts racing through his head. He had never felt this way before. But when he should be worried about his slumbering brother or determine how to free them from their father, there was only one thing at the center of the tornado in his head.

You.

“I’ll be good to you, Y/N. A good friend to you, I promise.”

The words were so quiet, he was not confident you heard him. But then he heard the faintest sniffle, saw hastily turn to wipe away a falling tear before turning back to him with a smile that said more than words ever could.

“And I’ll be good to you, Elijah. I promise. Get some sleep.”

He chuckled, turning over so he wouldn’t get distracted by examining you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

But even as he buried himself in his pillow on his cot, one that smelled so perfectly of you, he knew that he didn’t want to be your friend. He wanted to be so much more.

His love sick walk down memory lane ended as swiftly as it sparked when he noticed a man lingering at the bar chatting with you, even after finishing his drink.

He tilted his head slightly toward Stack. His brother never forgot a face.

“You don’t remember that nigga? Red. Grew up down the road, Ms. Sally took him in after his mama died. Daddy probably dead now too. Damn drunk. Ran off Nawlins the first chance he got. You know half the niggas in town had a thing for Y/N."

Smoke studied the terrain, realizing that he could not shoot this man across a crowded barn, though that was the simplest option. But he always knew that patience and opportunity were the key to strike. Never too early, never too late. Besides, Red knew exactly whose you were. And only a man desperate to meet their maker would touch what belonged to Smoke Moore.

Stack let out a deadly chuckle as Red grabbed your hand unexpectedly, your face twisting up in shock for the briefest second before you smiled and discreetly tore your hand from his grasp.

“You gon’ take care of that?” Stack asked, gesturing toward you.

Smoke let his discreet loading of his revolver answer that question for him. The man clearly had a death wish. Smoke was more than happy to ensure it came true.

“Shame. Liked that Red. Never knew what was good for him tho,” Stack mumbled.

He continued to watch, waiting for his moment to strike, to remind everyone in the room who Smoke Moore was when you yelled something over your shoulder in your aunt’s direction and stepped from behind the bar.

You still didn’t see him, even as you navigated the sweaty, teeming dance floor to reach the back storage room. Smoke did not even try to hide in the shadows this time, you were just that preoccupied with your own thoughts. So preoccupied he realized that you didn’t notice how Red waited long enough to drink his shot before following after you.

Smoke knew what that meant. What that always meant. Smoke was not even the jealous twin. But Red made a choice. To make you visibly uncomfortable. To pursue his woman in front of half the town. He toyed, briefly, with the idea that you and Red were… more. And that this was simply part of that. But then he realized that he did not particularly care. Whether or not this was your choice was fairly irrelevant to him.

If this man was courting you, he’d kill him.

If this man was trying to cause you harm, he’d kill him.

Mercy was your tool… but it had never been his. he had considered just shooting Red in the hand to prove a point originally. However, now? The die had been cast.

He had a reminder to issue: whatever happened while he was gone was over. He was back and no one would touch what belonged to him and live to tell the tale.

He cocked his gun before moving in your direction. He had been gone too long and people had clearly forgotten who the fuck he was.

Judge.

Jury.

But most importantly… Executioner.

***

“Come on, sweetness. Gimme a smile.”

“Done smillin’ for you, Red. Get on so I can get a payin’ customer up here.”

You had grown weary from Red’s tired advances long ago. He tried, week after week, coming to your home with ailments and aches just so you would patch him up. Since his wife ran off with another man a few years back, you tried to be there for him. After all, you were, unfortunately, the town’s expert on disappearing spouses. You understood the depths of his grief, to lose the person you loved because their spirit demanded something else of them. Whether for love, greed, power, or something more righteous. The one left behind was left broken and alone all the same.

But Red mistook your kindness for affection. And sadness, desperation, and liquor were an unfortunate combination. The more he drank, the more relentless he became. Hattie helped remind some folks whose last name you carried but some… like Red were often too drunk to listen or care.

And on Saturdays at Hattie’s, he was his drunkest.

“But I’m your favorite customer, ain’t I, Y/N?”

You ain’t

“It’s bad for business to have favorites,” you offered with an awkward smile.

“Get me another,” he demanded.

You knew it would be a long night if you were already about to pour his fifth glass. He already smelled like someone swapped his blood out with a bottle of what you were pouring.

“N while you at it, tell me, why aint you spoken for?”

You used your apron to quickly dab the beads of sweat off your forehead before you grabbed a glass.

“You know damn well I’m spoken for, Red.”

He threw his head back in exuberant laughter.

You knew one person who would not find it as hilarious. Your husband. Wherever in the world he might be right now.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Though only you and his brother knew him as Elijah. Everyone else? Smoke. And his chilling reputation far out lasted his presence in their small town. Seven years later and most still get a bit more jumpy when someone mentions the twins.

While you never agreed with his way, you could not deny it served you well. For the most part, no one caused you trouble. Why would anyone want to be on your list of grievances should Smoke ever come back into town?

You always prayed he would return but you knew it was foolish to hope for it. You whispered his name along the evening breeze in your nightly prayers, merely hopeful for that moment that your comfort reached him in his corner of the world.

While you were not waiting on his return, you also had not “moved on.” You tried, Lord knows you tried. You thought it would heal you, satisfy you to be close to someone again. But the high it gave you was impermanent. It vanished from your grasp like literal smoke.

Because of Smoke.

It was a crushing discovery to realize that the itch you needed to scratch would never be satiated by anyone else.

Your need was to be healed. And only one person could do that. Because Smoke was the first man in your life who tended to you first and foremost.

You spent your days since childhood caring for everyone else. It was your calling and you were grateful to the ancestors for it. But it left no time for you. But in Smoke’s arms? He cared for you, allowed you to feel all the pain and pleasure of the world, allowed you to fall apart and be vulnerable. His touch methodically healed the aches, pains, and sufferings that no one else saw.

And that’s what you desired, craved in the loneliness of the night. Not a warm body or a tryst in Red’s barn. Not fucking that was over before it began for you. You yearned for the other half of your heart. To be tended to and loved on. And the man who had your heart was hundreds of miles away. So you grieved that part of your life. If it could not be that, if it couldn’t be him… it was not worth giving more of your spirit.

And you made peace with what was lost when he left. You were heavy hearted, broken, but you found it difficult to even conjure up rage toward him after a few days. Because you understood that he would never choose you and the quiet life you desired over him.

You knew Elijah loved you with everything. That was never in question. But if you were half of his heart, Stack was the other half of his soul. One could not survive, not fully, without the other. And Stack needed more than their town could offer. And Smoke needed Stack.

Despite your fear that you’d laid eyes on him for the last time, you made no effort to share that with your neighbors or stop being Smoke’s woman. A woman without a man was one without protection, you knew that much. So you relied on whatever kept you safe: your prayers and his threats. You counted both as help, both as a blessing.

“By who? One of them crazy Moore twins? Haven’t seen that nigga or the other one twin here no where to speak for nobody. Seems like you free to do what you want. You could give me a dance, sweetness.”

His hand grasped yours as you pushed the glass his way. His grip was firm so it took you a moment before you could rip your hand out of his embrace.

“Well I ain’t seen him round neither but I’m still spoken for. If you knew what was good for you, you’ll take that drink ’n get the hell on, Red,” you warned, your voice losing some of its sweetness.

“Need a couple more bottles, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to turn around to recognize the sharp voice of your aunt, Hattie Mae.

Your grandfather opened this joint twenty years ago and it was still standing. "Weathered and worn but still standing," he'd say. Your aunt took over when he died and you started helping her a few months ago after she hurt herself. Your brothers were useless at the bar and Hattie said it helps to have a pretty face serving up the drinks. So you helped out where you could on the weekends. You always found Hattie’s to be overwhelming, preferring to stay glued to Smoke’s arm when you went together. But you found peace behind the bar, being able to watch the hustle and bustle from afar. The extra money did not hurt.

You’d typically demand one of your brothers carry the heavy bottles for your aunt but you’d welcome any excuse to escape Red’s leering eye.

“I got it, Auntie Mae.”

You used the walk to dry your hands, both were sweaty and clammy from the heat of the Delta mixed with all the bodies and dancing.

You pushed through your exhaustion, the aches and pains in your limbs more pronounced without the distractions of people and music. You had been feeling it more lately as you leaned for a moment against a shelf. You were just like this joint. Weathered and worn. Sadder than you once were. But you were still standing too. Was there any other choice?

You balanced four bottles in your arms before determining that it was your limit. However, you almost dropped every last one of them when you turned to find Red waiting in the door frame.

“God almighty, Red! You scared me! You gon’ stand there blockin’ the door or let me get these back out to Hattie?”

He was as immobile as a tree as you tried to go around him. He did not answer you or speak, the silence putting you on edge. You loved a man like that, whose silence was a weapon, his greatest tool. You gravitated toward his silence.

But Red was not him. His silence unsettled you, forced your eyes to search for a path that would lead you away from him.

“Red. This ain’t funny. Get outta my way. You know how Hattie gets. I gotta get back to the bar.”

“Lord knows I’ve been thinkin’ bout you ever since my wife left.”

You typically didn’t feel fear. There was no need with generations of ancestors watching over you. But as his hand closed the door and the screech of the latch hit your ear. You felt it like a tiny seed sprouting in your belly.

Fear.

You immediately retreated as he advanced.

“I’m married, Red. You too. ’N you drunk as a skunk. Now let me outta here.”

“My wife gone, your husband been gone. Dead in a ditch somewhere knowin’ that nigga. You got the entire town ‘fraid to dance withchu cause of him? But see… I ain’t afraid of no dead man, Y/N. Aint scared of no ghost story. Don’t act like you don’t want me too, sweetheart.”

“Red… I d-don’t want you o-or anyone. We can forget about this tomorrow, just let me go.”

“After I waited years for this? Nahhh, baby. Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now. You’re mine. Helpin’ me night after night. Checkin’ on me after that bitch ran off. You’re the light of my days, sweetheart.”

This could only be described as irony in its cruelest form. A forced reflection on your own naiveté, you supposed. You remembered something you said to your husband once, early in your courtship, when he asked you why you never called him Smoke.

“Because everyone else needs you to be Smoke. Here I… just want you to be Elijah.”

And he bowed his head, shaking it as his hand gripped the meat of your thigh.

“You need Smoke too, baby. No one is ever gon’ hurt my family. I’m here to protect you. You need him. Everybody do.”

Elijah had always been… heavy. Weighed down by all the things he had done, from such a young age, to protect the people he loved. And as much as you adored being loved by him, you did not want to be another person who burdened his soul with more. More suffering, more pain. His life was in service of keeping everyone else safe. And he cared nothing of the cost to his soul to do so. But you cared because you knew it would only get heavier.

“Stack need Smoke. The fools you run with need Smoke. Hell, this town might even need Smoke. But me? I don’t need Smoke. I need Elijah, the boy who picked herbs for me. The one who holds me close to his chest durin’ storms. Smoke is… He ain’t the Elijah I know.”

But as your back pressed against the rough wood panels, Red’s body boxing you in, you realized, for the first time, you needed Smoke.

Not the threat of him.

Him. And all his silent fury.

And every bit of trouble that came along with him to get out of this.

“R-Red, I was just tryin’ to help. Just tryin’-”

He grabbed your chin roughly, the shock causing every bottle in your arms to crash down at your feet. The sharp scent of liquor swarmed you both like a cloud as the liquid seeped into your shoes and splattered along the bottom of your dress.

His other hand gripped your wrist as he kissed you roughly.

“S-Stop! R-Red.”

“I bet you just need a good fuckin’. Been years since that sorry nigga left, left this good pussy. Nigga should’ve known better than to leave a sweet pussy like this unclaimed. Think it’s my turn now. Bet I can fuck you bett-”

Your eardrums could have exploded from the cacophony of pure noise cutting of Red’s drunken ranting.

Your head spun as you tried to locate the sudden shrill scream filling the tiny storage room. You did not even realize Red was no longer pressing his weight against you until you saw him clutching his knee, on the floor as crimson blood slid down his leg.

You clutched your chest for a moment, your heart pounding loudly in your ears, your eyes trained on Red’s writhing frame in a giant puddle of moonshine. Your brain felt sluggish and slow, several steps behind whatever just happened. You forced your eyes away from Red to understand. Did you need to protect yourself? Was the threat to you too? Who even shot him? That was one answer your vision could find immediately. However, your survey ended within a millisecond, your eyes landing on him.

“Smoke.” A grateful sob of relief escaped as your body sagged into the wall.

His eyes softened at the sound of your voice, the mixture of fear, panic, gratitude, and pure love.

“Y/N. Y/N!” His voice snapped you out of the chaos of the last few minutes.

He focused you. A light in dense fog.

His voice softened once your eyes flickered to his.

“You good, baby. We got you. Step over here to Stack.”

Another version of him stepped from around the corner. He pulled his hat off his head and tipped it toward you, a deadly smirk painted on his lips.

Stack.

Your brain sought to obey him, to listen to the man you loved. But your legs did not feel strong enough to move, strong enough to carry you the few steps across the room to him and Stack.

How did this happen?

How were they even here?

Why were they here?

So you simply stared at him, not fully believing they were real. Your eyes clouded with everything flooding you that demanded to be made sense of before you could move forward. There was no calm in this, leaving you paralyzed.

“Nigga just shook her up. He ain’t goin’ no where. Give her a second.”

“We ain’t got a second.” Smoke turned his attention back to you. “Y/N. Darlin’. I need you to move.”

A command. The softness in his tone disappeared as he snapped you out of your stupor. Your feet moved instinctively, scurrying around Red to reach Stack. You felt Smoke’s hand brush your hip as you got behind him. The touch simply communicated what your body and soul instinctively knew: you were safe.

Stack put a protective arm around your waist as soon as you were in his reach.

“She good, Smoke.”

“Take her. Wait outside.”

You pushed against Stack’s arm trying to drag you along as his words settled in your brain. While you were grateful Red was unable to carry out whatever plot his drunk mind concocted, you did not want him murdered for it.

In fact, you considered being shot in the kneecap a satisfactory punishment for what Red attempted, what he would not even likely remember doing in the morning. He learned his lesson and now would live with a limp for the rest of his life to show for it. Wasn’t that enough?

“W-wait, wait, wait, Smoke. He got your point. I’m okay. Let him go.”

But even as you spoke those words, you knew they did not shift his position. The murderous glimmer in his eye, his coldness, reminded you while Elijah softened for you, Smoke was not a man who bent nor one who could be softened. His decision was cast and Red’s death was as certain as sunrise the next morning. But you would not be you if you did not try. Would not be the woman he loved if you did not ask him to try something different.

You tried to push Stack’s arm off you to go to Smoke’s side but he refused to loosen his grip.

“Smoke, h-he’s just a lonely ole drunk. You gave em a limp. That's enough."

Stack chuckled. "Niggas get a limp for stealin'. This shit tho? Puttin' his hands on you?" he shook his head. "Every nigga in here know what that means."

"But it ain’t worth it. He ain't worth it. Trust me, he's just drunk... harmless. He won't bother me again."

“I am! Harmless, Smoke. You know I ain’t mean nothin’ by it. I'll leave the bitch alone for good, I swear 'fore God.”

Stack's head fell back as his barking laugh ricocheted around the room. Smoke still had not said a single word. Just fired his warning shot.

“I told you that nigga ain’t know what was good for him, Smoke. Let’s go, Y/N.”

His arm tightened around your waist to drag you out the door, clearly tired of the man’s pleas which were only serving to make his end more painful.

“Let me go, Stack!”

“So he can shoot me too? Nah girl. Unlike this nigga, I like bein’ able to fuckin' walk. Can't be a pimp like me with no a damn limp. This grown men’s business now n I know you don’t wanna see this shit. Let’s go.”

You glared at him, raising an eyebrow in a challenge, still refusing to make this easy on him.

Stack glanced at his brother for a brief moment, their silent conversation passing before Stack turned back to you.

He leaned over, whispering in your ear, “Ain’t nothin’ you say gon’ change what’s about to happen. He was dead the moment he laid a hand on you. Accept that shit, aight? Ain’t no sense in feelin’ guilty bout it either. Ain’t the first man he threw to bottom of the Mississippi for you, won’t be the last. Now come on. If it’ll help, saw some flowers on the way in. You can pick some for his homegoing’,” he offered the last bit sarcastically.

He could never hold a serious moment for long.

But you heard the empathy hiding in his harshness. A reminder that as crazy as he was, Stack still understood you and he understood Smoke, and the chasm that sometimes existed when you were confronted with the violence they perpetuated. Particularly in your name.

You spent your life attempting to mend what violence broke, what it destroyed, what often felt like inevitabilities. But you could not stop this. And he knew that as soon as he glanced at his brother. And in your heart, he knew you knew it too. And like his brother, he was trying to protect you, in his own slick talking way, absolve you from the guilt he already knew was rushing to your shores.

That was the Elias you grew up with. And as much as you two bickered like true siblings, you knew there was nothing Stack would not do for you because you loved his brother and his brother loved you.

Your eyes settled on Smoke’s profile, his eyes trained on the invisible line connecting the barrel of his gun to the space between Red’s eyes. He tore them away for one moment to look at you. Your eyes communicated a fear you’d never admit in front of Stack. You accepted Red’s fate but there was another fear, one that made it impossible to stop resisting Stack’s force.

“I’m right behind you, darlin’. I promise. Get out or he'll drag you out.”

You didn’t speak, a shaky exhale communicating everything you needed him to know. You were grateful that you had not had to ask, that he simply saw what truly ailed you. More than trying to save the life of a man who did not deserve your mercy, you were terrified to let him out of your sight. You feared that if you stepped out of this room, even for a moment, he’d disappear like smoke in the air for another eight years.

Uninterested in being hauled over the shoulder of the second most infamous man in town, you acquiesced to Stack’s firm hand on your waist, allowing him to push you out the door.

“Red, I’d say enjoy your last moments but I know my brother and… I think he gon’ enjoy ‘em a hell of a lot more than you.”

However, before he closed the door, you heard Smoke’s low voice.

“Just so we clear, this me speakin’.”

“N-No, no, no, no! Smo-”

Stack dragged you just far enough away to not to hear what you knew came next.

***

Stay tuned for part two!

A/N: No tags because it was a fight to get this up and I'm exhausted LOL but there is a part two with reader and Smoke's private reunion when they get home. Hope you enjoyed it! Drop a comment and let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in part 2!

#black writers #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x oc #sinners #sinners fanfiction #smoke Moore x reader #Smoke x reader #fic: still standing

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korgosse-moved · 1 year ago

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tag drop.

#♫ ( visage ) your eyes were clear / brighter than the sun.#♫ ( ic ) i found myself in my melodies.#♫ ( headcanon ) something different bloomed / writing in my room.#♫ ( study ) you don't have to act like all you feel is mild.#♫ ( meme ) open all the doors around you / use the power in your lungs.#♫ ( re: kungkarlek ) we were built to fall apart & fall back together.#♫ ( re: sara ) if we have each other then we'll both be fine.#♫ ( ooc ) just another former choir kid.

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dreamersparacosm · 18 days ago

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𐙚₊˚⊹ househusband!jk x wife!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; reader is THIRSTINGGGG over her husband, jk is a little chef, oral (m recieving), you play with his balls, oh dw he cums and you swallow (bc you’re hungry… duh. get your head out of the gutter!)

prompt ; in which you devour an appetizer before your main course.

In your defense, your husband while he’s cooking is something straight out of an erotic romance novel.

When you first started dating, you thought the way to your heart were words. Grand gestures. A well-timed compliment. Maybe even a bouquet of flowers if you were being a drama queen about it.

But then, Jeon Jungkook made you dinner for the first time.

And that was enough to bring you to your knees (or more realistically, for him to have you bent over the dining room table while he fucked you from behind and the food grew cold.)

The first time he cooked dinner for you, it was some spaghetti dish you still can’t pronounce. It was unreasonably good. The man didn’t use a single measuring spoon or cup and managed to concoct a dish that would have Gordon Ramsey foaming at the mouth.

He had set the table, poured you a glass of red wine, and stood back with his arms crossed, eyeing you take your first bite with an evil glint in his eyes.

You hadn’t even finished chewing before you moaned. Audibly moaned, and it was only your third month in a relationship. You should’ve gone to prison after that, but instead, he smiled widely, bunny teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.

“Good?” he asked.

You licked your plump pink lips, swallowed hard, and met his eager eyes. “Have me for dessert, baby?”

Oh, and he did.

Now that you’ve been married for a few years, living out your days in a quaint cottage in the suburbs, he cooks for you most nights of the week. You work long, treacherous hours, and the career he built as a self-made wedding photographer doesn’t require much physical labor. He’s more than happy to cater to you, to treat you like the princess you are. Some may call him a simp, but those who dare do so forget that he’s getting his dick pumped dry by a beautiful woman every single night — so really, who’s the winner here?

He’s in that kitchen day and night, chopping up vegetables and searing meats like this is some Michelin star restaurant. The apron you got him for Christmas has become a form of foreplay.

All this to say — the wetness soaking your underwear currently is no one’s fault but his.

When you were in your single girl era, you used to fantasize about nights like these. Candles lit, soft yellow light pooling over the living room, a throw blanket draped over your legs while you ignore whatever Netflix show you threw on earlier and stare at your husband in the kitchen.

You haven’t paid attention to that damn television in the last twenty minutes. The moment you had looked up and saw him — black t-shirt, loose gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, apron tied lazily around his waist — it was over.

He’s stirring something in the pan. Those godforsaken biceps of his strain everytime he reaches up to pluck a jar of seasoning off the shelf.

Sometimes you swear the man knows what he’s doing to you. He’s been letting his shirt ride up to show the cut of his waist every ten minutes and no one can possibly be that oblivious.

Enough is enough.

Throwing the blanket off your legs, you stand up, a woman on a mission. If dinner’s going to be that good, he might as well earn it.

The kitchen floor is cool against your bare feet, the hem of one of his oversized t-shirts brushing against the tops of your thigh with each step. He’s far too focused in the kitchen to hear your little feet padding towards him, especially as he gives the pan a toss, whatever he’s sauteeing crackling gently. He’s humming to himself, probably some melody he’s made up on the spot, and you admire the view from behind.

His broad shoulders, the hair that curls at the nape of his neck…

It’s a crime to be married to someone this attractive.

You snake your arms around his waist, warm palms sliding over the front of his apron before sneaking their way underneath his black t-shirt, splayed across the planes of his abs. You press your face between his shoulder blades and breathe in his musky scent. Something spicy and soapy and oddly familiar to that cologne you bought him for his birthday.

He chuckles, the vibration from his chest reverberating against your cheek. “Hi, princess.”

Your hands move to squeeze his biceps. Has he been going to the gym more frequently or are you just ovulating? “You been lifting or is this just from all that cooking, baby?”

“Did I not lift you last night?” he jokes, smiling over his shoulder at you.

Now that you think about it, he did. He had scooped you up like you were deadweight, wrapping your thighs around his waist and carrying you into the bedroom so he could—

Yesterday’s news. Whatever.

“Hmmm,” you hum. “You should bring me to your gym. You can use me to do push ups. It’s only right… y’know, as your wife.”

“Is that so?” He stirs something in a pot that’s simmering on the back burner. “I’d probably get a little distracted though.”

“I’m always a good girl,” you pout. That elicits a shiver down his spine that you note. God, he’s so easy.

Before you can get his mind wandering even more, he turns to press a quick kiss to your forehead. Your knees dip slightly at the sensation of the cool metal of his lip piercing against your scalding skin.

You hop up onto the counter, legs swinging gently as he focuses on the steaming food in front of him. With each movement of your legs, that t-shirt that you’re wearing rides up a little higher, and it does not go unnoticed by him. His eyes flick downwards, and for a millisecond, his tattooed hand pauses mid-stir.

“What’s on the menu tonight, chef?” You tilt your head at him, eyes batting ferociously as your lotioned legs rub together.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down a little. “Little bit of everything. I found this old chili oil in the fridge, so I’m doing garlic noodles with that crispy tofu you liked last time.”

“You’re so thoughtful, baby.” You ramp it up more, knuckles caressing the soft skin of his cheeks. “I really liked the crispy tofu. Can you make it extra crispy?”

“Always.” He flips the pan again, searing what you assume is the tofu. Or the noodles. You don’t know or care to actually find out.

“I loveeee this little apron on you.” Your hand moves from his face to his waist, playing with the red strings of the apron.

You're not normally the kind of girl who speaks in a baby voice to her husband, but you’re starting to get desperate and it’s showing. That masters degree of yours has exited the chat.

Jungkook grins at you widely. “Yeah? I love wearing it for you.”

Still nothing. He resumes his stirring and flipping and whatever the fuck else he’s doing.

You shift on the counter, pressing your thighs together as tightly as humanly possible. Why must the universe curse you with a husband who cares so much about how his food tastes that he can’t give in to your sexual advances? It’s your fatal flaw.

Resting your elbow on your knee, chin tucked in your palm, you ask, “Do you remember the first time you cooked for me?”

He warbles out a sound of agreement. “The spaghetti puttanesca?”

Yeah, yeah, whatever it’s called, handsome.

“Mhmmm.”

“Well, I remember you nearly passing out from how good it was.” He laughs lightly to himself at the innocent memory. You’re about to snap that distant memory in half.

“Yeah, well, I remember you fucking me on the dining room table.”

He damn near drops the wooden spoon he’s holding, shoulders drooping as he quickly realizes his wife isn’t there to play nice. His big brown eyes snap to you, and the tiniest smirk curves upwards on his lips.

“Oh?” he questions unaffectedly. “That’s what you remember?”

“Bent me over before I even got to finish the plate,” you shrug. “I came like, four times.”

Jungkook snorts at that. “You mad you didn’t get to finish the plate?”

“Never, baby. I love affirming your talents. I’m just mad you didn’t make me cum a fifth time.” Your wandering hand creeps up to the hair at the nape of his neck, tugs a little in a way that causes him to whimper.

He turns the heat down gently, inhaling deeply. “Girlfriends have an orgasm limit of four times.”

“Well, now I’m your wife, right?”

“Damn straight.”

When his brown eyes meet yours this time, you catch how dark they are, how they swallow up the whites of his eyes. To your dismay, though, he looks away quickly, snatching up the sesame glaze from a nearby cupboard, your hand falling down to your knee in horny shame.

“I’m serious, though,” you begin. “You’re so talented, baby. You always take care of me.”

He moves closer to you again, and you take the opportunity to play with the brown tresses at the back of his neck, twirling one around your manicured finger. His sweet spot. “Yeah?” His voice is barely a whisper.

It’s one thing that he’s so undeniably sexy. It’s another thing that he’s all yours — married and adorned with a gold band on his left hand.

Your hand slides from his hair to his shoulder, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt. “You make it so hard to behave sometimes.”

There’s an unconvincing little cough that chokes its way out of his mouth. He picks up a pair of tongs, tossing around the tofu.

You need to behave. The poor man is cooking for you like the angel he is. There’s a vibrator upstairs that works perfectly well; you could march right on upstairs and get to work.

But you don’t want that. You actually want his heavy cock lodged deep in your throat, and those breathy little moans he makes when he’s about to finish.

Normal. That's what you need to be.

But you’ve never been very good at normal when it comes to him.

Sliding off the counter, you sink down. All the way down. Knees to the cold tiles of the floor, palms spreading across his meaty thighs.

“U-uh? Baby?” His voice pitches higher on the pet name. He glances down at you, holding the tongs in one hand. “What the— what are you up to?”

Your eyelashes bat flirtatiously, lips parted slightly, bedroom eyes in full swing. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants, mouth brushing over the soft fabric, against the outline of his semi-hard length. “Keep cooking, baby.” You don’t even have to look up at him to know he’s gawking at you.

The gulp that follows is obscenely hot. His hands hover stupidly near the stove like he’s trying to remember how gas works. You can hear something bubbling — low and simmering, like your patience.

Inch by inch, you tug his sweatpants down. The apron comes next, the knot behind his back coming undone as your nimble fingers desperately play with it, floating to the floor like a sad little white flag of surrender. He gasps softly while his boxers drag down, head tipping back at the sensation.

He’s fully hard now, his thick cock flushed at the tip and seeping pre-cum. “Jesus,” you nearly moan out, licking your lips at the delectable sight in front of you.

“I-I’m cooking,” he tries, voice cracking like a boy in the trenches of puberty. “Baby, I need to—ah fuck.”

No one finds out what he needs to do, your hand wrapping around the base of his length, stroking agonizingly slow. “Then focus,” you murmur, lips hovering near the white liquid on his tip. “Chef.”

Jungkook’s cock twitches at the little pocket of pleasure he’s being granted, so beyond hard he doesn’t even know what else to say. He’s looking down at you with so much adoration, like he can’t believe his life choices have led him to this moment. He just wanted to make you dinner and now your cute eyes and lips are going to live in his daydreams for days to follow.

“Fucking hell.” One of his hands grips the edge of the stove.

Smirking lightly, you joke, “Language, chef.”

“I-I can’t burn this,” he mutters to himself, eyes darting from the pan back to you.

“Well, you better focus.” Your thumb swirls the precum from his tip across the rest of his shift, running along one of the veins of his cock. He’s always had the world’s prettiest cock you;ve ever seen on a man. It’s thick, long but not to the point of pain. Absolutely scrumptious.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. “You’re not gonna actually — shit.”

Oh, but you are.

Your tongue drags flat and leisurely up the underside of him before wrapping your lips around the head, the taste of salt and something slightly sweet invading your tastebuds. You involuntarily moan at the flavor of him, the vibration sending shockwaves up his spine. “Ohhh, fucking hell, princess.”

You pull back a little to spit, let some saliva dribble onto his cock messily that you both watch in excitement. Your tiny hand works in tandem with your mouth, twisting at the base, taking as much of him as you can. “Don’t you dare stop cooking,” you manage to get out between, hand stroking him feverishly now.

He looks down at you, eyes lidded, as if to say you cannot be serious right now. “I can’t even fucking think right now.”

Up on the stove, you hear the noodles hiss, fully neglected now. At the noise, he tries to focus. With one hand, the one obtaining the wooden spoon, he stirs the noodles, but you’re getting sloppier now with each stroke of your mouth. Saliva is trickling down your chin, eyes watering as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. You’re practically gagging on it while his hands shake to stir those damn burning noodles.

His other hand buries itself in your hair, fingers curling around the strands. Tries to gather all of it into some half-assed ponytail, guiding your movements. He can’t help himself; he needs to feel his cock hit the back of your warm throat.

You gag around him again, breath hitching through your nose. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking sexy, baby,” he praises. “Don’t stop.”

When your eyes raise up to look at him, you know immediately it’s a mistake; what you see nearly makes you cum in your lacy pink panties. His lip ring is tucked between his two top teeth, a pink flush creeping up his neck. The veins in his neck bulge faintly.

“Holy shit,” he exhales, head falling back as you hear the wooden spoon drop into the pan. “So fucking good, baby, feels so good.”

You respond with a drag of your mouth across the length of him, your hand reaching to palm one of his weighty balls. So full with what you want. You knead it in your palm in unison with your mouth working him. That’s more than enough to send his hips flying forward like they want to fuck your mouth, but he controls himself unfairly well.

Jungkook tries to pick up the wooden spoon again, but you catch a string of curses falling from his lips as a dollop misses and hits the floor beside your feet.

Your mouth pops off him for a breath of air, gasping as a string of saliva trails from your mouth to the tip of his cock. “Need help, chef?”

“Yeah,” he groans, hand tightening in your hair. “Need you to not fucking stop.”

He’s on the brink of his orgasm — you can sense it in the way his breath is more tensed than ever, hand intertwined in your hair to prevent it from falling into your eyes, your name huskier when it rolls off his tongue. You’re not a quitter, never have been — you take him deeper in your mouth, fingers still massaging his balls. His tip repeatedly jams into the back of your throat, and the sounds both you and him let out are similar to some porn video you watched the other day.

“Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna l-last long.” He steadies himself against the stove, those noodles and tofu long forgotten. He’s already mentally preparing to place a takeout order from that burger place you two like.

It only takes a few more strokes before his moans are the only sound echoing off the walls of your home. “Oh fuuuck, shit I’m cumming—”

He gently thrusts his hips, pushing his cock a bit deeper into your mouth, and you feel his salty release hit the back of your throat in a series of spurts, warming your mouth as you fight to swallow it all. Jungkook's moans above you serve as the perfect motivation to be a good girl, to complete the task, and to keep it all from getting too messy. You’re about to have your main course, after all.

You stroke him through it, milking him as much as you can. Take it all. Right there on the kitchen floor, with spit running down your chin and tears in your lashes, you swallow every last drop.

An adorable little smile weaves onto your swollen lips. He's not entirely convinced he didn’t just black out.

With the reflexes of a man slowly regaining motor function, he shuts off the stove. The pan sizzles, a fragrant garlic smell in the air song with the other seasonings he tossed in there when he still had his wits about him. He notes that it doesn’t look burned at all; in fact, it’s completely edible.

Jungkook crouches down a tad to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips, collecting some of the spit and cum that’s gathered there. “One of these days, you are going to kill me.” He presses a chaste kiss to your mouth.

You lean into him, a whimper clawing its way out of you. “Won’t be soon, though, right? I would like to give you head a few more times before that happens.”

He laughs hoarsely, lips brushing against your forehead. “Better not be while I’m trying to cook you dinner. I nearly burned this whole place down.”

“But you didn’t,” you point out as his callused palm caresses your cheek, eyes gazing lovingly into your own. “You cooked me a perfect little meal. And I just returned the favor.”

“Hmmm.” Another kiss to your lips, one that’s sweet and gentle and complete domestic bliss.

He helps you up, your knees aching as you brush your hands down his shirt you’re still wearing. Jungkook reaches for the stack of plates near the sink, resuming those husband duties he enjoys so immensely. He saunters off to the dining table, humming the melody from earlier to himself.

You’re about to make yourself useful and help him with the cutlery when he goes, “Oh, I didn’t make dessert tonight, by the way.”

Reaching to open the drawer, you raise an eyebrow. He usually always bakes a sweet treat for you. “No?”

When you turn around with the forks in tow, he’s leaning against one of the chairs, a devious smirk planted on his face. Something tells you you’re in for a long evening.

“Nah. What I’m having for dessert is standing right in front of me.”

a/n ; idk what this is lol i just saw a tiktok of him cooking and i #lostallchill sooooo here we are. do NOTTTT let this man get out of the military i am gobbling him like my last meal 😂😂😂 ope who said thattttt also this was only edited with google docs spellcheck so any grammar errors are between you and god

masterlist + ask

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #bts x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fiction #bts smut #jungkook blurb

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norristrii · 25 days ago

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I KNOW LOVE (NOSTALGIA).

“We started off friends, how you end up here next to me?” — After eight years, your friendship with Lando felt the same—until the bet. Fake dating was just a game, but the feelings weren’t. Somewhere along the way, the truth surfaced. It was never just friendship.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. fluff, angst if u squint, 12,5k words, friends to lovers, fake dating, lando being menace, drinking alcohol, monaco gp 2025, pet names (sweetheart, darling, baby), a lot of teasing, possible grammar errors. PART ONE — NOSTALGIA.

music. I Know Love by Tate Mcrae ft. The Kid LAROI // Carry You Home by Alex Warren.

─── ONE MONTH LATER , may 2025

A MONTH PASSED, AND SOMEHOW, it felt like time had folded in on itself—like the years apart had shrunk, like the gap between then and now had quietly disappeared.

Nothing had changed, not really. Lando still remembered your favorite movies—the ones you had obsessively rewatched, the ones whose quotes you could recite without thinking, the ones that had always stayed the same. He still knew the exact spot where you were ticklish, still knew the food you ordered without needing to ask. And despite everything, despite all the time lost, despite all the ways life had pulled you both in opposite directions, it felt easy.

He was in your space just as often as you were in his, your things scattered across his apartment like they had always belonged there, his hoodies ending up in your wardrobe without either of you really noticing. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t awkward, wasn’t something you had to think about—it just happened, naturally, effortlessly, like the years apart had only been a long, quiet pause instead of a full stop.

And one day, you realized—you weren’t bitter anymore.

───

The soft hum of the song filled the space between you, slipping into the quiet like an old friend, like something familiar, something undeniably yours. It took only a second for recognition to flicker in Lando’s eyes—a glint of understanding, a knowing look, a memory shared in silence.

Your childhood song.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You sat perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching the way his expression shifts—how nostalgia washed over him in waves, how all the years apart disappeared with the simple melody floating through the air. He leaned against the counter opposite you, arms folded, head tilting just slightly, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

Then, without warning, he moved.

His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, his grip warm, steady, certain—a pull that sent you forward, off the counter, into his space, into the rhythm of something you both remember but haven’t shared in years. He lead effortlessly, far too serious for something so simple, his movements deliberate like he’s guiding you through a real dance, like this isn’t just a moment caught between laughter and history.

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathed, smiling despite yourself, despite the way he’s taking every step too seriously, despite the way he spun you with exaggerated precision, despite the way the years apart seem to dissolve between the music, between the movement, between him and you.

Lando grinned, eyes bright, alive, holding onto this moment like it’s something worth keeping. “You love it,” he teased, pulling you closer, his voice low, warm, familiar.

“That’s surprisingly romantic coming from someone with a reputation like yours,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you can stop them, teasing but undeniably true.

Because yeah—he was a player. Or at least, that’s what the headlines said. Articles filled with speculation, blurry photos, flirty interviews that never seemed to lead to anything serious. A reputation built on fleeting moments and effortless charm, something you had never fully questioned but had always noticed.

Lando let out a scoff, shaking his head with that infuriating, reckless grin—the one that somehow manages to be both self-assured and unapologetically smug. “Please,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I could make anyone believe I’m the perfect boyfriend.”

Your brows lifted slightly, unimpressed. “No one would buy that.”

His smirk deepened—too confident, too knowing, too dangerous in the way only he can be. “Everyone would buy that.” He paused for half a second, just enough for the tension to shift, just enough for a challenge to settle between you. “You wanna bet?”

Your smirk deepened, curiosity flickering behind your eyes as you leaned in just slightly, watching the way Lando held himself—unshaken, confident, like he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Fake dating?” you echoed, pretending to consider it, dragging the words out just enough to tease him. “That’s what you’re suggesting?”

His grin only widened, too reckless, too assured, like he had already won before the game had even started. “Give me this weekend,” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, amusement dancing in his expression. “By the end of it, the whole world will think I am the best boyfriend to ever exist.”

There was something entirely too entertaining about the idea—about the way he said it so easily, about the way he looked at you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part?

You were so in.

The list had come together surprisingly fast—far too fast, actually, considering the absurdity of the situation. You sat across from Lando, leaning over the kitchen island, scribbling rules onto a scrap piece of paper like this was some kind of business deal rather than a completely ridiculous, impulsive plan.

Lando, of course, was fully relaxed, arms folded, eyes bright with amusement as he watched you work, barely contributing, barely questioning anything you laid out. It was almost infuriating, how at ease he was about this.

Rule one: In public, yes—but absolutely no couple behavior when no one’s watching. This is a performance, not real life.

He smirked at that, drumming his fingers against the counter. “So no cute little moments when we’re alone?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

Rule two: PDA is allowed, but keep it minimal. Holding hands? Fine. Kissing? Only if necessary.

Lando hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Define ‘necessary.’”

“If someone asks us to prove it,” you reply instantly, not playing his game.

His grin widened, far too entertained. “Dramatic, public make-outs? Noted.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I said.”

Rule three: No backing out. Once you commit, you see it through. No half-measures, no suddenly deciding it’s too much.

Lando looked far too smug for his own good. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I never back out of a bet.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at that. Ignored it.

Rule four: Don’t make it weird. Light touches are fine, casual affection is fine—but don’t, under any circumstance, make it weird.

“Me?” Lando said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was offended. “Making things weird? Never.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

And finally, rule five—the most important one: No real feelings. Absolutely forbidden.

A moment of silence stretched between you as the final rule sat there, bold, unchallenged, unchangeable.

Lando tapped his fingers against the counter once, twice, then flashed you that too-sure, too-effortless grin. “Easy.”

Just three days to survive.

─── friday: day one

The chaos of the Monaco Grand Prix was already buzzing outside—the hum of engines, the flurry of people moving through the paddock, the cameras waiting to capture every moment. This was the race, the crown jewel of the season, the one weekend where everything felt bigger, louder, more intense.

Lando’s navy blue McLaren pulled to a stop, the sleek lines of the car reflecting the early morning sunlight. The moment his hand hovered over the door handle, you stopped him—a quick, pointed reminder before stepping into the world that would now be watching.

“Fake dating, Lando. Fake.” Your voice was firm, low enough that only he could hear, warning him, setting the boundary before the cameras were on you, before the articles wrote their own versions of whatever this weekend would bring.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, lips twitching slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he stepped out onto the pavement.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped out, rounding the car with the kind of effortless confidence that came far too naturally to him. And when he opened the door for you, his hand was already waiting, palm up, steady, offering something that felt far too practiced to be anything but convincing.

“Yeah, fake,” he said, looking at you with that infuriating, too-sure smirk. “But real enough to make them believe it.”

The paddock was alive with movement—voices overlapping, the hum of engines in the background, cameras flashing, catching every moment. And right in the middle of it, you and Lando, walking hand in hand, stepping into a world that felt a little too aware of you.

You could feel the glances, the curiosity settling into the air, the way people stole quick looks before refocusing on whatever they were supposed to be doing. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there—the quiet stir of speculation, the beginnings of a story that hadn’t existed yesterday but suddenly seemed like something worth paying attention to.

Lando didn’t react, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even acknowledge the shift around you. He moved easily, the way he always did, his grip on your hand relaxed but firm guiding you through the maze of the paddock like he’d done a thousand times before—except this time, you were a part of it.

Then, just as effortlessly, he stepped into the McLaren garage, slipping into conversations with engineers, exchanging greetings like it was just another day. You barely had time to process it, barely had time to prepare before—

“This is my girlfriend, Y/n.”

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t exaggerated. It was smooth, delivered with zero hesitation, like it was simply fact, like it was something real.

“So you’re the Y/n?” one of the engineers asked, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. You blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. The Y/n?

“The one he’s always talking about.”

Your stomach flipped. Always? Lando talked about you? To them? You turned to him instinctively, searching for some kind of reaction—some kind of explanation. But, of course, he was already smirking, leaning back with that effortless confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was actually unfazed or just pretending to be.

“Oh, yeah,” he said casually, too smoothly, like he had been waiting for this conversation. “They probably got sick of hearing about you ages ago.”

The engineer chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not that bad.”

You went to his driver room with him, Lando moved with zero hesitation, pulling off his shirt and swapping it for the fireproof layer beneath his race suit like it was second nature—like you weren’t even there, like this wasn’t something to think twice about. And maybe that was the craziest part. Because for him, it was normal.

Unbothered, effortless, as if he had always changed in front of you, as if the past years apart had never actually happened. You leaned back against the wall, watching as he tugged up the sleeves of his suit, adjusting them, fixing the collar, smoothing out the fabric before finally meeting your gaze again—grinning like he had already planned whatever came next.

He stepped closer, voice too damn smug, too playful, too knowing, the kind of confidence that made it impossible to tell whether he was being serious or just testing his limits. The air between you shifted, charged with the same unspoken tension that had been building since the moment you set foot in the paddock. Then, with that infuriating smirk, he leaned in just a little too much, just enough for you to know exactly what was coming before he even said it.

“Kiss for good luck?” His tone was casual, teasing, like this wasn’t an outrageous request—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You scoffed, shaking your head, but the way your lips twitched betrayed you. You were already smiling, already seeing through the act, already ready to shut it down before he got even more confident. “Don’t even try.” Your hand moved without hesitation, pushing his face away, forcing him to stumble back a step, laughter bubbling between the both of you.

He recovered quickly—he always did—but the grin on his face was even wider now, even more annoyingly smug than before, like he had already won something. Because that was Lando. All confidence, all recklessness, all charm. And Monaco had only just begun.

You stood at the edge of the garage, arms loosely crossed, watching as Lando settled into his car with the same effortless confidence he always carried. There was no hesitation in his movements—just precision, familiarity, a routine he could probably do with his eyes closed.

A light nudge against your arm pulled you from your thoughts, one of the engineers grinning as he tilted his head toward you. “Nervous for your man?”

Your stomach flipped at the wording—your man—like the whole thing had already been bought into, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. They believed it.

You blinked but recovered quickly, shaking off the moment, keeping your expression cool, unreadable. “I’m not,” you said, voice steady, effortless. “He knows what he’s doing.”

The session was about to start, tension hanging in the air like the calm before a storm. Lando sat settled in his car, fingers flexing briefly around the steering wheel, every movement deliberate, controlled. You stepped closer, watching as he lifted his helmet, the smirk already tugging at his lips before he even spoke.

“Last chance for that good luck kiss,” he murmured, voice laced with teasing as he slowly pulled the helmet over his head, visor still slightly raised, leaving just enough room for you to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes.

You didn’t hesitate, didn’t entertain it, just exhaled, shaking your head with a small laugh before reaching out and tapping the top of his helmet. “Go drive your car, Norris,” you said, your tone light but firm, cutting off whatever ridiculous response he was about to throw back.

He let out a muffled chuckle through the layers of his gear, adjusting his grip on the wheel, focus shifting as the reality of the session kicked in. And just like that, with a flick of his wrist and the hum of the engine, he rolled forward—onto the track, onto the moment where everything else disappeared except for the race ahead.

───

The sky had deepened into shades of orange and pink, Monaco settling into the golden haze of early evening. The day had slipped by faster than you realized—two practice sessions, hours spent lingering around the paddock, conversations blending into the hum of engines and movement. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until now, until the weight of the day finally began to settle in your bones.

You sat back in the chair, watching as Lando packed up his things, casual, effortless, like this was just another weekend. But then—without thinking, without any hesitation—he reached for your hand as he spoke, fingers brushing against yours, slipping into the space that had already begun to feel too familiar.

“We can go," he said, voice easy, steady, like nothing about the moment was unusual. And even more instinctively—almost like muscle memory—you let your fingers intertwine with his.

The realization hit after—after the warmth, after the quiet certainty of it, after the way neither of you acknowledged it outright. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t exaggerated. It was just natural.

The quiet ease between you should’ve felt normal, should’ve just been part of the act, but Lando? He wasn’t going to let it be simple.

As you both stepped further out of the paddock, fingers still loosely intertwined, he let out a casual hum, glancing over at you with way too much amusement in his eyes. “You’re getting really comfortable with this whole girlfriend thing,” he mused, the teasing lacing his tone clear as day.

You scoffed, giving his hand a pointed squeeze before swiftly pulling yours away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His grin widened instantly, like he had already won, like your reaction had just confirmed something for him. “You literally held my hand back,” he pointed out, tapping his temple as if he had just cracked some kind of secret formula. “Instinctively. No hesitation. Just—bam—right into it.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping ahead slightly to avoid the smugness radiating off of him. “Maybe I was just making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet,” you shot back.

Lando laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, shaking his head as he jogged a few steps to catch up. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The car hummed steadily as Monaco’s streets blurred past, the golden glow of streetlights flickering against the windshield, painting the inside of the car in fleeting shades of warm amber. The city had settled into the quiet hum of evening, the rush of the paddock fading into memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of the drive. It should’ve been a moment to breathe, to regroup, to let the day settle.

But then—his hand.

It landed on your thigh like it was meant to be there, like there wasn’t a single reason to hesitate, like he hadn’t just obliterated every rule you’d barely had time to set. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was casual, deliberate, the warmth of his palm sinking through the fabric of your pants, sending a sharp jolt of awareness straight through you.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs before your brain could fully process the moment, before you could convince yourself it wasn’t a big deal. But it was—because this was the first day, because you weren’t supposed to blur the lines, because this wasn’t supposed to feel as natural as it did.

You turned toward him, brows furrowing, voice steady but pointed. “Lando.”

His smirk was already forming, the kind that told you he knew exactly what he was doing, that this wasn’t some absentminded action, that this was intentional.

“You’re breaking a rule,” you muttered, pulse uneven, fingers twitching by your side.

He glanced at you briefly, way too unbothered, before shifting his grip slightly on the wheel. And then—the audacity—he tilted his head, smirk deepening like he had already won whatever game had just begun.

“I’m not if you’re enjoying it too.”

The words sent heat straight to your cheeks, a reaction you despised, because there was zero chance he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t already clocked the way your breath hitched, the way you hadn’t immediately shoved his hand away.

You scoffed, finally snapping out of it, finally pushing his hand off your thigh with more force than necessary, shoving his arm like you were undoing whatever had just happened.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he settled both hands back onto the wheel, the smugness radiating off of him like he was thrilled with himself. “Alright, alright,” he mused, completely unfazed. “I’ll behave.”

The exhaustion from the day had settled deep in your bones, the weight of it pressing down as you stepped inside—his home, again. It wasn’t unfamiliar anymore. The way the lights spilled across the sleek countertops, the hum of the city just barely audible through the windows, the lingering scent of whatever ridiculous air freshener he had decided was the best option—it all felt far too normal now.

Lando wasted no time—dramatically collapsing onto the couch like he had just survived something traumatic, despite the fact that his day had mostly consisted of doing exactly what he loved. His limbs sprawled out lazily, head tilting back, an exaggerated sigh leaving his lips before he finally glanced over at you.

“I need cuddles from my girlfriend after a day like this,” he announced, stretching his arms toward you, voice half pleading, half teasing, the corners of his mouth twitching in barely restrained amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing instinctively. “You’re still playing it?”

The amusement sharpened in his gaze, flickering bright beneath the soft glow of the living room lights. He wasn’t just playing it. He was thriving off of it.

“We’re off duty now,” you reminded him, voice firm, pointed, like you were establishing a clear boundary—like you were reminding him that this had limits, that it wasn’t supposed to bleed into moments like this.

But Lando? Completely unfazed.

“I’m committed to the role of your perfect boyfriend,” he mused, settling deeper into the cushions, fully embracing his own ridiculousness “That’s what a lot of actors do.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, because of course he was framing it like this—as method acting, as if that excused the fact that he wasn’t dropping the act when he should have.

“I think you just like having an excuse to annoy me,” you muttered, eyeing him suspiciously, refusing to give in, refusing to entertain the idea of indulging him.

His grin widened, eyes glinting with pure mischief. “Maybe.”

Lando didn’t move from his spot on the couch, arms still outstretched, still fully committed to the bit, eyes watching you like he was waiting for you to give in.

You didn’t.

Instead, you crossed your arms, narrowing your gaze slightly, exhaling slowly. “You do realize you’re taking this way too seriously, right?”

He tilted his head, considering that for all of two seconds before smirking again. “Or, maybe, I’m just really dedicated to my role.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, shaking your head. “It’s fake, Norris.”

Lando gasped, hand clutching his chest like you had just mortally wounded him. “Darling,” he breathed, shaking his head, mock betrayal dripping from every syllable, “Don’t say such things. It’ll ruin my motivation.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way his lips twitched, the way pure amusement flickered behind his gaze, told you exactly what he was doing—pushing, testing, seeing how far he could take this before you finally caved.

But you weren’t losing this round.

“You need motivation?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Every great actor does.”

You scoffed, walking past him, pointedly ignoring the way his arms were still stretched toward you. “Then maybe go watch some method acting interviews instead of begging for cuddles.”

─── saturday: day two

The energy in the McLaren garage had become familiar now—less overwhelming, more comfortable, like you had started settling into the rhythm of it, the movement, the people. The engineers and mechanics no longer glanced at you with the casual curiosity of someone new; instead, they greeted you like you belonged there, like you had always been part of this world. Lando had mentioned it in passing the day before—how quickly you had blended in—but you hadn’t thought much of it until now, standing in the middle of it all, watching the final preparations unfold before qualifying.

Lando was focused, in full race mode, his demeanor shifting the moment he settled into pre-session rituals. His gloves tightened around his fingers as he flexed them, his visor propped up slightly as he scanned the monitors, listening to the soft murmur of his engineers running through the final details. He had been teasing, pushing the boundaries, finding every possible way to turn this into something more than just pretend. And if he could do it—if he could toe the line without hesitation—then so could you.

So, without warning, without thinking twice, you called for him. “Come here.” And the second the words left your lips, he obeyed, instantly, without hesitation, like it was instinct, like there wasn’t even a moment of questioning it. He stepped toward you, brows lifting slightly, almost amused, like he was waiting for whatever tease you had planned—but there was no tease. No build-up. No warning. Just action.

Your lips pressed against his, firm, decisive, deliberate, and for half a second, you felt him freeze—caught off guard. But only for that. Just half a second before he recovered, before he responded without hesitation, before he got away with it like he always did. His lips moved against yours with a practiced ease, like he had already anticipated how this was supposed to go, like he had already mastered playing this game. But this wasn’t just about the act anymore. At least—not to you.

You pulled away slowly, steady, keeping your expression unreadable as you exhaled, as you let the moment settle between you. “Good luck, baby.” The words left your lips with the same teasing confidence he had used so many times before—except now, you were the one in control. You were the one shifting the rules. You were the one pushing the boundaries.

His gaze lingered, flickering with something unreadable, something that wasn’t entirely just amusement, something more complicated. And that was the real problem. Because while Lando had spent the last two days playing games, teasing, testing, pushing—there was one crucial difference between you. You weren’t sure if any of this was real or fake.

Lando lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes flickering with something undefined, something you couldn’t quite name. But then—like always—he recovered.

A slow, lazy smirk spread across his lips as he tilted his head slightly, like he was studying you, like he was dissecting the moment for every possible meaning. “Didn’t realize we were taking it to that level,” he murmured, voice just light enough to sound playful, but just sharp enough to suggest something deeper.

You shrugged, crossing your arms as the faint hum of the garage buzzed around you, voices calling out final adjustments, the tension of qualifying thick in the air. “Figured you needed the full boyfriend experience,” you mused, the edge of amusement curling around your words. “Besides, that’s how we do it, right?”

His smirk didn’t waver, but his gaze held yours—just slightly longer than it should have. Just long enough to make something settle in your chest.

“Right.”

The single word carried weight, wrapped itself around the space between you, settled into the air before he finally—finally—stepped back, tugging at his gloves, rolling his shoulders, slipping back into race mode.

“Guess I better win now,” he said casually, like the moment hadn’t just shifted something irreversibly, like none of it mattered more than the seconds ticking down to qualifying.

And dear God, that man set whole new track record a hour later.

The air around the McLaren garage was thick with energy, alive in a way that only happened when history had just been made. Engineers still stood frozen in front of monitors, eyes flickering over numbers that didn’t seem real, mechanics exchanged looks that held a mix of pride and awe, and team members clapped backs, shook hands, embraced like they had just pulled off something impossible. The roar of celebration spilled beyond the barriers, past the podium setup, past the paddock, into the entire racing world, because today—today, Lando Norris had done something unforgettable.

But through the chaos, through the wave of victory that swept over McLaren like an unstoppable force, he ran straight to you.

It wasn’t measured. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t wrapped in hesitation or second-guessing. It was pure instinct—fast, decisive, undeniable. His suit was still warm, damp with sweat, his body humming with the adrenaline he hadn’t come down from yet, and the second his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, holding you tight, it was impossible not to feel the sheer gravity of what had just happened.

His heartbeat was rapid, pounding against your own as the weight of the moment settled between you, as everything—the lap, the record, the significance of it all—pressed into your skin, wrapped around you like something you weren’t meant to forget.

“You are insane,” you muttered, voice barely audible over the cheers surrounding you, breath catching, arms curling around his back. Your grip tightened slightly, fingers clutching the fabric of his race suit, grounding yourself against the sheer scale of it all.

Lando pulled back just slightly, enough for his eyes to meet yours, his grin stretched wide, bright, undeniably victorious, the spark of triumph burning in his gaze. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but he was thriving, fully alive, standing there like he had just conquered everything.

“Fastest man in Monaco, baby,” he declared, voice charged, thrumming with adrenaline, so smug, but somehow—somehow—more real, more significant than ever before. His grip on you hadn’t loosened, not yet, not even as reporters hovered nearby, cameras flashing, microphones extending toward the newly crowned record-breaker.

And without thinking, without measuring your words, without checking if this was too far, the phrase slipped out—so natural, so easy, too easy.

“I love—”

The realization hit instantly, the weight of the words pressing down, and you pivoted quickly, mid-sentence, pulse hammering against your ribs. “I’m proud,” you corrected, shifting just enough to mask the slip, keeping your voice steady, controlled, pretending like it hadn’t happened.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something flickered, something sharp, something you couldn’t quite read. His grip remained firm, his body still angled toward you, and though the podium ceremony was waiting, though interviews and celebrations were lined up, though the world was watching—he didn’t move.

The words barely reached you, his voice just a breath of sound against the chaos around you, but they landed sharply, unmistakably.

“I heard that.”

───

The intensity of the celebrations had finally settled into something quieter, something softer, but the energy of the victory still lingered in the air, wrapping around you both like it wasn’t quite ready to fade. Monaco had witnessed history today—McLaren had witnessed history today—and as the night stretched on, it was clear that no one wanted it to end just yet.

The podium had come and gone, the champagne had been spilled, and now, the final act of the night was unfolding: a team dinner, a moment to revel in what had just been achieved, one last chance to soak in the sheer gravity of setting a new track record in one of the most prestigious circuits in Formula 1.

Back at the apartment, you moved quickly, stripping away the remnants of the race weekend, replacing them with something sleeker, something more refined, something that suited the occasion.

Your mind was a whirlwind, flickering between thoughts too quickly to grasp—the record, the podium, the celebration, the kiss, the weight of Lando’s touch, the way something had shifted between you today. You hadn’t had time to process any of it yet—not fully—but the echoes of each moment still rang in the back of your mind, still lived in the spaces between each breath.

Now, standing by the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, you felt his presence—strong, grounding, undeniably familiar. Lando’s arm was draped easily over your shoulders, his grip loose but firm, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of your dress, like the contact was thoughtless, instinctive. Maybe before today, it had been just that—just part of the act, just effortless banter, just teasing at the edge of something playful. But now? Now, you weren’t sure.

Tilting your head slightly, you glanced up at him, your voice carrying a teasing edge, but also something else—something that wasn’t quite light, wasn’t quite casual. “Don’t you think that celebration was too much?”

Lando chuckled, his body shifting slightly, adjusting his hold but not letting go, eyes flickering down toward you with amusement—predictable amusement, but something beneath it felt different.

“Baby, I just set a new record in Monaco,” he declared, tone confident, smooth, the smirk slipping effortlessly into place. “So no, I don’t think so.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head slightly. “And the kiss?”

There was the briefest hesitation, something unspoken curling at the edges of his expression. But before you could press him, before you could dissect the pause—he answered, simple, effortless.

“I was excited.”

The elevator doors slid open before you could respond, before the moment could linger too long, before you could ask the question you weren’t sure you wanted an answer to yet. The moment was broken—interrupted—but the thought remained, lingering in the back of your mind, refusing to let go.

Inside the apartment, Lando moved quickly—too quickly—changing into something equally polished but effortless in the way he always carried himself. Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, fingers adjusting the fabric of your dress, smoothing over edges, trying to focus, trying to ground yourself in something other than the thoughts still spinning in your head.

Behind you, sprawled across the bed like he had no plans to move just yet, Lando lay there, watching you, gaze unwavering,

locked onto you in a way that made the air in the room shift slightly. The attention was undeniable, heavy, lingering, and you felt it fully—in the reflection, in the silence, in the way your pulse didn’t quite keep steady.

“You’re staring, my dear,” you mused, smirking into the mirror, your voice light, controlled, teasing even—but your pulse betrayed you.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

“Can’t I admire my beautiful girlfriend?” His voice was low, smooth, charged, carrying something deeper beneath the teasing edge, something that made your breath catch just slightly.

Lando’s words hung in the air, settling between you like a challenge, like an invitation, like something neither of you were entirely ready to define.

You held his gaze in the mirror, the corners of your lips curling into something amused, something teasing, something controlled—but your pulse betrayed you, beating just a little too fast, racing just a little too wildly.

“You’re really committing to this, huh?” you mused, shifting slightly, adjusting the strap of your dress, still watching him, still very aware of how his eyes hadn’t moved from you.

Lando chuckled, stretching lazily on the bed, but his smirk didn’t fade, didn’t waver, didn’t lose its edge. “What, admiring my girlfriend?” His voice was light, easy, but the weight beneath it was impossible to ignore.

You scoffed, shaking your head, turning slightly to face him. “You know, the more you push it, the harder it’s going to be for you to backtrack later.”

He hummed, considering that, tilting his head slightly. “You think I want to backtrack?”

───

The dinner had been nothing short of seamless, laughter spilling across the room, glasses clinking in celebration, conversations flowing effortlessly. McLaren’s team had bought into the dynamic between the two of you without hesitation—no skepticism, no questioning glances, just complete acceptance. In their eyes, you and Lando fit perfectly, a seamless pair that seemed to work as naturally as any other couple in the paddock. And that should have been comforting. That should have been proof that the game was working.

But the problem was—it wasn’t a game anymore.

Now, walking through Monaco’s streets, hand in hand, the city lights casting golden reflections against the pavement, the reality of the situation settled heavily between you. Lando’s grip wasn’t just for show, wasn’t just effortless muscle memory, wasn’t just playing pretend. No, his fingers curled around yours like he wanted to hold on, like it was instinctive, like it wasn’t something he had to think about anymore. Maybe there had been rules once—lines drawn, boundaries set, reminders that this was all part of something bigger than just the two of you.

But those rules?

Gone. Completely fucked. Every single one of them.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cut through the quiet, casual but with a weight that hit you instantly.

“Y/n, you know you’re my type.”

You blinked, heart stumbling, stomach twisting into something dangerously close to real panic. No way. No way.

“I noticed, Lando,” you replied, keeping your voice even, steady, controlled—like you weren’t suddenly questioning everything.

But he shook his head, squeezing your hand just slightly, just enough for the warmth of his touch to register, just enough for you to realize that this wasn’t teasing, wasn’t banter, wasn’t pushing boundaries for the sake of the game.

This was real.

“No, I mean it, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, more deliberate, his gaze scanning your face, focused, serious, carrying an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You grew up into such a beautiful woman.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

You felt his gaze linger on you, felt the way his thumb absently brushed against your skin as he held your hand, as he walked beside you through the quiet streets of Monaco, effortlessly pulling old memories into the present like they had never faded.

“I still remember that little shy girl you were,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something gentle, something careful, something that made your stomach twist in a way you hadn’t expected.

You exhaled, slow, measured, letting the words settle, letting them sink into the space between you like something undeniably significant.

“That was a long time ago,” you finally muttered, tilting your head slightly, offering him a sideways glance, watching for whatever he wasn’t saying outright.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, squeezing your hand just enough for you to feel it. “Not that long,” he mused, his smirk flickering briefly before it softened, before it melted into something that wasn’t teasing anymore.

“I guess,” you finally muttered, glancing at him, eyes scanning his expression, searching for something—for confirmation, for meaning, for whatever the hell had just shifted in this dynamic that had once felt so predictable, so contained.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head slightly, and then—without hesitation, without pretense, without playing into the teasing rhythm you had both mastered—he said it.

“You were always beautiful.”

─── sunday: day three

The early morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel room, illuminating the undeniable reality of what had transpired in the past forty-eight hours. The energy of Monaco still lingered in the air, wrapping around the space between you both, pulling every moment from yesterday into sharp focus—the victory, the celebrations, the way things between you had shifted so irreversibly.

You stretched slightly, sinking deeper into the plush pillows, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your limbs, your thoughts slowly piecing together as the morning settled. But even through the haze of waking up, you felt it—his presence, the way Lando’s body rested beside yours, not hurried, not distant, not pretending that the closeness was something either of you needed to second-guess anymore.

And then, there was him—already awake, already invested in his phone, brows furrowed in that unmistakable way that meant he had discovered something worth dissecting. His focus was sharp, unwavering, and you couldn’t help but observe him for a moment, taking in the way his expression flickered through amusement and intrigue, the way he barely reacted to your movements as you shifted closer.

Finally, your voice broke the comfortable silence, soft, still tinged with sleep, but laced with curiosity. “What’s going on, baby?”

The term of endearment slipped out effortlessly, smoothly, like it had always been part of your vocabulary with him—like it wasn’t something you even thought about anymore.

Lando barely looked up, his grip on the phone firm, still immersed in whatever he was reading, his attention divided between scrolling through articles and listening to you. Then, with the simplest motion, he handed his phone over, lips curling into something amused but undeniably invested.

“Look at these articles,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, eyes flickering back toward you as you took the device. “We are everywhere.”

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you scrolled through the articles, headlines spilling across the screen in bold, dramatic fonts—each one dissecting every single detail of yesterday, of the celebrations, of the way the two of you had looked at each other like no one else mattered.

Lando chuckled beside you, stretching lazily, the smirk still resting on his lips, entirely unbothered by the attention, by the assumptions, by the fact that the internet had officially lost its mind over whatever the hell was happening between you.

“From fuckboy to wholesome boyfriend,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly, glancing over at him. “That’s quite the transformation, Norris.”

He grinned, eyes still flickering toward the screen, fully enjoying every moment of this chaos. “Well, I do pride myself on character development.”

You scoffed, scrolling further, your brows raising slightly as you read aloud another headline. “Lando Norris loves his girlfriend too much for love to be real.”

That earned a full laugh from him, deep and genuine, ringing through the hotel room, unfiltered in a way that made your chest tighten just slightly.

“You’re so fucked up falling for me, my dear,” you murmured, the words slipping out effortlessly, carrying that teasing edge—but this time, it wasn’t fully teasing.

It should have been simple—just another joke, just another throwaway comment to keep the rhythm going, to keep the tension wrapped neatly in the same playful game you had both mastered so well. But it didn’t feel like that anymore. Not when the air around you felt thicker, denser, charged with something undeniable. Not when Lando was watching you like this, like he was seeing something more, like he wasn’t about to laugh this off like every moment before it.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head just slightly, but the way he reacted—it wasn’t the usual deflection, wasn’t the expected brush-off, wasn’t him pulling back into safe territory. If anything, it was confirmation, quiet but certain, settling into the space between you with weight.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, smooth, deliberate—undeniably real.

───

The paddock was alive with movement—mechanics darting from one side of the garage to the other, voices overlapping, data streaming across telemetry screens, the unmistakable hum of final race preparations filling the air. The energy was palpable, the kind of intensity that only race day could bring, where every second mattered, where every detail could be the difference between victory and disappointment.

But you and Lando? Utterly unbothered.

He sat casually on the counter, fingers lazily drumming against the smooth metal surface, his race suit hanging loosely around his frame, only partially zipped, the edges of his fireproof undershirt peeking through. There was no tension in his body, no hint of nerves, just that familiar ease—that infuriating confidence that made it seem like he had already won before the lights had even gone out.

“You should go,” you told him, nodding toward the car waiting in the garage, the vehicle that would soon carry him to the grid, to the battle, to the chaos that was about to unfold.

But Lando didn’t move.

Instead, he turned to look at you, his expression shifting, amusement glinting in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, just enough to tell you that he had already decided something before you even realized the conversation was happening.

“Not getting into that car without my good luck kiss.”

The words landed effortlessly, smooth, casual, like they had always belonged here, like this was just a normal part of his pre-race routine now.

Your breath hitched, just slightly, stomach twisting with something you weren’t quite ready to name, something that sat just beneath the surface of your amusement, something that made the air thicker between you.

You scoffed, shaking your head, crossing your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

Lando grinned, shifting slightly, feet swinging as he leaned back against the counter, completely at ease. “I’m serious.”

You arched a brow, stepping closer, tilting your head just slightly, watching him carefully. “Since when do you need a good luck kiss?”

His smirk widened just a little, and for a second, you could swear his gaze flickered toward your lips.

“Since now,” he said simply, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like this moment, this request, was completely normal—even though you both knew it wasn’t.

You knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t something Lando was going to let you forget.

For the rest of your life, he would bring it up at the most ridiculous moments, reminding you, teasing you, dragging it out for dramatic effect, making sure that no matter how much time passed, you’d still hear about this exact second when he finally got what he wanted.

So you kissed him.

Lips on lips, soft, deliberate, careful yet certain, the kind of kiss that settled deep, the kind that meant something, the kind neither of you could brush off anymore.

And that bastard?

He was enjoying every second of it.

His hand stayed firm on your waist, fingers curling just slightly, grounding you, keeping you close, like pulling away wasn’t even an option anymore.

When you finally parted—when the moment lingered, stretched between you like something irrevocable—his lips curled into that familiar smirk, lazy, satisfied, completely pleased with himself.

“Thank you, darling,” he murmured, voice low, edged with amusement, with something else entirely.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, knowing—without a doubt—that he was going to be insufferable about this for the rest of your life.

Lando stood before you, his race suit fully zipped, gloves secured, and helmet cradled between his hands. The usual pre-race energy buzzed around the garage—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, engineers scanning data, the hum of voices layered over the sound of engines roaring to life. Everything was moving fast, everything was precise, everyone had a job to do.

And yet—amidst all of that—he came to you.

“Is it good?” he asked, referring to the fit his helmet already sitting on his head. His voice was smooth, steady, but there was something underneath it, something unspoken, something that made you realize he wanted your reassurance more than he was willing to admit.

You didn’t hesitate.

With gentle hands, you reached for the collar of his suit, adjusting it just slightly, making sure everything sat perfectly. Your fingers brushed against the edges of his helmet, tilting it just right, securing it with the kind of precision that wasn’t just about racing—it was about him, about making sure he walked out onto that track with nothing on his mind except the drive.

“Perfect,” you murmured, the word carrying weight, carrying meaning, carrying something undeniably proud.

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching with something warm, something easy, something that told you this wasn’t just about the race anymore—this was about you, too.

───

Lando had always had a way of turning moments into something unforgettable, of making sure every victory, every achievement, felt bigger than just a race—and today was no exception.

Two hours later, he stood on the top step of the podium, his race suit clinging to him, still damp with sweat and adrenaline, his helmet long discarded, curls slightly tousled from the rush of celebration. The sun reflected off the trophy in his hands, casting shimmering highlights over the podium, catching on the beads of champagne that had started to drip onto the cool metal surface beneath his feet. He was at the center of it all, the cameras flashing, the crowd erupting, the emotion surging through the circuit like an unstoppable wave.

The champagne bottles sat idly, waiting for their turn, for the explosion of joy that would come as soon as the formalities ended. But now? Now, the moment belonged to him—the British anthem playing through the circuit, the crowd roaring, every camera, every fan, every voice locked onto the driver who had just dominated the race. His team stood beside him on the lower steps, hands clasped in triumph, their faces painted with the sheer joy of seeing their hard work turn into something real, something victorious.

And you? Standing beneath the podium once again, surrounded by his team, the sea of orange alive with pure exhilaration, shouts of triumph echoing in the air. The energy was infectious, buzzing in your chest, pushing through your veins, filling you with something electric. But none of it truly registered—not the voices, not the clapping, not the flashing cameras. It was all just background noise to the one person you were focused on.

Lando’s gaze swept over the crowd briefly, soaking in the scene, reveling in the energy, before his eyes found yours—steady, certain, glinting with something smug, something so undeniably him. The slow curl of his lips sent warmth spreading through your chest, a reaction you weren’t prepared to admit, and yet, there it was. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly the effect he had, exactly how this moment would settle into something neither of you could forget.

Then, effortlessly, he winked.

A smirk followed, stretching across his lips, settling into something infuriatingly triumphant, the kind of expression that said, I told you so without needing a single word. You could already hear the teasing that would come later, the way he would remind you of this moment, the way he would make sure it stayed with you longer than just today.

Your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest, a realization creeping up that you had been right earlier—he wasn’t getting into that car without his good luck kiss, and now? Now, he was standing up there, watching you from the top step, knowing, without a doubt, that it had worked.

The champagne sprayed across the podium, shimmering under the bright circuit lights, cascading down the suits of the top three drivers as they reveled in the moment, in the victory, in the culmination of everything that had brought them to this point. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a mixture of cheers, applause, and celebratory shouts that echoed across the circuit, wrapping itself around the podium like a living, breathing force. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with the kind of energy that only came with a moment like this—a victory earned, a dream realized, a legacy cemented in history.

Lando stood at the center of it all, completely unguarded, beaming, laughing as he turned the bottle in his hands, directing the spray toward his team below, toward the crowd, toward the chaos that had erupted around him. His eyes sparkled with something raw, something pure, something that hadn’t been clouded by doubt or pressure or expectation. It was just joy—unfiltered, unrestrained, the kind that made everything else disappear. The way he smiled, the way his laughter rang out, the way he held himself with that effortless confidence—it was something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

And that was when it hit you.

The tear slipped free, unplanned, unexpected, but undeniable. It wasn’t sadness, wasn’t regret—it was something deeper, something softer, something whole. Because watching him like this, seeing him in his moment, seeing him where he was always meant to be—it stirred something in you that you hadn’t fully processed before.

You had missed this version of him—the one who radiated joy, the one who didn’t overthink, the one who belonged here, on the top step of the most iconic race in the world. For so long, there had been questions, uncertainties, lingering thoughts about what could’ve been, what should’ve been. But now? Now, looking at him standing there, looking at the way victory settled around him so naturally, you realized something with absolute clarity.

Maybe, in some strange, bittersweet way, you were glad he had left all those years ago.

Because if he hadn’t—if things had unfolded any other way—he wouldn’t be standing here now. He wouldn’t be soaking in this moment, wouldn’t be gripping the trophy with hands that had fought so hard for it, wouldn’t be surrounded by the kind of triumph that had been years in the making.

And watching him up there, soaking in his moment, drenched in triumph, surrounded by everything he had worked for?

You wouldn’t change a single thing.

After the podium celebrations had settled, you found yourself tucked away in McLaren’s hospitality lounge, waiting for Lando to finish the rounds of interviews. The hum of conversation filled the space, mechanics and engineers drifting in and out, the scent of victory still lingering in the air.

With your phone in hand, you watched the interviews unfold, scrolling through clips as they surfaced, catching bits and pieces of his words between questions about tire strategy, race pace, and overtakes. But then—one particular question caught your attention.

“We’ve seen you and your girlfriend together in the paddock all weekend,” the reporter noted, voice smooth, curious, leaning in slightly. “Do you think she was the key to your success today?”

Your brows lifted slightly, interest piqued, your full attention now locked on the screen.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

His grin spread, easy and confident, amusement flickering in his eyes as he replied, “You mean my girlfriend was the key to my success?” He paused just slightly, enough to let the words settle before he nodded once, firm, certain. “Definitely. She’s my lucky charm.”

And just like that, your stomach twisted, a warmth settling deep in your chest—because he said it like he meant it.

The reporter’s question had been straightforward, part of the usual post-race inquiries about what contributed to Lando’s success, but the weight of his answer settled into something deeper—something personal, something real.

His smirk softened, the usual post-race adrenaline still coursing through him, but now edged with something sincere. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a shift—a quiet moment of recognition in his expression, as if he was fully aware of the gravity of what he was about to say. He exhaled slightly, rolling his shoulders back before speaking, his voice steady and undeniably certain.

"I'm glad my Y/n is here with me," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his gaze flickering toward the camera, as if the words weren’t just meant for the reporter or the audience—but for you, wherever you were, watching. "This win is for her."

The atmosphere in the room shifted just slightly, the laughter and chatter quieting for a beat, letting the words settle. His team, the journalists, the PR staff—they all carried on around him, but for that fleeting moment, none of them mattered.

Because it was about you.

And then, as if to cement the moment in history, as if to ensure you knew exactly what he meant, Lando’s smile widened, his fingers lifted in a small, casual wave, his expression holding that distinct mix of amusement and complete sincerity.

"I love you, baby," he added, voice light, but his gaze unwavering.

And somewhere—perhaps in the middle of the paddock, or tucked away in the McLaren lounge, or still watching through the glowing screen of your phone—you felt it.

The warmth.

It was ridiculous, really—how much he loved you. How much you lingered in his mind, how much the thought of you had settled into his bones like something he couldn’t shake, couldn’t ignore, couldn’t turn off even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to.

Not even a little.

Because there you were, always, in the back of his thoughts, in the quiet moments between races, in the adrenaline-fueled highs and the exhausted lows, in the way his hands absentmindedly reached for his phone just to see if you had messaged, even when he knew you hadn’t.

He was so fucked.

But then again—so were you.

Because for all the ways he thought about you, all the ways you ran through his mind like an unstoppable force—you were doing the exact same thing.

───

The music pulsed through the crowded room, a steady beat that seemed to sync with the rhythm of Monaco itself—an endless celebration, a city that never truly slept, especially not on a night like this. The race had come and gone, the results were final, but none of it mattered now. Here, in the heart of the victory party, the lines between triumph and defeat blurred into nothing.

Monaco was different from any other race on the calendar. Here, everyone celebrated. Whether they had stood on the podium, missed out by fractions of a second, or endured the brutal reality of a retirement, it didn’t matter. The atmosphere was infectious, drowning out thoughts of past regrets or future pressures, replacing them with nothing but laughter, music, and the electricity of the night.

And in the center of it all, there was you and Lando.

His hand found yours effortlessly, fingers curling around your wrist as he twirled you, spinning you into the sea of people before catching you again—firm, steady, his. His grip was easy, natural, and the way he pulled you back to him was completely unguarded, like holding onto you was as instinctive as breathing.

The flickering lights overhead bathed his features in golden hues, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw, illuminating the curve of his grin, the familiar spark in his eyes. He was glowing, alive, moving with an energy that wasn’t just post-race adrenaline—it was something else entirely. Something lighter. Something real.

And as the music swelled, as the world blurred around you, as his arms tightened around you just slightly, grounding you in this moment, in him, you realized something with absolute certainty.

This—this exact moment—was his favorite kind of win.

The music was loud, the air thick with celebration, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the night. Monaco had wrapped itself around you both, drawing you into the pulse of it, into the warmth, into the chaos that was somehow so perfectly right.

Lando’s hands were on you, strong and steady despite the way the champagne had settled into his veins, making everything feel just a little lighter, just a little easier, just a little too honest. His grip was firm around your waist as he swayed with you, his laughter bubbling up, uninhibited, raw, completely unfiltered.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice barely above the music, but close enough—close enough that it sank into you the way his touch did. “I think I might be a little bit in love with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head, because this was Lando—your Lando, messy and drunk and unbelievably obvious.

“A little bit?” you teased, tilting your head, amusement dancing in your tone.

His grip tightened as he pulled you in, so close you could see the way his pupils were blown wide, the way his expression softened just slightly, just enough to be real.

“Okay, fine,” he admitted, his voice lower now, heavier. “A lot Like, stupidly, annoyingly, completely, all-the-way in love with you.”

You didn’t have time to react before he spun you again, pulling you back just as fast, his grin unapologetic, his hands never leaving yours.

You shook your head, amusement flickering in your eyes, though the smile that tugged at your lips betrayed you. "You're drunk, Lando," you teased, brushing off the weight of his words, the confession woven into them.

But he wasn’t having it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his grip firm, his fingers pressing into your skin like he needed you to listen, like he needed you to believe him. His breath was warm against your cheek, his voice softer now, rougher, laced with something too real to be ignored.

“I mean it, Y/n."

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, lingering for half a second longer than they should have, like he was waiting for something—some kind of reaction, some kind of reassurance, some kind of anything that told him he wasn’t just saying this into the night.

His fingers curled slightly against your waist.

"I don’t want this to end."

Your stomach twisted, your pulse stuttering as the meaning settled between you, hanging in the space neither of you had dared to touch before. But still, you asked, because you had to, because you needed to hear him say it even though you already knew.

"What?"

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his hold tightening as he finally let the words fall.

"This," he murmured, his voice lower now, heavier. "The bet or whatever it is. Us."

You took his hand, fingers lacing through his without hesitation, and guided him away from the crowd, weaving past the swirling bodies, past the laughter, past the electricity of Monaco’s endless celebration. The music pulsed behind you, but the further you walked, the quieter it became, the lights dimming, the chaos settling into the background until it was just the two of you, standing in the shadowed corner of the venue.

He let you lead him, no resistance, no questions—just quiet curiosity, just the steady grip of his hand holding onto yours like he wasn’t willing to let go. And then you stopped, turning to face him, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart pounding, your thoughts tangled, every word you wanted to say sitting on the tip of your tongue but refusing to fall into place.

“I don’t know what’s real and what’s just pretending, Lan,” you finally admitted, your voice softer now, rawer, laced with something too heavy for the moment, something too real. You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against his, unable to look away, unable to pull back, unable to escape the way his gaze searched yours with that same intensity, the same depth, the same knowing. Because deep down, you already had your answer—you just wanted to hear him say it.

Lando’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker with hesitation or uncertainty. If anything, he looked like he had been waiting for this conversation, waiting for you to bring it up, waiting for the chance to say what had already been sitting between you for far too long.

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, grounding you, steadying you, keeping you present when your instinct begged you to run from whatever this was. “I don’t pretend anything since the first day, love,” he murmured, his voice carrying something firm yet gentle, something sure, something that left no room for doubt. The way he said it, the way the words fell effortlessly from his lips, sent something rushing through you—a realization, a truth, a confirmation of everything you had already known but refused to acknowledge.

Then, his thumb brushed against your skin, slow, deliberate, and he went further. “I mean, I want you to be mine,” he continued, his voice dropping just slightly, almost careful, as if it carried more weight than he knew how to hold.

His eyes searched yours again, not for permission, not for reassurance—just for the moment, just for you, just for the understanding that this wasn’t a joke, that this wasn’t something fleeting, that this wasn’t just part of the game. “Truly mine.”

Lando’s voice was lower now, rougher, heavy with something undeniable. The distance between you had disappeared, the warmth of him wrapping around you, drowning out the rest of the world, pressing into something real. His fingers curled against your waist, slow, deliberate, his grip not demanding but certain, like he was holding onto the truth of his words as much as he was holding onto you.

“I’ve never wanted someone so badly the way I want you, Y/n,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of doubt, any hint that you might pull away, might retreat into excuses, into hesitation.

The weight of the night pressed against your skin—the heat of Monaco’s endless celebration, the pulse of music vibrating through the walls, the distant roar of voices spilling over in laughter, in cheers, in pure adrenaline-fueled revelry. But none of it mattered. Not the party, not the race, not the noise—because here, in this quiet corner, tucked away from the chaos, it was just you and him.

Lando’s grip was firm, grounding you, steadying himself, his fingers curling against your waist like he was afraid the second he let go, this moment might slip away. His breath was uneven, his pupils blown wide, the remnants of champagne and excitement lingering in the way his chest rose and fell in shallow movements, in the way his lips parted slightly like he had more to say but wasn’t sure how to say it.

He wanted you. Needed you. Craved you in ways he hadn’t fully realized until now.

And you?

You were just as gone for him.

Everything—every single thing—had changed this weekend. What started as something simple, something playful, something undefined had shifted into this, into something so much heavier, so much more real than either of you had been prepared for. Every moment spent together had turned into something impossible to ignore, every fleeting glance now carried meaning, every touch lingered longer than it should.

All the years of pain, of hesitation, of uncertainty didn’t matter anymore.

He had changed. You had changed. But in a way, he was still the same. Still Lando, still the boy with the teasing smirk, with the wild energy, with the unfiltered laughter that had always drawn you in. But now, that same boy was standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world, like you were his like this moment meant more than any podium finish ever could.

Your chest tightened, breath shaky, fingers twitching slightly against his as you finally let the words slip, raw and completely unguarded.

“I’m yours, Lando.”

─── monday: the end ??

The headache was manageable. The weight pressing against your chest? Not so much.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room, painting everything in muted tones of reality that you weren’t entirely ready to face. The warmth of sleep still clung to your body, but it wasn’t enough to keep the creeping thoughts at bay. Not today. Not when everything felt different, when the ease of last night had been replaced with something heavier, something impossible to ignore.

Beside you, Lando stirred. Shirtless, tangled in the sheets, limbs sprawled across the bed like he hadn’t quite processed the morning yet, like he was still lost somewhere between last night’s celebration and the reality waiting outside these walls. His breathing was slow, steady, rhythmic in a way that should’ve been comforting—but instead, it gnawed at something inside you, pulling at the edges of a thought you weren’t quite ready to examine.

You could get used to this.

The sight of him, the warmth of him, the way everything about this felt natural, like it belonged. But at the same time, something inside you hesitated, wavered, pressed against the weight of knowing this wasn’t supposed to be real, wasn’t supposed to last.

You sighed, reaching for your phone, fingers fumbling across the screen as the device lit up, notifications flooding in like a wave crashing against the shore. And the second your browser opened, the world greeted you with stark reality.

Photos.

Everywhere.

You and Lando, caught in flashes, frozen in moments that weren’t meant to be dissected by the rest of the world, splashed across headlines with catchy phrases that barely scratched the surface of what really happened. But that wasn’t the worst part.

It was the interview.

It was the way he had said all the right things, played the perfect role, made everyone believe what they wanted to believe.

It was proof that the bet was over.

And that Lando had won.

He had convinced the world that he was the perfect boyfriend. Charming, devoted, unbelievably convincing. And maybe, just maybe, he had convinced you, too.

The thought twisted deep in your stomach, tangled in something uncomfortable, something terrifying, something you weren’t ready to unpack. Because if this was over—if this was all just part of the game, part of something meant to end—then what happened now?

Were you supposed to go back to being friends?

And if so…

Why did that feel like the last thing you wanted?

You moved slowly, almost too slowly, as if the weight pressing down on you made it harder to go through the motions. Packing your things should’ve been easy, mindless, routine—but instead, every item you folded, every piece of clothing you shoved into your bag felt heavier than it should. Like somehow, leaving this room, leaving him, leaving this entire weekend behind, was more than just the end of a bet.

Was it really over?

Was it supposed to be?

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fabric in your hands, thoughts swirling faster than you could process them. After everything—the teasing, the lingering touches, the way his gaze had held onto yours like it meant something, like it was more. After last night, after his confession, after the way he had needed you.

But maybe that was all it had been—a moment fueled by champagne and adrenaline, by the high of the night, by the fleeting rush of Monaco’s magic.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly, convincing yourself that it was just that. Just drunk words. Just impulse. Just Lando being Lando. Just something temporary—something that shouldn’t matter as much as it did.

Just as your fingers brushed against the door handle, a firm grip wrapped around your wrist, halting your movement, pulling you back before you could take that final step. The warmth of his touch was steady, solid, anchoring you to the moment before you could slip away from it. Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitching as his fingers tightened, not harshly, not demandingly, but deliberately—as if he knew that if he didn’t stop you now, you might never stop yourself.

“Where are you going?” Lando’s voice, rough from sleep, carried a quiet intensity, a gravity that settled in your chest, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready to acknowledge. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t making light of the situation. He was serious.

You swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching for something—an escape, an easy answer, anything that would make this moment less real. But nothing came. No excuses, no rehearsed responses, nothing to fill the space between you except the raw truth you had been trying to avoid since the second you woke up. “Home?” you answered, though it came out more like a question, uncertain, fragile, like the word didn’t belong to you anymore.

But Lando didn’t waver.

His grip tightened just slightly, his gaze steady, unwavering, knowing. There was no hesitation in his expression, no uncertainty in his stance, no doubt in the way he looked at you like he had already decided what this was, what this meant.

“But you are home,” he said, and the conviction in his voice hit something deep inside you, something you had tried so hard to ignore, something you weren’t sure you could fight anymore.

Because deep down, you knew the truth—you were home. After eight long years, after everything, after all the hesitation and uncertainty, you had finally found your way back. And it wasn’t just Monaco, wasn’t just the comfort of familiar places or the rush of the weekend—it was him. He was your home.

But admitting that felt too big, too terrifying, too final. So instead, you let the words slip out, sharp and deliberate, forcing a distance between you both before the moment swallowed you whole.

“You won the bet, remember?”

Lando’s expression shifted, the certainty in his eyes flickering just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His grip didn’t loosen, but something in his stance changed—a subtle hesitation, a brief flicker of something uncertain, something vulnerable.

“I don’t care about the bet,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, rougher, edged with something too real to be ignored.

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding in your chest, fingers twitching where his held onto yours. You wanted to believe him, wanted to lean into the warmth of his words, into the comfort of the truth they carried—but it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

“Lando…” you started, but he didn’t let you finish.

“I didn’t win anything,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. His fingers slid down to lace with yours, gripping tighter, like he needed you to understand—really understand. His lips parted, breath uneven, his gaze locked onto yours like he was afraid you were going to slip away, like if he let go, you would vanish completely. “Not if you walk out that door.”

And suddenly, the bet—the thing that had started all of this, the game that had set everything in motion—felt so insignificant compared to what this had become.

For eight years, you convinced yourself that losing him was inevitable—that people came and went, that feelings faded, that memories blurred into nothing more than passing thoughts that didn’t carry weight anymore. You had spent years learning how to live without him, how to ignore the way his name still tugged at something deep in your chest, how to pretend the absence didn’t feel so vast.

But standing here now, feeling the warmth of his grip against your wrist, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice, all of that fell apart. Because the truth was—you never really let him go.

“I let you go eight years ago,” Lando said, his voice low, rough around the edges, laced with something unshakable. His fingers curled tighter, grounding himself in the moment, in you, in everything that had come rushing back between you like time had never passed at all. “And I’m not letting that happen again.”

The words sat heavy between you, lingering in the space where doubt had once lived, where hesitation had once thrived, where every unspoken fear had kept you both apart for far too long. They pressed into the silence, into the quiet moment that felt too fragile, too raw, like any wrong movement might shatter the certainty building between you.

“I can’t lose you again, Y/n.”

But now?

Now, none of that mattered.

Because when he said it—when you felt it—it wasn’t just something fleeting, wasn’t just words tossed carelessly into the air. It was a truth, a choice, an impossible confession wrapped in quiet certainty, in undeniable finality. And that changed everything.

“I can’t lose you again,” he repeated, softer this time, voice dipping into something rough, something raw, something undeniable. The words were meant for you, meant to wrap around the air between you, meant to stay. He wasn’t just saying it for the sake of it—he needed you to hear it, needed you to understand that this wasn’t just impulse, wasn’t just adrenaline, wasn’t just the remnants of the night clinging to him.

He meant it.

And you did, too.

Because deep down, you felt the same.

You couldn’t lose him again. Not after eight years of silence. Not after everything. Not after the way this weekend had torn down every last wall between you, had stripped away the hesitations, had forced you to see what had been there all along.

Not when he was standing here, holding onto you, refusing to let go, refusing to let you slip away the way you had once before. Not when his fingers curled against your skin like he was terrified of losing this moment, of losing you, of losing everything all over again. Not when his presence swallowed you whole, when his warmth seeped into you, when every racing thought screeched to a halt under the weight of this moment, of him, of the realization that maybe—just maybe—this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The words sat on the edge of your tongue, lingering, heavy, tangled with years of emotions too vast to contain, too powerful to ignore. You had spent so long convincing yourself that time had changed things—that the anger, the frustration, the ache of his absence had chipped away at everything else, had left you with nothing more than resentment and a hollow space where love used to live.

But standing here, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around your wrist, seeing the way his eyes searched yours, the way he held onto you like he wasn’t willing to let go, everything you had buried came rushing back.

Because despite everything—despite the years apart, despite the walls you had built, despite the way you had once convinced yourself you could live without him—you still loved him.

And when the words finally escaped, they carried more weight than you ever thought possible.

“I love you, Norris.”

babsie radio ! Thank you for the positive feedback on nostalgia, I’m so glad you liked it as much as I did! I know you guys wanted slowburn but I just don’t know how to write it haha, but I tried, hope it’s slowburn enough and you’ll enjoy it <3

taglist ! @haniette @hazzasmunchkin @stilesks @freyathehuntress @fictionalfanatic123 @evilive

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yanderestarangel · 7 months ago

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♡˚₊‧⁺˖ headcanons arcane — sevika x reader

— tw: soft!dom sevika, fluff, wife sevika, soft sex, praise kink, biting kink, hexstrap, fingering, dirty talk, marriage, mommykink, oral fixation, afab reader, eat out, dp, vibrators, breedkink, smut, anal, sub!reader, no pronouns used.

♡⁠┊Sevika is a caring companion, and even though her behavior is different when she is Silco's henchwoman, she has a soft spot for you and the life you two have built together. It wasn’t easy for her to accept her feelings for you. In the beginning, you two were just friends with benefits, and Sevika only enjoyed the sex you had. She would get bored and think. "At least I don't have to pay for someone else at the brothel." She knew it was a horrible thought and was ashamed of having such a selfish mentality. This would be a secret she would keep forever and take to the grave—she would never hurt you by admitting what she thought before developing feelings.

♡⁠┊ As time went on, she gave in to the feelings that persistently warmed her heart and soul. Your smile was the first thing to make her blush—and she hadn’t even thought that was possible. She had always been so controlled and objective that it genuinely shocked her to feel the overwhelming need to have you by her side 24/7. Soon, the word "passion" echoed through her mind like a haunting melody. She found you more addictive than the nicotine that coursed through the cigarettes she smoked.

♡⁠┊Before long, what started as "friends with benefits" naturally evolved into "lovers."

♡⁠┊There was a Sevika before you and a Sevika after you. She had never been the kind of woman who worried about getting home or keeping track of dates. Her life revolved around late nights in the casino’s accounting department, playing poker, grabbing meals from nearby vendors, and caring little about commitments that didn’t involve Silco.

♡⁠┊But after you came into her life, she started making an effort to be an acceptable girlfriend. At first, the change in routine felt strange to her. The loud music she once thrived on was replaced by soft conversations with you about each other's day, accompanied by chaste smiles. She even found herself helping you in the kitchen—passing ingredients and stealing glances at you, looking so adorably domestic to her. Adorable as hell, she’d think, trying to hide the silly smile that crept onto her lips as you continued chatting about your day while she was at work.

♡⁠┊Everyone noticed how much the "big mama" had changed. She was still the tough, no-nonsense woman everyone knew, but there was a new spark to her—a contentment, as if she were finally 100% happy with herself. She began taking better care of herself, and though she wouldn’t admit it outright, she loved when you noticed the little changes she made. A new hairstyle, a fresh haircut, a different lipstick or gloss, or even a change in the eyeshadow she wore—your compliments made her day. "Do you like it? Thank you... I decided to look prettier for you, baby." she’d say with a soft smile, handing you a bouquet of your favorite roses before pulling you into a tight hug. She’d carry you inside, ready to spend hours talking with you, only for the evening to melt into passionate kisses on the couch.

♡⁠┊Sevika expresses her love through acts of service and heartfelt compliments. She’ll do anything to make you comfortable. Though she never imagined sharing her home with anyone, she started taking better care of the space for your sake. When you can’t handle the household chores, she steps in without hesitation—bringing you breakfast in bed and lingering for a moment to make sure you’re okay—"Let me know if you need anything; I’ll come running." she says protective, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead and giving you one last look before leaving the house. Her presence is felt throughout the streets in her actions and reputation, but no matter where she goes, her mind always drifts back to you.

♡⁠┊The marriage proposal came naturally to Sevika. You two had been living together for a while, and she knew without a doubt that you were her great love. At forty, she had no patience for games anymore—it was all or nothing. You were lying in bed when the moment came. "We've been together for a while, right? How about we make things official? Me, you, a nice wedding..." she began, her words a little hesitant as she reached into the drawer with her mechanical arm, pulling out a beautiful red velvet box. She opened it quickly, revealing two rose gold rings. She had carefully chosen a design that suited both of you, seeking help to find the perfect pair. In the end, the cost didn’t matter—it was worth every penny. "You know I love you more than anything. Will you marry me, angel face?" Sevika finally asked, her voice filled with sincerity as she held the ring engraved with her name and gently slipped it onto your finger. It was a simple proposal, shared in the intimacy of your bedroom on an ordinary weekday. Yet, for Sevika, it became an extraordinary moment—a day that would forever hold a sweet place in her heart, the day you said yes and accepted her as your wife.

♡⁠┊Your wedding was simple, just as Sevika had suggested. Money was tight, so she proposed a civil ceremony at the registry office, followed by a quiet picnic in the park where you could spend the day together. She wore a black suit, sharp yet understated, and happily let you make flower crowns for both of you to wear. Lying with her head resting on your thighs, she spoke softly about your future plans, weaving dreams of the life you’d build together. She promised that once your financial situation improved, she’d throw you a grand ceremony—regardless of whether you told her it wasn’t necessary.

♡⁠┊ "Don’t talk nonsense, sweetie. Just wait until I have some good money, okay? Mama's here will give you everything you deserve. Those weddings for rich people are really expensive." she’d say with determination, her voice firm yet tender. As you played with her hair, she smoked leisurely, her gaze alternating between the sky and you. "Just wait for the money to come in, okay? I promise things will get better for us, one day..." she murmured, exhaling smoke through her nose. Sevika didn’t know exactly when things would change for the better, but she held tightly to hope and faith. Until then, she gave you all the love and support she had, pure and unwavering. For her, it wasn’t about the money—it was about showing you, in every way she could, just how much you meant to her.

♡⁠┊And this romanticism transforms into touches of heat on your honeymoon. Sevika adores you as if you were a deity, laying you down on the bed and kissing every inch of your skin. She gently removes the clothes you wore at the wedding, whispering sweet words that send shivers through both of you: "I've waited so long for this, honey... I love you so much it hurts." She kisses your belly, trailing down to your intimacy, leaving soft kisses over your still-clothed pussy. Pushing aside the already damp fabric, she presses her nose against your clit.

♡⁠┊"I will always adore you. You are my world, my most precious thing in this life..." Her green eyes shine as they meet yours, and she carefully removes your panties, returning to kiss the inside of your thighs. Finally, her full lips meet your cunt, a hoarse grunt escaping her as she closes her eyes, savoring your taste. It doesn’t take long for her to lose herself in you, a comfortable heat blooming within her as you pull her hair and rub your hips against her face. Both of her hands hold you firmly in place while the older woman pushes her tongue into your hole, fucking you slowly and savoring every moment of your essence.

♡⁠┊She would slide two fingers inside you, making you feel every inch as they filled and caressed your spongy walls, drawing you tighter around her touch. "Do you want a third finger, darling? Are you that needy, huh? You're making me so proud... Taking me so well." she whispers with a teasing grin. When she adds a third finger, the sensation is overwhelming—you've never felt so full in your entire life. Her tongue lavishes attention on every inch of your bundle of nerves, her lips and tongue working in harmony to send waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your wife becomes utterly pussy drunk, grunting in excitement as she urges you to give her more of your juices, moaning for you like it’s her greatest pleasure. She doesn’t stop until she makes you squirt, her relentless mouth and fingers ensuring her face is soaked. "Fuck... Holy hell, my angel. You should see your face right now, you know?" she murmurs with satisfaction, wiping some of your wetness from her face with the back of her hand. Her fingers drip with your essence, the sight so erotic it leaves her wet and desperate to make you cum over and over, determined to keep you crying out for her all night long.

♡⁠┊She quickly searches for the strap-on she bought especially for that night—one designed with two attachments for double penetration. The second dildo was crafted for anal play, a vibrating device made of the same material as her mechanical arm. Sevika chose this because she didn’t want to use her arm directly on you, knowing its hard, metallic structure might hurt you. Instead, she always finds creative ways to surprise you, just like tonight.

Carefully, she prepares your body. Her skilled fingers, warm tongue, and plenty of lubricant ensure that both your holes are ready for her. Once you’re comfortable, she lines up the dual-function strap-on, slowly impaling you with precision and care. Her hips move in tandem with the vibrations from the anal dildo, creating an overwhelming wave of pleasure you’ve never felt before.

"Shit, baby, look at this—wet as fuck... You're so greedy, always asking for more. My fuck toy holes are never satisfied, huh?" she teases, her voice low and dripping with desire. She slides two fingers into your mouth, coaxing you to suck on them while she fucks you slowly, savoring every moment. Sevika holds back her own orgasm, her pussy aching and dripping between her muscular thighs as she watches you, beautifully open and writhing for her. Her restraint only heightens her desire, every movement and sound you make driving her wild as she focuses on bringing you to heights of unimaginable ecstasy.

♡⁠┊Sevika activated the function to release a hot liquid from the strap-on, similar to semen. It was a type of hot, translucent lubricant designed to stimulate you and feed her fantasies of shaping your body. "That's it... love, I want to get pregnant so much, you know? You're going to look so beautiful full of my cock. Moan for mommy, moan loudly." she moaned hoarsely, biting your shoulder and making you bite hers too. It was a fair exchange; you would mark her, and she would do the same. She slapped you hard on the ass, moving her hips back and forth quickly while holding your neck and joining your lips in a kiss that mixed your moans. Her breasts pressed against yours, making both your nipples hard as she went harder, finally making you squeeze the silicone cock as the hot artificial liquid rewarded you, leaking from your holes and leaving you dizzy with the specially made substance. "I love you so much... you are mine forever..." Sevika gasped, resting her head on your breasts, kissing the soft flesh and biting gently as she pulled out of you.

♡⁠┊After the mess, she will clean you up and give you a bath, along with herself, not letting you fall due to your legs being weak from the orgasm. She dresses you in one of her loose blouses and puts clean sheets on the bed, placing you to lie in her strong arms, giving you a kiss on the forehead, sighing, also tired, but satisfied. "Go to sleep, so when you wake up, I'll still be here to enjoy our honeymoon." Sevika promises, calming you down as she waits for you to fall asleep so she can rest peacefully. It was a small new beginning among so many others, but she swore to herself to always make you happy, and the moon was the witness to that, bathing the two of you in silver on that night of peace and love—everything you needed, everything she needed, and now, there was you."

★ ! yanderestarangel©

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orellazalonia · 1 month ago

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Tiny Winged Trouble

Summary: You’re only a few inches tall, full of sparkle and mischief. When SHIELD accidentally captures you in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: It was either mermaid reader or fairy reader. Fairy was easier to write soooo… Enjoy! Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You were caught in a jar.

A pickle jar, to be specific. It still smelled faintly of vinegar and dill, which you found personally offensive and not just because fairies are very sensitive to smell.

You were fluttering peacefully through the trees near the outskirts of New York when a group of shouting humans in dark armor leapt out from behind a bush and trapped you in what they called a “containment unit.” You didn’t know what SHIELD was, but their agents were very loud and very rough, and they didn’t even ask your name.

You sat cross-legged at the bottom of the jar, wings tucked in, arms folded across your chest, trying your best to look unimpressed.

And then he walked in. Tall, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, a man who practically radiated kindness and confusion in equal measure. Steve Rogers.

He approached the table with another man behind him, darker, quieter, haunted-eyed but alert watching everything. Bucky Barnes.

“I thought you said there was an artifact,” Steve said slowly, looking at the jar.

“It is,” The agent replied. “It talks.”

You gave the man your most dramatic eye roll.

Steve crouched beside the table, eyes soft, voice careful. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

You turned your head away and said nothing.

Bucky stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “Do fairies sulk?”

You didn’t like his tone not cruel, just skeptical. So you stuck your tongue out at him and turned invisible.

Bucky jumped slightly. “Okay. That answers that.”

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured, holding his hands up gently. “We’re not gonna hurt you, promise. You just surprised everyone, that’s all. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Still, you said nothing.

It wasn’t until someone walked by with a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie that you broke your silence. You reappeared instantly, pressed against the glass, eyes wide.

Steve blinked, then laughed softly. “You want one of those?”

You nodded furiously.

Five minutes later, the jar was opened and you bolted straight onto Steve’s shoulder, snatched the cookie chunk he offered, and curled into the crook of his neck like you’d always lived there.

You stayed close after that. Not that they had much of a choice.

You built a tiny hammock out of tissues on their bookshelf. Braided thread into their laces. Tried to “fix” Bucky’s grumpy face with flower petals and got scolded, very softly, for it. You called Steve “Tree” because he was tall and smelled like sap. You called Bucky “Shadow” because he followed you around pretending he wasn’t trying to protect you.

You refused to be studied, refused to go back in any jars, and made it very clear you’d chosen your new home: right between two super soldiers who didn’t know how much they needed something as strange and sweet as you.

Sometimes, you’d land on Bucky’s shoulder when he couldn’t sleep, singing soft, wordless melodies that reminded him of something in the past. Sometimes, you’d perch on Steve’s chest as he read, snuggled into the fabric of his henley like a kitten with wings.

You were tiny, fragile, ridiculous, and completely, utterly theirs.

Even if you still left cookie crumbs everywhere.

Steve and Bucky discovered quickly how particular fairies could be. Or maybe it was just you.

See, they realized you were much more stubborn than they had anticipated which caused another one of your sulking moods. It started because you weren’t allowed to use the microwave. Which, in your defense, made no sense.

You weren’t trying to start another fire, that was an accident. And yes, maybe the leftover spaghetti had exploded the last time, but how were you supposed to know that foil was banned? You’d never had a microwave before. You grew up in moss and tree hollows and warm sunlight. Your diet was dew, nectar, and whatever you could barter from passing squirrels.

Now, you wanted popcorn, but Bucky had said no. He had looked down at you with his arms crossed and that stupid I care about you and you’re being ridiculous face, stating, “You almost fried the tower’s circuits last time. Find something from the fruit bowl if you’re hungry.”

You responded with the most dramatic gasp you could manage and fluttered up to the top of the cabinets, crossing your arms with a huff.

Steve tried to step in, intervening gently. “He’s not trying to upset you. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

You didn’t answer. You turned your back with your wings flaring slightly in righteous fairy fury, you refused to acknowledge either of them. Not even when Steve sighed and offered you a piece of shortbread. Not even when Bucky muttered something like “She’s sulking again, isn’t she?”

You remained a furious little sparkle, curled into a puffball of wings and pouting.

Hours passed. You still refused to come down.

They tried tempting you with cookies, with your favorite mug of rose petal tea, with one of Steve’s socks (which you always stole to use as a blanket).

Nothing. You were mad. And fairies, though small, are very good at holding grudges.

By the time night fell, you were still wedged behind a cereal box, curled into a mopey heap. And then… you heard a sound. Thump. It was a soft knock on the cabinet.

You peeked over the edge to find Bucky standing there, holding a tiny plate.

“I made popcorn. Not with the microwave. Just the pan.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t put salt on it. Figured you’d want to do that yourself.”

He set the plate down gently on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded.

“…You gonna stay up there forever?” He asked after a pause, tone mild.

You turned invisible.

He smirked. “Cute.”

Moments later, you reappeared beside the popcorn and began nibbling, still silent, still frowning.

Steve walked in just then and paused. “Is that a peace offering or a trap?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Bucky replied.

You muttered something under your breath.

Steve blinked. “Did she just call you a ‘grumpy tin soldier’?”

“I think so,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

You stuffed a piece of popcorn in your mouth and glared at them both, cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

Steve crouched beside the counter, eyes warm. “Hey, no one’s mad at you, sweetheart. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”

You looked away before mumbling, “I wanted to make it myself.”

And that was the truth of it. You wanted to prove you could. That you weren’t just tiny and delicate and fluttery. That you could be useful, capable. That you weren’t always the one needing help.

Bucky leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Next time… I’ll show you how.”

You peeked up at him, suspicious.

“You can hold the lid,” He said, tone serious. “That’s an important job.”

“…Fine,” You muttered.

Steve smiled gently, brushing your wing with one careful finger. “We’re proud of you, y’know.”

You huffed, still pretending you weren’t moved before climbing into Bucky’s hand, wings drooping slightly from exhaustion and popcorn forgotten. You curled into his palm with a sigh, tiny fingers gripping the edge of his sleeve.

Still sulking but not as much. And this time, you weren’t alone.

#stucky #stucky x reader #stucky fic #marvel fic #marvel x reader #steve rogers x bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader x steve rogers #bucky x reader #fairy!reader

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coffee-and-geto · 5 months ago

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DRIVE ME INSANE

“You drive me insane!” you snap, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Yeah, I’d say the feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow, his gaze dropping momentarily to the finger poking his chest as though he’s admiring your nerve.

pairing: CEO! satoru gojo! x f!reader

summary: cheating on your husband who couldn’t care less about you, satoru gojo — your fervent lover — has a nasty habit of showing up unannounced, threatening to ruin all the lies you’ve built for your husband so far by leaving all too visible marks after a hot session. however, after a very first argument with him, you’re determined to throw all your anger at him. but neither of you can ignore the tension between the two of you, especially when satoru is ready to take full responsibility.

warnings: +18 MDNI, smut, nsfw, cheating (the husband does it first but according to the timelaps it’s explained all along in this silly fic :p), CEO! gojo, lover! gojo, kinda slight toxic! gojo but he’s just desperately in love, angst, hurt/comfort, angry sex (i tried at least), sex (p in v), rough sex, possessive! gojo, overstimulation, unprotected sex, fingering (f! receiving), oral (f! receiving), he’s rich asf, fanart by @/kiyoro2 on X.

wc: 8,193

a/n: second warning before reading this fic if you didn’t read the warnings: you need to know that the husband in this story cheats on the reader BEFORE her. he’s cold, not loving her anymore and cheating on her BEFORE the actual timelaps but you’ll know it only while reading through, got it?

i don’t like writing about cheaters because they’re horrible but this is just a “revenge” not really said out oud (you have to guess). this is just a warning so some of you won’t catch me with hate/discourse or anything around it because i would have written an “unfair cheater” lol. enjoy reading, tho!

“Hey, darling.”

The sweet melody of Satoru’s voice rings to your ears, sending a crude shiver that runs down your entire spine. Among all of the several times you were alone, with your husband gone to work like a hooked on it, the white-hair man always shows up at your door when you do not expect it.

So, of course, you’re always on the lookout, nervously stealing glances here and there at the door, through the window to check the parking lot of your apartment block, or even your phone if the miracle of him sending you a message occurs. Despite the thousands of times you’ve warned Satoru, the latter doesn’t seem to listen to you.

Your lover goes into your apartment, a classy decoration without any warmth of household — just a simple apartment.

From the cooling fireplace, to the pristine couch and the American kitchen where you are doing the dishes, Satoru always comes to the ‘warmth’ he was craving at your place.

You.

As simple as that.

He’d ignore your groans when his arms find your waist to hug you from behind. And the only sensation of the flat of his torso pressing to your back quiets down every thought, every breath you’d take, every worry and word that would escape the barrier of your lips.

It was just him. Satoru Gojo.

Not your husband. But your lover.

Maybe a word that had a deeper meaning behind any kind of link.

And what hurt the most was the fact that you would crave calling any man that was yours ‘my husband’ in any situation to bring that pride up your chest.

Yet, the last time you’ve pronounced those exact words, was the day you met Satoru.

You were doing the queue for a coffee shop near his headquarters, but how would you know that detail, hm? It was fate, he thought when he approached the queue and ended up behind you as your eyes were glued to the menu card in order that you could choose your drink.

And yet again, he couldn’t help but feel intrigued by you. Your silhouette standing still, vaulted shoulders, a small frown on your lips portraying your hesitation and two beautiful and mesmerizing eyes...

Oh, Lord, that was the only detail from you that this poor man will never forget and will haunt him every single next second.

And, of course, Satoru Gojo isn’t that kind of man who lets fate dictate his life.

He was the only one distracting it. Wanted or not. Period.

“An Americano coffee?” he spoke with his lowest voice to not scare you. He stepped closer to you, his form hovering you as his face lowered to the height of your shoulder. “Thought pretty girls like you always chose espresso.”

Your head jerked up and your eyes met him for the first time.

“W-What…?”

The most unfair, charming smile tugged at Satoru's lips’ corners. “Why don’t you take an espresso? Is it because of the price, darling?” he cooed.

Unsettled by his more-than-strange intrusion, you replied without thinking twice, “Since when, espresso is better than americano?”

And, oh, dear, dear Lord, why were you testing him like this with such an angelic mortal like him? Couldn’t you let him live his life like it was meant to be? Why does this futile and innocent frown have such a ravishing effect on him? Tearing his heart apart, grabbing and stealing his breath to run away with it so he won’t be able to find any air but yours to use to survive in this old world?

“I don’t know. It’s more boring. Not elegant, and not fitting the vibe you give off, darling.” His blue eyes fell down on the ring around your finger, and his mind unconsciously prayed that you weren’t taken.

“It’s my husband’s favorite coffee,” you just responded like an irreversible sentence.

But Satoru didn’t let the situation get him down.

“Oh, so my pretty lady is taken? What a shame.” A little smirk spread his lips, and widened even more when he noticed how low was your affirmation. “I suppose he has bad taste in everything… but for women.”

A furious blush flustered your cheeks. “How dare you—”

“Yes, I dare, darling,” he almost hummed. “You really need someone to show you what is good coffee. Nothing but starting with that. What do you think?” he offers.

The queue moved on, and the chic café provided all the atmosphere of having a nice cup and a nice drink just to chat with anyone on a sidewalk seating area.

But, no, you were newly married. Your husband would be devastated that you’d let yourself be seduced by a complete stranger.

Although not so simple, considering how beautiful he was, with his perfect good looks, no one seemed to see anyone but him. And he couldn’t see anyone but you.

“So what, darling?” he insisted with a gentle tone. “Let me take your order and show you what coffee is.”

He pauses.

“If you may.”

The thought of letting him buy you a cup of coffee had obviously heightened your sense of unease and betrayal. But the memory of your husband leaving early in the morning without hello in your bed, his eternally neutral and unpleasant tone, his female co-workers leeching off him and all the effort you put into making your house feel like home haunts your mind.

With a resigned nod from you, Satoru almost jumped for joy and did a happy dance in front of the whole café.

How long had it been since he’d wanted to act like a child?

Satoru requested a small bottle-green round table on the sidewalk seating area, whose sunshade above unfurled like a fan protecting you from the bright sun of the day.

“By the way, I’m Satoru Gojo,” he introduced himself. He settled into the chair opposite you as the waiter left to take your orders.

You quickly introduced yourself. But the young albino didn’t fail to notice how lovely, humble and charming you were.

The perfect woman for him.

“I’m a CEO,” he added, maybe to impress you.

Surprise streaks your features. “Oh.”

He had expected more of a reaction from you, but you ended up disappointing him.

So he tried to restart the conversation to break the ice that had formed between you and him. He wasn’t one to usually go after people who were already taken. Yet, his instincts told him to stay with you. As if the north and south poles couldn’t help but attract each other, Satoru was slowly but surely drawn to you.

The orders were placed delicately on the table, and your lovely espresso cup, so exquisitely prepared, almost broke your heart at the thought of ruining its beauty by drinking it.

“This café serves the best coffee in town, you know. I come here often enough to say that with confidence, and also to notice that you didn’t know it,” he said, taking a sip from his own cup before propping his elbow on the glass table to rest his chin against his hand. ��Admit it, you walked in here by chance.”

You almost choked on your sip of espresso, startled by his perceptiveness.

“It’s written all over your face, darling,” he said with a grin.

Still reserved, a hint of embarrassment flushed your cheeks with a soft blush that Satoru could have died to kiss.

“So?” he changed the subject. “How’s the espresso?”

“Very good,” you mumbled, lifting your gaze to meet his. Then you hesitated to continue with your real thoughts. Would he get bored listening to you like your husband usually did? Would he cut you off to end what he might see as pointless chatter?

“Just very good?” His eternally sincere and attentive smile lingered on his lips. He was definitely ready to hear every word you had to say.

You took a small breath. “Actually, the espresso has a sweet vanilla aroma that gives it a smooth taste on the palate, lingering just enough to make you want more. The foam is also very pleasant because it’s neither thin nor too frothy. The texture is creamy and at the perfect temperature to avoid burning your tongue.” You let out the last breath that the whole monologue had cost you.

“In short, it’s perfect,” you added softly.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Satoru murmured, his eyes locked on yours as if they would never let go, haunting forever the memory of the moment you two met.

“Glad you like it, by the way.”

For a first meeting, it could have seemed trivial. When it was time for you to leave, Satoru found the courage to ask for your phone number. To your own surprise, you accepted without hesitation. His company was pleasant, after all. He listened to you without ever interrupting, and seemed genuinely interested in you. And as a bonus, he was easy on the eyes.

So, was it really surprising that you looked forward to your next meeting with him?

“It’s not a date,” you reassured yourself in front of your mirror while applying gloss and straightening your clothes to keep them spotless.

The second time you met, it was at the same café.

The same orders.

But with a little more joy.

And with every meeting, there were a little more laughs, more teasing, more good moments, fewer bad memories flying away, and your doubts fading into the tranquility that Satoru Gojo brought you.

He quickly became an excellent friend. As you started opening up more and more to him, he began to allow himself to give you advice, rolling his eyes approvingly during your ranting sessions about your husband, where, despite the pang in his heart, Satoru kept repeating that you deserved better.

And as time went by, your bond with him grew stronger. You didn’t feel so alone anymore. He always found time for you, even when he was busy at the office.

Your husband’s absence quickly became just a minor detail in your life.

Especially when Satoru started showering you with gifts you categorically refused. If it was a dress one time, the next it was a necklace of genuine pearls, or lunch at fancy restaurants you never thought you’d set foot in.

The guilt inevitably crept up on you from every angle.

Whether it was over the fact that Satoru’s devotion to you made you feel illegitimate in receiving so much from someone who wasn’t even your partner. Or your husband.

Was it betrayal?

You weren’t cheating on him.

You were just spending time with someone who made time for you.

How could one equate cheating with this friendship, right?

This question lingered until the day, during a dinner with Satoru, when he had stepped away for a few minutes to settle the bill, a young man approached your table, trying to flirt with you and convince you to end the evening at a nightclub his friend owned, where they’d be delighted to meet you along with the rest of their crew. With all due respect, you refused, despite the young man’s persistence.

And when Satoru returned to the table, he immediately sat beside you, his arm infuriatingly well-placed around your waist to keep you close.

“Can I help you? My wife seems tired; tell me what you need,” Satoru chimed in, his tone icy as he glared at the young man.

“You’re married?” the man choked out, his tone echoing the same shock you felt internally.

“Yes, I’m her husband. Isn’t it obvious?” he confirmed.

Later, in the chilling silence outside the restaurant, Satoru restrained himself from pulling you into a tight hug as the two of you walked down the street. You walked at a more reasonable distance from him, your chin lowered in guilt toward the ground.

The night sky was a deep navy blue that evening. The stars barely sparkled, and only the snow added a touch of brightness to the urban landscape, where the yellow and orange streetlights could never match the glitter in the sky.

“You alright?” Satoru asked softly, stealing a concerned glance at you.

“I’m… fine,” you muttered.

He couldn’t hear any more of that. “Hey, if this is about what I said earlier—”

“Who said it’s about that?” you snapped defensively. Suddenly, it felt like all the perfect moments had turned into nightmares.

“I didn’t mean to make you unco—” he began, but you cut him off again.

“Who said I was uncomfortable?” you bit out, your brows furrowing as if you couldn’t take any more. “It’s not like I feel like a cheater—”

“Don’t call yourself that. It’s him,” Satoru interrupted sharply, immediately grabbing your wrist to hold your hand. “It’s all his fault. So, please, don’t feel—”

“God, I’m a married woman, Satoru, for fuck’s sake!” You tried to pull your hand back, but Satoru held it tighter.

“And a woman who also deserves better than to feel bad for her shitty husband who’s probably cheating on her!” he fired back with the same intensity. “Do you even see what you’re losing with him, at least?”

“Where is this conversation going?” you asked, squinting. “What the fuck do you mean? For weeks now, you’ve been telling me I deserve ‘better’!”

The situation felt so wrong yet so right at the same time. But it was only in Satoru’s eyes, watching you with a worried crease between his brows, that the truth lingered.

Of course, he didn’t want to lose you.

“Because you do,” he mouthed.

“But with who?” you cried out in despair.

“Isn’t that obvious?” he whispered, echoing his earlier words.

Even though the two of you had stopped walking and now faced each other, the wintry wind continued to swirl around you, biting at your cheeks already burned by the cold, screaming the answer behind his words. Snowflakes tangled in your hair, scarf, and coat. On Satoru, it was different — the snowflakes melted into his hair, his nose and cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and every exhale left a white cloud trailing from his lips.

Only his eyes remained untouched. Fixed on you. Truthful.

“You can— You cannot,” you finally sighed, ignoring how your body felt simultaneously on fire and frozen. You staggered toward a nearby wall. “Take back what you just said, not to me,” you whispered almost pleadingly. You shut your eyes for a moment, as if trying to wake from a nightmare.

Satoru closed the distance between you in a single stride.

He gently took your hand and placed it against his chest. “Yes, you’re right. I cannot. My heart is yours. I cannot deny it. I cannot control it. I cannot help it. Do whatever you want with it. Even broken and unrequited, my heart is yours and only belongs to you.”

His breath brushed your cheek so tenderly it felt unreal — yet so undeniably real.

And this time, from your point of view. No longer his.

The suffocating closeness became unbearable. You were about to break. He needed to step back, to leave, to go.

“I— I…” you stuttered.

Thoughts swirled in your mind, just like the snowflakes around you both. Every thought blurred together, and only one tried to rise above and clear the chaos.

But it was the worst thought of all.

And yet, the only one capable of deciding the next move.

In a spontaneous gesture, you bent your head toward Satoru’s lips, sealing both the kiss and the fate he had always fought against.

It didn’t matter if you both ended up hurt.

No matter what the consequences.

Now was not the time to think about that.

As you tried to pull away from Satoru to catch your breath, he pulled you against him the next second to taste you once more, the heat intensifying even more to the point of melting the snow falling on you. Each kiss exuded forbidden desire and despair.

And even when you two pulled away, you didn’t keep any gap.

Just you and him.

As it was always supposed to be.

To feel.

To live.

Fluttering your eyes open, you come back to reality.

How did you get here?

It's a familiar scenario, or not.

Satoru arriving unannounced, you busy with household chores, your husband away for perhaps the next day.

But a premonition clouds all common sense.

This day is different. You don’t know from where, or who or what, but one thing is sure.

This time spent rambling has made you forget all about the dishes still waiting for you, while a plate and a sponge damp with foam hang from your hands. Another very humdrum day. Grey sky, water-logged clouds ready to pour and burst in a storm that never comes.

Satoru’s arms wrapped as a feather’s touch around you doesn’t feel as good and soothing as before.

“Missed ya,” he mumbles close to your ear. “How are you, darling?”

“You know that he could be here,” you scold in a low voice. “You can’t keep showing up at my door unannounced.” You continue with your dishes without returning any embrace. Nothing seems to fit. Your response is borderline nasty.

“You’re alright?” he asks softly anyway, not detaching himself from you.

His voice resonates like a cave inside you. A cheater who’s also unfairly mean, how can a better description describe you? you think.

You hum.

One of Satoru’s large, rough hands tenderly caresses your waist. “Do you have time for me? If you’re not tired, of course. I can’t help but need to crave your presence.”

Your heart slowly contorts in your chest, hidden beneath the cage of your ribs. “I didn’t mean to be rude, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, love.” He presses a sluggish kiss on your cheek. “You must be so tired.”

Only the sound of the water rushing down in the sink can be heard in the kitchen. You close the tap and sigh, hands resting on the edge of the sink. “I need to finish the dishes and some chores, maybe you can sit on the couch and rest?” you offer, slightly turning your head around to meet his gaze.

How can a man be so perfect?

“I can help you,” he offers too, then puts a long forefinger on your lips to quiet you. “It wasn’t a question.”

If only this man could be your husband. Life would be easier in his company, wouldn’t it?

About half an hour later, Satoru fully joins you in your cleaning mission, tackling everything from the remaining dishes to the dusting and other tasks that make him scrunch up his nose in mild disdain.

As he wanders into the bedroom you share with your husband, Satoru passes by a photo frame he hasn’t truly noticed before. It’s a simple picture of you, smiling brighter than ever alongside a man who should be him. The man with HIS arm wrapped around your waist. The man with HIS lips pressed against your temple while, in Satoru’s eyes, you radiate as the sole light of his life in your wedding dress.

You pass quietly behind Satoru, a clean cloth in hand.

“Toru?” You rise slightly onto your toes to peek over his shoulder, noticing what has held his gaze for so long, leaving him as still as a statue. “Oh. I was going to clean that.”

Taking the frame into your hands, a pang of guilt twists your heart as Satoru’s blue eyes follow every inch of the photo. His gaze weighs on you, heavy and suffocating with discomfort.

One sweep of the cloth, and the modest frame gleams.

“Why do you keep it?” he asks in a breath.

You look up, your gaze as lost in his as you are. “What do you mean?”

“This picture,” he says, pointing at it with his finger. “Didn’t you say you wanted to throw it away?” His low tone brushes your cheek with a soft rumble, and his features tighten in a small frown of confusion, the weight of which seems to press on your soul.

“I—” You sigh. “My husband put it here. I don’t know why.”

“And you didn’t throw it away.”

You open your mouth to respond but hesitate, unsure of what to say.

“...You know I can make your life easier, don’t you?” Satoru murmurs as he slowly, almost theatrically, lets his arms wrap around you after tossing your cleaning cloth aside.

“I know,” you murmur, as if it’s the most obvious truth. As always, your body melts against his, the way two souls inevitably fuse together.

“Would you leave this life behind and finally settle down with me?” His arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against him as he takes a deep breath into the crook of your neck. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”

The atmosphere in the room thickens suddenly. Guilt surges within you, as it always does. It seems like it can never leave you alone.

Of course, Satoru is hurt—that much is clear.

“I really would, Satoru, but right now, it’s complicated,” you breathe against his collarbone, the corners of your lips tugging downward.

“When will it stop being complicated, then? If not now, when?” His grip on you tightens.

“It’s not that simple.” Familiar terror coils in your stomach now, threatening to drown you. This conversation is heading toward turbulent waters.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to align his face with yours. His eyes search yours for answers. “You know, sometimes I wonder how long I can keep waiting for you to finally decide if I really matter.”

You blink twice, stunned, before resting your hands on his shoulders. “Hey. What do you mean by that? You matter to me—you know that, don’t you?” Your brows furrow gently, your expression softening despite the rising tension.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. And I don’t want to see you stressed about hiding either,” he whispers in a gruff tone. His expression mirrors your own: lips slightly pursed, brows furrowed, and eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and worry.

“I’m… sorry,” you murmur, the only words you can manage. They are genuine. They are truthful. Just like Satoru always is with you—never a lie.

Even when he leans down to kiss you slowly, you can feel his emotions pouring into it.

Hurt. Today, you ponder, returning the movement of his lips as your eyes flutter shut.

Quickly, the pressure of his lips grows more intense. Each time your mouths part, Satoru makes sure they reunite as swiftly as they separate. Breath soon becomes scarce, and things take a turn when his hands grip your hips so firmly you fear marks might be left behind. You try to pull away quickly.

“Satoru, wait— I need to be careful this time, you know,” you whisper softly against his fervent lips. “It’s been a while now that he’s started wondering why I don’t want to have sex with him.”

“You always come up with an excuse, don’t you? A few marks won’t mean anything,” he mutters, eyes closed, as though the fire within him burns hotter than ever for you.

“He’ll see them. I just want you to be careful,” you insist. But your attempt is futile, as his kisses grow more passionate. Each one is placed meticulously on the sensitive spots of your body while he gently guides you toward the bed, lowering you onto it.

“I want to please you so badly,” Satoru confesses, his vulnerable gaze meeting your half-lidded eyes as he hovers above you. His eyes brim with an intensity that makes your heart ache.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your expression softens immediately, the growing heat between your thighs matching the fire in your chest. “I want it too, baby. But are you sure you want to do this?”

He nods firmly. “I’m sure. And you?”

“I am.”

In the moments that follow, you no longer plead for him to avoid leaving marks. Deep down, you doubt he’ll listen to you on that.

Especially when his lips press against your neck, your collarbone, the shell of your ears, and the valley of your breasts. His mouth kisses, sucks, marks, nibbles, and even gently bites at your skin—all to draw whimpers, moans, and sighs of pleasure from your lips. The same lips he endlessly worships, just as he does every inch of you.

~~~~

Fresh out of the shower, alone but with your phone, you receive a message that immediately catches your attention as you sit cautiously against the edge of your bathtub.

I might be a little late tonight. Have dinner without me.

Your heart immediately falls into the pit of your stomach.

Is this for your co-worker again? Can’t she finish her work on her own like everyone else?

A minute later, a message appears:

It’s normal, I’m her superior.

At the same time, your eyelids contract around your eyeballs. You feel a rush of heat, and adrenalin tingles your insides.

You know I don’t like her. And yet you continue to spend more time with her than with me. Do you think that's normal?

Why do you always have to get mad? Just admit that you’re jealous.

And the last word is like a slap in the face.

This is how you started.

Part of you knew it all along. But another part was in denial. It was shortly before Satoru became your lover that your husband started seeing a female colleague far too often, making eyes at her while you stood there like an idiot, watching them exchange glances where your voice would carry the same weight as the silence of their own eye contact: nothing.

Satoru had warned you.

He tried to prevent your heart from breaking as much as possible.

And this is the result when denial wins out over reason:

...You like to call me ‘jealous’ these days, tell me?

And the irony reeks in your message.

Of course, he started calling you ever since that infamous colleague showed up.

It’s as if he’s implying every time that you’d be envious of something you don’t have. So, it’s easy to figure out now, isn’t it? Why would he even talk about jealousy otherwise?

And why does he just leave your message on ‘read’?

~~~~

“I told you to be careful.”

“You always know how to escape him.”

“I’m running out of excuses.”

“You’re smart. You’ll fix it. As you fix everything.”

And who to fix me?

Sitting in front of your vanity, you swallow, feeling sick to your stomach as the purple and blue marks Satoru has left on your body from his hickeys don’t disappear from your view even as you discreetly pinch your arm to check you're in a nightmare.

Unfortunately no.

After pressing your anxiety-stricken face into your trembling hands, you lift your head to meet your reflection once more. In the corner of the mirror, Satoru’s silhouette lies casually, a smug, teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your shaky fingers grab hold of your cheap foundation, the cap refusing to budge under the weakness of your frantic movements. Every second wasted only fuels the growing panic — your husband could walk in at any moment.

The beauty blender, however, seems just as uncooperative. Each attempt leaves you looking more like a clown. No coverage.

Only regrets. Regrets you can no longer conceal, no matter how much you try.

A heavy, trembling sigh escapes you despite your best efforts to stay calm. From behind, Satoru lets out a distinct chuckle, rich with amusement at your growing frustration.

He’s moved closer now, standing right behind you, his gaze almost entertained as he watches you struggle to mask the marks with concealer this time. But no layer of makeup can save you. None is thick enough or looks natural enough to hide what you’ve done.

“Why are you even trying? It’s not going to work,” Satoru whispers close to your ear. “Why not just give up and tell him the truth?”

“Satoru, get out.”

“Make me.” His tone is dripping with that insufferable grin.

You clench your fists, fighting the urge to smash it right off his face. Your heart hammers in your chest like cannonballs, threatening to break free from your compressed rib cage.

Everything can’t fall apart this quickly, can it?

Not after all the effort you’ve put in.

“You look like a clown, by the way,” he quips, the bluntness of his words scratching your heart. You let out an involuntary, quiet, “Ouch.”

“Did you just come here to use me as your personal slut? To call me a clown? If I knew, I wouldn’t have let you in at all,” you spit as you turn your head, locking your glare onto his.

Satoru’s expression softens at the sight of your deepening frown. “I didn’t come for that. And you’re not a slut. Why are you so mad?” He cautiously places his hands on the backrest of your chair, his movements calculated.

You scoff bitterly. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“You’re still mad about the marks? It’s just a few bites and hickeys—it’s not that big a deal,” he says, though his face mirrors yours: tense, confused, and searching for answers.

He’s never been like this.

“If you’re hurt, then I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I just want you to stop stressing over some bites. I’ve always done this. I haven’t changed, you know.”

You turn completely in your chair to face him, blood rushing in your temples. “Tell me this is a joke. Or a prank.”

“I said I’m—”

“Why didn’t you listen to me about the marks? About the fact that I don’t have any excuses left? He’s going to find out now. And instead of helping me, you’re mocking me because I look like shit with this?” you shout, pointing at the streaky, cakey makeup smeared over your collarbone.

Is this what a couple looks like? Fighting to hurt each other as much as possible?

Satoru can see how deeply his behavior wounds you. The way you swallow carefully, trying to keep your emotions at bay. The way your eyes are beginning to redden, signaling the impending arrival of tears.

Lowering his voice, he speaks, hoping against hope that you’ll break down and let him handle everything. Let him erase this life with your husband and give you a better one. He knows you can keep living under a mountain of lies, but he’s suffocating.

“Okay, I’m really sorry if I hurt you,” he murmurs.

“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t lie about using me whenever you please. You wouldn’t just act how you want without asking me what I truly want or need. Why? Because you’re selfish, Gojo,” you snap, your voice cracking slightly. You rise abruptly from the chair, intent on leaving the room before you explode.

He immediately grabs your wrist, pulling you into him, and tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. The panic in his movements betrays him—he’s afraid you’ll say something that will tear him apart.

“Don’t—Don’t call me that. Sweetheart—”

“You know what? Just tell me I’m your slut. Because that’s clearly what I’m meant to be for you,” you cut him off, tears pooling in your eyes and threatening to fall. You yank your wrist out of his grip with a sharp movement.

His hands move to cup your face, desperation bleeding through his trembling fingers, even as he tries to conceal it.

“Okay, I messed up. But please, don’t degrade yourself. You’re not my slut. You’re the only person I love and care about. I—” He exhales shakily, his jaw tightening and relaxing in quick succession. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… I’m so damn jealous. I get so jealous when I think about him… with you. I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Is that all this is? Jealousy? What’s the fucking point of it?” you retort, shoving his hands and arms away with enough force to make your blood boil. Then, in a blind fury, you hurl the concealer bottle across the room, the sound of it hitting the wall echoing like a final, deafening blow.

Satoru flinches slightly at the sound of the concealer bottle hitting the floor. He knows you’re holding back, teetering on the edge of exploding. “It’s not just jealousy,” he admits softly. “It’s fear, anger... and love, I guess.” He runs a tired hand through his snowy hair, sighing deeply. “And knowing I can’t have you the way I want to… that drives me insane.”

A vein pulses visibly in your temple, your frustration bubbling over. “You drive me insane!” you snap, jabbing your finger into his chest.

For a brief moment, Satoru’s lips almost curl into a smirk, but he stops himself when he sees the fire blazing in your eyes. He knows you’re serious, that this isn’t the time for his antics. Yet he can’t help but find you captivating like this—unapologetically yourself.

“Yeah, I’d say the feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow, his gaze dropping momentarily to the finger poking his chest as though he’s admiring your nerve.

The silence that follows is suffocating. The only sounds are your heated, shallow breaths, echoing in the small space between you.

You take several slow, deliberate steps back, your eyes fixed on his ocean-blue gaze. You catch the flicker of a moment—a split second where his eyes dart to your lips.

The tension between you is almost unbearable. The faint brush of his hips against yours as he steps closer sends a ripple of unease and anticipation through you. Your breaths mingle in the narrowing space. You both know exactly what’s happening, yet neither of you moves to break it.

“I hate you, you know that?” you whisper, pouring all the bitterness and hurt from your chest into the words.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, his face a mere breath away from yours. His broad, powerful form looms over you, trapping you against the wall without lifting a single hand. The tension radiating from him is magnetic, suffocating.

“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” he says, his voice soft and calm, but laced with that maddening confidence.

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, the light graze of your body against his and the fiery defiance in your darkened eyes making him dangerously close to losing control. He wants to kiss you—devour you—so badly it hurts. But he knows he’s already crossed lines, already messed up.

He clenches his fists, willing himself to stay composed. He would never take advantage of you like this. He’d rather let you hurt him, use him, break him into pieces.

Oh, screw it.

“Sweetheart,” he mouths, barely audible. His lips form the words so softly that you have to read them. His intense eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering. “What are you thinking right now?”

“This isn’t the time for your stupid jokes—”

He silences you with a single, long finger placed gently on your lips. “Answer the question, love.” His towering frame looms closer, his voice a deep rumble, and the tension only thickens.

You take a shaky breath. “Y-Yell at you, hit you, throw everything I have at you to finally make your goddamn mouth shut for good,” you hiss, your anger slipping through the cracks in your voice.

“Do it, then. I’m the one who’s wrong.”

Your lips part, and your eyes widen in surprise.

Satoru grabs your trembling hand and firmly places it against his chest, right over his racing heart. His voice softens. “Go on. Yell at me. Hit me. Use me however you need to.”

His pulse mirrors yours, beating in sync, loud and unruly.

Your gaze catches the subtle flicker of his eyes darting to your lips again, the ever-so-slight sway of his body bringing him closer.

When you lift your hand, Satoru doesn’t flinch. He braces himself, ready to take whatever you’re about to give him.

But instead of striking him, your hand fists the collar of his shirt. With one hard tug, you pull him down, crashing his mouth onto yours in a desperate, fiery kiss as though it’s your last breath.

Satoru responds immediately, kissing you back with the same raw intensity. His large hands snake around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips, teeth, and tongue all move in a fervent, chaotic dance with yours, each touch more intoxicating than the last.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his lips still brushing against yours. He doesn’t let you go, his arms holding you close as if letting you go would shatter him.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice low and rough, chest heaving against yours. His hand trails to your neck, then your jaw, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “What are you thinking now?”

His warm, uneven breaths ghost over your lips, and you fight the overwhelming urge to kiss him again. Your anger hasn’t fully subsided, still simmering beneath the surface.

“You. You’re haunting me. Sometimes so much that I can’t think of anything else,” you admit, your voice trembling with emotion.

His eyes burn brighter, the ardor in them impossible to miss. “God, sweetheart…” he murmurs, pressing soft, fluttering kisses along your neck, his lips scorching your sensitive skin. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. Only you. No more lies, no more heartbreak.”

Each kiss he plants on your skin draws breathy, unsteady sighs from your lips. “Y-You’re selfish…” you manage to say between ragged breaths, your nails digging into the firm muscles of his biceps. “So fucking selfish…”

“If being this desperate for you, for your love, is selfish, then I’m on my knees, my love,” he replies, his voice like velvet. He kisses the marks on your skin, the ones you tried to cover, with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’m all yours. Completely yours.”

He slides the strap of your tank top down, revealing more of the skin he adores. His lips graze it gently as he whispers, “I didn’t mean a single word about you looking like a clown. I just want you to be happy… with someone who loves you and doesn’t cheat on you.”

His hands cup your face delicately, tilting it up so your eyes meet his. His voice drops to a whisper, raw and sincere. “I’m deeply sorry, sweetheart.”

The genuine vulnerability in his gaze hits you hard.

You punch his chest — not out of anger, but because you don’t know what else to do with the emotions clawing at your chest. “I hate you, remember?”

A smile spreads across Satoru’s face, soft and warm, despite the tension in the room. “As much as I’m obsessed with you.”

Your free hand tangles itself in his silky white hair, tugging lightly as your fingers weave through the strands. With just enough force, you pull him down once again, capturing his lips in a searing, passionate kiss that holds every ounce of anger, frustration, and longing you feel for him.

As surprising as it may seem, Satoru lets a smile stretch against your lips — pressed together in a sloppy, wet kiss that blends tongues, lips, and teeth. Your chest, magnetized to his, feels the pounding of his heart, each beat drumming against you like a bass drum.

Your teeth part, biting his lower lip cruelly, hard enough for a faint taste of blood to seep into your mouth. Yet, he doesn’t seem fazed by it. In fact, he lets himself get intoxicated by your steamy breath, swallowing every gasp of air you exhale as if it’s his only source of oxygen.

With a natural ease, one of Satoru’s hands grabs yours and pins them above your head, pressing them against the wall as his pelvis grinds into yours. You feel the growing bulge you’ve provoked pressing against you.

“See what you do to me?” he breathes in your ear, breaking the kiss sloppily.

“And you’ll lose it completely when I fuck you until I’m the only one you’re thinking of,” you snap back, wrapping one leg around his hip before climbing fully onto him. With both legs now locked around his waist, your back is pinned to the wall, and your newly freed hands are poised to ravage your lover.

Blood rushes through your temples, creating a buzz in your ears. Your flushed ears mirror the crimson tips of Satoru’s. Supporting you with one arm, he uses the other to trace a finger across your lips, smearing the remnants of his blood there.

“Can’t wait to think even more of you — even though you already fill all my dreams and nightmares,” he murmurs with a sly grin. Then, both hands slide to your thighs, gripping them as he carries you to the bed—the same bed where you had your last steamy session with him.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Satoru settles between your legs while you lay back comfortably, fully aware he plans to take care of you before you ruin him. With practiced ease, his rough but tender hands remove your pajama shorts and panties, discarding them to the floor with a soft rustle. Your skin is adorned with earlier marks—purplish bruises, handprints, and hickeys — all of which tell a story (a decidedly sexy one, at that).

Just the sight of your spread legs, offering him an unobstructed view of your glistening, swollen folds — still slick from earlier—ignites a fiery tremor in his core. He’s practically salivating at the sight but regains focus when your heel presses sharply against his shoulder, a silent demand for urgency.

“Don’t make me wait,” you mouth, locking your gaze with his as his mouth inches dangerously close to your core.

Impatience mingles with the tension crackling between you. The moment his lips close around your clit, a hiss escapes your mouth.

Your fingers thread through his snow-white hair as though it’s the only lifeline keeping you from falling into the abyss. His warm, skilled tongue laps at your folds with slow, ravenous intensity. Every stroke of his tongue sends jolts of pleasure surging through you, spurring him to drink you in until his thirst is quenched.

“Satoru, f-fast—ah,” you stammer when his tongue flicks your now puffy, sensitive clit with pinpoint precision.

Your eyes roll back, your breath quickens, and your body trembles with each wave of pleasure. Your hands tug incessantly at his hair, driving him absolutely wild.

“Faster?” He looks up at you, his mouth still latched onto your center. “Is that what you—lick—want? Keep ripping my hair out, then.”

And that’s exactly what he makes you do. Your hips buck involuntarily toward his face, and he grunts in approval, gripping your hips with his large hands. Then, he lifts your legs over his arms and shoulders, perfectly positioning himself to devour you even more deeply.

Determined to make you cum as quickly as possible, the tip of his tongue teases your dripping, needy entrance. He feels your walls fluttering, your core pulsing and throbbing, empty and desperate.

The idea of filling you crosses his mind.

“Poor thing needs to be filled, huh?” he chuckles darkly, his voice thick and gravelly.

When he slides a long finger into you — slowly, carefully — the way your velvety walls clench tightly around him nearly makes him lose control on the spot. You grip his digit so tightly, drawing him deeper, that every movement inside you elicits louder, breathier curses laced with frustration.

“Don’t try to mock me, you bast— ah!” you moan, throwing your head back on the mattress the second after the pad of his forefinger reached your cervix — a spot that you can never reach yourself and even your husband. “Oh my God, I hate you so much…”

“You know what I love the most when we’re doing it?” Satoru whispers with a smirk, bringing his damp lips back to your clit to suck your bud at the same time as he’s fingering you. “When you lose all—kiss—your—lick—control—suck—only from my touch, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he purrs against your core, his finger curling up right in your sweet spot. “Say you hate me baby, I’m just waiting for you to be ready and take care of me.”

“I—you buck your hips harder—hate you,” you groan louder and firmer than earlier and clench around him right before cumming hard, hips bucking up against him and arching your back with no control over it.

Your vision blurs and star-like spots pop on your darkening vision. The intensity of your orgasm crashes over you so hard that for a few seconds, you’re losing almost all your senses — hearing, sight and touch — because of your mind going dizzy.

When the sensation wears off, a quick glance to the side reveals an already undressed Satoru, his impatient length just waiting for your attention — already twitching and hard like rock for you.

With a wry smile plastered to his lips, he reaches over you to grab your hips and gently lift you up and switch places — him lying on his back and you sitting so sensuously on top of him with your thighs delicately wrapped around his hips. He can't resist submitting to you completely.

Your still pulsing core rests straight on his cock, like you are riding him for real — or not yet.

Your senses restored, you don’t wait long before raising your hips, Satoru’s hands still holding them, and taking in his drooling length of precum with one hand. As you lower your hips, the fat tip of Satoru's dick pushes forward your hole and gets trapped in your walls glistening with your juices.

You both moan at the same time, head throwing back and mouth open ajar from the strong pleasure. Each inch that was moving further more into your cunt until the mushroom tip kisses your cervix was already being milked because your walls are so fucking sensitive that it’s making Satoru’s eyes roll back and babble nonsense.

“Sweet— Sweetheart, don’t squeeze y-yet, I need time to—” But you cut him off with your forefinger pressed against his handsome lips.

“Nuh-uh.” You lean in with a mischievous smile plastered on your face, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of being on top of him. “You’re going to be a good boy and take my pussy, understood?” And you punctuate your warning with a sharp bounce of your hips that makes him moan with pleasure then nod hurriedly.

“Mhh—hmph!”

So you start moving your hips up and down with purposeful slowness.

Your hand wraps around his throat and squeezes gently. Your hips bounce harder each time, and you ignore Satoru’s uncontrolled moans, which, despite his clenched jaw, can't help letting out moans and whimpers of pleasure.

“Who’s a good boy, tell me?” you ask, thrusting down your hips along his cock harder once more.

“N-Not gonna say it, sweetie,” Satoru chokes out between breathless hiccups because your hand squeezes his throat harder. “You can bet it— God…” He can feel your walls tightening around him, your core pulsing and his length throbbing inside you and at the verge of spilling out all the cum his sensitive balls were holding back. His hands grip your hips with more force that it’ll leave marks but you both don’t care anymore.

It’s just you and him having sex to see who will break first.

Your heavy, noisy breaths — not to mention the wet sounds of your skin slapping against each other — fill the room. Hot blood courses through both your veins, but nothing can stop your hips from slamming mercilessly into Satoru, tightening every time you’re bouncing on him.

Even though you two are at the verge of reaching orgasm, you wanted to have your way with him this time.

“I hate you, Satoru Gojo,” you groan, leaning your chest against his before moving faster as your breath. His arms wrap around your back to get you close and then he can start matching your movements.

He presses his lips on your ear and whispers breathlessly, “I’m your, utterly yours,” right before cumming at the same time as your, his semen filling immediately your cunt as you clench around him and let out a similar pathetic whimper like him.

Toes curled up and eyelids shutting down, you both hug each other until the orgasm goes away. Not before a good one minute. Silence fills the room before your brain melts away to focus on the still rapid beating of your heart against Satoru’s chest.

“After this, I’ll help you pack your important things and we go home. Our true home, okay?” he murmurs against your ear. “I’ll give you the life you want and deserve, sweetheart. No need to think about anything or anyone else.” And he concludes with a loving kiss on your temple as you nod, resting your cheek on his collarbone.

His big hand runs through your tousled hair before continuing to tenderly kiss your burning faces.

“I hate you,” you mumble, your mind growing heavy for a sleep.

“I love you too.”

a/n: it's been a while that i didn’t write a long one-shot like this one but it’s relaxing in a way lol. a big thank you for @/lymsfm for helping me through this hell, i genuinely don’t know what i would do without you and sorry for all my rants and your patience by listening to me getting crazy for literally everything 😭. so on this, i hope you guys enjoyed this fic and see you soon! <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe @catrizzz @sanemistar

@monokaix @moonlitwitchdaisy

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