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deepspace-scenarios · 2 days ago

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[scenario/drabble] Resonance and first-aid

Summary: LIs react when they accidentally injure you during orbital trials- you brush it off, but you soon realise it makes them confront fears and their past. (All ends well, just with some fretting and worrying because the LIs have a very soft spot for you</3)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of injury (non-graphic), vague references to myths.

SYLUS

Most of the time, resonance is easy to achieve with Sylus. The familiar surge of energy ripples through you, and a powerful wave rushes towards the charging Wanderer.

And then something hits. You feel yourself getting knocked back several feet, a feeling of burning, twisting pain coursing through you. It's not even the ball of energy itself- just tendrils of black and red, gone astray.

The Wanderer dissolves into embers, its skeletal wings crumbling to ash. Sylus dusts off his hands, the red-black mist fading from his fingertips- until he sees you wince while sheathing your sword.

"Let me see." His voice is almost unnervingly calm, devoid of his typical casual smugness after victory.

You press a hand to the darkening bruise at your waist. "Just a bruise. Some ointment can fix it."

His fingers twitch. For a man who thrives on control, the mistake is unacceptable.

"Sylus," you murmur, catching his wrist. "It’s fine."

His jaw clenches. Somewhere in his ancient, draconic memories, he was doomed with a fate where his lover would be far from fine.

You pry open his closed fist and kiss his palm, breaking the spiral. "I won't get upset over a small accident. And you can patch me up, handsome.”

He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose,

“Kitten,”

You decide to tease him- surely a little distraction wouldn't hurt. “Besides… it's not the first time you've left bruises on my skin."

His laugh is rough, but he pulls you close, his touch too gentle.

“I only take pleasure when I leave marks on you intentionally,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down your arm and settling on your elbow. “I hate the very idea of causing you pain,”

His gaze burns with an intense mix of raw, unfiltered pain- something that runs deeper than his strength and power. You reach up to stroke his cheek in consolation, eliciting a soft exhale from him as he leans into your touch.

“At least now I know how powerful your Evol is during battle,” you say with a small smile.

“Is this… your coping mechanism, sweetie? You've been doing nothing but flirting with me,” He asks dryly.

“I'm showing you there's no need to blame yourse- agh!”

Your world tilts as he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you. Mist swirls into a thick cloak, and you're back at his home in a blink.

He doesn't let you lift a single finger until he's sure your condition is stable, and until your bruise is dressed with sterile gauze above a thick layer of ointment.

“I called in sick for you,” he announces as he joins you under the covers, his warmth seeping into the shared space instantly. “You're not leaving until you're in a better condition,”

“Or what? You're gonna tie me to the bed?”

“You sound too excited for that sort of thing, kitten.”

Little did you know, he's already cleared his entire night's schedule to watch over you as you rest, the weight in his chest lifting ever so slightly when he witnesses you sleeping peacefully until the first light of dawn filters through the curtains.

_____

ZAYNE

The Wanderer’s firey breath comes from behind- Zayne reacts instantly, ice erupting in a shield. But the frost spreads, searing your back with cold. Your knees almost buckle, but you force yourself to turn and grab Zayne to resonate with him- the Wanderer dissipates, splintering into embers in the air.

Before you can fall, Zayne catches you.

"Don’t move," he orders. His usual clinical tone is too sharp, his breaths too measured.

You know why. The nightmares where he loses control- where you freeze under his hands.

"Zayne," you say softly, reaching for his hand. "Look at me, love. I’m here. I'm not going anywhere."

His fingers tremble.

"I know," he grits out, then steadies himself with another measured inhale-exhale. “Let me inspect the injury,”

You recognise this Zayne- right now, he's a combat medic, moving almost with tunnel vision to assess, diagnose and treat. You tug at the zipper of your gear, trying to shrug off the material to let him access the wound properly.

His hands stop you, “Don't make unnecessary movements. Allow me to do it instead,”

You nod, feeling your cheeks grow warm as the fabric is removed - then draped modestly across your front again.

"Minor second-degree," he mutters, noting the reddened areas with faint swelling. "No necrosis. Fortunate.”

Once he rushes you home, he fills a basin with lukewarm water and adds a mild antiseptic before dabbing at the wound. You tense from the sensation, and Zayne pauses.

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly does it hurt?” He asks, voice almost stern.

You gnaw at your lip, knowing not to hide your pain from him. It'll only deepen his guilt.

So you ramble, trying to be a compliant patient for him. “Maybe… about six? Six point five? But keep going, I don't think I'll deteriorate. The antiseptic feels strange- prickly, but nothing too bad.”

He exhales quietly behind you, and you feel the warm, damp cotton dab lightly onto your skin again.

He's never talkative, but the silence is heavy with a dense web of tangled emotions that had you scrambling for ways to lessen the weight on Zayne's shoulders.

“Dr. Zayne? I have a question.” You begin.

His hand pauses yet again, but he quickly recovers. “Hm?”

“Will it be safe for me to give hugs after this treatment?”

You hear him swallow audibly, and he lets out a short sigh- the kind that's stuck between exasperation and amusement.

“If you move slowly and take extra care, then yes, you may. But cease any movement that causes the slightest discomfort,”

He bandages you like you’re glass.

Later on, you hug him, long enough to feel the tension ease just the slightest.

Nothing verbal can comfort him right now- no reassurances, no saccharine words- you know it all just gets pushed aside by the persistent, haunting nightmares that he has.

He doesn't move, doesn't try to reject the hug- and you know this is him telling you how much he needs this. So you wait, with your arms wrapped around his torso and your face pressed to his chest.

Seconds turn into minutes- then you feel the gentle, hesitant presence of his hand as he cradles the back of your head gingerly. You hug him tighter.

Your warmth and your heartbeat is enough to let him know- you're safe, and this is not a dream, and that you love him all the same.

_____

RAFAYEL

Your shoulder burns where Rafayel’s dagger grazes you- a misaimed throw meant for the Wanderer. The pain gets masked by adrenaline, but you can feel the difference when you move.

Rafayel doesn't notice the sluggishness in your movements just yet, the way you push yourself to keep up with him, hiding the crimson of your clothes within the chaotic blur of battle.

His dance is deadly and alluring, with flashes of his blade and twisting flames sending the Wanderer hurtling backwards.

It is only after the Wanderer bursts into fragments of ash and lingering crackles of energy, when he gasps.

"Don’t-" He’s there in an instant, hands hovering. No theatrics. No jokes. Just agitation.

You’ve never seen him like this.

"Raf, it’s just an accident-"

"No." His voice cracks. Eight hundred years ago, he inflicted a fatal wound- one he has never forgiven himself for.

He doesn't speak the entire way home, and dresses the cut with uncharacteristic silence, his fingers lingering as you sit and watch him work.

"You’re never, ever allowed to bleed for me again," he whispers when he's done, kneeling in front of you on the sofa like he's praying for forgiveness.

You cup his face, looking into his eyes- blue, pink, purple- flooded with an intense guilt that has you lost in the melacholy depths until you're blinking back tears yourself.

"Hey, accidents happen," You say softly, "-and I'm fine. So stop looking so guilty, fishie."

His laugh is watery, but he kisses your palm- like he’s reminding himself you’re real, and safe.

“C'mon, Raf. Please?” You ask, unsure of what you're requesting- for him to look less devastated? For him to trust you as his bodyguard?

He makes a muffled noise, avoiding your gaze now. “I hurt you, and I can't even hug you now because that's gonna make you bleed-”

You poke his cheek, hoping it draws him out from his gloomy state.

“Just because you're my bodyguard doesn't mean you can endanger yourself,” he pouts, gently taking your hands and moving them to his chest.

He lets out a shaky sigh. “Just- stay with me for a while longer.”

Later, he maneuvers you until your legs are draped sideways across his lap, and he holds you like the dearest treasure he's ever found.

(He tells you that your bodyguard duties are off for the next two months. “You're just my cutie now, Miss Bodyguard can go hibernate,” he declares.)

_____

XAVIER

Xavier’s sword swings wide as he leaps to deliver the finishing blow. There's a rare misjudgment- and it nicks your calf.

He moves in a blur, and returns to your side before the remnants of the Wanderer disappear.

"We're going to the clinic," he says, sheathing his blade. Before you can protest, he’s lifting you into his arms.

"Xavier! I can walk-"

"Apologies aren't genuine without action," His grip tightens as he looks down at you, his eyes carrying the depth of stars lost to supernovas, and a rawness so far from his usual tenderness and calm that makes your breath stutter.

At your embarrassed squirming, his brows crease. "Are you rejecting my apology?"

You huff, thinking of showing up at the Hunter's clinic in his arms. "No- you’ll- you might get tired."

He holds you with soft desperation, careful yet with a grip tight like he fears you would slip between his fingers like stardust.

"My dear partner, this is the least I can do,” he says, voice wavering. “Now hold tight, we're taking a shortcut-”

Once your wound is dressed at the clinic and you are tucked into bed- he finally, finally allows himself to unravel and apologize to you, over and over again in hushed whispers.

He only stops when you press your lips to his, his eyes widening before he embraces you, exhaling a shaky breath.

His arms remain around you until you two fall asleep, with the moon bearing witness to his silent promise of everlasting protection over you.

______

CALEB

Caleb's gun kicks back harder than expected after resonating, and he slams into you.

You throw your arm out instinctively to break the fall, but the impact still sends you both crashing to the ground.

There's a tearing pain in your shoulder, and your breath is knocked straight out of you upon impact, leaving you dazed as you watch the crumbling Wanderer scatter in the wind.

"Oh, shit," Caleb's up instantly, scanning for injuries. "You alright, pips?"

You shift, forcing yourself to sit up despite the burn in your shoulder. "Just a strain.”

But he sees the way you wince, and his jaw is set. The man who vowed you’d always be safe at his side just failed.

"Caleb," you sigh, moving to pick up your weapon. “I'm fine, I swear,”

Caleb stops you, an arm hooking around your waist from behind as he makes the weapon float back to you instead.

"Major threat was eliminated. We're safe." You protest at his sudden surge of protectiveness, catching the gun.

His laugh is rough, frayed with a sort of mirthless desperation that wrenches through you harder than moving your injured shoulder.

“We're safe,” he begins, echoing you, “but you're staying with me to get your injury checked.”

Later, he sits you on the kitchen stool to inspect the injury with meticulous precision.

“Don't bite your lips so hard,” he orders, stopping his inspection and handing you a few unwrapped Hi-Chew candies of all things. “Have these instead,”

You hum, popping the tiny eraser-shaped candies into your mouth and letting the fruity, chewy sweetness dull the pain.

When Caleb puts anti-inflammatory cream on your shoulders, you feel his touch linger.

"I'll do better next time. I'm not letting anything hurt you, Pips. And don't even think about doing any work- you'll be resting under my watch this week.”

Note: Pls protect Zayne and Rafayel poor bbs going through all that in the recnt updates make me so :(((( i love them ALSO this piece was inspired by an ask from an anon reader. thanks for reading <333

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joemama-2 · 28 days ago

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velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 8.4k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

Year: DECEMBER, 2018

It was yet another night of bringing back Satoru from a party you didn’t know he was at. Another night of watching him mingle too closely for your liking with some random girl. A friend’s house party, he had told you. Satoru had sobered up slightly by the time you dragged him from that rich kid’s mansion back to his estate. Sober, but quiet.

His quietness would usually throw you off, considering he could chat anyone’s ear off. But with the highs and lows of your disordered relationship, the quietness started to become a good thing. When it was quiet, it meant no one was voicing their opinions. And with no voiced opinions, no fighting, no crying, and no words of “needing space”.

So, you’d learned to treasure the silence, even if it was fragile. Even if it always came with that tight feeling in your chest, like walking on a wire you weren’t sure would hold. You preferred this version of him—hushed, head down, hands shoved in his pockets—over the witty, sharp-tongued man who knew exactly how to break you apart without even trying most times.

The front door clicked shut behind you. He kicked off his shoes without looking at you, then padded quietly toward the kitchen. You stayed by the doorway, coat still on, watching him pull a glass from the cabinet like it was muscle memory.

“You want water?” he asked after a pause, back still turned.

“No,” you answered, softer than you intended.

He filled the glass anyway, drinking half of it in one go. You watched his shoulders rise and fall, tired, worn. Not from the party. From everything. From you, maybe.

“I didn’t want to go,” he muttered.

You raised a brow. “And yet, you did. And then you were the same one who told me to show up.”

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot I texted you. That was an accident.”

“Seems like everything is nowadays,” you easily quip back, arms crossed. He says nothing, looking off to the side as he finishes his cup of water and sets it on the countertop beside him. You watch his subtle nervous tics—the way he taps his finger against his bicep, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, and the way his eyes dart anywhere and everywhere, except your own pair.

“Who was that girl?” You ask again, voice in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says immediately.

“Then why were you with her?”

“I was drunk.”

“Did you cheat on me?”

“I already said I didn’t.”

A beat of silence.

Your eyes remain fixed on him, but his still won’t meet yours. Instead, he stares at the sink, as if the answer might be written in the metal grooves of the basin or hiding in the drain.

You take a step forward. “So that’s it?”

He exhales through his nose, almost like a scoff, but not quite. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth,” he snaps, finally turning toward you, frustration flickering behind his eyes. “Why do you keep asking questions you’ve already made up your mind about?”

Your brows pinch. “Because when you lie, you never blink.”

He flinches, barely, but you catch it. You always do. And for a moment, the quiet returns. Not peace. Just stillness. That dangerous kind of silence—the kind that comes right before something breaks. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard now. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t cheat on you,” he repeats, voice flat. “I danced with her. I talked with her. I don’t even remember half of it. But I didn’t fuck her or kiss her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You stare at him. He finally meets your eyes.

“That still hurts, you know?” you murmur. “It still counts.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t apologize. Just looks at you like someone who doesn’t know what else to give. Like he’s already emptied his pockets and come up short.

“Did you want to?” You continue.

“I didn’t.”

He says it a little too fast. A little too sharply. The kind of defensive answer that tastes more like fear than truth.

You nod slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. “…Right. Just drunk. Just forgot. Just an accident.”

Satoru finally looks at you, and that’s somehow worse. His expression is open, but not apologetic. It’s tired. He’s already lost something and is trying to figure out if it’s worth salvaging. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he says again, quieter now. “I swear to you. I didn’t.”

You believe him. You hate that you believe him. But the ache in your chest doesn’t lessen. Because it was never just about that. Not really.

“Then why’d she look at me like I was intruding?” you ask, arms tightening around yourself. “Why’d she touch you like she had the right to?”

“I—” He falters. “I let her.”

You swallow hard. “And that’s what hurts even more.”

The silence creeps in again. Heavy this time. Not the kind you’d grown to treasure, but the kind that confirmed what you both knew: you were always waiting for the next crack. And maybe this was it.

Satoru steps toward you, slow, hesitant. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You never do,” you whisper. “But somehow, you always end up with the pieces.”

There’s a beat of stillness before he speaks again, voice small. “Do you want to leave?”

You look at him. The man you’ve loved, and lost, and tried to love again. And your voice, steady but hollow, replies:

“Do you want me to?”

He stares and stares, and you resist the urge to look away with a burning onset of fresh tears. Holding your ground is something you’ve learned to do, something he’s helped you do, even if it means using it against him. His lips part, then close. He looks down at your hand before gazing into your eyes.

He blinks.

“No.”

The word hangs in the air between you, fragile but heavy. You swallow the lump in your throat, heart pounding louder than the silence. For a moment, you imagine what it would be like to throw your arms around him, to press your face into his chest and let the tension slip away. To go back to how things were between you before all the mess. But the memory of every harsh word, every cold shoulder, every night spent alone after an argument pulls you back.

Then, his hand reaches out, tentative, trembling even, and you feel the weight of his uncertainty. You don’t pull away. You don’t step back. You let him take your hand, fingers curling around yours with a fragile grip. His other cups your cheek, leaning down to plant a sweet and soft kiss on your lips. His lips linger before drifting to your cheek and down your neck. His arm wrapping around your waist, you feel your body melting into his embrace.

Your arms instinctively loop around his neck, letting out a wistful sigh, eyes closing. His lips reach a particularly sensitive spot he’s grown accustomed to showing extra attention to. Sucking at the area softly, teeth just barely grazing your skin to where it still feels pleasurable enough. You twitch, a moan rolling off the tip of your tongue, head lolling back.

A low breath escapes him at the sound, fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as if anchoring himself to you—to this moment. His lips trail slowly back up, skimming along your jawline, reverent and slow, until his forehead rests against yours. “I miss you,” he murmurs, voice raw—cracked open in a way you hadn’t heard in months.

Your eyes flutter open, lids heavy, vision hazy from the heat of the moment and the storm of emotions behind it. “I’m still here,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you mean it physically, emotionally, or as a plea for him to notice you—really notice you—again.

“For how long?”

It’s like he’s constantly trying to give you ways out—his sorry attempt at saving you, even if it’s far too late. But there’s still that one part of you that keeps you tethered to this moment—to him. The part of you that doesn’t want to be saved.

So your simple response is kissing him once more, reaching up to smash your lips into his, hands running through his hair. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, as if debating something internally. And then, he’s all over you.

His restraint shatters.

Satoru grips you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, this fragile thread between you will finally snap. His hands roam your back, desperate and warm, pulling you flush against him as his mouth claims yours over and over. Every kiss is filled with apology, with longing, with a thousand things he never found the words to say. He walks you back slowly, blindly, until the back of your knees hit the couch. You sink down together, his weight gentle but all-consuming as he follows you, lips never parting from yours. Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself to him—to this reckless moment of pretending everything broken between you can be fixed with closeness.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” he breathes between kisses, forehead pressed to yours again, voice barely audible. “I feel like I already did.”

You don’t validate him. You don’t have to. The way you’re clutching him says enough.

His hands slow, brushing up beneath your shirt with a familiar tenderness, as if asking—Is this still mine to touch? Are you still mine to hold? You nod, just slightly, barely a breath of motion, as if you’re unsure yourself. He waits a few seconds and then exhales shakily. That tiny gesture is enough to keep him afloat.

His fingers undo the button of your pants, pulling down the zipper with practiced efficiency. Your own unbuckle his belt, throwing it off to the side.

The clothes come off with the kind of quiet desperation that only familiarity breeds—not rushed, not slow either, just… necessary. Each layer removed feels like shedding another wall, a final plea to be vulnerable, to be seen. Not just skin-to-skin, but soul-to-soul, even if only for tonight.

Satoru kisses down your sternum, reverent again, almost worshipful. His fingers ghost down your sides, brushing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing you all over again, or maybe making sure you’re still real. His mouth follows, trailing lower with a gentleness that borders on painful. When he comes back up to kiss you again, it’s softer than before, less desperate, more deliberate. His nose brushes yours, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. You think he wants to say something—maybe he almost does—but instead, he just presses his forehead to yours again.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let him in.

Not only into your body—but into the parts of you you’d boarded up. The pieces that still loved him. The pieces that still wanted to love him. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s dangerous. But in this quiet, trembling moment of two people who never really stopped being each other’s, it feels like the only thing that makes sense. You’re not sure where things will go after this, if anything will change, if the damage can ever be undone, but right now, you’re his again. And he’s yours.

Even if only for tonight.

“Satoru,” you moan softly, back arching off the couch at the feeling of the top of his cock hitting your g-spot so deliciously.

He groans as you squeeze around him, face screwing up. His heavy groans and pants fill your ear, your legs locking around his waist. “God…f-fuck—this—you.”

“Right there…please,” you whisper, breath fanning his cheek.

His hips jutt, thrusting his thick cock harder. You cry out, nails digging into his back and scraping smooth lines of red down his silky skin. “Like that. Just like that,” he mumbles.

You cling to him like he’s the last thing tethering you to Earth—fingers pressed against the curve of his shoulder blades, mouth brushing his jaw as breathless pleas slip from your lips. The air between you is thick with heat and heartache, every movement laced with a need that goes far deeper than physical.

Satoru presses his forehead to yours again, his breath shuddering as he moves with a rhythm that feels more like an apology than desire. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, voice cracking at the edges. “I’ve got you.”

Your body reacts subconsciously, but it’s your heart that trembles. Raw, vulnerable, and still healing. Every time he murmurs your name, it lands somewhere deep, somewhere old and aching. The way he holds you feels like he’s trying to stitch the broken pieces back together with every motion, every whispered confession that never makes it fully into words.

His hand pinches and rubs your nipple between his fingers, and you bite hard on your lip. It roams down your stomach, feeling around your ribs before his thumb finds your pretty, puffy clit. With ease, he presses down with the flat of it.

Your toes curl, eyes rolling back. Your limbs feel loose, brain mushy. He rubs before circling the bud, just how you like it. His eyes are laser-focused on your oh-so-pretty expressions. The expressions he’ll miss. He times the thrusts of his thick cock with the swirling of his thumb, fucking you compeltley dumb and boneless until all you could do is slur out meaningless mumbles, mixed with whimpered pleas of his name.

Satoru leans in, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, his breath uneven against your skin. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, his tone a mixture of awe and regret. “I fucking love you. I love you so fucking much, you make me—fuck—feel so g…good...”

Your hands find his face, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. For a moment, everything stills. Just the sound of your breaths, your heartbeats crashing together, bodies wrapped in something desperate and tender all at once. It’s more than lust. It’s grief, apology, love, and all the things left unsaid.

When he presses his lips to yours again, it’s slower this time. Deep. Full of meaning. Like he’s trying to tell you something he’s never been brave enough to say out loud.

His tongue slips into your mouth, exploring the wet cavern with desperation.

His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing deep while his thrusts get faster, harder, more intentional. All you can do is cling to him, panting through your nostrils. When he pulls back, a thick line of saliva connects your mouths. His thumb flicks your clit.

You squeeze.

His cock twitches.

“F-fuuuck. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, g-gonna…yeah—gonna come,” he quivers out, hips snapping against yours in a sloppy motion.

“M-me too!” You whine, grip tightening into a fistful of his hair.

You both border on the edge of finishing for more grueling minutes, as it always did when you two had sex. You both agreed it added to the fun and intensity of it all, edging being your second favorite thing. The first was when he’d moan and groan pathetically against you.

But something’s wrong.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his heart thuds irregularly beneath your hand, the way his breath catches not from exertion, but emotion, how his thrusts just barely stutter.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, voice nearly broken.

You shift slightly beneath him, shakily brushing damp hair from his forehead, eyes searching. “What is it?”

His head pulls back, and that’s when you see it. The faint sheen of tears lining his beautiful eyes. It almost breaks you instantly.

“I…I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. I know what I want, b-but I know what I don’t…either.”

If he wasn’t fucking you, you would’ve smacked his arm and told him to quit joking. Except he’s not joking, he’s dead serious. It’s almost a little hard to believe him considering he’s confessing in the middle of being balls deep in your cunt, but you assume he couldn’t find any other right time to do so.

You can’t find your voice, so he continues. The hand that was on your hip traveling up to your cheek, gently cupping it. His thumb swipes the area beneath your eye with tenderness. “…I—I think we need to figure ourselves out.”

“No,” you choke out, unaware of the tears that stream down your cheeks. Your arms tighten around his neck, legs as well. You cling to him like he’s your savior, like he’s the only one you have left.

And well, he is.

That’s what makes him feel even more shitty about doing this.

“S-satoru—”

“I know. ‘M sorry, I’m…I’m really sorry, Y/N.” A tear falls from his cheek down to yours, his thrusts growing slower, but still as pleasurable.

“Y-you don’t know!” You shout.

His lips tremble against yours, the motion almost reverent now—slow, shaky, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before it’s too late. He’s still inside you, still moving, but the urgency is gone. Replaced by something heavier. Final.

“Promise me, Y/N. Please, promise me.”

You blink through the tears, breath catching painfully in your chest. “Promise you what?” you ask, voice cracking open like the rest of you.

He closes his eyes as if your question physically hurts him. And it does.

He blinks them open. “We should have nothing to do with each other. I-it’s not doing anything good for us. So…don’t look for me. Don’t do it. And I won’t look for you.”

Your whole body stills beneath him. It’s like someone has pulled the air out of your lungs, out of the room, out of the world. And yet he stays inside you, forehead pressed to yours, as if hoping to stay close enough to soften the blow.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. “You don’t get to hold me like this, do these things to me, say stuff like that—then ask me to pretend we don’t exist.”

He’s crying now. Really crying. Silent tears trailing down his cheeks, his body trembling ever so slightly. “I know,” he breathes, like it’s a confession. “But if I don’t say it now, I won’t be able to walk away. Neither will you.”

You press your lips together to keep from sobbing. Your chest heaves with the weight of heartbreak, confusion, and the cruel irony of intimacy turning into goodbye. Still connected in the most vulnerable of ways, the silence stretches long between you—thick, suffocating, sacred.

“You’re still everything to me,” you say softly, lips brushing his cheek.

“And you always will be,” he murmurs. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Then, with devastating gentleness, he spurts his seed inside you. He lies still for a few seconds before he pulls out of you—like he’s trying not to break you more than he already has—and gathers you into his arms.

For the last time.

The following morning was the last time you saw him for five years.

He said nothing, he didn’t cry anymore, he didn’t try to stop you from putting whatever valuables you had at his house in a box before his parents came home from a trip. He just watched silently. He didn’t hug you, didn’t kiss you.

You wanted to slap him. Curse him. Maybe kill him.

But you didn’t. You blinked through your blurry vision, hiccuping heaving breaths, hands trembling.

He stood in the hallway like a ghost—like he wasn’t really there, like you weren’t really there either. Just a moment passing through him. Just a chapter he refused to reread. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the shoebox as you stepped past him, waiting… hoping… that he’d reach out. That he’d do something.

But he didn’t.

Not when you brushed past him. Not when you paused at the door, turning one last time with red-rimmed eyes and a silent plea. Not even when your lips parted to say goodbye, but no sound came out.

Was it really this easy for him? He must’ve been preparing for this moment now for ages. You did this, didn’t you?

He just stood there. A statue. An ending.

So you walked out. And the door clicked shut behind you like the final nail in the coffin.

Five years.

Five years of silence.

Five years of learning not to look for him in every man you talk to.

Five years of learning how to breathe without him in your lungs.

You hated him for making it easier with each year that passed. You hated yourself more for wishing it hadn’t been.

And yet—no matter how much time passed, no matter how much healing you forced yourself through—there was still that part of you, small and bitter and quietly aching, that whispered: He didn’t even say goodbye.

That’s why your eyes tear up five years later when you see the way a boyish smile makes way onto his dimpled cheeks after giving you your housewarming gift after officially moving into the new place he got you and Koji.

Because after everything—after the years of silence, of rebuilding your life without him, of nights spent convincing Koji that no, there was no one else coming to dinner—he’s here.

Standing in your living room like he belongs there. Like he never left.

And it should make you suspicious. Should make you slam the door in his face, scream every unspoken word that’s lived in your chest since the moment he let you walk away without a fight.

But then he grins wider.

That same crooked, too-charming smile that used to melt you in the middle of fights. That always preceded trouble. That lit up the darkest corners of your life. He holds out the box wrapped in glossy paper like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Thought this would help you get back into the groove of things,” he says, trying too hard to sound relaxed.

You take it slowly. Fingers brushing his. A tremble you try to mask as a chill. “What is it?”

“That’s why you open it.”

Your throat tightens at the simple reply. You hate how familiar this feels. How easy it would be to fall back into old rhythms, into old mistakes. You shouldn’t be letting him stand here. You shouldn’t be letting him smile at you like that.

But your hands are already peeling away the wrapping paper.

Inside is a ceramic watering can—cream-colored, minimalistic, just like the ones you always pointed out in those expensive catalogs you couldn’t afford back then. The ones he used to say were “boring” before secretly bookmarking them. Except there’s a painting of what can only be Koji’s work, including his mother, him, and his father, all holding hands. You swallow hard as you turn it in your hands.

“Since you have a little patio now, I figured you could get back into planting. Maybe some tulips, peonies, or purple hyacinths.” He shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Your lip quivers before you can stop it.

“Don’t cry,” he says with that soft, teasing lilt in his voice—the one you used to fall asleep to years ago. “You’ll make me feel like I got you a vacuum or something.”

You laugh, but it cracks, just a little. Your eyes sting as you set the water can gently on the counter. And then you look at him. “Thank you, Satoru. I—You’ve done a lot for Koji and me when you didn’t have to. This means a lot to me and I really appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he sighs, looking off toward the living room where Koji is already making a mess of his excessive number of toys. “I know our…situation is different, less than ideal. But I still have an obligation to my son and his mother, which starts with a safe home. One where his mom can get back into her old habits.” He gestures to the watering can, looking back at you.

You nod, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter behind you as if bracing yourself. “It’s a beautiful gift. Koji must’ve had fun painting it.”

“He was insistent that I draw myself taller,” Satoru chuckles, gaze softening. “I told him I’m already the tallest person he knows. He said I needed to look more like a tree.”

You smile, genuinely this time, but there’s still that ache behind your ribs. Like a door that was supposed to stay locked has started to creak open again. Silence settles between you for a moment, filled only by the muffled sounds of Koji’s playtime.

Then, more quietly, you say, “Can…Can I give you a hug?”

Satoru looks at you for a beat too long, the kind of pause that says he wasn’t expecting that. The kind that makes you immediately regret asking. But then his mouth twitches, softening into something you remember—something warm, steady, like the way he used to reach for your hand in the middle of the night without even waking up.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says, already closing the distance.

You meet him halfway, arms wrapping around his middle as his come up around your shoulders, firm and gentle all at once. He holds you like he’s afraid you might disappear, like he’s only just now realizing how long it’s been since he got to do this. And for a moment—just one brief, fragile moment—you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself be held.

You breathe him in. That familiar, dangerous cologne with faint traces of Koji’s toothpaste on his sleeve. The warmth of him against you brings you boosted levels of serotonin. Your hands tighten on the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur into his chest.

His arms tense, then relax again. “Don’t be.”

You pull back slightly to look at him, and his hands linger at your waist like he doesn’t want to let go just yet. “I mean it,” you say. “For the way things ended. For keeping him from you. I thought I was protecting Koji. But maybe…I was just trying to protect myself. I don’t think I can ever apologize enough for what I did.”

Satoru’s smile falters, his eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing every part of this version of you, this quieter, softer one shaped by years apart and everything unspoken between you.

He exhales slowly, thumb brushing against your side like he’s grounding himself. “You were scared,” he says, voice lower now. “You had every right to be. I was reckless. Arrogant. Hell, I didn’t even know what I wanted until it was too late.”

You shake your head, guilt pinching at your ribs. “No, don’t make this about you. I made choices too. I chose to run instead of letting you try.”

Satoru leans in, forehead nearly resting against yours. “And now?”

You hesitate. The weight of everything hangs between you. The years, the pain, the distance, the child just in the living room.

“Now…I’m trying to stop running. At least from you.”

That’s when his hand rises, gently cupping your cheek. “Then let me catch up,” he whispers, the plea in his voice trembling at the edges.

Your breath stutters in your chest. This moment, it’s too much, too intimate, too soon. And yet you don’t move. You can’t. But just as his lips barely brush your forehead, a loud crash erupts from the living room, followed by Koji yelling, “I didn’t mean to!”

You both freeze, the air between you crackling with what almost was. Then Satoru pulls back with a quiet, rueful chuckle. “Sounds like our son just broke something valuable.”

You blink at the words—our son—the way he says it so naturally now. You offer a soft smile. “I hope it wasn’t your expensive Lego set.”

“Please. Those are a business investment,” he grins, already heading toward the culprit.

As he walks off to check on Koji, you’re left leaning against the counter, heart thudding. The watering can still sits beside you. A little crooked painting of your family stares back at you. And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like a dream you don’t deserve.

It feels like the start of something you might be brave enough to hope for again.

“My buddy Nanami says these are good for kids.”

You blink down at the box he’s holding. “Those are literally dried seaweed snacks.”

Satoru shrugs, tossing them into the cart anyway. “They’ve got iron. And they’re crunchy. Kids love crunchy things.”

You roll your eyes, amused despite yourself. “Your buddy Nanami probably meant for kids who don’t gag on anything green.”

“Koji eats crayons, I think we can get him to chew some seaweed.” He rolls his eyes before strolling ahead, pushing the cart like he owns the place.

You follow, biting back a smile. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and shelves are packed with items that seem way too expensive. Luckily, it’s not your bill.

“Do you even know what I need?” you ask as you catch up.

“I know you need snacks, juice boxes, and something for dinner that won’t involve me setting the kitchen on fire.”

“So, takeout?”

He gasps dramatically. “Have some faith in me, woman. I can make spaghetti. With meatballs. That’s like…parenting level five.”

You laugh softly, reaching for a can of tomatoes and dropping it into the cart. “We’ll see if Koji makes it past one bite.”

“Mama! Can we get this one?!”

You turn just in time to see Koji waddling over, arms wrapped around a neon-colored cereal box that definitely wasn’t on your list.

“Koji, that’s all sugar,” you warn gently, crouching down. “We talked about this, remember? Something with less…rainbows.”

“But it has marshmallows shaped like planets!” he insists, eyes wide, shaking the box for emphasis. “And a rocket ship toy inside!”

Satoru leans over your shoulder with mock seriousness. “You’re outnumbered. Planet marshmallows are a once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience.”

You sigh, standing and fixing him with a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m building morale,” he says, taking the cereal from Koji and dropping it into the cart with a wink. “Also, I want to see what the Saturn marshmallow tastes like.”

Koji cheers, scampering ahead toward the snack aisle like he’s won a war. You watch him go, shaking your head with a reluctant smile. “You’re spoiling him.”

“He’s a kid,” Satoru replies, casually tossing a pack of onigiri into the cart. “Isn’t that our job?”

You hum, thoughtful. It’s strange, standing here like this—shopping for dinner, bickering over snacks, making tiny compromises. It feels…normal. Too normal. Like the calm before a storm. But even as you brace for it, there’s something comforting about how easily he fits into this picture.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you murmur as you walk beside him.

He smirks. “What gave it away? The cereal or the emotional intimacy?”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Definitely the cereal.”

“Not the meatballs?” he grins.

You roll your eyes. “Go look for the rest of the stuff on the list, please. I’m gonna go make sure Koji isn’t raiding the snack aisle.”

Satoru offers a lazy salute. “Yes, ma’am. Anything to avoid being guilt-tripped over cereal.”

You shake your head as he strolls off, already distracted by a wall of oddly-shaped pasta. Turning on your heel, you make your way down the bright aisles, eyes scanning for that familiar mop of messy, white hair and sticky hands. It doesn’t take long to find him—Koji is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by three open bags of chips and a very confused store clerk hovering nearby.

“Koji,” you sigh, walking over. “Baby, you can’t open things before we pay for them.”

“But I was taste testing!” he beams up at you, crumbs all over his shirt. “This one is too spicy, but this one tastes like pillows.”

A poor teenage employee glances at you, clearly panicked. “Uh—ma’am? Should I—do I need to…get someone, or…?”

You gently place a hand on Koji’s head and offer the boy a tight smile. “It’s fine. We’ll pay for everything.” Then, to Koji: “And you’re not supposed to eat things that taste like pillows. We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You usher him to his feet and start dusting crumbs from his pants. You grab the bags he’s opened with one hand, using the other to hold his hand. “No more snacks, Koji. We need to go to the other aisles now.”

Koji pouts but doesn’t protest as you guide him over to the produce section. Diligently eyeing your next few purchases, ensuring the produce looks right. As you’re leaning over a bin of apples, testing for firmness, Koji clings to your thigh with one arm and gnaws the corner of the chip bag you couldn’t pry from his hands. You’re too focused on choosing between Gala and Fuji to notice the man approaching until his shadow falls over the fruit.

“They really upped the price for these.”

You startle a bit at the nonchalance of the newcomer. Looking to your left, a tall man with brown hair is picking up one apple, inspecting it. He sighs, then gives you a polite grin. “Inflation, am I right? Remember when they were just a couple bucks.”

You offer a polite smile, shifting slightly so Koji is tucked closer to your side as his tiny hands cling to your skirt. “Yeah… everything’s gone up lately.”

The man chuckles, tossing an apple into his basket. He’s good-looking in a clean-cut, office-worker kind of way. Nice watch, rolled sleeves, the faintest whiff of designer cologne. “They say it’s the economy, but I’m convinced it’s just a clever way to make me pay more for mediocre fruit.”

You let out a soft, polite laugh, already glancing back toward where Satoru wandered off to.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the man continues, taking a casual step closer, clearly encouraged by your response. “New to the area?”

You tense, but keep your tone neutral. “Kind of.”

He nods, glancing down at Koji. “Cute kid. He yours?”

You nod, placing a hand gently on Koji’s back as he reaches toward the display of grapes. “Yep.”

“Well,” the man says, smile widening as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, “If you ever need help navigating the neighborhood—best parks, cafes, good wine shops—I’d be happy to give you a tour. I’m Mark, by the way.”

You hesitate, blinking. He’s not being aggressive, just… confident. And that somehow makes it worse. “Oh, I—that’s okay. I don’t need a guide.”

Mark chuckles, undeterred by your polite decline. “Sure, sure. No pressure.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender, still holding that easygoing smile. “Just figured I’d shoot my shot. Hard not to when you’ve got such a lovely face.”

You force another tight smile, your fingers brushing over Koji’s tiny waves, grounding yourself. “Thanks. But I’m really not looking for anything.”

“Fair enough,” he says, but then—he lingers. His eyes drag a bit too long across your face, down to your hand on Koji’s shoulder, then flick quickly to your left hand. No ring. His smile flickers with something a little more interested now. “So uh…how old's the little one.”

“Kindergartener,” you reply cooly, looking away and stepping over to the celery and avocados.

“Ah,” Mark nods, subtly following your side, pretending to look at the same things you are. “Is he albino?”

You stop and look at him, head tilting slightly. “No,” your voice is steady, “his father just has very light features.”

“He said we can’t talk to strangers,” Koji’s mumbled voice speaks up, but he clears it and grabs your hand, leading you a few steps away.

“Is that so? Well, your daddy must be a smart man.”

“Yep, and daddy’s around here somewhere.” You nod briefly, a silent marker that you’re heading your own way now.

“Daddy’s right here.”

You jolt slightly at the sensation of a warm arm sliding around your waist, Satoru making his presence known as he stands between you and Mark. Nonchalantly ripping the avocado out of Mark’s hand. He hums and tilts his head before tossing it back into the pile. He feels around for a ripe one. “And who’s this?” He gestures with his head towards Mark.

Mark blinks, momentarily thrown off. His smile falters just a little—but not enough. “Just saying hi,” he replies, straightening up. “Didn’t realize you were…uh, together.”

Satoru hums, tone light but razor-edged. “Yeah, easy mistake. Not everyone’s bold enough to flirt with a mom while our kid’s holding her hand.” He smiles as he lifts a ripe avocado to eye level. “But hey, you gave it a good shot. Ten points for confidence.”

Mark’s smile falters again. “Wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

“Mm. That’s good,” Satoru says with a nod, finally releasing the avocado he’s selected and dropping it into the cart, you didn’t even notice him roll over. “Because I’d hate to cause a scene. Produce sections are sacred.”

“I was just making conversation,” Mark says smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like I said, I didn’t realize she was with someone.”

“Yeah, well,” Satoru says airily, squeezing your hip for emphasis, “Now you do, yeah?” He offers a bright, toothy grin—one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

You huff a quiet breath—amused, relieved, a little embarrassed—but you don’t pull away.

Mark, for his part, seems to pick up the shift in tone. His smile vanishes into something tight. “Right. My bad.”

Satoru hums, finally facing him completely. He’s taller than Mark, having to angle his neck down slightly. “No harm done. Just don’t go getting too familiar with other people’s families.”

Mark meets his gaze for a long beat, the air thick between them. Then he lets out a short, humorless chuckle. “Sure. Good luck with the shopping.” He takes a careful step back. “Nice meeting you both.”

Satoru raises his fingers in a lazy farewell. “Likewise. Try the bananas next time.”

You watch Mark retreat down the aisle, and only then does Satoru sigh, turning toward you with a casual lean.

Silence lingers for a second. Then:

“I was gone for five minutes,” Satoru mutters, leaning against the cart with a sigh. “I leave and some discount finance bro tries to slide in?”

You exhale, still holding Koji close, trying to shake the edge of unease that lingers. “He was… persistent, to say the least.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “You attract the weirdest types. Like moths to a flame.”

“I think it’s the fact that I don’t walk around swinging like a wrecking ball of intimidation,” you mutter, heart still beating a little too fast.

Satoru leans in with a grin, brushing a barely-there kiss against your temple. “Nah. It’s ‘cause you’re hot and look like you need saving.”

“I don’t need saving,” you grumble, adjusting Koji’s sleeve.

He shrugs and pulls back, pushing the cart as you follow. “Yeah, but it’s more fun when I pretend you do.”

Koji tugs at your shirt. “Mama, who was that?”

“A stranger, baby.” You move some hair out his face.

Koji frowns in thought. “That man was weird.”

“He was,” Satoru agrees, dropping iceberg lettuce into the cart. “Probably sells fake crypto courses online.”

You sigh heavily, pausing by the parsley. Satoru stops with you, noticing your expression. His voice grows quieter, hand gently patting your lower back. “You okay?”

You nod, reaching to grab a bundle of parsley. “I’m fine. Just weird.”

Satoru watches you for a second longer, his teasing demeanor slipping into something more careful. Protective. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts closer, hand still on your back like he’s anchoring you.

“Let’s get out of here soon,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. “We’ve got most of what we need. Spaghetti’s easy. You, me, Koji—one normal night.”

You glance up at him, grateful. “Normal sounds nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He smiles, giving your back one last pat before going over to the checkout with you and Koji in tow.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” he responds, opening the cupboard to put the new pots and pans he bought for you away.

You’re currently storing all the food that could probably last you an entire month in the pantry. You hesitate, unsure of how much of a sensitive topic this could be, but you bite the bullet. “How’s Suguru?”

He pauses, not sparing a glance over at you. He clears his throat and continues. “Fine, I think.”

“You think?” You look at him.

“Yeah, I think. I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

Guilt shoots up your spine, a frown pulling at your lips. Memories flood you of that dreadful night. The one where you almost kissed his best friend, and you thought you’d have to break up a man fight. Knowing you’re the cause of the small hiatus put on their friendship makes you wish you could turn back time. “I’m sorry.”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps arranging the pans, movements slower, more thoughtful. The air feels heavier now, less like home, more like a pause neither of you wanted to admit was coming. Finally, he exhales through his nose, closing the cabinet gently before leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “It’s not your fault,” he says, voice even, but his eyes flicker with something more tired than usual. “Suguru makes his own choices. Always has.”

You swallow. “But if I hadn’t—”

He cuts you off gently, shaking his head. “It wasn’t about almost kissing him.” His voice is softer now, but there’s something unspoken threading through each word. “It was about the fact that he didn’t stop it either.”

That stings. You look down at the box of granola bars in your hand, heart thudding with that old familiar guilt. “I didn’t want it to happen. I just… I was in a bad place.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that now.”

You nod slowly, setting the box down and bracing your palms against the counter. “I just wish you two could fix things. You’ve been friends since forever, and now it’s like—”

“Like we’re strangers,” he finishes for you, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. Trust me, I feel it too.”

Silence stretches between you for a beat, and you gauge his expression. “You should talk to him. He’s already set a boundary with me after it happened. But I don’t want to be the reason you guys aren’t close anymore.”

Satoru watches you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched like he’s holding back words he doesn’t want to admit. Then he drags a hand through his hair, sighing hard as he drops his gaze to the floor. “I’ve thought about it,” he says finally, voice low. “More than once. But every time I get close to reaching out, I think about that night… and I don’t know what I’d even say.” His fingers drum anxiously against his bicep. “Like, how do you come back from that?”

You step closer, hesitant. “Maybe it’s not about fixing everything in one conversation. Maybe it’s just… showing up. Letting him know you still care.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can tell he’s deep in that mental space where his pride and pain wrestle with each other. Eventually, he mutters, “We were supposed to be unshakable, you know? Like, no matter what. And then it got real messy, real fast.”

You nod quietly. “It did. But you’ve forgiven me. Maybe part of forgiving him is just… letting him know that.”

He finally looks at you, eyes softer now, tired but warm. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

You finish putting the groceries away. “Just call him, it wouldn’t hurt, right?” A gentle suggestion.

Satoru watches you close the pantry door and wipe your hands on your skirt like you’re trying to wipe away the tension, too. You look over your shoulder at him with that soft, hopeful expression, the one that always makes it hard for him to say no.

He shrugs one shoulder, casual in appearance, but you can tell he’s still turning it over in his head. “Wouldn’t hurt,” he echoes, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Might hurt a little, actually. But maybe that’s the point.”

You step toward him, closing the distance just enough to gently nudge his arm. “Even if it’s awkward at first. Even if he doesn’t pick up. At least you tried.”

He gives a breathy laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” you admit. “But neither is letting someone you love slip away.”

That lands. You can tell by the way his mouth twitches—like he wants to say something else, something deeper—but instead, he pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times before holding it up in a silent offering.

You blink at him. “You’re calling him now?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he smirks, though it’s a little shaky around the edges. “I’m impulsive, remember?”

The dial tone fills the space between you.

“Stop stringing her along, okay? I want no drama.”

“I’m not, cousin!” Naoya huffs childishly.

“Really? So what do you call using her for information on Gojo for our own personal gain?” Toji raises a brow, buff arms crossed over his chest.

“Look,” he rolls his eyes. “Hana’s a nice girl, what if I like her just to like her?”

“You have higher standards than any woman I know.”

Naoya snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just lowering the bar for once.”

Toji smirks, stepping closer, voice low but teasing. “Careful, or you’ll end up stuck with a lifetime supply of disappointment.”

Naoya laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Better than being stuck alone, right?”

Toji raises his hand, flicking his cousin’s forehead. “End it. We don’t need you playing secret agent.”

Naoya winces at the flick, rubbing his forehead with a scowl. “You act like I don’t know how to handle her.”

“That’s the problem,” Toji retorts, stepping back and leaning against the counter with a look that borders on both exasperation and warning. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, but she’s not just some pawn. If she finds out you’re using her—”

Naoya scoffs, but there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes. “She won’t.”

Toji levels him with a sharp look. “You sure about that?”

A beat passes.

Naoya looks away first, lips tightening into a thin line. “She trusts me.”

Toji snorts. “Then all the more reason to quit while you’re ahead.”

The silence that follows is heavier than either of them wants to admit. Naoya doesn’t respond right away, instead pulling his phone from his pocket and glancing at a message from Hana—something innocent, casual. A little too kind for the way he’s been treating her.

A pitter-patter of tiny feet is heard against the polished tiles. Toji’s attention is immediately torn away from his idiotic cousin to his six-year-old son. A smile graces his lips, his scar stretching up. “Sup, buddy. How was school?”

Megumi’s black spiky hair looks messier than when he left, taking off his school backpack. His uniform has splotches of green paint, arms reaching up for his father. “Okay,” he mumbles back.

Toji bends down and scoops Megumi up with ease, holding him against his hip like it’s second nature. “Green paint, huh?” he teases, brushing his thumb against a streak on the boy’s collar. “You wrestle an art project or something?”

Megumi nods with a serious little frown. “We painted frogs.”

“Frogs?” Toji grins, walking toward the kitchen table with him. “Lemme guess—yours was the coolest?”

“No,” Megumi says flatly. “Mine looked like a blob. Teacher said it was ‘expressive.’”

Toji chuckles, setting him down on a chair and ruffling his hair. “Well, expressive blob or not, sounds like a masterpiece to me.”

Naoya watches the scene quietly from the side, arms crossed, lips pulled in a tight line, though there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze. He clears his throat, forcing a grin. “Kid’s got more personality than half the people in this house.”

Toji shoots him a glare. “Don’t start.”

Megumi blinks at Naoya, then turns to his dad. “Is he staying for dinner?”

Toji smirks. “Only if he promises not to be annoying.”

Naoya holds up his hands in surrender. “No promises, but I’ll keep it PG for the kid.”

Megumi huffs, already pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his bag. “I drew a ninja too. Want to see?”

Toji leans over, genuinely interested. “Hell yeah, show me.”

He motions to be let down, and Toji complies. He zips open his backpack for the ninja piece. “Mr. Tanaka said we’re getting a new student soon, I can show him my drawing.”

Toji crouches beside him, watching as Megumi pulls out the wrinkled sheet of paper, proudly smoothing it across the table. “Think he’ll like ninjas too?” he asks, studying the tiny stick-figure warrior with a sword and an oversized headband.

Megumi shrugs, not looking up. “Maybe. But if he doesn’t, I’ll show him the frog.”

Toji chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Good plan. Win him over with options.”

Naoya leans against the counter, watching with a lazy expression. “You’re already working on your charm, huh? Got that from your old man?”

Megumi looks at him unimpressed. “I got it from TV.”

Toji bursts out laughing. “Smart kid.” He ruffles Megumi’s hair again, softer this time, his voice a bit more thoughtful. “New student, huh? Be nice to him, yeah? It’s tough being the new kid.”

Megumi nods without hesitation. “I will. Yuuji and Nobara said the new student could play tag with us at recess.”

For a fleeting moment, Toji’s expression flickers—something distant and unreadable passing over his face. But it’s gone just as fast, replaced by the usual crooked smile. “That’s my boy.”

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@ratedrrrr @m1gota @tojideckmuncher @yoriichitsugikunii @sukunaslve

@eiizabeth-torres @cherrythiccums0 @satorustorm @zoeyflower @username23345

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@dickktektive @miss-dior @miakxn @rjreins

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pome-seed · 19 days ago

Text

Just Rest ★ Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky X Engineer!Reader

Summary: The Soldat's metal arm is damaged during sparring.

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Mention of knives and violence.

Authors Note: Based off The Soldier's Keeper, but an engineer/mechanic instead of a doctor. Idk, just trying to get out of my writing rut.

Masterlist Soldier's Keeper Masterlist.

The door slams shut behind you, the sound of metal echoing through the chamber. You stumble forward, your dazed gaze stuck on the writhing bodies in the center of the room.

“Idiot jammed his knife into the dog's gears, go check on him.” A soldier says from behind you.

You nod instinct, but when your eyes find his, your stomach drops.

The Soldat stands in the center of the room, his breathing ragged as he clutches his metal arm. His jaw is locked shut in that familiar black mask, the neck of it buckled into the rest of his uniform.

Cold blue eyes find yours before he lowers his head in shame.

Your teeth ache as you clench, swallowing your own dread. You approach the man carefully, your bag of supplies hanging heavy at your side. You step over defeated soldiers, dodging their grumpy limbs.

“Hey, can I see that arm?” You mutter, looking up at the sweaty man.

He huffs quietly against his muzzle, struggling to catch his breath. Contrary to popular belief among his keepers, the Soldat does get tired. He feels pain, he feels exhaustion, and he slows down.

But they still use him as their training dummy. They still think of him as the iron soldier who never waivers, perfect for beating their rookies into shape.

But he gets tired.

And he feels pain.

The Soldat lowers his gloved hand, exposing the knife jammed between the plates in his shoulder, the blade pointed towards his collarbone.

You grimace. “Any pain?”

He tilts his head at you, his brows twitching together.

You shake your head. “Sorry- I mean in your shoulder-” you gather his whole body must ache from the constant beating he’s been receiving. “I need to know if the blade got down to the bone.”

He shakes his head slowly, subconsciously leaning forward, his body sagging with exhaustion.

“Okay, that’s good.” You whisper, offering him a sad smile. “I’m gonna take that out now, sound good?” He nods, his gaze slowly drifting to your hands. You grab hold of the handle and carefully pry it from between the mechanics.

The man makes a quiet sound in his throat, but he stays still for you.

You dig through your satchel and pull out your tools. “I still don’t get why they make you do this with real knives…” You mutter, peeling off the scraped panel to see the mechanics beneath. “Seems like pointless blood spilt…”

The large man just tilts his head at you, watching you- not your hands. He didn’t often get the chance to speak with you. You were rarely left alone. But he aways listened.

Because you were the only person who spoke to him like he was still human.

You pick through faded wires and loose bolts, but find no notable damage- or so you think.

You use a thin metal tool to lift another interior panel- the Soldat flinches hard. You freeze. “Did that hurt?” You frown.

He nods mechanically. “Mm…”

“Okay, just bear with me then,” you mutter, shifting the panel carefully. You shine your light between the metal and see faint red staining the cool steel. “Looks like he did knick something…” You sigh and turn back to the man guarding the door. “I need to take him to the lab, looks like there's some damage.”

The soldier visibly groans, then mutters something into his radio. “Alright, go on.”

“Come on,” you turn to the Soldat. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

His lashes flutter in a slow blink. He nods slowly and steps into your space before you even start moving. You smile and slowly take his hand. His gloved fingers are still in yours as you lead him into the hall.

The walk to the lab is a short one, but you’ve memorized it by now.

You’ve been with Hydra for over a year, and no matter how much you may have hated it at first, you quickly accepted your circumstances. They needed you to do a job, so you did it. In return, you got to live.

You spent most of your time in the lab, waiting, or working. The rest you spent in your small room.

“Sit on the table please.” You release the man's hand and tug off your satchel. He obeys without a thought, like always. When you finally sit down at his side, you take a quick look back at the doors. You’re alone.

So you slowly cupped his metal jaw and tilt his head up. Blue eyes latch onto yours. You slide your hands back into his hair and unbuckle his muzzle. The clast comes loose after you struggle with it, then you finally pull it free.

“Since we’re alone,” you whisper, smiling up at him.

The Soldat shifts his jaw carefully, working the locked up muscles. “Thank you.”

You pat his knee. “Now let’s get that arm fixed, huh?” You pull your tray of tools closer.

While you work, the Soldat watches you, his body swaying every time he blinks too long. You wonder how long he’s been running drills today. How many other men he had to fight, for the sake of training. But you don’t ask, because you just want to let him rest. Besides, his time with you was usually the only relaxed moments he got.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You mutter, twisting wires back into shape.

His head jolts up from where he’d been dozing off. “What?” His deep voice questions close to you.

“There isn’t much damage, I knew you’d be fine.” You glance up at him. “But I wanted to get you in here, so I lied.”

His soft frown makes him look confused. “You did?” He glances at his shoulder.

“Mhm,” you nod. “Just wanted to make sure they gave you a moment to rest.”

“Oh,” he huffs, his shoulders sagging as he sighs.

“If I gave you the all good, they would have had you jump right back into sparring.” You mutter, sealing over chipped metal.

“Yeah…” he whispers. “Thank you…” He licks over his dry lips.

“Shush, just catch your breath.” You adjust your light to see deeper.

He obeys, taking your words literally as he goes quiet. You smile to yourself and continue working.

There isn’t much blood, thankfully. The tip of the knife must have just barely sunken into the muscle fused to metal. But it was enough that moving those internal plates stung. So you’re careful.

You’re always careful with the Soldat.

And he knows it. So he lets his tired eyes fall shut. He lets his body sag a little further, until his head is dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

You stiffen, but you don’t wake him. You just continue to work, until you're sealing the exterior plate back in place. And when you do, you stay put, allowing him to rest.

You sit there, his metal hand resting in your lap. Your frown curls deeper as you feel his soft breath flutter against your exposed skin.

You wish there were more quiet moments like this. You wish he was allowed such a pleasure. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your fingers carefully raking through his long hair. “Just rest…”

A/N: Can you tell I kinda miss the Hydra era of the soldier's keeper...

Taglist:

@a-world-with-pure-imagination @frog-fans-unite @1967barracuda @akkklys @cherryheairt @lonelyghosts-stuff @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @devilslittlehelper @miss-chuchu @dollface-xoxo @natalia42069 @thuul-box @local-crazy @justachillgirllui @pleasecallmeunhinged @cookies-and-music @fallen-w1ngs @unicornqueen05 @bloodmocha @sleepysongbirdsings @fadingcollectivenightmare

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yan-randomfandom · 7 months ago

Note

yandere viktor with an innocent and naive reader but with magical abilities, where the reader knows how to use simple magic like conjuring plants or controlling water... ((the reader only knows the basics of magic, since no one taught it and this magic would be the only one so far who knows how to do it, and the reader was a little scared of being in a rush or being studied like a lab rat because she has magic, but she confided her secret to Viktor...)) Why do you do that?

Y!Viktor x GN!Mage!Reader

a/n: posting this before act 2 omg, i think i need a rewatch — btw this one only has very light yandere undertones,, ..erm

🫧 ;

"Psst. Hey, want to know a secret?"

Viktor blinked. His eyes followed the moving reflection on the iridescent river. Your figure was mirrored in the water, an unreadable expression on your face.

... He looked up, alarmed. Were you talking to him? Viktor didn't even know you.

You met his amber eyes. For whatever reason, on the edge of the cliff just above the water, you folded your legs against your chest and buried half your face in your arms.

"Well?" you pushed, voice muffled.

His mouth opened, then closed. Viktor nodded wordlessly instead.

" ... Promise me you won't tell anyone."

Without a moment's hesitation, the young boy nodded again.

He watched as you stood up and jumped steadily into the river, splashing him and his mechanical boat. A low, frustrated groan escaped him as water seeped into his clothes.

"Oh, sorry," you said as he tried to wipe the water from his face. "Let me get that for you."

Suddenly, Viktor felt his weight gradually become less unpleasant—almost refreshing, even, as if the water slid across and away from his skin and clothes.

That's when he saw it.

A small blob of water, floating in the air. It moved carefully like it was fragile.

Then came another, and another. Small specks came together until it formed one single bubble.

Abruptly, it dropped in the river. Like nothing ever happened. Viktor's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Cool, right?" you grinned. He looked at you with furrowed eyebrows, his jaw gaping. One of your hands was lifted, fingers poised in a manner of delicacy.

"You," Viktor finally spoke, stammering, his breathing ragged. "You did that? Was that... magic?"

You chuckled, settling yourself beside him. He turned to you, scooting over to make room, and met your steady gaze. “I think so. But I was serious when I said never, ever tell anyone.”

He shook his head, utterly appalled. "Is this some sort of trick?"

"I wish—"

“This is not funny,” he snarled, his demeanor shifting completely, catching you off guard. “If you’re just here to get a reaction out of me, I’d advise you and your friends to leave. Please.”

You frowned, standing up with your fists clenched. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m so sorry! And I don’t… even have friends.”

Viktor searched your face.

There's nothing to suggest a lie. He's observant, and he quietly prides himself over it, but this is one of the few cases where he genuinely starts to doubt his judgment.

"But," you sighed, turning away. "I'll leave if that's what you want. Apologies."

...

"... Wait."

— 🌱

The leaves of the seedling barely moved.

"Aw," you chuckled, dropping your arm to your side. Who knew conjuring plant powers could be so draining? "Well, I tried. Let's take a break!"

He let out a choked noise, pausing his writing. "We barely started! How is it that whenever you get to try something new and amazing, you avoid it?”

...

You didn't respond immediately.

Viktor put down his notebook, looking back at you, who was blankly staring at him.

"I guess I'm... scared?" you said, tilting your head. To his surprise, you gently grabbed his hand, running your thumb across his palm.

His face warmed. He physically couldn't say or do anything.

"You're the only one who knows about this, Vik," you muttered, your eyes fixed on his rough skin. "I sprung this on you when we were kids, which is kind of hilarious, by the way, but I had a reason. In my mind, you were the only one who would understand."

He thought so, too.

Viktor couldn’t stop himself from slipping his fingers between yours. It was a good thing you weren’t looking at him—otherwise, you might’ve seen how red his face had become.

"And you told me no one will believe me," he said, and while the memory was of you giving him a serious warning, his tone was filled with nothing but endearment.

"I still stand by that," you laughed, pulling your hand away from his, much to his disappointment. You still hadn't glance at his face. He mentally scolded himself for almost hoping you would see his expression. "Especially with our age now. They'll just think you're crazy."

"I understand," he chuckled, turning away. "About that break... you want to go to our usual?"

A smile curled your lips. "Yes, please!"

— 💌

Viktor said he has a surprise for you.

Admittedly, you're feeling extremely anxious. He grew up to become a researcher, an inventor—facts that don’t surprise you.

As his best friend, a person able to do magic, while absolutely shitty at it, you know he sees you as someone with massive potential. Literally. No one else in Piltover or Zaun is known to do this. Maybe in a hundred years—who knows? You didn't even have a proper education.

...

Viktor cleared his throat. "I've been offered a position in the University of Piltover."

You froze. The letter in his fingers bore the university’s wax seal in the center, bold and unmistakable.

“Holy shit,” you blurted, your eyes darting between him and the letter. “Holy shit!”

Jumping over to Viktor, you wrapped your arms around him in a tight embrace. The biggest, most triumphant smile tugged at your lips. He staggered a little, but you were too wrapped up in your happiness to notice.

"Language," he laughed, hugging you back.

You snickered. "I'm so proud of you! Words can't even begin to express how happy I am for you!"

Pulling back, your hands still rested on his shoulders. Your smile relaxed ever so slightly as your eyes gazed into his softer ones.

"I knew you could do it," you exhaled.

A small pause.

Viktor had a look. Oh, shit. What’s that smirk for?

"...You're not done," you accused, raising an eyebrow.

He lifted the letter in his hand. "I have not accepted yet."

Now, your brows knitted together in utter confusion.

"... Why not—?"

"I said I won't be going unless they let me bring a plus one."

You smile faltered, denial crossing your face. He noticed it. Did he just say what you thought you heard him say?

"Are you saying...?" Your expression shifted into worry; you didn't quite understand his point.

"I want you to come with me," Viktor said, grabbing your hand and placing the letter in your palm. "To Piltover."

Oh, no. You didn't mean to.

You panicked, pulling away, the letter slipping from your hand.

Viktor's brows furrowed. He thought you'd be happier about the news.

Then, he looked around.

It had rained just before he decided to share the news. Some raindrops were still fresh, glistening from the downpour.

And around your figure, small droplets rose into the air. The air is thick with tension.

"Viktor. You're not giving me to them, are you...?"

Defeated. That's how your voice sounded.

"Of course not," he hushed, pushing you onto a chair. "Never. Please calm down. Let me explain."

You obliged, sitting down. He sat beside you.

"I'm sorry," you spoke first, meeting his eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you. Heck, I trust you more than anyone. The thought of going up there... it just makes me anxious."

"I understand," Viktor nodded. He turned his head. "However, I promise you, I won’t let them take you away from me. You’ll be solely under my care. But I do know someone who’s willing to help us."

Viktor. So compassionate and filled with empathy. You admired him for those very reasons, not just for his brilliance. His presence feels like a whole other world to you—someone who could help you understand your abilities. Perhaps the only chance you have to truly learn who, or what you are.

"I'll be a burden."

"No. Of course not. I want you by my side."

You hesitated. Despite your family being clueless about your ability, they were still the people you cared for. You still had a life in the undercity.

"And if I refuse...?"

Viktor took a moment to respond. The thought of leaving you hurt his heart.

"You... I believe you don't have much of a choice."

You couldn't explain why, but you found it in yourself to wholeheartedly believe him.

— 💜

zamn

critique is welcome btw

#yan writes #yandere arcane #viktor arcane #yandere #yandere arcane x reader #viktor x reader #yandere viktor x reader #mage anon

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wroetolando · 2 months ago

Text

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv1 imagine #formula one #formula 1 #red bull racing #red bull f1 #red bull max #red bull gives you wings #wroetolando

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glassbxttless · 1 month ago

Note

Hi there! 👋🏽😊 As promised I have made it here to your little sandwich shop!

I would like salami and provolone on rustic sourdough, with mustard and why not make it a combo with hush puppies!

Excited to see what you whip up 😍

Much love,

- T🌙

Dinner for Two

older!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from 28bohemianmoons | when your car breaks down and the very handsome mechanic that promises to fix it invites you over for dinner, he gets a little more than he bargained for.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, bit of an age gap, eddie’s 46, reader’s in her 20’s (i picture her as late 20’s but it’s never explicitly stated. so it’s up to you), oral f receiving, pinv

notes: Order up for T! Thanks for coming by and checking out the sandwich shop 🫶🏻 There’s some parts of this I feel like I could’ve elaborated more on, but it’s already almost 5k and these fics were supposed to stay under 2k lmao (I’m also just a bit tired of fussing with it). So I hope you enjoy! Big thanks to @prettycalla & @keeryhours for reading this over and as always, the biggest thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing! I’m a mess without her.

Your engine coughs once. Then it sputters. Then it fucking dies completely.

You coast to the shoulder of the road with a sinking feeling in your stomach. Your hazard lights blinking uselessly in the evening dusk. You’re not far from town, but far enough to know this is going to be a pain in the ass. You sit behind the wheel in silence for a few seconds, trying to will the car back to life as you turn the key again. No turn over. Of course, just your luck. You should’ve taken your friend’s offer to borrow their car while yours was “being weird”. But no. You had to prove that your own car wasn’t possessed by Satan.

The irony is strong when you hear the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching behind you. You glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of it— black, sleek, and loud. It’s pulling in behind your stalled car like some kind of metal savior. The guy gets off it in one smooth motion, worn in denim and soft leather with wild curls, and to top it all off, rings glinting as he pushes his hair out of his face.

“Hey,” he calls as he jogs up beside your window, ducking down slightly with one hand pressed to the top of your car. “You okay in there?”

You roll the window down halfway and blink up at him. He looks like he walked out of a hot biker calendar. Except, you know, a bit more real. His jeans are grease stained, you could see a homemade faded Corroded Coffin T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days since the 90’s, hair greying slightly, and a pair of wide brown eyes that seem way too gentle for someone built like a God.

“Car died,” you say softly, suddenly a little sheepish under his gaze. “Pretty sure it hates me.”

He grins, standing up a bit straighter, “Let me take a look, yeah? I speak fluent piece-of-shit car.”

You stare at him through your half opened window, unsure of what to make of him, “You a mechanic or just… good with insults?”

“Both.” He winks at you, then adds with the most charming smile you’ve ever seen a man wear, “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Of course it is. A perfect name for a dreamy man.

You pop the hood, and open the car door to slide out of it. He slides off his jacket, placing it out of the way and then he leans over, poking around while you stand back. You watch him mutter to himself as he checks connections, pokes at belts, and scowls at your battery. That faded grey t-shirt had a few holes in the hemline and it was riding up his back to show just a sliver of skin above the waist of his jeans. If you look close enough you could even see a bit of his soft belly. You flick your eyes up, taking in the set of his jaw. He was focused, wound tight as he tries to locate the problem, there’s a few wrinkles by his eyes, laugh lines settling close to his mouth. You smile. He’s one of the most handsome men you’ve had walk into your life. After a few more minutes of your silent gawking, he slams the hood down again— it’s not hard, just enough to snap your attention back to the present. He wipes his hands on his jeans as he turns to you.

“She’s gonna need some love. Maybe a sacrifice or two,” he says with a chuckle. “Starter’s shot, and your alternator isn’t looking too friendly either.”

“Awesome,” you mutter. “You have tow trucks too? or do you just deliver bad news on the side of the road?”

He laughs and shakes his head, already pulling out his phone. “No, but I’ve got a buddy at the shop who can come grab it. We’ll get it to my garage, fix it up cheap. No dealership shit. I swear on my Iron Maiden collection.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look him over again. “And you’re not just saying that to lure me into your mechanic lair?”

Eddie grins wider, those laugh lines and dimples on full display, like he appreciates the sass you’re shooting at him. “Hey, you’re welcome to keep your guard up.” He chuckles, sending a text out, as he shakes his head. He might as well give it a shot, “I do have a lair. It just also happens to have a killer lasagna and a very patient dog.”

“…You cook?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says softly, cocking an eyebrow up as he tests the waters. “Could come by sometime. I promise not to kill you. Unless you’re allergic to good conversation and metal records. Then maybe I’ll have to make a sacrifice… you know, for the car.”

You roll your eyes and let out a laugh, pulling up the contacts in your phone just to humor him. “I’ll think about it.” He flashed you a grin at that. He leaves you with his number and a promise that your car will be better than it was brand new— or at least newer than it looks now.

You don’t mean to text him. Really, you don’t. But a few nights later, after a really long day at work, a too-long shower, and a look in your fridge at the leftovers from the night before— you find yourself in your bed. Aimlessly scrolling through social media, that man and his greying curls heavy on your mind. You bite your lip as you think of his arms, splattered with dark ink. You think of that little bit of skin you saw as he leaned over your car. And you let out a breath, opening up your contacts app. You think about it a moment, really weighing your options. It’s just dinner, yeah? If it turned into more you’d be okay with that. He was funny, not too bad on the eyes, certainly one night of a lapsed judgement wouldn’t kill you. But he’s double your age. And you shake your head, scrolling past his number in your phone. But then you pause and scroll back.

Hey. That dinner still on the table?

You half expect him to ignore the message, it’d been days and the last time you spoke was about your car. But he responds shortly after..

Hell yes. Tonight? Come hungry.

When you pull up to his house— a small place outside of town with a beat-up mailbox with MUNSON scrawled across the side, you can see an old blue Chevy in the garage through the open door, right next to that pretty metal savior from the week before. His neighbors are close enough to almost share walls. But the porch light is on and you knock gently. Hearing shuffling around on the other side of the door for a moment, you wait, holding your bag to your chest. The door creaks open and there he is. He’s got an apron on, a shirt with the sleeves cut off showing each of the intricate tattoos adorning his skin. His hair is pulled back in a bun messily underneath a bandana to keep back the flyaways. His face a little flushed and red from the heat of the kitchen.

“You came,” he says softly, clearly shocked to see you standing at the door.

“Of course I did,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You said to come hungry… and I wanted to meet the dog.”

The dog is a sleepy little border collie named Ozzy, who’s spread out on the couch not paying any mind to the new visitor in his home. “He’s a real killer, can’t you tell?” Eddie jokes softly as he steps back to let you step in. He shuts the door behind you and makes his way back over to the kitchen with you close on his heels. He hands you a glass of red wine and says it’s “the cheap kind, on sale.”

The lasagna he whipped up is genuinely amazing. So is the music— a vinyl spinning in the background, something heavy that makes him close his eyes and nod along like he’s feeling it in his bones. You think you’ve hit the jackpot of men; handsome, a great cook, and has a great taste in music? You ask him about his band when he mentions it in an offhand comment— he still plays sometimes, mostly local gigs. You ask about the shop— he owns half of it now. You ask about the rings— he shrugs and says he’s always had em, “Sweetheart, these fingers were born for flair.”

By the time you finish with dinner, you’re laughing way more than you had planned to. You rest your elbows against the table top, watching as he leans back in his chair. He’s looking at you with a smile that’s almost shy.

“What?” you ask softly, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish yourself.

“Nothing,” he chuckles a bit. “I just…didn’t think you’d actually show. Let alone stick around… I really can’t believe it.” He shakes his head a bit, the bandana holding back midnight colored curls from his face.

You tilt your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Why not?”

He shrugs, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. Bashful. “People don’t usually stick around this long.” He says it like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop with you. But there’s something in his voice— something that makes you want to lean closer, so you do.

“You’re not as scary as you look, Munson.”

He smirks, that playful confidence you’d caught more glimpses of than the coyness he’s been exhibiting tonight.

“Careful. I’ve got a reputation to protect.” He pushes back from the table to stand, so you follow suit. And then there’s that moment— the pause that stretches quietly. A question that hangs in the air between two people who are both wondering the same thing; Are you going to kiss me? He steps closer just as the thought crosses your mind and you don’t move back.

“You want to see the garage?” he murmurs, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. His voice is low, a little rough, nothing like before. The apron he’d been wearing before dinner was long discarded, showing the front of the cutoff Dio shirt he’d been in. He reaches up, tugging the bandana from his head, the bun still keeping most of his hair contained.

You grin, biting the inside of your cheek. “That code for something?”

His laugh is quiet now. He’s nervous, that blush that had graced his cheeks earlier is back, plastered across his nose— mixing with the freckles that peppered his skin. As embarrassed as he may be, he holds your gaze. He bites the inside of his cheek and lets out a breath, whispering, “Only if you want it to be.”

You nod. You do. You so desperately want it to be.

And he moves closer in a blink of an eye. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he saw your broken-down car on the highway. His hands are tentative at first, one sliding up your back so gently you barely notice it’s there. And when you melt into him, your front pressing up against his body, he moves more confidently. The hand that wasn’t occupied by holding you close to him slides up and tangles in your hair. The pressure makes you gasp into his mouth. And he presses you up against the kitchen wall right between his dining table and countertop. The warmth of his chest is seeping through your shirt, his rings cold where they skim your waist.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, lips brushing against his as you do, “So, is this part of the tune-up package?”

He laughs again, cheeks redder than before and a bit more breathless now. “Oh, sweetheart. This is way more than the tune-up package… this is the extended warranty.”

You laugh, still pinned to the wall when he kisses you again. He’s slower this time, taking his time. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the way you taste for when you’re inevitably gone again. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt and press in against your skin just enough to make you lean into him, instinctive. You’re needy and you both know it.

“God, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips before he’s dragging his mouth across your jaw, down your neck. He doesn’t stop until his teeth graze the spot just under your ear. “Can I—? Shit. I didn’t think you’d actually come, and now I’m two seconds from ruining my chances at a second date completely.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Ed,” you breathe out softly. Your hands brushing over his shoulders. “You’re doing great, actually.”

He huffs a laugh as he shakes his head. Hair working its way out of his bun. You feel the rumble of his chest more than you hear it— his breath hot against your skin, his chest is rising against yours. And then he gets quieter, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You reach down between your bodies and grab the hem of your own shirt, whispering, “Help me get this off before I change my mind.”

For him? That’s all it takes.

He tugs your shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere behind him. He scans your newly revealed skin so slowly it almost hurts him. His eyes are glinting in the dimmed light of his kitchen, words stuck on his tongue like he’s in the presence of something so holy that he can’t believe he gets to touch it— that look makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He kisses your chest so gently, you barely even feel the press of his lips. Then he’s trailing his fingers over your hip, up your side. He settles on your ribs, thumb brushing over your skin— he’s not in a rush, he can savor his time with you. He dips his head down again, stubbled chin scratching against your chest as he presses another kiss against your shoulder. His nose brushing against your neck as he slides up to press another kiss below your ear, against your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. His hands are warm and a little rough as they slide up your sides. One reaches back to settle on the clasp of your bra, greedy. You gasp into his mouth when he presses his hips into yours, he’s already hard, straining against his jeans.

It’s good. So good. So good you almost don’t notice when he adjusts his grip on you, trying to work the clasp loose (he’s been out of practice for longer than he’d like to admit), his free hand knocks something off the counter. You both flinch, breaking from the kiss, as a metal mixing bowl hits the kitchen tile with a clang that rings through the room like a damn alarm bell.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters, lifting his head to look you in the eyes. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed and lips kiss bitten. “That was… expensive-sounding.”

You lean forward resting your forehead against his jaw as you laugh softly. “That’s what you get for trying to fuck me next to your Gran’s stand mixer.”

You’re still catching your breath when you catch his eyes flick toward the back of the house. “You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping to a raspy whisper, “there’s a lot less cookware out in the garage.”

You lift a brow, that’s the second time he’s mentioned the damn place. “That supposed to be your version of romance?”

“It’s where I’m my truest self,” he says solemnly, nuzzling his nose against your hair, lips pressing a kiss against your temple. “Surrounded by tools, loud music, and we have absolutely zero chance of knocking over my Nana’s cornbread tin and denting it beyond repair.”

You narrow your eyes as he speaks. “If you’re just trying to get me out there so I’ll see your stupid truck, you left the door open and on my way in, I already—”

“No arguing, sweetheart,” he says with a tut, already tugging you toward the door. He reaches up and presses a button, until you can hear the tell tale sign of the garage door closing. “You’ve questioned the sanctity of my second favorite place in this entire house. Now you have to come see it, and that isn’t code for anything.”

You let him lead you with all his golden retriever enthusiasm— one hand in his, the other folded across your chest to keep your bra in place. You’re still half-laughing, that spark between you hasn’t dimmed in the slightest— it’s just waiting, simmering, threatening to boil over the second you get your lips back on his. He opens the door, helping you carefully down the two steps until you hit the cool concrete floor. The garage is warm and faintly smells like gasoline, it’s lit by a few overhead bulbs and the sliver of moonlight pouring through the window. You hadn’t realized it was this late. His tools are organized along the back wall in a way that only he would know where anything was. The blue chevy truck’s parked square in the middle, just as you had seen it earlier. His bike parked next to it. Windows rolled down and the hood closed.

“Wow,” you say, mock impressed as you look around the room. You take in the posters along the wall, worn in and incredibly obvious he’d saved them from his teenage years. “A whole garage dedicated to metal bands. You trying to marry me or something?” You joke softly, feeling hot as soon as Eddie turns his gaze back to you.

He tuts softly with a roll of his eyes, backing you up until your body is pressed between him and the front of his truck. “Careful, sweetheart. This truck’s seen a lot of action.”

“Uh-huh. Bet it’s jealous.”

“Oh, it will be in a minute.” He dips his head down letting his lips hover above yours. His breath is hot, his eyes are flicking from yours, down to where he’d like to be. He presses his hands against the hood of the truck on each side of your hips, leaning in until he can close the distance between the two of you in a kiss. It’s deeper this time, all of the teasing now burned away by the low throb of tension that’s been building since you stepped through his front door. He shifts his hips closer, until he’s flush against you— one hand leaving the hood to settle on your hip, like he’s finally letting himself have you. He slides it beneath your waistband, toying at the hem of your panties as he lets out the lowest groan you’ve ever heard a man make.

Your own hands snake upwards, resting on his shoulders. Your fingers brushing along taught muscle before you’re tugging the bun he was wearing loose, a shy little smile on your face. He shakes his hair free, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder. His breath against your skin ragged as you grind your hips towards him— the bulge in his jeans growing by the second. He swears so much blood is running downwards, his knees may buckle. And before you can even catch your breath, he turns you around— your back to his front— and bends you forward over the cold metal hood of his truck. He leans his body over your own, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, his mouth at your ear as he finally unsnaps the clasp of your bra. “You okay with this?” he asks softly, his voice a little hoarse, from want, from need.

You nod, letting your own forehead rest against the metal. Your breath hitches in your throat, “More than okay, Eds.”

He laughs. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about doing this since the second you popped your damn hood up on the side of the road.”

His hands slide the straps of your bra down off your shoulders, and he carefully tugs it out from under your body, tossing it over the mirror of the truck. He lets one hand trail forward, cupping your tit before giving it a squeeze. He presses another kiss against your shoulder, moving his hands back down to your hips. He thrusts against your ass, fully clothed. You gasp, a little dazed by the sudden shift in energy. He’s not teasing you anymore. He’s hungry, he’s greedy. And he wants you so badly.

You barely have time to register that his hands have left your body and he’s no longer pressed up behind you. You glance over your shoulder, gasping softly at the sight. He’s on his knees behind you, letting himself look up at you through those pretty eyelashes before his hands are back on you, parting your thighs with an ease you hadn’t seen him display before. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” he says softly, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. He lets his hands drift to your front, unbuttoning your pants and dragging the zipper down so slowly. When he’s finally got it, he makes a big deal of slowly tugging your pants down. He’s deliberate, letting himself get worked up by every inch of cotton that’s revealed to him. “I fuckin’ am.”

He runs a palm over the swell of your ass with an appreciative hum. Then he dips his head lower, pushing your thighs a bit further apart. He presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses up, up, up— until he’s right where you want him. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his breath hot over your clothed core, his eyes flick up to watch you, pressed over the hood. “You cold or just impatient?”

“Eddie, pl—”

He doesn’t make you say it. He really doesn’t need to. Not with the way your panties are sopping wet for him already. One hand settles on your hip as the other drags the soiled cotton down to join where your jeans are bunched around your feet. Dipping his head down once again, he slides his tongue over you, so slowly. You nearly collapse forward at the sensation. His grip is firm on you, keeping you steady, holding you there— his mouth is relentless, tongue plunging into your cunt before alternating to lick a fat stripe through your folds. He’s focused, intentional in a way that makes your toes curl with each prod of that muscle against you, with each nudge of his nose. He groans into your pussy when you moan his name, like he’s getting off on the sound of it. Like he could live here between your thighs forever. And it sends a shockwave of vibrations through your spine. That white hot coil in your belly starts to build oh-so-slowly.

You press your forehead to the truck, your eyes fluttering shut. You rock your hips back into his face, desperate for more. Desperate for him to let you cum.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he pulls away to press another kiss against your thigh, muttering softly. “How the hell am I supposed to let you leave after this?” And if those words didn’t make you keen, the flat of his tongue surely did when it runs up your thigh, almost to where you’d like him to be.

Your laugh stutters out halfway into a gasp, fingers curling into fists where they had been pressed against the truck. “Who said I wanted to leave?”

That earns you a sharp nip of his teeth, followed by a kiss right over the bite— so gentle it almost makes your head spin. And then just like how he’d gotten down there, with no warning at all, he pulls away.

“Eddie—” you breathe out, standing on the edge of what may be the best orgasm of your life.

He’s already standing, his own chest heaving— sweat clinging to his bangs and plastering his curls to his forehead. His eyes, blown wide as he unbuckles his belt— tugging his own jeans down just enough to free himself. “You still good?” he asks again, waiting for you to pack it up. Tell him you don’t fuck the town freaks. Even in his forties, Eddie’s scared of letting anyone in.

You nod, turning your head slightly to rest your cheek against the metal. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He wraps a hand around his cock, thumbing the base to line himself up with your pretty cunt. He’s so hard he can barely stand it, so he sinks into you with one smooth, steady, hard thrust that knocks the air completely out of your lungs. You gasp, bracing yourself on the hood. Your knees are already trembling. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes behind you, both hands tight on your hips. His thumb rubbing circles into your skin. “You feel— fuck. You feel like a dream.” It’d been too long since he’d been here, balls deep inside a pretty girl. Let alone one probably half his age.

You try to respond to him, but the words in your head die in your throat before you even have a chance to speak them. He pulls back out until there’s nothing but an inch or so of his cock left inside of you, and then thrusts in again, harder this time. That stupid blue chevy rocks beneath you. You moan loud, unable to hold it in— and that’s when his hand snakes up from your hip, covering your mouth from behind as he leans over your body once again.

“Shh,” His lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. “You gotta be quiet, sweetheart. I’ve got neighbors.”

You whimper against his palm, letting your eyes close as he grinds his hips deeper inside of you. The hair growing back in at the base of his dick scratching against your skin burns in a way you’ll know you’ll feel it tomorrow. And he groans, letting himself get an eyeful of you. Fuck, you’re so pretty like this— bent over his truck, desperate and begging with just the rock of your hips. Taking everything he lets you have. He rocks his hips hard, steady, pushing deeper each time like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. His pace is unrelenting as you clench around his cock. One of his hands slips down the front of your body and between your legs, deft fingers finding your clit. He starts working against that little bundle of nerves in tight little circles, and it’s enough to make you start seeing stars. The pressure in your stomach growing more taut by the second “That’s it, baby.” he grits out between his teeth. “Let me feel you cum. You’re squeezin me. I know you’re close.”

And that band finally snaps with a particular hard thrust of his hips, dragging against that spongy front wall of yours. You cum with a choked out cry against his hand, in which he just presses harder against your lips. Your body is clenching around him so hard he nearly follows you into euphoria right then and there. He drops his head to your shoulder, the hand on your hip sliding around your waist to hold you as close as he can. His thrusts are slowing, getting a little sloppier. There’s another slip of your name, and two more thrusts, before he buries himself deep inside of you one final time. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his nose against the nape of your neck as he spills inside of you. Cumming hard.

You stay pressed against one another there for a second— both of you panting, trembling, bodies still resting over the hood of his stupid truck. After another minute passes, he pulls his head up and presses a kiss to your shoulder. He’s a little shaky and a little pussy-drunk. “Well,” he chuckles a bit. “This service is definitely going in an ad for the shop. Imagine the business boom.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head just enough to catch a flash of his smile. “You put this in an ad and I’m keying your truck and the bike.”

He grins, curls falling every which way as he gives a gentle shake of his head. “Fair.”

He tugs you upright as he pulls out. And then he’s tugging your clothes— at least your panties and jeans— gently back into place, pressing soft kisses to your neck like he’s trying to soothe the bruises he left behind. And then he’s stepping back, grabbing your bra from the side mirror to help slide it back up your arms. “Next time,” he says softly, turning you to work the clasp closed. He smiles as he reaches down, tugging his own jeans up and zipping them with a little hiss, “I’ll show you the actual bedroom.”

You arch a brow, teasing him. “Next time, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, grinning like he’s already planning it and knowing you aren’t going to object, “you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

tags ;; @peachyproserpina @missjadesfics @iheartgrayson @meetmeatyourworst @punkrockmlchael @prettycalla @getaapologist

#eddie munson #joseph quinn #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #mechanic!eddie #older!eddie #joe quinn #joey quinn #joseph anthony francis quinn #cw: smut #cw: age gap #cw: oral sex #cw: piv

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smutmind · 3 days ago

Text

Good Thing ft. Miyeon

Idle X BWC

The stones of Place Vendôme glistened wet beneath her heels, the square emptied of flashes and clinking glasses.

Miyeon stood alone in the echo of the gala. Her burgundy dress—cut like liquid wine—stuck to her thighs, satin clinging in places it wasn’t meant to. Rain kissed her collarbones, slipped between her breasts. Her arms wrapped under them, trying to hide the way her nipples strained against the chilled fabric.

Her phone was dead. The last message from her manager was nearly an hour ago. “Just wait at the corner. We’ll circle back.” They never did.

The wind tugged at her hem. Each shift of her weight made her heels tap against wet stone—too loud, too sharp. Designed for red carpet struts, not abandoned midnight walks in the cold heart of Paris.

She turned slowly, scanning the near-empty plaza. Every building loomed dark, shuttered. No taxis. No lingering assistants. No one called her name.

Just a little longer, she told herself.

Her makeup had begun to smudge beneath her eyes, the smoky liner fading with each blink against the rain. Her breath hung in the air in small clouds.

A pair of footsteps approached from behind. Fast, then slow.

She stiffened.

“Bonsoir.”

A man stepped into her peripheral vision—tall, older, sharp coat. His eyes swept her once, then again, slower.

“You working tonight?”

She stared at him.

“No.”

He smiled. “Pity.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, lingered, then drifted over the slit of her dress.

“I can pay well.”

She blinked once. “I said no.”

He gave a polite nod, like it didn’t matter either way. “Bonne soirée.”

Then he was gone.

Her chest ached as she exhaled.

Not ten steps later, another voice called out.

“Hey—English?”

This one was younger, American accent. Hoodie and jeans. He wasn’t alone—another man trailed behind, both holding open bottles.

She didn’t respond.

“Damn,” the second one muttered, not even trying to lower his voice. “You’re standing like you want someone to fuck you.”

Miyeon clenched her jaw. Turned away.

One of them laughed. “She’s not even denying it.”

Their steps followed her for a full block before fading.

She stopped under the edge of a dark awning, head tilted back, throat bared to the soft drizzle. Her fingers gripped the sides of her phone, thumb mindlessly pressing the black screen.

Nothing. No signal. No charge. No one.

She could feel how exposed she was now—the way her back curved when she stood still, the way the dress slipped lower with every breath.

Her body wasn’t meant to be still in it. It was made to move, to pose, to perform.

Here, she felt like she was being slowly unwrapped by every pair of passing eyes.

The fourth man said nothing. He simply followed her from across the street, pausing when she paused, pretending to look at windows. He peeled away only when she ducked into the light of a closed café entrance.

Then silence again.

She walked two more blocks, breath fogging in front of her, shoes soaked through.

Her inner thighs were slick—not arousal, just rain, maybe sweat. Her panties had long since turned damp beneath the silk.

Her skin itched from cold.

And still—no one came.

She stopped at a quiet corner. Hugged her arms tighter.

Then came the hum of tires over wet stone.

A car turned slowly into the narrow lane beside her. Not a cab. Too sleek.

It slowed.

Stopped.

The window rolled down with the soft mechanical sigh of money.

“You lost?”

His voice was deeper than the others. French accent, but smooth, practiced.

She turned her head slowly.

The man behind the wheel was younger than she expected. Late thirties. Sharp jaw, dark coat open at the collar. Hair swept back like he hadn’t bothered to fix it since dinner.

He didn’t smile.

“You look cold,” he added.

She didn’t answer.

“You working?”

Miyeon hesitated.

“You’re not waiting out here for fun,” he said, eyes dragging down her legs. “Not in that dress.”

She shifted her weight. The silk shifted with her.

“No,” she said softly.

“No, you’re not working?”

She let the silence stretch.

“Or no, not for free?” he asked.

Her breath caught.

He watched her. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.

“How much?”

She looked away. But her feet didn’t move.

“Depends,” she said, voice lower. “On what you want.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“I want everything.”

She nodded once.

The door lock clicked.

She opened it. Slid into the passenger seat.

Warm air hit her skin like a lover’s mouth.

The leather seat creaked beneath her weight.

He didn’t look at her as he pulled back into traffic.

“Pretty girls like you don’t get stranded by accident.”

She said nothing.

He glanced sideways. “You suck cock in the car?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Not while moving.”

He smirked. “Smart girl.”

His hand slid from the wheel to her thigh.

She didn’t flinch this time.

“You’re not from here,” he said.

“No.”

“Korean?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “That explains the eyes. Big. Curious.”

His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh.

“Do you like older men?”

She didn’t answer.

“You like big ones?” he added, fingers pressing slightly higher.

She turned her head. Met his eyes.

“I like warm beds.”

That made him grin.

He turned again. Down a quieter street.

“The hotel’s close,” he said. “I’ll take you up. You do everything, yes?”

Her throat tightened.

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask again.

They pulled into the side entrance of Le Roch. The valet nodded and turned away.

The elevator was silent. She stared ahead.

He didn’t speak again until the door to the suite shut behind them.

“Strip.”

She didn’t wait.

Her fingers slipped beneath the straps.

The dress fell in a wet sigh around her ankles.

She stepped out of it.

Black lace panties. No bra. Heels still on.

Her nipples were hard, her belly smooth and rising with short, slow breaths.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Unzipped.

It was already thick in his hand.

“On your knees.”

She moved like a puppet. Legs numb.

Knelt between his thighs.

Wrapped her fingers around the base.

Her breath caught.

Too thick. Too long.

He reached forward, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Open your mouth.”

She did.

And lowered herself onto him.

Her lips stretched around the head of his cock, already slick with her spit.

Miyeon’s throat worked against him as he pushed deeper. Her eyes watered instantly, tears brimming at the corners. She pulled back with a wet gasp, breath hitching.

He smiled, fingers curled loosely in her hair. “Too much for that tiny mouth?”

She didn’t answer. Just took a breath and tried again.

Her hand stroked the base while she lowered herself, inch by inch. Her jaw ached. Her tongue flattened. He was heavy on her tongue, the taste musky and clean, but thick—almost suffocating.

A tear slipped free.

“Aw,” he chuckled. “Crying already?”

She coughed softly, pulled back, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. Her voice came rough. “Just not used to...this size.”

He grabbed her chin, tilted her face up. “You’re doing fine. You look good down there.”

She wanted to speak—to say this wasn’t her. That she didn’t do things like this. But the words choked in her throat.

“You take dick better than I expected.” He leaned back, cock in hand. “Get on the bed.”

Miyeon rose slowly. Her legs ached. She climbed onto the sheets, heart thudding.

He followed, stripped now, cock hard and proud.

He didn’t ask. Just moved between her legs, yanked her panties aside, and slid the tip against her folds.

She inhaled sharply.

Then—pressure. Thick, unforgiving.

“Wait—”

He pushed in.

Her back arched, mouth open in a silent cry.

“F-fuck—” she gasped. “Too big—too fast—”

“You’ll stretch,” he growled.

She tried to shift, but his weight held her down.

Her hands grabbed the sheets. Her thighs trembled around his hips.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, mixing with sweat.

She whimpered. “Why am I letting this happen…”

He didn’t stop.

“Because you want to,” he whispered. “Some part of you does.”

She shook her head, face twisted, but her hips lifted to meet him.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, fucking her slowly now. “That little pussy’s sucking me in like it knows what to do.”

She sobbed once—quiet, shamed.

But she didn’t push him away.

He began to thrust deeper, harder. Each stroke punched the breath from her lungs.

“You regret this?” he asked.

She nodded.

He grabbed her jaw. “Then say stop.”

She didn’t.

Her lips parted, but the only sound was another moan.

“Didn’t think so,” he said.

He fucked her harder now, hips slapping wet against her ass.

Her moans turned rhythmic. Small gasps with every stroke.

Her eyes rolled. Her legs opened wider.

She wasn’t fighting anymore.

He flipped her. Bent her over the bed.

Entered from behind.

She cried out—sharp, broken.

Her ass bounced against his hips as he drove into her, deeper now, no mercy.

“You love this,” he growled. “Admit it.”

She moaned into the sheets.

“Say it,” he hissed, slapping her ass.

“I—I don’t—”

“You’re dripping.”

She bit her lip, whimpering.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said, pulling her hair back. “Say you want it.”

She shook her head, breathless.

He thrust harder.

Then something shifted.

Her hand reached back. Gripped his thigh.

She pushed back against him.

He slowed, surprised.

“You want to fuck now?” he asked, amused.

Her voice came soft, shaky. “Might as well enjoy it.”

He grinned. “Atta girl.”

He pulled her up by the waist. Sat back.

She climbed into his lap, straddled him.

His cock slid back in, easier now.

Her moan was low. Almost wanton.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “All the way inside.”

She nodded.

He kissed her neck. “Thought you were a good girl.”

“Not tonight,” she whispered.

She began to ride him—slow, controlled.

Her breasts bounced in his face.

“Shit,” he breathed. “This pussy is perfect.”

She laughed softly. “That what you tell all your hookers?”

“You’re not a hooker.”

“Sure I am,” she whispered. “For tonight.”

They fucked like that—her riding, him watching, their sweat mixing.

She moaned louder now, hips rolling with purpose.

His hands roamed everywhere—her thighs, her ass, her breasts.

He licked her nipple. Bit gently. She gasped.

“Harder,” she whispered.

He thrust up into her, grunting.

“You like being used?”

She nodded. “Tell me I’m your fucktoy.”

He grabbed her throat lightly. “You’re my fucktoy tonight.”

She moaned.

They kept going. No release. No finish. Just a blur of motion and breath and skin.

He flipped her again. Took her from behind.

She arched, bracing herself.

“You gonna cum for me?”

“Not yet,” she moaned. “Make it last.”

He grinned. “You’re not pretending anymore.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he growled, fucking her deeper. “It makes it better.”

They didn’t stop.

Just thrusts. Sweat. Grunts.

Her voice—once quiet, now unfiltered.

His—dirty, dominant, relentless.

And still—no finish.

Just the build.

And her surrender.

He lay back as she rode him, the bed sheets rumpled beneath their sweaty forms.

Her breasts bounced with each motion—round, heavy, flushed with heat. He reached up, took one in his hand, squeezed gently, then lifted it toward his mouth. His lips closed around her nipple, slow and teasing. The warmth of his mouth traveled up her chest, her breath caught, and she shivered.

He held her thigh with one hand, his other hand worshipping her breasts with soft kisses, playful flicks of tongue.

“You taste sweet,” he murmured, low and breathy.

Miyeon’s hips stuttered. Desire coiled in her belly, drowning out the shame.

She rocked forward, deeper into him, her voice a breathless tease.

“You like that?” she asked, arching back so her chest pressed into his face.

He hummed, gripping her waist. “So good. You know what you’re doing.”

Heat pooled in her core. She smiled, wickedly.

“I learned a few things,” she whispered, sliding her hands over his chest. “From the best.”

He groaned. Placed both hands on her hips and guided her slow, deeper.

“Fuck,” he grunted, “feel you stretching around me.”

She closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy the praise, the power.

“Your body...,” he kept going between moans, “so tight, so hot.”

Her breasts quivered against his mouth.

“Bite me,” he whispered.

She leaned forward, teeth grazing his skin, then pulled back, laughing softly.

He growled. “Turn around,” he commanded.

Miyeon rolled and knelt astride him, backing down with a slow bounce that made him gasp.

He reached up, took both of her breasts in his hands, palms warm.

She bit her lip. Flirted back.

“You like riding cowgirls?” she taunted, hips pushing him gradually deeper.

He swallowed. “Fucking love it.”

“Tell me again?”

He lifted his chin. “I love this pussy. Love seeing you use it.”

Her breaths came short.

They moved together—skin slick, heart pounding, the room filled with whispers and wet slaps.

She reached behind to cup her breasts, lifting them to his lips again. He sucked, hard, moaning.

The chemistry grew electric—no thought, just thrilling instinct.

Then, between thrusts, his voice changed—cold, still soft but taut.

“Flirty, aren’t we?” he murmured.

She paused, leaning forward. “We’re having fun.”

He chuckled. “Indeed.” His gaze flicked to her face. “But fun doesn’t mean care.”

She frowned, confusion and heat mixing.

His mouth closed around her other nipple. “You forgot—you might actually be someone.”

She gasped—suddenly aware of the gallery lights, the press flashes, the moments before tonight.

She stiffened mid-ride.

He pulled away from her breasts. That smile returned. Sharp. Profoundly dark.

“Miyeon.”

She froze.

When she looked at him, her whole body trembled.

“How rich you are, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Rich enough for this.”

She shook her head, breath catching in her throat.

“I know who you are.”

Her gaze dropped.

“I know your name. I know your face. I know what you mean to them—fans, idols, kids.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, heat in her face.

He grabbed her waist and forced her down—thrusting hard, filling her deeper than before.

She sobbed, voice raw. “Why did you—”

“Shh.” His fingers pressed over her mouth. “Ride.”

She shook again, her body broken between defiance and need.

He whispered, leaning close—voice rough against her ear. “If you stop, I leak.”

“Leak?”

He nodded. “To the press. To the fans. To the magazines.”

She froze.

His hands came to her breasts, squeezing. “Cum for me. Inside.”

She gasped.

“You want to stop this?” he pressed. “Fuck that.”

He pulled out slightly, veins taut, weight heavy.

“You give me one good orgasm inside you, I’ll delete the video. I’ll never speak of you. No one suspects.”

She closed her eyes.

She shook her head.

He captured her chin. “Say it.”

She opened her mouth. Comment: No climax yet. He forced her downward—he came deep inside her with a single, powerful thrust.

She gasped, body collapsing around him.

He grunted. Held tight.

She could feel it—warm and thick, inching into her belly.

When it ended, he lay back.

“Clean me,” he ordered.

She slid off. Teeth chattering, legs shaking. She crawled to his side and lowered herself onto him—licking, sucking, swallowing every drop.

He groaned softly. “That’s right. Good girl.”

She didn’t speak.

Cum dripped down her chin.

He patted the mattress. “Go.”

She stood.

He didn’t offer clothes.

Just watched her.

She slipped into damp panties, slid the dress on, teetered in heels.

He didn’t hand her cash.

“Not needed,” he said softly.

She didn’t look at him.

The door closed behind her.

Behind the wall, the suite was silent.

Miyeon’s heels tapped away.

Outside, the world carried on.

#miyeon #miyeon smut #miyeon x bwc #idle #idle x bwc #gidle smut #idle smut

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heyitspapayaontop · 23 days ago

Text

For you, Not Me.

Request: - 🪼 anon

Pairing: Dad!Lando Norris x son!Reader

Warnings: overworking, exhaust, starving/slight self harm.

Summary: Young Y/N is making the transition from karting to F4, and he begins to over train himself. Lando takes notice, and had finally begun to step in.

A/N: tysm, to this anon! Struggled w this but our first male!reader is here! Tysm to @koalapastries and @milessunflowers for helping me! (one I asked and one I used as reference 🙏)

The kart let out a hiss as it came to a stop, the gravel crunching beneath its slick tires. In the garage, the air was thick with exhaust and dust, but Y/N barely noticed. He was too busy pulling off his helmet, his curls damp with sweat, jaw clenched tight, and his lip almost raw from chewing.

Lando was leaning against the paddock tent, arms crossed, just watching.

He'd been keeping an eye on Y/N for the last hour—quietly, from a distance. Not that he meant to hover, but it’s tough not to when your thirteen-year-old just finished his sixth practice run of the day and hasn’t smiled once.

“Again,” Y/N puffed out, asking one of the mechanics, already yanking off his gloves to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Nope,” Lando said, stepping in. His tone was firm but easy, like he wasn’t about to argue. “We’re done for today.”

Y/N's shoulders tensed up. “But I messed up the last sector. I braked too early—”

“And you’ll fix it. Tomorrow,” Lando cut in gently. “Right now, your arms are shaking, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I’m fine.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, moving closer. “Y/N.”

There it was. The voice. The Dad voice.

Not the one everyone knew—the funny, high-energy one—but the softer, serious tone. The kind that didn’t need to shout to get through.

Y/N slumped a bit. “I just don’t wanna mess this up.”

“I get it,” Lando murmured. “But burning out before F4 even kicks off? That’s not the way to go.”

The ride home was quiet.

Y/N sank in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight like he had been for weeks.

They both knew this jump to F4 was coming. He’d been karting for years, racing on tracks all over Europe since he was four. He was fast—there’s no denying that. But F4? That was a whole different ballgame.

And the nerves? The pressure? It was starting to show in all sorts of small, dangerous ways.

Skipping meals.

Grinding through practice long after everyone else had left.

Waking up in the middle of the night to watch onboard footage again.

Lando noticed it all. And it scared him—because he recognized it.

It was him at fifteen. The weight of dreams too big for one kid to carry alone.

“You were overdriving in sector two,” Lando said softly, his eyes on the road.

Y/N didn’t respond.

“You were trying to make up for the mistake in turn four. That’s why the back end slipped out on the final exit.”

Y/N’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

“And that’s why you should’ve stopped after run four. You’d already nailed your lines by then.”

“Didn’t feel like enough.”

Lando glanced at him at a red light. “Enough for who?”

Silence.

“For me?” he asked. “Because I don’t want you to be perfect.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “I just want to be good enough. To earn it.”

Lando felt a bit of his heart break at that.

“You don’t have to earn my pride, kiddo,” he said softly. “You already have it. Every day.”

Y/N blinked quickly and turned to stare out the window.

Back home, Lando made pasta—his go-to when they were both too tired to think straight. They sat at the counter in silence, each poking at their bowls.

Not awkward, just… heavy.

Finally, Y/N spoke. “What if I’m not like you?”

Lando looked up sharply.

“What if I get to F4 and choke? What if I’m not quick enough? What if they only want me because of who you are?”

Lando’s breath caught in his throat.

“You think I haven’t thought those same things?” he said quietly. “You think I didn’t ask myself those questions every single day when I joined McLaren at nineteen?”

“But you proved them wrong.”

“After years of self-doubt,” Lando replied. “You think confidence just came naturally? No way. I had to build it. One mistake at a time.”

Y/N looked away, staring at nothing.

Lando got up and walked around the counter, squatting down in front of him.

“Listen,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You aren’t a clone of me. You’re your own driver. Your own person. And yeah, you’ll make mistakes. That’s how it goes. But I’d rather you mess up and learn than push yourself too hard trying to be someone you’re not.”

His son’s lip quivered.

“I don’t need you to be me. I just need you to be okay.”

That was it.

Tears rolled down Y/N’s cheeks, quiet and stubborn, the kind that had been held back for too long. He leaned forward, resting his head on Lando’s shoulder, and for a moment, he wasn’t a future F4 driver. He was just a kid. A scared, tired kid.

And Lando held him like he was the most important thing in the world.

Because he was.

Later, when Y/N had dozed off on the couch—wrapped up in a hoodie two sizes too big—Lando sat beside him, running his fingers through his hair.

He thought back to being thirteen. The long hours. The mental games. The moments when he hated the thing he loved most because it felt like it took everything.

And then he looked at his son, seeing that same spark and the same fear behind his eyes, and he made a quiet promise:

No matter how far Y/N went—F4, F3, F2, F1—he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Not like Lando did.

Not ever.

A Week Later — F4 Practice Weekend, Mugello

The paddock was buzzing with tension. New drivers. New engineers. Everyone walking around with stiff shoulders, like they could fake confidence into existence.

Y/N adjusted his suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His hands were still shaking. Less than before, but still noticeable.

“You nervous?” Lando asked from beside him.

Y/N nodded.

“Good,” Lando said. “Means you care.”

“I don’t want to let you down.”

Lando reached over, tugging lightly on the strap of his HANS device. “Y/N. Look at me.”

His son turned to face him.

“You could come in dead last today, and I’d still be proud.”

Y/N swallowed. “Really?”

“Really. Because you showed up. Because you’re trying. That’s what matters. The results will come later.”

For the first time in weeks, Y/N smiled.

A real smile.

Lando grinned and tapped his helmet. “Now go out there and show them what the future looks like.”

Y/N didn’t win that session.

He didn’t even make the podium.

But he took a corner that no one else dared to take flat out.

When he came into the pit lane, flushed and breathless, he pulled his helmet off and looked right at Lando, eyes shining.

“That felt good,” he said.

And Lando—beaming from the wall, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets to hide how much they were shaking—shouted back,

“You looked like yourself out there.”

And that? That was the best result of all.

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 3 months ago

Note

Werewolf!engineer intern male reader who has just been hired in werewolf!charles second year at ferrari, they never seem to end up in the same room and charles' first time hearing his voice is over radio that one time when said radio wasn't properly calibrated until bryan fixed it since then he's been trying to find whats obviously his destined mate which doesn't go as planned since by then its already been a few years and reader got a job offer as redbull engineer after two years at ferrari, in which he meets charles at a padel game max invited him to.

Echos of fate||werewolf!Charles Leclerc x werewolf!Male!reader

Word count- 897

A/n- I’m not gonna lie this is rough

The first time Charles hears his mate’s voice, it’s through the radio—static-filled and slightly distorted, but unmistakably right.

“Charles, your telemetry coming in delayed—adjust brake bias before the next turn.”

The second time is smooth, and calm, carrying a quiet confidence that makes something deep in Charles’s chest tighten. A low hum starts in the back of his mind, his wolf stirring from where it’s been resting, ears pricking up at something familiar, something important.

He blinks, adjusting a switch on his wheel. “Who is this?”

A pause. Then, slightly sheepish, “Oh—uh, Bryan had to fix the radio. Sorry for the delay, I’m Y/N.”

Y/N.

Charles exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he approaches the next turn. The sensation lingers like a thread pulling tight between his ribs. It’s distracting, annoying, but also—right.

When the race is over, he makes a point to ask Bryan about the voice.

“Oh, Y/N? He’s an intern engineer. Just got hired,” Bryan says. “Knows his stuff, though.”

Charles files that information away. He spends the next few weeks trying to catch a glimpse of him, to match a face to the voice that haunts his thoughts.

But it’s like chasing shadows.

Y/N is never in the same room. He’s always in the other garage, working with mechanics, in meetings, or traveling for different projects.

It drives Charles insane.

His wolf paced, restless beneath his skin, irritated at the way their schedules never align. There are moments—almost moments—where he catches a flash of movement in the paddock and hears a laugh that might be his, but by the time Charles turns, Y/N is gone.

His name lingers in his mind like a whispered secret.

And then, one day—

“Y/N took a job at Red Bull,” Bryan tells him offhandedly. “Good for him. Big opportunity.”

Charles's stomach twists with anxiety. He clenches his jaw, nods, and forces himself to swallow the frustration clawing at his throat. He feels sick. How could he have his soulmate so close to him only to be torn away? Charles's wolf is growing restless and relentless; there’s no telling when he will see Y/N again. That thought causes his wolf to let out a gut-wrenching howl—loud and painful enough to make Charles flinch.

The next two years pass by agonizingly slow for Charles. He becomes more agitated than usual, gets into more fights and becomes more aggressive.

His friendship with Max has grown stronger these past two years. Max understands what Charles is going through as he experienced something similar when Leo, his mate, does not recognize Max as his mate. So Max stuck by Charles for the last two years being there for him in any way he could.

“I don’t know about this” Charles grumbled at Max who he was on Facetime. Max had called inviting him to play a paddle with him. But Charles didn’t want to leave the comfort of his home. He didn’t want to have to deal with a bunch of other wolves getting hyped up which usually led to fights breaking out between them.

“It’s just for fun,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “I invited some of the Red Bull guys too—don’t start fights.”

Charles scoffs. “I don’t start fights.”

Max raises a brow. “Tell that to your wolf.”

Fair point. Charles has been irritable, and restless, ever since that stupid voice over the radio. It’s ridiculous. He never even met Y/N, never spoke to him outside of those fleeting moments, but something inside him has never settled.

So he agrees to padel, hoping to burn off some of the energy simmering under his skin.

What he doesn’t expect is this.

The second he steps onto the court, something hits him. A scent—clean, sharp, warm—something that makes his wolf’s ears perk up instantly.

The hum in his chest, the restless itch that’s haunted him for years, suddenly snaps into something tangible.

Charles stops walking.

His head turns sharply, gaze locking onto a man stretching near the net.

Toned arms. Tousled hair. A Red Bull logo on his shirt. His skin glows under the sunlight, his form relaxed, completely unaware of the storm he just sent through Charles’s system.

And then—

He speaks.

“Max, I’m just saying, you cheat at Padel.”

Charles’s breath catches.

It’s him.

The voice. The one that haunted him for two years.

Y/N glances over, sensing the stare, and their eyes meet. Y/n’s wolf is now relentlessly pacing back and forth in his mind.

Charles’s pulse stutters.

Shock flickers across Y/N’s features, but then his lips curve into something amused. “Uh. Hi?”

It takes everything in Charles not to move instantly. His wolf howls in recognition, instinct screaming at him to go, now, take, claim—

Charles swallows it down, clenches his fists at his sides, and forces himself to stay still.

Max mutters, “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Charles ignores him.

Y/N tilts his head, gaze sharp, studying him the same way Charles is studying him. There’s something in his eyes—a flicker of recognition, confusion, like maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

And Charles?

Charles has been looking for him for years.

There’s no way in hell he’s letting him slip away again.

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i2rizz · 1 month ago

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No way he pulled that but with Sendou Shuto and a serious (bonus if goth or something like that) S/O who is soft only for him????

Another day another nwhpt request✊️ but sendou lowk doesn't get enough writer's attention so i might just grace yall with a fic

No Way He Pulled That Pt.15

The Neo Egoist League crew had seen some things. Ego's unhinged psychology rants. Barou screaming at vending machines. Kaiser and Isagi glaring so intensely it shorted a stadium's lights once. They thought they'd seen it all.

Until they saw her.

At first the boys didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

Not when Sendou kept showing up to practice with scratch marks on his neck like he barely made it out of a black lace death match. Not when he changed his phone wallpaper to some blurry photo of what looked like a cursed Victorian painting. And especially not when he said, proudly and without blinking:

"My girlfriend’s the hottest girl alive. She’s so cool she scares people. But she lets me hold her pinky"

They laughed for hours.

"Bro, you downloaded her off Pinterest or sum?"

"You don’t even like goth girls"

"She’s either fake or you’re her emotional support himbo"

"Yall dont get it! She's so cool, man. Like, she reads Sylvia Plath and threatens me with eyeliner pens"

"Bro" Reo blinked, "are you okay?"

"She has a playlist called songs to hex men to"

"...What"

"No, like, seriously. She's so smart. And she wears these boots that make her like six feet tall. One time she told a guy off for littering and I almost proposed on the spot"

Everyone assumed it was an elaborate coping mechanism. Like, he had to be making her up. There's no way Sendou Shuto of all people managed to bag a mysterious, goth, goddess-level woman who quotes poetry and wears spike chokers.

Right?

Right??

So when Ego gave them a surprise beach day—yes, the devil himself granted mercy—they dragged Sendou along, still clowning him for the imaginary mistress of darkness he swore up and down was real.

Everyone was chilling - Barou doing crunches for no reason, Rin brooding under an umbrella, Bachira building a sand monster, and Isagi angrily trying to explain sunscreen ingredients to Kaiser, who very much did not care.

The other boys had just begun setting up the net when Reo looked up from his phone, eyes narrowing.

"Who the hell is that?"

Heads turned.

The music from someone's speaker cut out for a second, like the universe was holding its breath.

Across the beach, emerging like a mirage from a nightmare, was a woman. A vision.

Black mesh cover-up. Chunky boots. Lacy swimsuit peeking through. The kind of girl who looked like she either cursed your bloodline or read Baudelaire for fun. Maybe both.

She wasn’t just walking. She was gliding across the sand like she was paid for it. Cool expression, unreadable gaze behind black sunglasses. Jet-black nails, noise-canceling headphones, and the look of someone who wouldn’t even flinch if the ocean caught fire.

The volleyball court froze when the ball bounced near her.

And then. She bent to pick it up.

The sun hit just right.

Kaiser choked on his drink.

Isagi whispered something that sounded like a prayer.

Bachira actually dropped to his knees.

"You have got to be kidding me" Rin said, blinking furiously like that would fix the hallucination. (see what i did there? LMAOO)

And Nagi, barely lifting his head, muttered, "She looks like my sleep paralysis demon. I’d let her step on me"

Then—

"BABEEEE!!"

Their heads snapped to the source.

Sendou Shuto, golden retriever incarnate, was sprinting across the sand like a man on a mission. The woman smiled—smiled—and opened her arms.

And he dove into them like it was home base.

No one breathed. No one moved.

"You came!" he beamed, looking like a kid on Christmas.

"I said I would, didn’t I?" she said, voice soft and silken, brushing sand off his messy hair.

He preened. She kissed his cheek.

And everyone watched -slack-jawed, collectively going through the five stages of grief - as this gorgeous, gothic siren of a woman melted the moment she saw him.

"Is that her??" Reo whispered, scandalized. "Wait-no way. No. No. NO"

You smiled. It was slow. Dangerous. Sexy. The kind of smile that made people rethink their religion

The group’s collective soul left their bodies.

Otoya turned slowly. "...No way he pulled that"

"Okay but she’s like, scary hot" Reo hissed.

"And nice to him?" Nagi blinked. "Unfair"

"She hasn’t even looked at us" Aiku muttered bitterly.

"She doesn’t need to" Bachira whispered. "I feel like if she looked through me i would feel judged"

Barou clicked his tongue, jaw tense. "Tch. I ain’t impressed"

He absolutely was.

Kaiser was still muttering in German. Possibly casting spells.

"Oh, darling," you whispered, hands cupping his cheeks. "Did you drink enough water today? You better've stretched. I'll kill you if you cramp"

You kissed his neck. His NECK.

Sendou giggled.

GIGGLED.

Bachira dropped his popsicle. Rin audibly gagged. Shidou choked on his LaCroix. Isagi looked like his ego was dying.

And Reo just-sat down.

"This...this is wrong. Reality is broken. How did he get her?"

"She's...like a sexy vampire," Chigiri muttered, stunned. "And he's...Sendou"

Meanwhile, you were now lovingly applying sunscreen to your boyfriend's nose while scolding him for forgetting to reapply. He was beaming.

"I brought you your book" you added, "You left it at my place"

"You're the best" Sendou grinned.

You blinked slowly. Then kissed him again.

Every single boy in a 10-meter radius screamed internally.

Even Barou dropped his protein bar.

You could also hear Bachira screaming "is he bothering you queen?" In the backround.

Then—

"Who are your little friends?" she asked, finally glancing their way. One eyebrow raised.

"They’re my buddies!" Sendou grinned. "Say hi, guys!"

They didn’t. No one did. They just stared.

She tilted her head. "...Rude"

Shidou immediately bowed.

Isagi stammered a hello.

Bachira saluted.

Even Barou grunted something that could pass as a greeting.

Later, after she joined their volleyball game and smacked a spike so hard it nearly decapitated Reo, they huddled around Sendou like he was holding government secrets.

"How?"

"My brother in Christ how did you get her??"

"Do you have dirt on her or something?"

"Did she lose a bet?"

Sendou just sipped his juice box and smiled. "She threatened to stab me at a poetry night" Sendou said proudly.

"...What?"

"I asked if her outfit was cosplay. She threatened me. Now we're in love"

Reo, lying face-down in the sand "You don't deserve her"

Kaiser, ready to dunk himself in the ocean to feel something "I refuse to accept this timeline"

"BUT WHY—"

She walked by again, shooting them all a look so sharp it could cut glass.

The boys immediately turned into full-on panic mode - eyes darting like they'd just seen a ghost. In a desperate attempt to look innocent and not end up as collateral damage, they crouched down, nervously fixing Sendou’s hair and kissing his temple.

Sendou just grinned sheepishly.

Honestly, can you blame them? She looked like she was ready to burn the whole world down if anyone dared lay a finger on him.

The boys tho?

They reevaluated everything they knew about love, reality, and logic that day.

No way he pulled that.

But oh well, he did.

#anime #x reader #x y/n #blue lock #bllk x y/n #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #anime and manga #manga #sendou shuto #bllk sendou #blue lock sendou #sendou x reader #oneshots

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slattlicker · 18 days ago

Text

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * ignite my engine ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your car breaks down outside of town. the mechanic who fixes it is rough around the edges—and hot enough to be illegal. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✧✧✧

the engine coughs once. twice. then dies.

you swear under your breath as you coast onto the gravel shoulder. the only light is your hazard blinkers and the washed-out neon of a rusted sign in the distance:

J'S AUTO | OIL, TIRES, TUNE-UPS

charming.

✧

the bell above the garage door jingles when you walk in.

it smells like motor oil and cigarette smoke. there's an old radio buzzing from the corner, half-tuned to a country station.

then you see him.

white tank. grease-stained jeans slung low on his hips. hair a little overgrown, soft brown and curling at the edges. arms folded, forearms slick with engine oil. there’s a wrench in one hand and a smirk on his face like he already knows you’re gonna be trouble.

"you break it, or just forget to feed it?"

you blink. "excuse me?"

he nods toward your car. "engine's quiet. either she's dry, or you're cursed."

"you’re the mechanic?"

"no, i’m the tooth fairy." he sets the wrench down with a clink. "yeah, sweetheart, i’m the mechanic. name's schlatt. and you?"

"...y/n."

he grins, something dangerous in it. “well, y/n, let me go take a look.”

✧

he works fast.

sleeves pushed up. brows furrowed. cursing low and creative when a bolt sticks. the chain around his neck glints under the overhead light. he doesn't look at you much, but when he does, it's always with a flick of heat behind the eyes.

you lean against the wall of the garage, pretending to scroll your phone, but your gaze keeps drifting. to his hands. his back. the way he wipes his brow with the hem of his tank and flashes the hard line of his stomach.

"you're not from around here," he says eventually.

"what gave it away?"

"your shoes. your voice. your... whole thing." he flashes a grin over his shoulder. "this town doesn't make girls like you."

"no?"

"nah. not soft, not sharp. just... shiny."

✧

an hour later, your car is fixed.

he wipes his hands on a rag. hands you the invoice. leans one hip against the workbench like he's settling in for something.

"coulda just kept driving," you say. "coulda waited for a tow."

"coulda," he agrees. "but then you wouldn’t've met me."

he's got grease on his jaw. a faint scar near his eyebrow. hands that look like they know how to ruin you and build you back better. the air between you hums.

"you always this nice to stranded strangers?"

he shrugs. "nah. but you said your name real sweet. figured you earned a favor."

he steps closer. close enough that you can smell him—motor oil, cedar, smoke.

"you need anything else fixed, sweetheart," he says, voice low, voice thick, "you know where to find me."

he tucks the rag into his back pocket and brushes a smudge of grease from your jaw with his thumb. slow. deliberate.

"'less you want me to take a look under your hood now."

you raise a brow. your pulse trips.

"...and what would that involve?"

his smirk grows.

"hands-on diagnostics. very thorough."

✧✧✧

#need art of this man as a mechanic STAT #vuewrites #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt imagines

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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 9 months ago

Text

Toto's obsession p.4

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 3 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

The noise of the garage buzzed around you—mechanics shouting instructions, engineers focused on their screens, the hum of engines readying for another practice session. You stood near the back, just out of the way, eyes drifting toward George’s car as he climbed in. Your brother barely looked in your direction, his face hard, focused solely on the task ahead. It had been hours since the fight, and the chasm between you two felt deeper than ever.

You sighed, arms crossed over your chest, feeling more alone than you ever had before. Every time you glanced at George, that knot in your stomach tightened. You missed him. The playful, protective older brother who had always looked out for you was now distant, angry, hurt by something you weren’t sure you could fix.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice Lewis until his hand gently rested on your shoulder. Startled, you looked up to see his warm, concerned eyes peering down at you.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice low, kind. “You alright?”

You forced a smile, trying to shake off the heaviness of the morning. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, though your voice wavered, betraying the truth.

Lewis tilted his head slightly, clearly not buying your answer. “Doesn’t look like it.” His eyes followed yours, catching the way you kept glancing at George’s car. “Something going on with George?”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding, your shoulders slumping as you gave in. “We had a fight. A really bad one.”

Lewis’ face softened with understanding. He knew how protective George was of you—everyone on the team did. But there was something deeper in your voice that made him pause.

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Lewis said gently, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “He’s just… George, you know? Stubborn as hell, but he’ll always come back to you. You’re his sister.”

You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over, appreciating his words more than you could express. “I hope so,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I hate being like this with him. We’ve never fought like this before.”

Without saying another word, Lewis pulled you into a comforting hug. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and you leaned into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel a small bit of comfort. It wasn’t like the warmth you felt with Toto—it was different. Familiar, friendly. Like the support of an older brother you could lean on when things felt too heavy to carry alone.

“You two will be fine,” Lewis murmured into your hair, rubbing your back softly. “Just give him some time to cool off. He’ll come around, I promise.”

You nodded against his chest, appreciating his kindness more than you could put into words. “Thanks, Lewis. I really needed that.”

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, Toto had just stepped out of his meeting. His eyes scanned the garage, searching for you. When he finally spotted you, his gaze immediately hardened. There you were, in Lewis’ arms.

A surge of possessiveness shot through him. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed as he watched the two of you. Lewis was hugging you—his arms wrapped around you far too intimately for Toto’s liking.

Toto’s hands curled into fists at his sides as he started walking, his long strides purposeful, controlled—though the jealousy simmering beneath the surface was anything but.

As you pulled away from Lewis, offering him a small, grateful smile, you had no idea what was unfolding behind you. “I’ll talk to him later,” you said, your voice lighter now. “Thanks again.”

Lewis nodded, giving your shoulder one last reassuring squeeze. “Anytime.”

You turned to leave, making your way back to the hospitality area, missing the icy exchange that was about to happen behind you.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Toto approached Lewis, his face an unreadable mask but his eyes sharp. “Lewis,” he said, his voice low and controlled, though there was a distinct edge to it.

Lewis straightened up, sensing the tension immediately. “Toto.”

Toto’s gaze flicked briefly in the direction you’d gone, then back to Lewis, his expression hard. “I know you were just trying to comfort her,” he began, his tone deceptively calm. “But be careful.”

Lewis furrowed his brows, confused. “Careful?”

Toto took a step closer, his height and presence imposing. “She’s George’s sister. Everyone is very protective of her—myself included.”

Lewis blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in tone. “I know that, Toto. I was just—”

“I know,” Toto interrupted, his voice lowering, though the steel in his words was unmistakable. “But I wouldn’t want something unfortunate to happen to anyone who got too close. On or off the track.”

Lewis’ eyes widened slightly at the implied threat, his confusion turning to disbelief. He opened his mouth to respond, but Toto cut him off with a pointed look.

“I’m just saying,” Toto continued, his voice still calm but deadly serious, “it’s best for everyone if boundaries are respected.”

Lewis’ face hardened, a flash of something like anger or defiance crossing his features, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he nodded slightly, his expression tight. “Understood.”

With that, Toto turned and walked away, his jaw still clenched as he set off to find you. His mind raced, jealousy and protectiveness mingling as he thought about what he had seen. You were his—there was no doubt about that. No one else, not even Lewis, would come between the two of you.

When he finally caught up to you, you were sitting alone, staring out into the paddock, your thoughts still preoccupied with George. Toto’s heart softened as he watched you, the possessiveness simmering down for the moment, replaced by something deeper.

He approached you quietly, his hand resting on your shoulder. You looked up, startled at first, but relaxed when you saw it was him. His eyes, though still intense, softened as they met yours.

“Come with me,” he murmured, his voice low but gentle, a stark contrast to the cold tone he had just used with Lewis. “Let’s get away from all of this for a while.”

You nodded, standing up and slipping your hand into his, letting him guide you away, unaware of the confrontation that had just taken place behind your back. All you knew in that moment was that, with Toto by your side, you felt safe—despite the storm brewing around you.

Part 5

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #toto wolff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x y/n #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton

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spookysanta · 16 days ago

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Can u do a spin version of Lessons in Chivalry? Like reader has a hard time understanding as to why he wants to do all this things for even though she is pretty capable of doing all the things that Michael wants to do for her. She loves her independents and has self satisfaction when she can take care of herself without having to rely on a man even if he is being a gentleman.

I may be projecting but when I read this I was like would I let my man do this for me I don’t know. I would see myself sadly getting a little irritated by the fact I couldn’t spend my money and having to hear “you could have just used my card” well I don’t because I have my own money. U can just completely ignore this if you want.

No hate to the fic or you as a writer. Love the fics you make ❤️

Hi bby! Thank you for asking this. I think this is a great spin-off idea. Especially since a lot — not all — of us were ingrained with the idea that we had to do things ourselves, grow up quick, etc. So our hyperindependence is not something that we can just.. let go of. And I’m definitely in that category, too.

Here’s what I’m thinking about it.

His love language is acts of service, for sure. So it doesn’t always register to him that you’d want to do things on your own, for yourself.

And it would definitely be an argument, too. Because though you like that he loves you enough to literally uproot his entire day, just to make sure you’re taken care of, he doesn’t have to do that. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and just because he’s come along, that doesn’t mean that he gets to swoop in and just… make your hard work up to now obsolete.

—

You stand at the kitchen counter, your fingers drumming a frustrated rhythm on the cool marble. The overhead light casts a soft glow, catching on the half-eaten takeout containers littering the sink, clear evidence of the kind of day it’s been. A headache throbs behind your eyes, and all you want is to sit down with a glass of wine and breathe.

But Michael’s voice cuts through the room, gentle but unrelenting. “Hey, I took care of the car today. Oil change, new wipers, and I paid the mechanic already.”

You blink, stunned for a moment. “You… what?”

He grins, like he’s done something wonderful. “Yeah. Thought I’d save you the trouble. They said it was overdue.”

You can feel your heart sink, like he’s cracked something open you’ve been holding together with spit and willpower. “Michael, I told you I was handling that.”

His brows draw together, his smile fading. “No I know, but I had time, and I figured—”

“No,” you interrupt, voice sharper than you intend. “You figured you could handle it better. Like I’m some little girl who can’t keep up with her own shit.”

His jaw tightens, his hands bracing against the counter. “That’s not what I meant. I was just trying to help.”

You feel the tears sting, but you refuse to let them fall. “It’s not helpful when you just — do it without asking me. I budgeted for that, Michael. I was gonna handle it. I like knowing I can take care of myself.”

He runs a hand over his face, that familiar furrow between his brows deepening. “I know you can. I know you don’t need me for everything.”

“Then why do you keep swooping in?” Your voice cracks, raw and trembling. “Why does it feel like you’re always fixing things before I even get a chance to try?”

His eyes meet yours, dark and soft and somehow so damn apologetic it makes your chest ache. “Because that’s how I show I care. That’s how I was raised, okay? You take care of the people you love. You take things off their plate so they can breathe.”

“But what if I want to handle my own plate, Michael?” You drop your gaze, shoulders heavy. “What if I need that to feel like myself?”

Silence stretches between you, thick and humming with unspoken things. He steps closer, his warmth wrapping around you even though he doesn’t touch you yet. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it like that. I see you running yourself ragged all the time, and it makes me want to help. I’ll ask next time, okay? I’ll let you do your thing.”

Your eyes lift, meeting his. You nod stiffly, slightly hating that this is the hill you’re choosing to die on. “I know. I don’t mind you trying to help, and most of the time it is helpful, even though it makes me feel weird.” You let out a heavy sigh, like you didn’t realize this was sitting so heavily on your shoulders. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away, I just … need to feel like I can stand on my own two feet sometimes.”

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. “And you do. Every day, you prove that to me. I just need to get better at proving to you that I see it.”

You lean into his touch, your anger fading as quickly as it came. “I love you.”

He smiles, soft and knowing. “I love you too. Even when you’re mad at me.”

—

I think overall there’d be a compromise. Like he wouldn’t cart you around everywhere as much, or he’d back off on the credit card thing — unless it’s for big purchases. He’s not budging on that.

And he’d also ease up on the lectures. I think part of the reason he used to be so adamant about it is because he’s seen your frustration and exhaustion as a result of overworking yourself and stressing about finances. Because when you first started dating, there’d be that clear discrepancy of yes, you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but obviously, he’s in a completely different tax bracket.

So his perspective would be that, he’s in a position to allow you to relax and, in his mind, it’d be the perfect dynamic where he handles everything so that his pretty girl can just be … pretty. No money stress. No car stress. Nothing. But for you, that's just not reasonable (all the time).

The other thing that I think would have to ultimately be a mutual compromise, would be like what things do you handle on your own? I think for him, his biggest thing would be to make you feel like you’re able to maintain your independence but not fall into the trap of not asking for help when you actually need it.

So maybe he’d handle your car’s insurance and gas (he’s not budging on pumping your gas, either), while you handle maintenance. We know he loves to cook, so you might get groceries on your way home from yoga (both paid for with your own money), and he’ll cook for you.

But there are also some things that you’ll willingly let him handle because.. duh. Like personally, I don’t want to pay for my nails — all the shit I get done on my nails? shieeeet take this bill, pls (one of these days I’ll share a pic).

Or my hair.

Or a spa day.

Or trips. I want to glide when I travel. So in my head, that’d fully be on him.

Ultimately, his goal would be to prove to you that he’s all in. No holds barred, no questions about his commitment — just you. And because you’re his person, and more importantly, he’s your person, there’d have to be a rhythm that you find where there’s a balance between letting him have his moment, and him letting you have yours.

Hopefully that answers your question, my love! ❤️

#michael b jordan #michael b jordan x black reader #spooky’s ask box #ask spooky #lessons in chivalry fic #send me asks

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poisonlove · 9 months ago

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You⁴ | w.a

Pairing: Wednesday Addams X reader

Part 1 part 2 part 3

Getting used to it had been more difficult than expected.

It had been almost a month since that kiss and the proposal to see where things would go. Since then, everything between Wednesday and y/n had stayed the same, at least on the surface. Neither of them had put a label on what they were, but the brunette had realized that it was okay. She liked spending time with her, and the only real difference from before was the kisses they exchanged in secret within the walls of their respective dorms.

The real problem, Wednesday realized, was that y/n kept receiving numerous declarations of love from others. Because everything they did remained hidden, she couldn’t openly claim y/n in front of everyone at Nevermore. And that was deeply irritating her.

“Mmmh...” y/n mumbled from Wednesday's bed.

Y/n’s y/c eyes stared with annoyance at the back of Wednesday’s head, half-closed, almost as if she was trying to send her thoughts into Wednesday’s mind, hoping she would stop writing and come to bed with her. Wednesday could feel her gaze.

“Stop staring at me,” Wednesday snapped, her eyes glued to the typewriter in front of her.

Lately, y/n had become very clingy, wanting to spend lots of time with her. Despite tolerating her presence, Wednesday needed her space. She loved writing, loved wandering alone, and enjoyed spending some afternoons in the arms of her... y/n. But that was it. Sometimes she found herself spending time with her and Yoko, and that disturbed her.

“Are you coming?” y/n asked in a small voice.

She had had a horrible morning. She lost in fencing to Bianca, got a terrible grade in English literature, and misplaced her favorite headphones. If that wasn’t enough, she arrived late to the cafeteria and couldn’t eat anything.

She wanted to feel Wednesday’s presence; she needed comfort.

“Is it necessary?” Wednesday asked in a cold tone, her fingers diligently typing away. Her eyes were fixed on the sheet of paper, slowly taking shape as her thoughts were put into words, her character's actions drawing her deeper into the story.

“I need you,” y/n murmured in a soft voice. She was fully aware of Wednesday’s distant attitude, but she hoped she could make an exception for her this afternoon.

Wednesday had to stop writing.

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, trying to remain calm. You want to give this a try, she thought to herself, then help her out. Addams slowly turned toward the bedroom and saw y/n looking at her with puppy-dog eyes.

She’s... cute, Wednesday thought, a small smile threatening to escape her lips.

Y/n opened her arms and gave an awkward smile, her cheeks reddening under Wednesday’s piercing gaze. Addams blinked and stood up from her chair, walking with a determined step toward y/n. In a way that felt awkward and mechanical to Wednesday, she complied with y/n’s request, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“Thank you,” y/n whispered against her neck.

Wednesday resisted the urge to break the hug, letting herself be overtaken by the emotions that had been chasing her for weeks. The scent of lavender from y/n flooded her senses, making her relax. Addams tightened the embrace, her heart pounding in her chest.

She had grown used to y/n’s affectionate gestures, but part of her still felt as tense as a board. Y/n’s hand moved along her back, noticing how rigid her posture was.

“Are you okay? You’re so stiff,” y/n asked with concern.

Wednesday pulled slightly away from the hug and looked at y/n without blinking. Y/n’s y/c eyes gazed into hers with worry, and Wednesday felt an unmistakable warmth in her cheeks. “I... I need to get used to it,” she stammered.

Wednesday frowned... Since when do I stammer?

Y/n smiled broadly and let out a timid laugh, amused by Wednesday’s reaction. Her hands rested around Addams' waist, giving her a light squeeze. “How about...” y/n began, biting her lower lip, looking thoughtful.

Wednesday’s eyes dropped to her lips.

“We practice a little?” y/n asked in a husky voice. In the weeks they had spent together, y/n always asked for permission before kissing Wednesday. The reason? They weren’t officially a couple, and y/n was terrified of scaring Addams with her emotional intensity.

She was well aware of how clingy she could be.

Wednesday slowly nodded her head, and y/n grinned widely, leaning in toward the goth girl’s face. Y/n’s hands gripped Addams' waist as she gently pressed their lips together. Wednesday sighed and returned the kiss, her cold, full lips melding with y/n’s.

Y/n was careful, keeping her tongue in check.

Wednesday bit y/n’s lower lip and broke the kiss, her dark brown eyes studying the girl next to her with curiosity. Her breath was uneven, and a warmth spread through her chest at the sight of y/n’s tousled appearance. Every time they kissed, a spark ran through her body. Is this what they call love?

“When are we making things official?” y/n suddenly asked, causing Wednesday’s blood to freeze. She had promised herself she would respect Wednesday’s timing, but part of her hoped to be able to call her girlfriend soon. Addams pressed her lips together.

“No,” Wednesday said coldly.

“No what?” y/n asked in confusion.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wednesday said simply, her heart pounding violently in her chest. Coward, Wednesday thought to herself. You’re a coward.

Wednesday was terrified of being seen with y/n. Not because she was ashamed of her, of course not, but because she feared people would think she had softened. She wanted to maintain her character in front of Nevermore, while being herself in y/n’s arms.

Was that too much to ask?

“Fine,” y/n muttered monotonously, getting out of bed. She needed to get out of there. Wednesday blinked in surprise, not expecting that reaction from her.

“Fine,” Wednesday replied coldly.

She watched y/n leave the room and immediately felt guilty. She wanted to spend time with her, to be together. But she was too proud to run after her and ask her to stay, so she returned to her writing, hoping her thoughts would focus on something other than y/n.

“Hey Wed, I saw y/n storm out of here completely mad... What happened?” Enid asked curiously as she entered the room. She had run into y/n in the hallway, and she had barely greeted her, too angry to say much. She was sure it was because of Wednesday. She and Yoko were the only ones who knew about their relationship.

“Nothing,” Wednesday responded monotonously, her eyes still fixed on the typewriter. Enid sighed resignedly and lay down on the bed, flipping through a magazine to pass the time.

She’d meet up with Yoko later.

(...)

Wednesday couldn’t write.

She could no longer ignore the unease tightening her chest. Even though her pride urged her to let it go, she knew she had to talk to y/n. Walking down the hallways, she took her phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed her number, but there was no answer. Again, no response.

Leaving the dormitory, she spotted Ajax leaning against a column near the dorms.

“Have you seen y/n?” she asked in her usual cold, detached tone.

Ajax, surprised by the question, raised his eyebrows. “No, I—”

She didn’t even give him time to finish before turning on her heels and walking away, leaving Ajax perplexed, his mouth still open. It wasn’t unusual for Wednesday to act like that, but this time she seemed a little colder than usual.

She walked through the gates of Nevermore with a determined step, her dark eyes scanning her surroundings. As she made her way through the gardens, she noticed the students' gazes on her, quickly looking away as they clearly sensed her foul mood.

A little further ahead, she saw y/n.

Y/n was sitting under a large tree, away from the other students' eyes. A stick was slowly burning between her hands, smoke rising in thin curls, and her eyes were fixed on the wood, focused on controlling the flame’s intensity.

Despite her heart pounding hard, Wednesday kept her usual impassive expression as she approached. The sight of y/n, immersed in her bad mood and that almost hypnotic gesture, struck her. The fire reflected in y/n’s eyes as she continued to deliberately ignore her, too absorbed in her anger or silent torment.

Wednesday stopped a few steps away, the sound of her shoes on the damp ground breaking the silence. “Y/n,” she said firmly, trying to get her attention but not raising her voice too much. She wasn’t used to apologies or pleading, and even now, she wasn’t sure if it was right to ask for forgiveness. However, her presence spoke for her: she was there, and that had to mean something.

Y/n didn’t respond immediately, continuing to watch the flame slowly consuming the stick in her hands.

Y/n didn’t look up right away, still turning the stick between her fingers as the flame slowly moved from one end to the other. The silence between them became palpable, filled with unspoken emotions and unresolved tension.

Wednesday stood still, her gaze fixed on y/n, but with that typical unreadable expression. She wasn’t used to taking the first step, let alone chasing someone, but with y/n, everything felt different, more complex.

“You should be more careful with that fire,” Wednesday finally said, her gaze shifting slightly to the side, almost as if she was trying to control her words. “It could get out of hand.”

Y/n scoffed, stifling a sarcastic smile. "I handle it just fine, thanks," she replied with a sharp tone, finally lifting her gaze to meet Wednesday's. In her eyes, there was a spark of defiance, but also something deeper—a hidden vulnerability that only someone who knew her well could detect.

Wednesday let out a small sigh, lowering her gaze for a moment. She wasn’t good with words, especially when it came to expressing her feelings, but she knew she had to say something. "Come to the dorm," she then proposed, almost nonchalantly, though the tension in her voice betrayed her. "We can... talk."

Y/n remained silent for a moment, weighing the offer. She was angry and wanted to keep her distance, but the truth was she couldn't resist Wednesday. There was something about that coldness, that way of appearing impassive and controlled, that made her cave every time.

"Talk?" y/n repeated with a slight hint of irony, letting the now-charred stick fall to the ground. But deep down, she already knew her answer.

Wednesday, without looking directly at her, gave a slight nod. "Or whatever else you want."

That small glimpse of vulnerability in Wednesday was enough to break y/n's last bit of resistance. Slowly standing up, she tossed the stick aside and approached, arms still crossed in a defensive stance. "Okay," she finally murmured, avoiding her gaze. "Let's go."

As Wednesday and y/n were walking toward the dorm, a girl approached them with a determined stride. Her eyes were fixed on y/n, completely ignoring Wednesday's presence as if she didn't exist.

"Y/n, can I talk to you for a moment?" the girl asked, blocking her path with a confident smile. Wednesday immediately stopped beside y/n, scrutinizing the newcomer with suspicion.

"I've been thinking about you a lot lately," the girl continued, ignoring the tense silence around them. "And I can't hold back anymore. I really like you, y/n. I'd like to go out with you." Her tone was direct, with no hesitation, as if she were sure of y/n's response.

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise, and she opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, Wednesday intervened.

"I think you've made a mistake," she said in her icy voice, stepping forward and positioning herself between y/n and the girl. "Y/n is not available."

The girl stared at her, surprised by the interruption. "That's none of your business," she replied provocatively, finally acknowledging Wednesday’s presence. "Y/n can speak for herself."

Wednesday didn’t move, her cold, dark eyes piercing the girl. "She doesn't need to answer you because the answer is already clear. Y/n is my girlfriend," she declared, with a calmness that hid a silent threat.

The girl laughed, incredulous. "Your girlfriend? Really?" she asked, skeptical, glancing at y/n as if seeking confirmation. "I don't believe it."

The smile on her face, however, quickly faded when her eyes met Wednesday's again. Wednesday’s expression was icy, impenetrable, filled with an absolute certainty that made it clear she wasn’t joking. The chill in Wednesday’s gaze seemed to freeze the air around them, making it hard for the girl to find words.

"Try questioning what I said again," Wednesday added, her voice dripping with cold menace, "and I promise it won’t be a pleasant conversation."

The girl swallowed, visibly uncomfortable. Without another word, she turned and walked away quickly, her confidence evaporating in the face of Wednesday’s intensity.

Once the girl was finally out of sight, Wednesday turned to y/n, saying nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Y/n looked at her, still a bit surprised by the whole situation but with a small smile on her lips, appreciating how Wednesday had handled it.

"So... it's official?"

It was a question that touched on something delicate, something she had never had to confront before. Y/n’s words made her feel slightly out of her comfort zone.

"If official means I don’t tolerate anyone else hanging around you... yes, it’s official," she replied with her usual icy calm, though the tension in her eyes betrayed her effort to stay in control.

Y/n chuckled softly, surprised by Wednesday’s straightforward answer. "That’s not exactly what I meant," she said, stopping so that Wednesday would also turn toward her.

For a moment, their eyes met. Wednesday felt her heart beating faster than usual, but she would never allow her emotions to show too much. Yet, she knew she had to face this situation because losing y/n was not an option she could consider.

Yes," she finally said, her tone softer, though still restrained. "It’s official. You’re mine, and I’m yours."

As difficult as it was to admit it, Wednesday knew it was the truth. Acknowledging that reality was hard, but losing you would have been even harder.

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