#there’s nothing wrong with not getting it

[boyfhee]

박성훈 、COMPATIBILITY TESTS

there is a fault in your names.

featuring ⋆ rich boy ! sunghoon x fem reader

genre ⋆ fluff, skinship

note ⋆ brought the HOON back. not the best work in the series but hope you enjoy it nonetheless ><ㅤ SERIES

“sixty-three,” your boyfriend looks at the phone screen condensingly, his lips jutting out in a pout as quickly as his brows furrow at the number. “try it with just hoon and your name,”

“sunghoon, it’s—” you try to reason with him for the seventh time this morning but it’s of no use. you barely even get to finish your sentences because of his stubbornness.

“no! no. i’m not letting this go until we get that hundred percent,” he’s almost whining now, half frowning and half pouting.

he’s stubborn, he’s adamant. you figure there isn’t much to argue about when you are head to head with sunghoon.

“it’s just a compatibility test,” you refresh the page, shaking your head as if to surrender.

he clicks his tongue. “and we are very compatible,”

sunghoon fell for you because you were a little mean to him over a project. your words were laced with exhaustion and a drive to achieve perfection. as for him, he had already found it in you.

you can smack his butt in front of the council and he would probably gaze at you longingly. he lets you play with his hair even if it means he has to redo it. you can document your entire day in his phone and post his silly pictures on your account and he would not bat an eye.

your parents don’t get along but he still asked you for a dance in the charity gala hosted by his family, and you had gladly given your hand to him even though it was half out of spite.

sunghoon truly thinks there is no one as compatible as the two of you, and would take it up with the heavens if he had to.

you enter your names on the website again, making sure to add just ‘hoon’ instead of his full name— he is sitting wide eyed and anxious as if this decides this entire life ahead.

well, for sunghoon, it probably does.

“sixty-seven percent,” you add with an exasperated sigh, giving him a look that clearly spells ‘let’s stop.’

“are you sure you’re spelling our names correctly?” you scowl at his words but his expression is nothing like he is giving up. sunghoon would fight for you, even if it’s really not that serious at this moment. “let me try,”

and your boyfriend thinks something will change if he keeps trying. it has to— the two of you are a match made in heaven.

cruising amidst family rivalry and the good for nothing guys that try to get your attention, sunghoon’s love has found its way to your heart. he feels like a warrior, the luckiest person alive to be the one you had given your heart.

he is the happiest person alive to see his name next to yours. although right now, it’s everything that is stressing him out.

your head rests on his shoulder as he types your names with proper care before pressing ‘calculate’ and you click your tongue when you notice a small blunder. “it’s sunghoon and not seunghoon. you’re spelling your own name incorrectly,”

there’s a quiet pause while he goes over the letters, and then his eyes zoom in on the number.

his brows burrow and his heart skips a beat, not sure if it’s in dread or delight.

“yeah, but why is it ninety-eight percent compatible?” his eyelids squint at the screen, contemplating the biggest decision of his life. “should i change my name?”

and you slap his arm playfully while a huff falls off your lips. “don’t be silly,”

“i mean, it’s not—”

and with the slide of the door across the frame, his words are cut short. sunghoon watches the new student that walks right behind the teacher.

he listens, sees, jaw dropped and eyes blown open.

choi seunghoon, as the guy introduces himself.

sunghoon’s entire world shifts a little to the left.

this has to be a joke, your boyfriend tells himself. why would you be more compatible with the guy who is literally just sunghoon’s name spelt wrong?

hell, he is not changing his name. sunghoon despises the idea of you being ninety-eight percent compatible with every other seunghoon that exists.

he wants you all to himself.

sunghoon shifts a little closer to you, a bit quiet, a tad bit more irrational— he takes the phone from you and kisses your hand. “we need to change your name, baby,”

[rawme-price]

Thinkin' bout hybrid!141 x hybrid!reader (gator bc im a floridian!!) who grew up in a predominantly human community.

Sure, no one said they disliked hybrids, but you noticed that the less hybrid someone acted and looked, the more humans liked them. No one forced you to act like a human or hide ur hybrid parts, you just felt comfier doing that. (Surely that comfort had nothing to do with the silence you'd get for acting more animal). Then you join the 141 and its all so different and now you feel out of place because ur not hybrid enough.

Hyena!soap who barks a greeting at you, but tilts his head in confusion when you wave and say "uh- hello." Instead of bellowing back. He purses his lips, and you feel like you've done something wrong, but as soon as it comes the moment passes. He leads you through the base, chatting all the while and only occasionally gives you odd looks for no reason. (Its bc you haven't made any hybrid vocalization at all)

Sea otter!gaz who excitedly tells you about the private lake and river not far from base, only for u to give him a confused look. "Uh...okay? Thats cool?" You try, but he just stares at you too, eyes narrowed in assessment. He thought you would be excited about the lake, maybe show some more hybrid desires but you just...dont? Its like you dont even realize its a big deal for gator hybrids?

Rat!ghost who is shocked when he first spars with you. He has fought gator hybrids before and expected you to fight like them, but you fight exactly like a human, just with a tail. Hell, you hardly even use your tail for much more than balance, which is kind of mandatory given ur anatomy. It frustrates him, your limiting ur fighting style so much, but when he asks you bluntly "why the hell dont you fight proper?" You just raise a brow, frowning "the hell? I am fighting properly??"

Gila monster!price who literally never sees you outside sunbathing. Hell, hes tried to invite you subtly by casually keeping conversation while he walked to the nice flat rocks other reptile hybrids hung around. Except, you always seemed twitchy and anxious when he'd allow the silence to drag too far, as if you were worried about just...enjoying the heat. Its odd, and this combined with everything else is really making his team want to help you.

(May write a pt 2 where 141 help reader feel more hybrid🤔 who knows.)

[bunbun007]

One Hell Of a Trip - Saja Boys x Reader

Wanings: Demon pacts I suppose? Not explicitly explained. Word Count: 1.3k Pairings: Saga Boys x Reader

Next ->

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You should’ve never made a pact with a demon. Multiple demons, apparently.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, you knew that personally contacting the reins of Hell was a stupid, crazy idea. But then again, you were only human.

And humans needed to eat.

Didn’t they?

“I'll die if I don't do this,” you murmured, voice ever so soft, echoing in the dimly lit room. “Or maybe I will if I do. Heavens, this is so stupid… Lady, are you sure this will work?”

★

It had all started on a quiet street. You’d been walking with no real purpose, when you encountered an old lady — a beggar, by the looks of it.

You’d offered her kindness.

It was the only thing you could offer, realistically. You had nothing on you. Nothing at home, either. In fact, in a few days, you might not even have a home.

The lady seemed enamored by your sweetness and handed you a little flyer.

“The man who gave me this was very sure of its usefulness,” she said. “Maybe it'll help you. You seem like you need it.”

Ouch.

Even if she meant well. Ouch.

Still, desperate, you unfolded the flyer and read it. It was a crumpled old piece of paper — photoshopped and funny-looking, like it was made by middle schoolers promoting their DnD club.

Not judging, tho.

You held it in your hand and almost laughed at the absurdity. What if?

Realistically, what could go wrong?

It’s not like demons actually existed.

And if they did… maybe they’d pity you. In your sleepless, starved state, this seemed like a genuinely great idea.

Which is what brought you to this very moment —Sitting on the floor of your tiny apartment, placing candles in a circle like some cursed Pinterest board. “First time summoning a demon… hope you don’t mind the mess, Hell Lord,” you giggled to yourself at the pitiful joke and sat in the middle of the room.

What should you even say?

“Oh… hear ye, hear ye, demons,” you tried awkwardly. “Help me progress in my job… um, I really need it to live. I’ll return the favor if you let me live a decent life. "You looked around. “I’ll be bound to you…?”

.

.

.

Right.

What were you even expecting?

Candles bursting into flames?

A thunderclap?

The Hell Lord himself popping in through the wall?

“Well, would you look at that.”

A voice. Low and raspy, but with a slight youthful ring to it.

“Our plan keeps getting easier, doesn’t it, boys?” A series of soft laughs filled the room.

Your entire body tensed — and froze.

“Now, little one. We appreciate your help. We’ll gladly take you as ours.”Your neck almost snapped from how fast you turned toward the voice. You saw a tall figure — and before you could think, you grabbed the closest candle and threw it at them.

“THE HELL?!”

You kept throwing the lit candles like your life depended on it. And well… it kind of did. The entrance was blocked by figures.

Shadowed, unmoving.

“Who are you?! All of you?! I swear, I’ll break your necks if you come any closer!” You grabbed a nearby pillow and held it up with both arms.Your gaze flicked from figure to figure. They were tilting their heads forward… until they all slowly raised their chins.

They were men.

Attractive. Scary-looking. Men.

Still men, tho.

“Who are you?! How did you break in?!”

The man in the center took a step forward, flashing a smirk in your direction. His skin shimmered in a purple hue, tattoos spiraling across his collarbones. “Hello, human. We are your saviors—”

He flinched. “HEY! Did you just smack me with a pillow?!”

“Stay away!”

“Stop, human. I’m warning you. Quiet.”

Suddenly, your voice was gone. You tried to speak — to scream — to whisper, even. But nothing came out. It was as if your own body betrayed you, forced to obey this man’s words. And the men began to walk forward.

Each one was different in height and build — but all of them shared that same violet skin.

“We are the demons you contacted. Your saviors. Your new responsibility.”

The shortest of them — one with blue hair and an irritatingly smug face — held the crumpled flyer right up to your nose. “The owners of your soul…” They stood in front of you, forming a perfect line. And all you could do was stare.

“We are the Saja Boys."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Of course. Demons apparently existed. And you were now bound to five of them. They had you at their mercy. ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘You work as a manager, don’t you?’ 'Yes…’ ‘Then make us famous.’ ‘Unforgettable.’ ‘Desired.’ ‘Envied.’ The man in the center smirked. “Make us be loved by everyone."

Did I stay until 12 am stressing over the format and this little fix? Yes, yes I did. I've never posted but seeing how this movie has gained popularity and how loved the boys are, I wanted to write for them.

We barely see anything from them in the movie, so I'll probably take creative liberty to write their personalities. This might work as the starter for individual series (for each member) but it all depends if you guys actually like the idea or not Jajaja.

Which reminds me!

The original prompt belong to @soldmygenderforglitter and I took some liberty to develop it! I hope you like it!!

Ppl who also liked the idea: @arieslucy @lylian333 @silverklaus

[mooningningg]

notes, anon? this was lovely.

★ Roommate!Sukuna when you give him the silent treatment.

It started with something dumb. Most things with Sukuna did.

A sarcastic jab that cut too deep. An eye roll when you were already fed up. You didn’t even yell — just went quiet. Too quiet.

And that scared him more than anything.

At first, Sukuna was smug about it. Thought you were just being dramatic.

“Aw, what’s wrong, brat?” he snorted that night in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal out of the box like a menace. “Pissed I said your cooking was trash? Wasn’t even an insult. It was trash.”

You didn’t reply. Just walked past him like he wasn’t there.

That? That pissed him off more than your usual yelling.

“Oi. Don’t ignore me.” He turned, watching you grab your water from the fridge without even a glance in his direction. “I said something.”

Nothing.

Not a glance. Not a twitch.

Just the sound of the fridge door closing and your soft footsteps back down the hall.

He stared after you, jaw clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Day one? He tried annoying you.

Left his towels all over the bathroom floor. Stole your snacks. Sat next to you on the couch just to shake his knee until you snapped.

You didn’t even flinch.

He waved a hand in front of your face once. “You dead?”

No response.

Day two? He tried teasing.

“Look, I know you miss my voice. It’s the best part of your day,” he said, sprawled out on your bed uninvited. “You can keep pretending, but I know you’re suffering.”

You stepped into your room, took one look at him, and pointed to the door.

He blinked. “You serious?”

Silence.

He scoffed. “You’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

You shut the door in his face.

By day three, Sukuna was spiraling.

You didn’t laugh at his jokes. Didn’t glare when he stole your charger. Didn’t argue about what to watch on Netflix. You just… stopped reacting.

It was driving him insane.

“Alright, fuck this,” he muttered, stomping into your room uninvited — again. He leaned on the doorframe, shirtless and annoyed. “This ain’t funny anymore.”

You were at your desk, reading.

He hated it.

“I’m not apologizing,” he said quickly, before you could say nothing again. “You’re the one acting like a child.”

Still, no reaction.

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “What, you think this makes you look cool? You’re not mysterious, sweetheart. You’re fuckin’ annoying.”

You turned the page.

Something in him cracked.

“Fine,” he snapped, marching across the room. “If you’re not gonna talk, then listen.”

He yanked your book from your hands, tossed it on the bed, and leaned down over you.

His hands came down on either side of your chair. Caging you in.

“You ignoring me like this?” he growled, voice low. “It’s cute for, like, five minutes. But you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You still didn’t speak — just lifted your brows.

He cursed. “I don’t even know what the hell I said. You always get all soft when I call you a brat, but now suddenly I’m the villain?”

Nothing.

“I’m not good at this shit, alright? You want me to say sorry? Fuckin’ fine. Sorry. You happy now?”

Still no response.

He looked at you like you’d grown two heads. “...You're really not gonna talk to me?”

Silence.

“You fuckin’ like this, don’t you?” His voice dropped. “You like watchin’ me squirm.”

Then, slowly, his mouth tilted into a dangerous smirk.

“Fine. Keep ignoring me. I’ll make you speak some other way.”

He leaned in, close — lips just barely brushing your ear.

“I bet I can get you to scream real easy.”

You shoved him off your chair instantly, cheeks burning.

He laughed, victorious.

“There she is,” he grinned, arms folded as he backed out the door. “Took you long enough.”

You slammed the door on him again.

But this time, you were biting back a smile.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh.

[kunawned]

daydreaming about nerd gojo fucking you so good >_<

you'd always thought gojo to be such a shy and sweet guy — he was a babbling mess when he first spoke to you and it took him a while to even get past the stage of not blushing every time he was around you. so when you two were ready to get more intimate, you were expecting him to be the same.

boy, were you pleasantly wrong.

he's got your knees pressed to your chest, his strokes deep and languid as he goes in and out of your velvety pussy. he's groaning at the way your walls clench around him and he finds it so cute at how you're clawing at the sheets beneath you. there's a small smirk tugging on his lips as he slams his hips against you, revelling in the way your tits bounce every time he does so and how you're whining his name for him.

"such a pretty girl f'me," he mutters, pushing your knees even further towards your chest, spreading you open even more. your back arches up, the feeling of his thick cock stretching you making your mind hazy. all you can even think of is how his fat tip is bullying your cervix and how his thrusts are uncoordinated yet perfect.

"takin' it so well, my sweet girl," he coos, in almost condescending manner as he abuses your poor cunt, fucking you harder and faster. your screams echo throughout the room and that only inflates his confidence. he stops for a brief moment, gripping your legs tighter before drilling his cock deep into your slick, gummy walls.

his glasses are sliding down his nose but he doesn't even care. they're foggy and though he can't see you too well, he just can't stop himself. he's just so desperate and needy for your sweet pussy that nothing else matters. it's just you, you, you!

your cries grow louder, a string of curses leaving your lips and his smirk only grows wider. there's this hungry, primal look in his eyes as his eyes turn near glossy, taking in your pretty fucked out expression. god, he's never felt this good before and he wishes he could just stay buried in your saccharine pussy forever.

"fuck fuck fuck 'm cummin'," you scream, your whole body trembling as the tight coil in your tummy snaps and hot white waves of pleasure wash over you. gojo follows right after you, shooting his warm seed into you, creaming your velvety walls. he's muttering your name underneath his breath, as if like a way to keep him grounded.

his body flops softly on top of yours, breaths in sync and your chests rising and falling together. his touch is gentle as he caresses your cheek — a stark contrast to how he was pounding into you relentlessly a few seconds ago. "so good f'me," he whispers, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

[gangplanksorenji]

Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done. 

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.” 

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom. 

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do. 

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are. 

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!” 

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing. 

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now,  you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

[dcxdpdabbles]

12 year old Jason fresh off the streets: Hey Bruce, is the manor haunted? I'm not scared or anything, but you know old places like these are their favorite, and I want to be prepared in cause a ghost breaks in here and I have to sing church songs to drive it away. And buy holy water. And a crucifix. But I'm not scared!

Bruce: No, Jay, we have no ghosts. I made sure of it.

Jason: what?

Bruce: I hired a ghost hunter to come through and remove any pesky ghosts every two weeks.

Jason: ....

Bruce: You have nothing to be afraid of. Fenton Works are one of the best in the feild.

Jason: You have a ghost exterminator.

Bruce: mm-hmmm

Jason: Rich people are so gullible. There is no such thing as a professional ghost hunter B, they just want to scam you.

Bruce: No, Danny is the real deal.

Alfred under his breath: The only thing real is your pathetic crush on the man.

Jason: Ohhhhhh so that's what's going on. Makes more sense then Batman hiring a ghost exterminator.

Bruce: My appreciation for Danny's beauty and his lovely personality has nothing to do with his skills as a ghost hunter. The man is a professional with a perfect track record.

Jason: I'm sure-Aghhhhhh!

Alfred pulling out a shotgun: Whats wrong!? Where should I shoot Master Jason!?

Jason trembling: That- plate- its levitating.

Bruce: Oh another ghost. I'll go give Danny a ring! *skips away*

Alfred cocking shotgun aiming at the air: You try anything to harm Master Jason, ghost and I will kill you a second time.

Jason crying weakly: Desde el cielo, una hermosa mañana~ Desde el cielo, una hermosa mañana~Guadalupana, la Guadalupana,La Guadalupana, bajó al Tepeyac~

Alfred: Oh, is that one of your church songs? You have a lovely voice Master Jason

Jason still crying: Thank you.

Bruce from down the hall: Hello, Danny? Yes it happened again. How soon can you get here? Uh-huh. Okay that would be lovely. *giggles* You're so funny.

Jason: I want to go back to the streets.

[yan-randomfandom]

Heyyy! I was wondering if you could do yandere saja boys x reader where the reader hangs out with a guy and they get very jealous

Yandere!Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; the day im satisfied with writing a yan!saja boys and/or yan!huntrix one shot is the day i'll retire because this is still lacking 💔

warnings; uncomfortable, stalking, possessive behavior, more spotlight on Abby! no Jinu here, sry!

— 🌇

That's weird.

You're not anywhere in your house. You haven't responded to their messages yet.

"Think they finally had enough of us?" Baby mutters, looking through your snack drawer—nothing of interest—before closing it harsher than intended. The loud bang echoes in the empty kitchen.

Abby narrows his eyes as he looks through the window. The sun is going to set soon. "That can't be right. Maybe they went to buy something."

"Without telling us?" Mystery growls, his fingers fidgeting together. Well, it's not like you need to tell them every action you'll do. He's not even sure himself why he's so irritated.

After all, they were already planning to take your soul after the whole thing is over. But now that he's thinking of it again, the idea doesn't feel so good anymore...

The front door suddenly squeals open. All of them turn, expecting you, but instead meet Romance's face.

"Don't look so disappointed," Romance scoffs with an eyebrow raise. "I found the human. Come on."

— 🫧

First, they felt relief, then anger, then sadness, then nothing.

They found you alone, as Romance said you were, but then you started laughing. Your gentle laughter stopped them from getting any closer. A smile curls on your lips as your eyes consistently follow something.

"What?" Romance mutters, confusion scrunching his face. They can't see well from this angle—but they can't move either without being seen.

"I told you it's slippery," you snicker, walking over and extending your hand. Ah. So you weren't alone. "Come on. I'll help you up, I guess."

"Thanks," a voice replies, matching your energy, causing all of the boys to glance at each other. They watch as a hand takes yours. "I guess."

The person gets up—a man. Not a demon, but a human. Standing too close to you and still holding your hand. Or maybe it was just a normal distance, and time felt like forever watching you touch that thing—but, oh, Gwi-Ma. They feel like boiling their human forms.

You finally let go of him, using your hand to fish your phone out of your pocket. A frown snakes across your lips after a while. "Oh, no."

"Oh no?" your friend asks, tilting his head. "Is something wrong?"

You begin chewing your bottom lip, looking around. "No, uh, not really. But I have to go now. Nice catching up with you, man!"

"Aw, really?" he says, glancing at his phone. "Oh. It is pretty late. Isn't your apartment like right over there? I can—"

"There you are!"

You and your friend turn your heads, both of your eyes widening for entirely different reasons.

Abby approaches you with a charming smile, settling an arm over your shoulders. He hums as he takes a good, innocent look at your companion. "Who's this?"

"Saja— Abs—Abby? From Saja Boys?! Uh, I mean— Hi! So nice to meet you!" An unexpected blush blooms over your friend's face. He glances at you with nervousness and fascination before bowing his head.

Your friend shows off a crooked grin. He's a big fan already; he told you moments ago how he had Soda Pop on loop. You huff and remove Abby's arm from your shoulder, barely able to hold your flinch at the way he looked offended.

You gaze at Abby in anticipation.

Abby immediately gets the hint and masks himself. "Oh, a fan! Thank you for your support!"

They took a picture, Abby did his autograph, all the while giving him fanservice with his abs. Your friend giggles cheerfully as they shake their hands goodbye. You didn't miss the way Abby wiped his hand on his shirt when your friend wasn't looking.

"Take care!" you call to him, waving a hand before turning to a blank-faced Abby.

He stares at you humorlessly.

You blink, avoiding his eyes. "Uh, hey. Sorry about... not replying. I ran out of—"

Abby chuckles, smiles like he wasn't just judging your entire being, and shakes his head. He returns to draping his arm around your shoulder protectively. "No need to explain. We're glad you're safe. Let's go home."

Your brows furrow as Abby guides your walk. We're? We?

It's an obvious thing that once a member is involved, all of them are. Just... where are the others? Abby is the only one here.

You stray your eyes, landing on a window.

In the dim reflection, three pairs of glowing, golden eyes point at you in the distance. Ah. There they are. Watching, waiting.

Ugh. You look away. Jinu's never this level of creepy. He's not present again, as always.

You don't notice Abby nodding his head curtly next to you.

— need .. need to include more horrors..... ngl I'm stuck between funny or horrific yan!saja boys ,,

— also if you're wondering why Jinu isn't here, I just prefer not to include him in general! yeah my bad, in my other fics he's just kinda hanging around

— why's it so hard for me to write yandere (says the yandere blog)

[verstappenverse]

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak

[lymtw]

hi!! i love your fics theyre highkey my fav rereads🤭idk if youre taking requests but if you were, could you possibly do a hurt/comfort fic with toji and shy reader where shes mad/upset with him? hope youre having a great day btw!

A/N: Five years later... 🫩👍 I'm sorry this took so long. I really, really appreciate your support 🫶 I hope this turned out at least okay, it's been a minute since i've finished any writing 🥲 Anyway, I hope you're having an amazing day :))

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

Toji and His Shy Girl

It's been a week since you and Toji have spoken, not for lack of effort or opportunities, but because the one sided attempts are not corresponded. It's hard to think about him, it's hard to read his words through your screen and see his name flash briefly, before your phone does its job of sending him to voicemail.

'Maybe we shouldn't be together, Toji. If me simply trying to talk to you is such a burden... I don't know if I should keep trying.'

You said this to him a week ago. You clicked the door shut and he sped off in his car, bleary-eyed, brimming with rage and regret the whole way home. He couldn't get the sound of your voice out of his head—the cracks, the occasional sharp inhales that came with your suppressed emotions. Even in the moment, he knew it was so, so wrong for you to be looking the way you did.

The instant he got home, all hell broke loose. His fists were clenched as he treaded towards his bedroom, and as if possessed by the force of a natural disaster, he tore apart his room—demolished it—throwing things blindly, uncaring if they broke beyond repair. The picture he keeps on his nightstand of the two of you was not safe. The encased memory was thrown with all the strength he has, at the wall, the frame instantly falling apart and the glass shattering to pieces.

He couldn't stop, it all hurt so much. His chest burned, his head was pounding, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and once there was nothing left to throw, nothing left to break, he finally broke down—wholly. Harsh, uncontrollable sobs racked his entire body as he sat there in the debris—the aftermath of losing his mind over you. Barely any sound came of it, his voice was shot, courtesy of the tormented screams that accompanied his meltdown.

This all happened a week ago. You won't talk to him and these days have been hell without your company. You won't respond to his good morning messages, and if he asks to meet up, you always have something to do. He calls you whenever he can, but you don't pick up. You're avoiding him like it's your job.

Everything feels pointless without you around, his little sunshine, the reason he wakes up motivated every morning, the light of his life. His routine has been altered in the worst way. It's work, home, work, home, and he absolutely detests it because if it weren't for that damned day, he would be with you, smothering you with the borderline overwhelming love he holds for you, making you laugh and watching you get flustered over the words he whispers in your ear. He wants it back—all of it. He can't let you go, it would break him entirely.

You don't want to let go of this love you have for Toji, either. You miss being in the warmth of his embrace, and you miss the sound of his voice, and the way he calls you 'sweetheart' when you're not focusing on him. You see every single one of the messages he sends you and the phone calls.

Good morning, baby.

Morning, sweetheart. Make sure to eat breakfast and lunch. One meal isn't enough.

Saw those fields of flowers you point at all the time on my way home. I miss you.

Baby, will you talk to me, please?

[Missed Call]

And you cry, because all you want to do is respond to every one of those messages and hear his voice again, but something always stops you. The memory of when he snapped at you. The sound of his voice—cutting and utterly spirit crushing. The furrow of his eyebrows that made you feel like everything you did was wrong. It hurts to think about the whole situation, and all these notifications only serve as reminders. Reminders of the way you immediately wilted when the door shut, chest heaving as you cried your way to bed and then to sleep, wondering what you did to deserve being lashed out at.

You're lying in bed, scrolling through your phone when he calls again. The instant you see his contact picture, your heart plummets to your stomach, but an irrepressible giggle escapes you. The picture on your screen... it's kind of blurry because he was chasing you and you were laughing so hard that you couldn't hold the phone steady, but you love it. You love the man in the picture, you love that he can make you smile through memories, even during tough times.

"Baby?" You hear through the speakers of your phone. A lump immediately forms in your throat and you painfully swallow. "Baby, can you hear me?" He tries again.

"Yeah, I'm here," you respond, quietly.

"Holy fuck, doll. Can I... Are you busy? Are you doing anything right now?"

"No, i'm home," you mumble.

"Can I come see you?"

"Toji..." you start, your tone conveying what you haven't even said yet. Your uncertainty.

"Baby, we have to talk. It's been a week and-- This can't be it. Please, just... just five minutes. Five minutes and i'll go."

You know it won't be five minutes. You can't force a solution out in five minutes—not a sincere one at least. Some part of you is soothed by the sound of his voice, regardless of how frantic and desperate he sounds. That's your love right there, and no matter how much hurt lingers from this whole dilemma, there's nothing you can do about your heart's response to him. So you open a door for him.

"Okay, Toji. I'll be here waiting for you."

"Thank you, pretty girl. I'll be there in a few. Love you."

There's a heavy, tense pause. Neither of you has hung up the phone, because something hasn't been done yet and he knows you know what he wants to hear. It would be enough for him to believe that you haven't forfeited. It would make him feel even the slightest bit of relief if you said those words he's been aching for.

"I love you, too, Toji," you utter, hanging up a couple seconds after.

Toji would be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't in such a hurry to get to you. He's been deprived of any form of love from you for a week and he was starting to go crazy, but hearing you say those words was all he needed for now.

Twenty something minutes later, you get a text from him, letting you know that he's outside. Your heart is in your throat, your stomach keeps flipping, and yet you use all the strength you have to get out of bed to meet him. Though you decide to take your time to get to your front door, you find that you're still there too soon, no time left to mentally prepare yourself for what is about to happen. With a final deep breath, you turn the lock, twist the doorknob, and open the door.

There Toji stands, hand suspended in the air with your spare key pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He steps back instinctively when you step aside from behind the door.

"I uh... I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with me using it, but you were taking a bit, so I thought maybe you'd want me to come in and we can talk inside or... I don't know."

He's rambling, there's a light stubble on his face, he's smiling at you like he always does—like you're his everything. Him being there doesn't actually process in your mind until he speaks up again.

"Hi, baby," he says, softly, observing you like you're some majestic painting hung up in a museum. Your eyes well up and it feels like there's a red-hot metal sphere lodged in your throat. "You're a saint for letting me come here and see you, you know that?"

Out of habit, you nod and mumble out a small, "yeah."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, reaching for your hands to hold them. He barely manages to grab them, get a feel for your soft skin after so long, before you're pulling them away from him. "No, come on," he pleads, grasping your hands again. "Please? Please, look at me."

"You can't talk to me like that, Toji," you utter, voice unsteady because you're not used to having to stand up for yourself against the one who loves you like it's his life source.

"I know. I know that, baby, and I'm so fucking sorry," he says, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the shit I said. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I don't know what the hell got into me, but please..." he mumbles, bringing your hands up to his lips, pressing weightless kisses on your fingers and knuckles. "Please, I love you, you have to believe me."

"You said..." you inhale sharply, doing all you can to get through this without choking on your emotions. "...you said you didn't have time to listen to me talk about nonsense, and that you wanted peace and quiet for once. Isn't... Isn't that all you get from me?"

"No tears," he says, warm palms moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the crystals that glide down them. "No tears," he repeats, softer this time. "This is gonna get worked out, my sweet girl. I swear."

"I don't know how you want me to be," you admit, your voice wavering. "And I don't have the ability to read minds. You acted like everything was fine when you texted me, and then when you got here..." You let out a shaky breath, your hold on your emotions slipping. "I don't want to be upset with you, anymore, but i-i'm trying... It's not right."

It's as if someone is jabbing at his chest over and over again, relentlessly, even when his skin starts to bruise and little pinpricks of blood begin to appear. He hates seeing you this way, especially when he knows he's the reason for why you're hurt this bad. He wants it to stop and for this enormous raincloud above both of you to just dissipate.

"Come here," he says, low, almost inaudible. His hands lower, arms making contact with your sides. It's been too long since he's held you, yet, pulling you in feels as natural as breathing.

Your hands come up to rest on his abdomen, keeping him at a distance. It feels unnatural, because you're so used to letting him handle you like you're a stuffed animal, pulling you around when you're adventuring together and picking you up just because he feels like it. Your mind immediately clouds with guilt at your denial of his embrace, you can't even meet his eyes, opting to look down at where your hands are.

"Please don't," he says, his voice so soft that it makes your chest feel tight again. He grabs ahold of your wrists, just to have some sort of contact with you. His grip is almost entirely loose and you're in control, he won't move until you pull your hands away. "I'm not gonna hurt you like that again."

You love him and you know he needs this—holding you in his arms, your confirmation that it's all going to be okay. You've said it before and the words have become one of his greatest comforts. What could be so bad when you tell him that it'll all turn out just fine?

"We've been apart for too long. A week shouldn't have gone by like this... and, fuck, I know it's my fault. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me, but... please, baby." His thumbs brush the insides of your wrists, eyes never leaving the sadness of your face, regardless of whether you look at him or not. He'll take this over not getting to see you at all, any day.

"Sweetheart."

You sniff, unmoving for a few more seconds. Your heartbeat is thrumming wildly in your ears, almost suffocating you with its relentlessness. It's all you hear, words lost in a spiral of ongoing silence. You still don't look at him when you finally pull your hands away, but you can feel his heavy, unwavering attention on you.

You're glad he doesn't wait for you to give him the green light to pull you in, because you have nothing to say at the moment, and it would be another test of patience. Instead, the second your hands are balled up at your sides, he moves at the speed of a lightning strike, your body colliding with his in an almost aggressive manner—there's an audible thump. His body heat mingles with the cologne on his shirt, the smell coiling around you and rushing through your nose with every breath you take. The feeling is familiar—love, safety, comfort—a second home, all wrapped up in your favorite person.

His hands scrunch up the back of your shirt like he's afraid you'll push him away again. "Baby," he mumbles, his voice almost inaudible. "Don't disappear like that again." A soft breath is expelled from his chest, riddled with the genuine fear he felt that he would never get to see you again.

"I know it's unfair of me to say this. I was an asshole and you were hurt, but, doll... I thought you were leaving me." There's a pause. Toji stares at the ground behind you, his hands deepening the creases he made on your shirt due to his unfaltering grip. "I don't want that."

"I'm not," you respond, heart shaking. "That day... it felt like you didn't even want to see me and you only came over because I asked not because you wanted to." The familiar ache in your chest stirs slightly, but you give it your all to get everything out in a steady and clear manner. "You can tell me you're tired, Toji. That you want to rest in the comfort of your own home, and I'll understand. I don't want to be another cause of stress for you."

It pains him to hear that because you're the one who keeps him sane, the one he thinks about when he settles into bed but can't get to sleep, the first person to know that he's still alive in morning, the one who has made him feel so safe, that he feels no shame when he occasionally calls to confirm that he's still loved by you.

"You're not," he simply murmurs. "It's not true."

"You don't have to worry about protecting my feelings."

His arms loosen around you, the back of your shirt wrinkled but freed from his clutches. Your heart is beating too fast, attempting to leave your chest. Now you're standing up straight, doing your best to not avert your gaze from the man before you.

"You're not a burden to me. Okay?" He says, and you want to believe him because of the way he's looking at you, like he's searching your eyes for even the smallest bit of confidence from you about the fact. "Say it."

The words are stuck, it's visible. Your lips twitch, but your voice doesn't progress. You just look at him, feeling the sadness seep into every part of you.

"You're not a burden to me. I need you to get that through your pretty head, right now," he says, only to feel his own heart skip a beat at your reaction.

"Sorry," you mumble, unable to instantly straighten out the curl of your lips.

In this moment, Toji knows that everything is going to be okay. He hasn't heard you laugh in a week, and though it was only a small, congested giggle, he savors it along with your inability to regain your bearing, like it's his last sip of water while he's stranded in the desert.

"Gets you every time, huh?" He says, his own faint smile emerging.

'Right now', a habitual phrase of his that is meant to comfort you. You've told him before that not everything can be fixed or healed in an instant—things don't work that way—but he never backs down. You've translated it into something akin to a bandage—the words are meant to cover you while you take the time to fully and properly heal. The joy you find in hearing them is a small beginning.

"It's funny," you respond, taking in his amused little grin. God, you missed his handsome face and the way he looks at you like everything about you makes perfect sense to him.

"My impatience is funny to you?" He teases, loving the way you press your lips together before proceeding to nod. He can't even be playfully offended, too entranced by the way you're actually smiling at him. He sighs through his nose and just watches you—admires you for a couple seconds, and when you start nervously shifting on your feet, he pulls you closer to him, his hands on your lower back as your body presses against his once more.

"Can you just say it, please? For me?" He murmurs, recognizing every one of the stars in your eyes. Though he thinks it's a tragedy to have gone a week without this view, he'll make up for lost time by creating new constellations.

"I don't know," you say, softly—filler words, your brain short circuits whenever he looks at you like that.

"For me, baby," he pleads once more. "Just wanna hear you say it."

You hum, unsure of whether you can say something you don't entirely believe. You want to make him happy, you want things to be better, you want to believe what he said—what he wants you to repeat to him, but it's hard. Damage is easy to inflict and hard to heal. It won't go away immediately, no matter how much you love the person who is trying to fix their mistake.

"I don't know-"

"Please?" he blurts.

"Toji, I don't-"

"Pretty please?" he cuts again, seeing the way your seriousness falters like before. Your laugh finds his ears once more, a sound he just wants to keep hearing. The sound embraces him. "With a cherry on top?" he adds, a sly little grin on his lips.

It's getting harder and harder to turn him down. He's precious, he's trying, and you cherish his effort. It's not going to kill you to just say it.

You sigh, "I'm not a burden."

"To who?" He questions, seeking elaboration from you.

"To you."

"Damn right," he says, proud. "We'll get you there. I'm not gonna leave you like this, alright?"

"Okay," you confirm, nodding slightly.

"Can I get a kiss?"

Again, you nod, expecting a quick peck—maybe a few quick pecks, but no, he goes on to kiss you like its been months since he last saw you, not a week. He's desperately chasing after your lips, seeking more and more of what he's been deprived of for too long. In his mind, he says 'never again, never again, never again', because he can't imagine going so long without your sweetness again. Without the softness of your lips against his, without those pretty smiles and laughs being thrown at him. It sounds like hell 2.0. when he thinks about losing it all over again.

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, still just a breath away from your lips.

"Yeah," you respond, eyeing the short little pins of hair that sprinkle over his jaw and upper lip area. It makes you smile, you don't always get to see his face when it's not clean shaven.

"I was in a rush," he explains, unnecessarily, following the way your eyes trace his face.

"Mm," you hum, smiling. "Can I shave your face?"

"You wanna clean me up?" he asks, almost as if he's surprised.

"Only if you want me to. It was just an idea," you say, smiling sheepishly.

To that, he chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks feel warmer.

"Oh, I want you to," he says, leaning forward to peck your lips, luring quiet giggles from you when he doesn't want to pull away.

-

Now, you sit on the counter of your bathroom sink, with Toji standing between your legs. There's a slight tremble in your hand, spurred on by his hands resting on your hips and the way he watches you with so much focus, trusting you enough to let you do this without a word from him. You drag the razor carefully along his cheek, making sure not to move too fast or use too much pressure.

Toji waits until you're cleaning off the blade to make his move of leaning in to press kisses to your face. Small peaks of foam are left behind on your skin, wiped away by gentle strokes of his thumb.

"I'm about to start again," you say through a laugh, leaning away to avoid ridding his face of all the protective spume on it. The razor remains beside you until he finally behaves himself. He huffs like you've been rejecting his affection the whole time, but nonetheless stands up straight and as still as a statue.

After some time, longer than it would have taken him alone—longer than it would have taken you if he didn't smother you every time you paused to clean the razor—you got it done. You brought back the smoothness of his skin.

"Am I pretty again?" he jests, drying his face with one of your towels.

"Stunning," you quip in response, shifting on the counter to signal that you're going to hop off.

"You're stunning," he says, low, unmoving from where he stands between your legs. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he adds, seeking more of that feeling the flustered smile on your face gives him. "Missed you lots, you know that?" You just laugh and shake your head, like you're silently calling him crazy. "What? I'm serious," he says in response, a soft grin on his face. "Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"

A single second passes by. You can't lie to him and say you didn't. You missed him every single day, through the hurt. Your chest ached and your heart dropped every time you remembered the incident, but your love for him never wavered. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and with how often he tried to reach you, it was nearly impossible not to have him on your mind.

"Of course I did. I took the time I needed, but that doesn't mean I wanted it."

"I know, baby. And I would never hold it against you. I'm just... glad I can see you again, is all."

You smile. The gleam and sincerity in his eyes is a wonder to witness and well worth the butterflies that overly crowd your stomach.

"I really did miss you," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "'Lots.'"

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, then he leans in close for nth time, peppering kisses across your cheek until he reaches your lips. He can feel you smiling into the kisses, a sensation he yearned for with every fiber of his being for the past week. One of his hands rests on your thigh, caressing the inner part of it, while the other slides up your shirt and settles on your waist. The lip-lock steals your breath away, but even then, you challenge your lungs for your lover's sake, only pulling away when you're a panting mess and Toji's breathing is more audible.

The tension is palpable, the silence loud as you look at one another like you're still taking in the fact that you can be loving towards each other again, in a manner that doesn't derive from guilt for the time that you didn't get to demonstrate how much you truly love each other. Enough to not be able to leave a fresh wound alone, enough to forgive while outwardly expressing that you have not healed but are patient enough to work towards regaining that strength.

"I don't wanna go home," he murmurs, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips before focusing on solely your eyes.

"You don't have to," you respond. "Stay as long as you'd like."

"And if I said I wanted to spend a week here with you? Would you hate it?"

You shake your head. "No, but I think you'd get tired of seeing me all the time."

"You're wrong, pretty girl. Is this your subtle way of saying you're tired of looking at my mug, already?" He asks, lips curling with amusement at your giggle.

"No, I want you to stay," you say, honest.

"Promise?"

You nod, followed by an affirmative hum.

"Say it again," he requests, heart thudding just a little faster when you smile.

"I want you to stay, Toji," you repeat, his name on your tongue causing your cheeks to warm up.

"Again." His hands mold around your hips—squeezing, loving.

"Stay," you say, softer.

He sighs, heavy, an enamored look in his eyes that you have never been able to comprehend. Those dark, viridescent eyes, have a brilliance to them as he looks at you like you're the last good thing he'll ever be able to call his. You're good for him, you're good to him, and there is nothing in the world that he wouldn't do for you because you gave him your heart.

"Yeah... you're stuck with me here for a week and you're come with me to pick some stuff up from my place, tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, with a laugh.

"Now, we get you off this counter," he says, lifting you like you're a teddy bear that he carries around for protection. He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the suddenness. "Hold me tight, baby," he says, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist before moving anywhere. A kiss is planted on your shoulder as he turns around to exit the bathroom.

"And now you let me show you some love," he says, low, carrying you to your bedroom.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X F!Reader: Crash and Burn

a/n: I love writing near-death experiences that lead to confessions and smut. It’s a guilty pleasure 😉

Warnings: smut, angst (very tame), cursing, fighting (nothing too bad) near-death experience, emotional conflict, sexual content, explicit smut, mutual pinning, f!reader, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), semi-public sex (i mean anyone could have walked in), possible me remembering stuff wrong from the movie ( i haven't seen it in awhile okay 🙃)

Word count: 3.4K

Maverick had made it his personal mission to push every pilot past the point of comfort. He was determined to test your limits. You were more than eager to prove you could take the heat.

The sun beat down on the cockpit canopy as you adjusted your helmet, eyes locked on the radar screen. Somewhere out there, Maverick was hunting, pushing you to fly faster, think sharper, and stay alive. 

Failure was not an option.

The sky in front of you was clear. It was a beautiful day for a flight. If Maverick hadn’t been hunting you, you were sure you would have enjoyed the scenery a lot more. Unfortunately, your heart was racing with the thought of somehow losing. It wasn’t a real possibility, not in your mind anyway. You were a good pilot and Fanboy was an excellent WSO, so you didn’t have much to worry about.

But then again, you were flying against Maverick. He had proved to you and the rest of the crew that he wasn’t just a legend. He knew his craft, and he wasn’t going to let any of you stop him from doing what he did best, which currently meant beating you.

“Anybody got eyes on him?” Hangman’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and steady.

You scanned the horizon, muscles tense. “Not yet. But I’m pushing the limits. I’ll call it if I see him.”

Fanboy’s calm voice came over your headset. “Radar’s clear for now, but he’s tricky. Don’t lose focus.”

Your grip tightened on the controls as you adjusted your heading, heart pounding. Maverick was out there somewhere, and this chase was far from over.

And then, almost as if he’d heard you, Maverick appeared out of nowhere. You couldn’t see him yet, but you knew he was there because of the curse Hangman had just let out, followed by the clear sound of the older pilot saying, “Hangman, you’re dead.”

The comms crackled with frantic voices as pilots scrambled to react. You tightened your grip on the controls, eyes darting between your instruments and the horizon. Fanboy’s calm voice came through your headset. 

“I see a blip on the radar. Twelve o’clock, fast approaching.”

Your eyes darted to where he was talking about, immediately catching sight of the two jets. You watched as Phoenix and Bob tried to outmaneuver Maverick, zigzagging low, trying to shake the older pilot off their tail. You spotted the ridge up ahead, your heart suddenly clenching as you realized just how close the other two pilots were flying to it.

“They’re too close to the ridge,” you said, voice tight. “Fanboy, tell me if they’re not pulling up.”

“Roger that. They’re pushing it.”

You should probably have been thinking about how to win this game. If Bob and Phoenix got eliminated, that only meant you had a bigger chance of winning. But you couldn’t get your mind to think like that, not as you watched their jet come closer and closer to the ridge.

Your heart was pounding, and it wasn’t because Maverick was hunting you. The jets dipped low, causing your breath to catch.

“Phoenix, Bob, pull up now! You’re gonna hit the ridge!”

Static buzzed, then Phoenix’s voice came through, strained but steady. “We’re fine.”

You knew Phoenix was a good pilot–you trusted her instincts–but you could see where she was going, and it seemed like she was too focused on Maverick to realize just how close she was to the ridge. The way she said it, so calm, so certain, made your blood boil all of a sudden. You were warning her because you cared, and she wasn’t even trying to listen.

“Phoenix, you’re too fucking close. Pull up now!”

There was no response. You fought the urge to shut your eyes, unable to look away even though your mind screamed it was coming. Then, just as you were about to call out again, their jets jolted upward, barely clearing the jagged rocks by inches.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky.

“Jesus,” Fanboy muttered in your ear, echoing exactly what you were thinking.

You didn’t answer him. Your eyes were still locked on Phoenix and Bob’s jet, watching it level out.

 A second slower and they would’ve been gone.

The rest of the game had gone by in a blur. All around you, pilots were getting eliminated left and right. Maverick was absolutely destroying all of you. But you kept fighting like you had a chance—because maybe, if you believed you would win, you could.

Yeah, right.

Even you knew that beating Maverick wasn’t something you were going to achieve today. Still, your chest swelled with pride when you found out that you and Fanboy were the last ones to get eliminated. Not quite a victory, but still a win in your book.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t even appreciate it the way you wanted to. Your brain kept replaying the sight of Phoenix and Bob’s jet almost crashing into the ridge. The happiness you felt over your small victory was short-lived, immediately replaced by a sudden anger that bubbled up inside you and filled your chest like fire.

The sun was high by the time you all hit the tarmac. Sweat clung to your skin, your body already aching from the endless drills, but it didn’t matter. Maverick had ruled the sky again, and now everyone was paying the price.

“One hundred push-ups,” he’d said flatly. “Rules are rules.”

So you dropped to the ground with the others, hands pressed to the hot concrete, heart still pounding from more than just the exercise.

You were seething.

Each push-up only made the rage worse. You tried to breathe through it, focus on form, on rhythm, on anything else. But your mind was stuck. Stuck on how close they’d come to slamming into that damn ridge.

Phoenix was beside you, gritting her teeth, her form sharp. Bob, quiet as ever, kept his head down and his pace steady.

You didn’t look at either of them.

Once you finished your one hundred push-ups, you were all exhausted. You were equally drained and angry, and you were sure it showed in your facial expressions and body language. That thought was confirmed when Hangman so helpfully quipped, “What's with the face? You suck on a lime or something?”

You gave him your most meaningful glance. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

 “Whoa, hit a nerve,” he said with a coy smile.

“Fuck off, Hangman.”

That surprised him because, despite all his teasing, you were always someone he never managed to get under the skin.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, of course. All eyes had turned to you as you said those words. You could feel Bob’s gaze on your shoulder and Phoenix’s smoldering eyes watching you. You made brief eye contact with Bob, then with Phoenix. Without a word, you exited the room.

You didn’t expect them to come after you—maybe today was a day for unexpected things.

“Can we talk?”

You paused at Phoenix’s voice, then turned around to face her. Your eyes flicked to Bob behind her. He wasn’t cowering, but he did seem to be slightly hiding from you, allowing Phoenix’s body to shield him from your rage.

It made you feel bad for a moment, but then the moment was gone, and you were back to seeing red.

“I don’t know. Are you going to listen to me?”

Phoenix rolled her eyes at you. She would have expected this from someone else. She wouldn’t have expected it from you. But here you were.

“Look, I’m sorry for not listening to you.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. You should be.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Look, I said I was sorry.”

You crossed your arms, jaw clenched. “You nearly clipped a ridge trying to show off. That’s not just something you shrug off, Phoenix.”

Behind her, you saw Bob glance over from his locker, brows furrowed like he was debating whether or not to step in. 

He didn’t.

Phoenix held your stare for a beat, then scoffed. 

“I had it under control.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. 

“You didn’t. That’s the problem.”

Fanboy stepped between you and Phoenix just as the tension reached a breaking point. His voice was calm, almost tired.

“Everyone’s exhausted. Maybe we should just call it for today—get some rest.”

Phoenix’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to you. You clenched your jaw but didn’t argue.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Without another word, you turned and pushed your way through the hangar doors, needing space. Needing to breathe.

You’d gotten cleaned up and found a space where no one was around, which was kind of a miracle, considering how many people were constantly coming and going. You weren’t hiding exactly, but you weren’t exactly inviting company either.

You didn’t think anyone would be looking for you. You and Phoenix would work it out eventually. She knew better than to come to you when you were angry. And Bob was just as quiet as ever.

So yeah, you hadn’t expected him to come.

Yet there he was, just outside the door, eyes fixed on you.

You only noticed his presence when he let out a soft knock, causing your eyes to shift from the window you’d been staring out of to the other side of the room. He opened the door gently, peeking his head through the opening.

You studied him for a moment. Maybe there was a problem. Maybe Maverick had called an unexpected meeting and sent Bob to find you. 

But you were surprised when he let out a soft, “Is it okay if I come in?”

“I don’t own the room, Bob. You can do whatever you want.”

You sounded like a dick—you knew that—and you saw it in the way Bob’s expression shifted, but he shrugged it off and stepped inside.

He took in the way you were standing, posture rigid as you leaned against the window. The anger from before still radiated off you. He’d do what he could to avoid igniting the fire, but he couldn’t keep “fighting” with you without talking it over.

He hated not being able to talk to you. He hated seeing you angry. It had only been a couple of hours, and he was already missing your smile. He wanted to see it again. He’d do anything in his power to make that happen.

“Did you warn her?”

Bob had barely taken a couple of steps when your voice cut through the room. You shifted your gaze to him, silently telling him you were waiting for an answer.

You were sure that, as Phoenix’s WSO, he would have warned her about how close they were getting to the ridge. You knew Fanboy would have been screaming in your ear if it had been you.

“Is that what happened? Did you warn her and she just ignored you?”

Bob hesitated, running a hand through his hair.

“She’s a good pilot. I trust her,” he said quietly. “I knew she had it.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling up again.

“But she almost didn’t, Bob.”

You strode across the room toward him as you spoke.

“She almost crashed. And if she had, it wouldn’t have just been her life—it would’ve been yours too.”

Bob didn’t move. He let you keep coming closer, each angry step echoing in the quiet room.

“You could have died. Do you get that? You could’ve been up in smoke right now because you didn’t speak up.”

You poked at his chest as you spoke. Bob barely flinched.

“Floyd, are you listening to me?! I could’ve fucking lost you!”

The words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You blinked, suddenly aware of what you’d just said.

Not “we.”

“I.”

Not “both of you.” Just “you.”

Bob’s eyes widened, just a fraction, catching the change like a spark.

Your hand was still pressed to his chest—no longer sharp like a knife but soft, your palm resting there as if you were leaning on him for support. As if, if you let go at that moment, you would crumble to the ground.

Your breathing shifted. Your lip quivered. Before you knew it, you were crying.

You tried to pull away, tried to hide the tears, but he didn’t let you. He tugged you into him, strong arms wrapping around your frame. His arms tightened around you, steady and grounding, as if to hold not just your body but the storm inside you.

You leaned into him, the tension in your muscles slowly melting away. Your breath hitched when his lips brushed softly against your temple. The feeling seemed to awaken something inside you. 

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

Bob watched you with a pained expression. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He would never do that. Knowing that the tears wetting your cheeks were because of him—and from the thought of losing him—made his heart tighten.

You shifted your face softly, mouth opening with slightly sped-up breaths. You brushed your nose against Bob’s, your eyes catching his furrowed brows.

He called your name just before you claimed his mouth.

His lips met yours with a gentle insistence, soft and searching, as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t say with words. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent.

Bob’s hands gripped your waist as he gently guided you to the nearest wall. Your back hit it with a soft thud as he pressed in closer, crowding into your space but never overpowering. His lips moved with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You had started this, but you hadn’t expected Bob to mirror your desire so clearly. He was always so quiet. Always kept to himself, averting anyone’s gaze if they stared at him too long. You knew he could be confident—you’d seen it before—but it was rare, and you weren’t prepared for the kind of need that was seeping out of him now.

Your hands slipped under the edge of his shirt, fingers splaying against the warmth of his skin. His breath caught at your touch, the sound vibrating softly against your lips. He pulled back just slightly, his eyes scanning your face, asking a silent question.

You nodded before he could even get the words out.

“Bob,” you breathed, fingers curling around his wrist as you guided his hand to your waist. “Touch me. Show me you’re real. That I’m not imagining this.”

Your words caught him off guard. You thought you were dreaming? Then what did that mean for him? Had he somehow died and gone to heaven? No. He could feel your warm palms pressed to his chest. Real. Alive. Waiting.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been holding back for far too long. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, and when they found bare skin, he let out a quiet groan into your mouth. You helped him peel the fabric from your body, your breath hitching as cool air met overheated skin. He stared at you shamelessly, drinking in the sight of your barely clothed chest. You couldn’t help but smile at the awe on his face.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost like he wasn’t sure he should say it out loud.

But he meant it. You could feel the truth of it in the way his gaze lingered, in the slight tremble of his fingers as they traced the edge of your bra. You could tell he wanted to take it off but was hesitating to ask.

You didn’t make him beg—your hands moved to unclip the bra.

Bob’s breath hitched as your breasts bounced free, nipples hardening at the sudden chill. You pulled him closer, guiding his mouth to the side of your neck, tilting your head as his lips explored the sensitive skin there. You felt the drag of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue, the gentle suction that made your stomach tighten and your knees threaten to give out.

Your hands found the waistband of his pants, undoing the button with practiced ease. He hissed at the contact, burying his face in the valley of your breasts as you slid your hand inside, stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers.His breath hitched. 

“Fuck…”

It came out as a soft whine. Your eyes nearly rolled back at the sound. God, he sounded pathetic, and you fucking loved it.

You stroked him a little harder, feeling the twitch of his cock against your palm, the way his hips instinctively pushed forward. Then you heard a noise outside. Both of you froze for a moment, suddenly reminded of where you were. 

You didn’t have much time. As much as you wanted to drag this out as long as possible, you knew you were on an invisible timer. And with how hard Bob was pressing against your hand, and how wet you were feeling between your thighs, you knew leaving without cumming was not a possibility.

“I need you,” you whispered, voice breaking on the words. “Please.”

His gaze softened even as his jaw tightened. “Yeah. Okay. I got you.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back into the wall. One hand steadied you, the other guided himself to your entrance.

The moment he pushed into you, slow and fucking delicious, you both gasped. You clung to him, forehead resting against his, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

He started to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure through your core like waves. The wall at your back grounded you, but it was him—his arms, his steady breath, the way he whispered how good you felt in broken fragments—that made you feel steady. Safe. Present. 

You weren’t sure when it happened, but you were crying again. Only this time from the overwhelming ache of it. The kind that came from being seen. From being held like this.

Your hands traced the line of his jaw, tilting his face up so you could look into his eyes—dark, searching, full of everything you’d been holding back. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Just… stay with me.”

There was nowhere else you’d rather be. 

You clawed at his shoulder, nodding as he quickened his pace. You were both hanging off the edge, bodies full of adrenaline and the intense feeling of each other. He drove deeper, every movement raw and urgent, as if trying to bury himself inside you and never let go.

And then his lips found yours again, and something snapped inside you. He swallowed the moan you let out as he came. You felt him tense beneath you, arms tightening around you as his orgasm washed over him.

When it was over, he didn’t let go. Not even for a second.

He held you there, face buried in your neck, your bodies still tangled. He only pulled back when he felt your breath start to steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

And you believed him.

After a while, both of you got dressed again, laughing as you searched the room for different pieces of clothing. You helped Bob neaten up his hair and clean the smudges off his glasses. He smiled at you as he put his glasses back on, leaning to place a soft kiss to your cheek. You grinned up at him, grabbing onto his hand.

“I’ll talk with Phoenix.”

Your brows furrowed.

“About being reckless. And about listening.”

“Oh. For a second, I thought you were talking about what happened here.”

Bob flushed at the mere thought of Phoenix—or anyone else on the team—finding out just how desperate he had been for you a few seconds ago. Not because he was embarrassed by you, but because he was embarrassed by his lack of control. He should have at least taken you out to dinner.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Bob’s eyes snapped up to look at you. Had he spoken the last part out loud?

“I’ll patch things up with her. I promise.”

Bob smiled.

“Good. Can’t have my favorite girls fighting.”

You raised your eyebrows again.

“I’m one of your favorite girls? I would have never guessed.”

Bob laughed at your mock surprise. Your face spread into a grin. There it was—the smile he loved so much.

[imaginespazzi]

nivi alr here me out, if you want to, plssss a pazzi one shot of paige jelly over azzi in georgias jersey…plus 😈

Y'all know the drill. This was written in very little time and is definitely not edited and is extremely silly but y'all said Nivi rescue us from this fic drought, and I figured I'd give you a little droplet tee hee :)

Everything wrong with the color red and the number 8

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Paige Bueckers deserves a pat on the back.

Actually, she deserves a goddamn trophy.

Because Azzi Fudd (pretty, sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, literally a goddess and also most importantly, her girlfriend as is proudly displayed on her phonecase) is sitting courtside.

Right where Paige can see her.

And Paige hasn't gotten distracted once (okay well that's not entirely true because she may or may not have frozen the second she'd come out for warmups and seen said ethereal girlfriend on the sidelines and she may or may not have stopped breathing even though she'd already known Azzi was going to be here, and Nalyssa may or may not have ran straight into her from behind because Paige quite literally could not move and Dijonai may or may not have called her a simp for that because oh my god Paige you literally had brunch with her this morning but all of that is just semantics!)

But in the grand scheme of things Paige is pretty proud of herself and her self-control (and no the little glances she's been sneaking throughout warmups do not count as a strike against any of that because if she didn't take the liberty of occasionally checking out her girlfriend who she hasn't seen in years weeks, that would just be blasphemy and Paige Bueckers is a devout Christian who does not engage in blasphemy)

That is until Georgia Amoore enters the scene.

Paige doesn't know Georgia particularly well beyond when she'd met the girl during draft weekend (which if she's honest, she'd mainly spent most of that weekend tucked into a corner with Shyanne, the two of them going back and forth about how much they missed and adored their girlfriends) but she knows that her and Azzi had bonded over DAWG camp and anyone that gets the Azzi Fudd seal of approval, pretty automatically gets the Paige seal of approval too.

There's a ruby red Mystics jersey slung casually across Georgia's shoulder that Paige doesn't really pay much attention. She grins at the shorter girl when she makes her rounds past the Dallas team, dapping up all of her teammates before reaching Paige. There's a twinkle in Georgia's eyes as she smirks at the blonde, something a little cocky about it that almost reminds her of herself. Neither of them say anything beyond their casual smiles and Paige pencils that interaction into her memory to be thrown out in a couple of seconds.

Or so she thinks.

She continues going about her drills, a slight pep in her step that's been present since Friday night when she'd come home, (not to Connecticut, but to Azzi) as she goes through her routine. Out of the corner of her eyes, she spots Georgia walking over to her girlfriend, her grin widening (which like fair, she thinks everyone should in fact smile their biggest smile when in the presence of literal best person ever Azzi Fudd, but does she really need to show all thirty-two teeth like that?) as she reaches the brunette.

Naturally, Azzi hugs the Australian (and Paige isn't upset about that of course because Azzi is allowed to hug people and because she knows without a doubt that the way Azzi hugs other people is nothing compared to the way she hugs Paige, with her arms wrapped tightly around the blonde's body and her head tucked right into the crevice of her neck like it's where she feels the safest) who beams a little too bright for Paige's liking but she lets it slide, especially because Arike's just come over to join her to go through passing drills and Paige is not about to give her teammates more ammunition to tease their "baby gay" (which by the way Paige thinks is ridiculous because she's been gay for a hot minute now -and she definitely been gay longer than Nai- so really in her opinion she's a "grown gay") about how atrociously down bad she is for Azzi (which she is, proudly so, just in case anyone was wondering!).

Paige can't quite make out the conversation they're having as they break apart, but she hears Georgia giggle (a little too loud if you ask her) and then Azzi laughs (a beautiful sound that echoes warmly against Paige's ears but not nearly as perfect as the one she makes when it's Paige who elicits that lovely bout of laughter from her lips).

It happens in the flash of a second, between the ball leaving Paige's hands and finding it's way to Arike's (the universal sign for incoming disaster as Paige is quickly learning but will never say out loud). There's a blur of red in her peripheral and Paige swears she's not being dramatic, but it feels like the arena goes a little cold when her gaze drifts back to the courtside seats.

Georgia Amoore has disappeared.

But her presences still lingers, short and chaotic.

Because Azzi, her Azzi, who had previously been wearing a cute little white UConn top that defined her oh-so-lovely biceps and had been cropped just enough for that bellybutton piercing (the bane of fifteen year old Paige's existence and the object of all of post-sixteen year old Paige's desires) to peek out right underneath it, is now wearing a Mystics jersey.

Not just any Mystics jersey.

Georgia fucking Amoore's #8 Mystics jersey.

And Paige quite literally and figuratively sees red.

She blinks a couple of times, waiting for her own vision to be proven wrong. But nothing changes. Azzi's still right there.

Still in red.

Still in a Mystics Jersey.

Still in fucking #8.

Paige doesn't hate a lot of things (except for anyone who has the audacity to even blink in Azzi's direction with the wrong intentions that is) but in that moment she hates the color red (god who had let her wear red in her pregame outfit? that must have been some cursed foreshadowing) and she really hates the #8 (no seriously, she's going to have to text Jana and threaten to disown her from her will if the Egyptian doesn't immediately change her jersey number)

Azzi for her part, is the picture of innocence as she settles back into her seat, as if she hasn't done anything, as if she hasn't just thrown the cosmic balance of Paige's life off-kilter by wearing that offending item.

God, Paige is going to ruin her (when, she's not really sure, considering they're going straight back to Dallas after the game and Azzi has to fly in the opposite direction of that -a thought Paige is suppressing as far to the back of her mind as it will go- but it's going to happen; besides Paige is known for her efficiency for a reason, she doesn't need particularly long, just the two of them alone in the semi-secrecy of a locked bathroom somewhere in this wretched building)

And if the smirk dancing but never quite settling on Azzi's lips is anything to go by, the brunette knows it too (welcomes it even, as if both of them aren't currently running on about two hours of sleep and unspeakable amounts of caffeine to keep them functioning right now after getting reacquainted with each other's souls last night).

Arike can barely hold in a laugh when she spots Azzi and her jersey (Paige briefly wonders if there's a fine for burning opposing player's jersey and then consoles herself with the fact that if there is, it's nothing she can't pay out of pocket considering the length of the zeroes in her bank account is definitely larger than Georgia Amoore's fucking vertical) as she's walking over to greet another familiar face, before dapping up the brunette and then promptly returning back to Paige with a shit-eating grin.

"You gonna let that slide?" the vet asks coyly, the laughter palpable in her tone.

Paige doesn't respond, her focus solely on her girlfriend (and it's a sin that said girlfriend still look to entirely perfect even dressed in enemy attire that Paige wants to rip off her body for partially non-sexual reasons) who continues to smile cavalierly in her direction.

"Are you seriously wearing that?" Paige mouths, pointing at the jersey adorning her girlfrien'd perfect body (what she really wants to scream, is take it the fuck off)

Azzi raises her eyebrows as she shrugs, blinking almost naively (as if there isn't a hidden challenge of make me spelled out in the dark brown of her irises)

Paige purses her lips, narrowing her eyes, not quite a glare (because she's jealous and posessive but not stupid and she would never glare at the princess) but enough that it makes Azzi bite her lip, (which should be illegal because now Paige really wants march over and kiss her until that perfect lip routine of hers becomes a distant memory) not in fear, never that, but something else.

Something far more carnal that makes Azzi fidget in her seat and clench her thighs together.

It's subtle, something nobody else would notice but Paige. Because it's only for Paige, has only been for her since they were teenagers and just beginning to understand what that feeling was.

And Paige doesn't smirk, doesn't let anything show as she gets back into the rhythm of the passing drill with Arike, but something flares inside of her. (and no it isn't just pure horniness jesus fuck she has a game to play okay?)

Satisfaction.

And that innate feeling of knowing what is hers, will always be hers.

Because Georgia Amoore could win these harmless battles, but Paige doesn't even have to step into the battlefield to win the war.

Azzi could wear any jersey, any number, any color.

But fate itself had carved Bueckers into her heart, and even an Australian can't fight destiny.

[vivwritesfics]

Wallaby

Chapter One: Conception

You were just best friends, a friendship born from improper business practices. But Oscar's Japan win leads to celebrating. Celebrating leads to his bed. His bed leads to a baby. Oscar Piastri x Verstappen!Reader Warnings: hints of abusive parenting, 18+ themes, smut, foreplay (fingering, fem!receiving), p in v, drunk sex, unprotected sex (let me know if i missed anything) 5.6K

Red Bull cap pulled low on your head, you sat in the McLaren garage. The first few times you had done it, you looked so out of place. Pictures of you were plastered across social media; the mysterious Red Bull girl in the McLaren garage.

It wasn't your fault the McLaren garage had better coffee. 

With your iPad in your lap, you doodled. No, it wasn't a doodle. Once upon a time your dad called them doodles, but you'd turned those doodles into your career. 

“Wanna show?” 

You held your iPad against your chest, hiding your work from the prying eyes of the McLaren driver. 

“Nice try,” you mumbled and pressed the off button. Tucking your pen into its little case, you looked at him across the table. 

Him, with his coffee and his salmon with avocado on toast. Too healthy of a breakfast for your taste, but you knew he enjoyed it. 

Oscar held up his hands in defence before digging into his breakfast. “All right,” he said, using his knife and fork to cut through the salmon, avocado and toasted bread (not how you would have eaten it, but you didn't comment). 

“I don't even have anything interesting so far,’ you mumbled as you turned your iPad back on. “Just the outline of Rocky.” 

“Rocky?” His eyebrows went up. 

You rolled your eyes. “Of, come on, Osc! You know who Rocky is.” 

He looked around, as if looking for some sort of clue (the clue was on your head). “Pato O'Wards dog?”

“No!” But then you stopped. “Well, maybe. But that's not the Rocky I'm talking about.” Pulling the iPad pen from its little case, you tapped the brim of your hat. 

“Stop being cryptic,” Oscar said, grinning as he shook his head. 

God, you hated it when he did that. The way he looked down as he laughed slightly. That laugh alone was enough to have you growing… Shy wasn't the right word for it. But you did grow quiet, did take a moment to gather yourself. 

You shouldn't have needed that around your best friend. But you did. And part of you hated it. You just wanted to be normal around him. 

He was your best friend, after all. 

“When are you gonna get that hat fixed?” He asked as he finished off the salad on his plate. 

Pulling the hat from your head, you looked at it. “What's wrong with it?” You asked as you turned it over in your hands, trying to look for any issue with it. Nothing. Thank God, because you never would have heard the end of it from Max.

Oscar shrugged his shoulders. “Not an OP81 hat,” he mumbled and picked up his coffee. 

You waited for him to put his coffee mug down before you threw your hat at him. Oscar caught it like it was nothing, went to put it on his head, thought better of it, and placed it on the table. 

“I only wear hats with a number one on it,” you said, your voice smug. 

There was a second before Oscar replied. A second where he stared at you, where you still couldn't look at him. (You just hoped he didn't notice). 

“Gonna be me by the end of the season.”

A scoff left your lips, but you fully believed him. He would be world champion. If not this season, then some season soon.  

Finally, you met his eye. “Can you leave me to draw in peace, please?” You asked and picked up your coffee. 

Stacking his cup on his plate, Oscar stood up. He grabbed your hat and placed it on your head before he walked past you, leaving you to your work. 

***

You had always loved racing. The high adrenaline, the way your heart beat quicker as the cars went past. The sounds of the engine, the smell of the fuel, the shouts of the crowd. 

Racing had always called to you, like it was in your blood. Maybe because it was in your blood. Your mother had raced and your father had raced. It hadn't interested your sister, but it had consumed your brother, in the same way it had consumed you. 

Your brother was a natural talent when it came to racing. Actually, it was incredible. When he started out in Formula One, he struck fear into the hearts of his fellow drivers, those that had been into the sport for years by that point. Those with multiple championships under their belts feared him, though he'd never admit it. 

Just like your brother, you were obsessed with racing. Unlike your brother, you didn't drive. You had no desire to climb into a kart and zip around the track. You weren't destined for the highs and lows, the wins and crashes, of the track. 

You may have been a Verstappen, but you were never meant to drive.

Still, you loved it. You loved the world of racing. You loved the world of Formula One.

When your parents divorced, you and your brother went with your father. It wasn't the easiest time in either of your lives,  but you had Max's karting races to took forward to. Watching the races, socialising with other kids, when you felt up to it. 

You were a quiet child. It was behaviour you taught yourself to stay off your father's radar. If he forgot about you, you were safe. 

Your father didn't pay much attention to you. Why should he, when you had nothing to offer him? You weren't a racing prodigy, you didn't have world championships in your future. You were just you. 

You were an easy child. All you wanted was to watch your brother race. You were enthralled by it. In a way, doing one of the things that made you happy made up for the neglect. 

Racing seemed like the obvious career path. Not in the same way it was for Max, but it was still something you wanted to do. You just didn't understand what. What in racing called to you? 

At first, nothing. As a kid finishing school, trying to make a decision on university, you didn't know. But you couldn't think of any job role beside driver, engineer or team principle. 

It made you regret not listening more when you were a kid. Maybe then this decision wouldn't be so hard. 

But Max got you in talks with the Red Bull Racing team. Someone from each department walked you through what they did. 

You didn't find interest in any of the engineering departments. Nothing in management or support roles. 

It was the creative sectors that got you. Art had always been a passion, an outlet for when it got particularly rough at home. 

That was how you ended up doing graphic design at university. It was fun, but it was still hard work. Your presence at race weekends got less and less as your workload became larger and larger. 

But nothing beat sitting trackside as you did your work. 

During your third and final year at university you began attending more races once again. For mental health reasons, you know? You could complete your work in a quiet corner in the hours before the race. Somewhere you could be alone, somewhere Max couldn't disturb you. 

Your final year at university just so happened to coincide with Oscar’s first year as a Formula One driver. His first year in McLaren. You were aware of him, just as you were aware of other rookies, like Logan Sargeant. But you didn’t know him, had no interest in knowing him. 

You had university to graduate. 

But Oscar noticed you. Not right away, he didn’t see you and then birds started singing. He didn’t see you and the clouds parted to shine a light on you. No, he just saw you with your iPad, sitting alone. 

You had no team hat on, no affiliation to anybody. You almost looked like you didn’t care (in reality, you were too busy to care). You had to be there with someone. A driver, a team member, an engineer. 

The first couple of times Oscar saw you, he didn’t approach. You were busy, clearly, and he didn’t want to distract you. But he was so curious about you. 

Fuck it, he was gonna do it. He was gonna approach you, just to find out what your deal was. Why attend the pinnacle of motorsports just to sit on your iPad like a bored toddler? 

On this day, you wore a team hat. Not just a team hat, a Redbull Racing hat with a number one on it. Fuck, a Max Verstappen hat. But you couldn’t be a casual Max fan, not with the amount of access you had. 

So, he approached you. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked up to you. He had no idea what he was going to say to you, he just had to sate his curiosity. 

Standing in front of you, he blocked the sun. At the shadow cast over you in the shape of a twenty-two year old man, you looked up. 

Oscar Piastri stood in front of you, looking incredibly awkward. Putting your iPad pen down, you took pity on him. “Can I help you?” You asked him, iPad against your chest as you rested your chin in your hand. 

Yeah, who are you?

But Oscar didn’t ask you that. He rocked on the balls of his feet and asked, “What’re you working on?”

A simple question, one that made you sit back. You unlocked your iPad and showed him what you had been working on. “Uni work,” you said quickly as Oscar looked at your screen. 

He really looked at it. The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable you became. Not properly uncomfortable, but you hated showing people your work. People who would judge you in person, not just people hidden behind a screen. 

“That’s really cool,” he said as you took the iPad back. “You’re in uni for art?”

When you began replying, Oscar pulled out a seat to sit down. But you found you didn’t mind it. A bit of company, a bit of a distraction was welcome. “Graphic design,” you answered. “All my coursework is racing related.”

Oscar raised his eyebrow at you. “That’s really cool,” he said, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’d love to see more.”

Being brave, you turned on your iPad once again. You went to your drawing app and showed him all that you had done over the past three years. All the work that had been graded highly, all the work you were proud of. 

When Oscar got to the last of your work, he passed the iPad back to you. He wore a grin, one that had you looking away from him. “That’s all really good,” he said again. “Should be proud of yourself.”

You were. 

“If I asked you to design a special helmet for me, would you?” He asked.

Your eyes went wide. You’d never done something this public before, not even for Max. “Uhm, I suppose,” you said and opened a new document. 

He checked his watch. “Consider yourself commissioned,” he said and stood from his seat. 

Oscar walked away. You watched him go, your mouth wide open. “What?” You called after him, your voice rising in pitch and volume, like a teenaged boy.

Thus, through improper business practices, a beautiful friendship was born. 

***

You watched the race from the back of the Redbull garage. Oscar might have been your best friend, but you were still a Verstappen, still supported your brother over everything. You watched him, and you watched Oscar.

Max wasn’t in for a win, and he knew it. He had told you before the race that he knew he wasn’t going to win, but that he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind not winning anymore. Jesus, he’d grown up so much since the year before. After two seasons of being the majority winner, after getting his girlfriend pregnant, he had calmed down a lot. 

It was weird to see your brother like this, but it was nice. 

Max had never reminded you of your father. He wasn’t unnecessarily cruel or volatile. But he could get angry, he could easily become enraged. That side of Max had always scared you, was always something you’d stayed away from. 

The Max from two years ago would have become so angry if he’d lost in the way he was this season. Yes, some of his radios were still angry, but you could understand it. He didn’t hold that same anger when he climbed out of the car and wrapped his arms around you. 

An Oscar win. You loved an Oscar win. You loved getting to muss up his sweaty hair, making it messier than it already was. You loved watching him on the podiums, loved his calmer form of celebrations. 

It was a far cry from Max’s celebrations, if he celebrated at all. Max would drag you to the club and get wasted with his wins. The most celebrating you got out of Oscar was his arms around you for a total of five seconds. 

This race was an Oscar win. You were a Redbull cap in a sea of McLaren, cheering for him. 

Oscar looked down. You didn’t have the illusion that he could see you, even if he later told you that he could. It didn’t deter your cheering for him.

You would have cheered the same if Max was on the podium, you told yourself. 

His first win of the season. You had to celebrate, properly celebrate. As much as you enjoyed his quiet celebrations, you wanted something more for him. To go out, to explore the Japanese nightlife while you were here. Themed bars, karaoke, night clubs. You were going to drag him so far outside of his comfort zone and he was going to love it. 

“Congrats, champ,” you said as you wrapped your arms around him. He stank of sweat and champagne. It didn’t have you pulling away, didn’t have you withdrawing. If anything, the sweat and champagne pulled you closer. 

When the two of you let go of each other, Oscar started towards his driver's room. You followed him as he went. “I think you should get to celebrate this first one, properly,” you said.

Oscar stopped in his driver’s room doorway. There was nothing stopping you from going in there with him, but you never did. It felt like a boundary you didn’t want to cross, like stepping into the bathroom with him while he was in the shower. 

“Bad luck to celebrate the first win,” he said and pushed his fingers through his hair. Sweat dropped to the floor. “Won’t get another if we celebrate this one.” His voice was so serious, but his grin suggested his teasing. 

You pushed his shoulder. “What if I promise you’ll have fun?” You asked him, stepping closer. 

“You promise?” He echoed, eyebrows going up. When you held your hands up, as if in prayer, he grabbed them both. “Okay, we can celebrate,” he answered and you let out a little cheer. “But only because this is the first one of the season.”

You nodded in agreement, but you couldn’t stop grinning. 

You didn’t have an outfit for this. Nothing cute and classy you could wear to a nightclub. So, while Oscar did what he needed to do post race, you went shopping. 

Sent you an allowance

You rolled your eyes at the text from your brother. It wasn’t an allowance, it was just money Max sent you to allow you to live. Like how he let you live in his Monaco apartment. Just until you started making proper money. Just until your work wasn’t just from Redbull Racing

Asshole, you sent him. ILY.

You didn’t spend much, just what you needed to to get a cute outfit. A maroon top, a little black skirt and a pair of boots. The rest of the money you pocketed, saved to buy Oscar a drink.

Showered and dressed, you waited in the hotel lobby for Oscar. Makeup and jewellery kept simple, to not take away from the beauty of your outfit. Because it really was beautiful.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” Lando Norris said as he walked past you.

You stopped picking at your nails to glare at him. If you’d had the time and resources, you would have painted your nails to match your outfit. “Shut up,” you mumbled, staring up at him. “I’ve got somewhere to go.”

Lando frowned. “Thought Max was going back to Monaco,” he said, leaning against the handle of his suitcase.

“He is.” You crossed one leg over the other, chin raised as you looked down at your boots. “But I’m not going with him.”

There was a moment where Lando’s frown deepened. But then his eyes went wide. “How the fuck did you convince Oscar to go out with you?” He asked, leaning closer. 

You shrugged your shoulders. “Dunno,” you answered and leaned back on your palms. Almost as if you knew how good you looked and you were throwing it in his face that you didn’t want him.

Lando swallowed. He looked you over one last time and left the lobby. 

Alone, you sat there. You went back to playing with your nails as you waited for Oscar. Going out wasn’t really his thing, you knew, but he would pull through, right? He wouldn't just leave you here, sitting alone, right?

A relieved breath left you when the lift dinged and he stepped out. Dressed simply, a white shirt and black trousers, as if he didn't have an outfit, either. But he still looked good. 

“Jesus,” he breathed as he stepped towards you. 

Placing your bag on your shoulder, you stood. “Went shopping,” you mumbled and pulled down the black of your skirt. 

“Really?” He asked, voice full of sarcasm. “Looks good on you.” 

You looked down at yourself. “Really? Hadn't noticed,” you said and grinned, tongue between your teeth. 

Rolling his eyes, Oscar began walking. He held his hand out behind him, clenched it shut and then opening it again. Offering it to you, you realised. 

You did an almost jog to catch up to hum. Securing your little black bag on your shoulder, you placed your hand in his. Your mouth opened, but you couldn't bring to ask him. You just enjoyed it, the feeling of your hand in his. 

Oscar kept hold of your hand as you went from venue to venue. The two of you did almost everything, at your insistence. The only thing you couldn't convince him to do was karaoke. But Oscar was happy to indulge you on everything else. 

Several drinks in, after three themed bars and two nightclubs, Oscar dragged you back to the hotel. You didn't remember what the theme of the bars were, and you kept muttering the same thing over and over again. 

You were thoroughly drunk, and Oscar was giggling like a fool. You were both too drunk to be making good decisions. 

“Gonna be world champion,” you muttered for the fourth time in five minutes. 

“Yeah I am.” He stood so close to you, head ducked to look at you properly. “You'll wear my hat?” 

“I'd look so good in your hat.” You were on your tiptoes, your arms coming to wrap around his neck. 

His hands found your hips. The lift doors opened but neither of you realised. Too wrapped up in each other. Crossing a boundary that never should have been crossed. 

“Oscar,” you whispered as his fingers danced up your sides. You shivered and stepped close to him. 

“I think I want to kiss you,” he whispered. His stare was so intense but you couldn't look away. 

You blinked. Lashes thickened by mascara, but it made your eyes look so pretty. “Don't be a pussy,” you whispered and started giggling so hard you snorted. 

The lift doors slid shut as Oscar kissed you. He gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him as the lift travelled back down. 

He grunted as you stepped back. Following you, Oscar pressed you against the wall of the lift. His hands travelled lower, fingertips toying with the bottom of your skirt. 

Grabbing your hand, Oscar pulled you out of the lift. “Wait,” he mumbled as he looked around at the lobby. And then he pulled you back into the lift and pressed His lips were back on yours. But it was only for a moment before he pressed his forehead to yours. “Distracting me,” he whispered. You toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Always distracting me. My good luck charm, too.” 

“Your good luck charm?” You echoed, blinking at him. 

When he nodded, his nose bumped against his own. You couldn't explain it, but you wanted to bite it. Only gently, your teeth sinking in just until he pulled a face. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt. 

“Yeah,” he said as the lift doors opened. This time, the two of you stepped out onto the right floor. “Make me feel lucky, at least.” 

You kissed him again. Up against the wall of the corridor, you kissed him. Softly, gently, tugging at his hair until he groaned. You couldn't get enough of him. 

“Need to get you inside,” he mumbled as he pulled his key card from his pocket. “Knew that from the minute I saw you.” 

“Shut up,” you scoffed as he let you into his room. 

Holding his hand, you pulled him over to the bed. But then you laid back and pulled Oscar on top of you. The two of you began giggling again, seemingly uncontrollably. As if you couldn't hold yourselves back. You couldn't as you wrapped your legs around him. 

But that was enough to get Oscar to stop laughing. He dipped down and kissed you, stealing the very air from your lungs. As he kissed you, he moved his hips. Grinding them against your own. There was so little separating the two of you, his trousers and your underwear. 

You could feel him, every inch of him. Throwing your head back, you moaned as Oscar kissed down your neck. Even in his drunken state, Oscar only kissed. He didn't nibble, didn't bite, didn't suck. No marks, nothing that could get either of you into trouble. 

Even in his drunken state, Oscar was smart enough to be scared of Max. 

“Can I?” He asked, fingers fiddling with the material of your shirt. 

You sat up and let Oscar pull down the zip at the back. You pulled the rest of the top over your head and discarded it further into the room. 

With nothing on beneath, you were laid half naked before him. Oscar sucked in a breath, sitting back to look at you.

Under any other circumstances, you would've covered up, held your hands over your breasts until your partner busied himself with taking off his own clothes. But the way Oscar was looking at you, you left your hands tucked under your back. 

He touched you, fingers ghosting over your nipples. Almost like he was unsure. But, when you pulled your lip between your teeth, Oscar touched you properly. 

Hands firm but gentle all at the same time. His lips were against your collarbone, hips still rocking against your own. 

“Oscar,” you whispered. He pulled away to look at you. Still wearing a grin on your lips, he kissed you. Gently still, hands coming up to cradle your face. 

He pulled away to unbutton his shirt. Every popped button revealed more and more of him. All you had seen before, when he opened his driver's room for you when he knocked, when he was covered in champagne, shirt clinging to his muscled torso. You'd seen it before, but never like this. 

You didn't know what came over you. But you sat up, hands on his hips as you held him close. But then you licked his torso. Tongue running across his muscles in a such an obscene way, it had him groaning, holding your cheeks as you looked up at him. 

His thoughts strayed, cock throbbing at the thought of you on your knees, gagging around him. 

But that wasn't for tonight. 

Oscar didn’t know if he'd get another opportunity like this. But he couldn't push it, couldn’t push you. 

He didn't realise how badly you wanted him. It was maddening, how willing you were to sink to your knees before him and take him into your mouth. But, just like Oscar, you couldn't push it. You couldn't push him. 

As you laid back, you shimmied your skirt down your legs. Oscar pulled your boots from your feet and discarded them, throwing them over his shoulder. They thunder against the floor as they landed. 

Just in your underwear before him, you looked divine. His belt clinked as he fiddled with it, trying to undo it with tearing his eyes away from you. Hazel eyes staring into your own, until you threw your head back, exposing your throat to him. 

He hadn't touched you, yet he had you reacting like this. He let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, leaving himself just as exposed as you were. 

“We're doing this,” he said, like he was unsure. Fingers on the waistband of your underwear, just waiting for your signal. Your confirmation. That was all he needed. 

You. 

You wanted to beg him to touch you, moan and whine in such a pathetic way until he took pity on you and plunged his fingers into your underwear. 

But you didn't need to beg Oscar. Not when he pulled your underwear down your legs and took you in. 

Despite it all, his fingers seemed so steady as he touched you. No hesitation as he felt you, gathered you on his fingers. Already so wet, and what had he done? 

He plunged his fingers inside of you. Just one at first, moving slowly and carefully. Not too deep, not yet. But, with each curl and stroke of his finger, he seemed to get deeper. “Please,” you whined desperately, attempted to reach for his wrist. 

“Please?” He echoed, his other hand on your thigh. “Please what?” 

“More.”

One word, one single word. Oscar tightened his grip on your thigh, his touch bruising. But you didn't wince, not when you were loving it so much. 

He added another finger and watched your face twist. Eyes squeezed shut, but you let yourself smile, as if content. Not just content, you'd gotten exactly what you wanted. 

Oscar picked up the pace. Gentle pumps of his fingers became quicker, more intense. Your name left his lips, a breathy sound he could have listened to on replay.

“More?” 

It wasn't mocking, the way he said it. But you were almost sure it was meant to be. Still, you nodded your head. Another finger, faster, deeper. Another moan of his name. 

When you came, you looked as though you didn't realise it. But the way you squeezed him, walls clamped around his fingers, your own fingers squeezing his wrist. He felt your body shudder in a way you didn't seem to. 

“Easy,” he whispered, pulling his fingers out of you. Gentle, his touch and his voice. Gentle and grounding. “You okay?” 

You released his wrist. Stretching your fingers, you nodded. “I'm okay,” you mumbled and looked at him. Sweat clung to your skin as you blinked at him, as if coming back to yourself. You were okay. He pushed your hair back and kissed your head. 

But Oscar's tenderness was overshadowed. You didn't mean to distract from the sweet moment by reaching for his boxers, but you couldn't help yourself. The second your hand made contact with him, he bucked his hips towards you. 

“Easy, buster,” you said and giggled to yourself. 

Jesus fuck, he was hard. So damn hard beneath your fingers, and all because of you. He had seen you, all of you spread bare for him. It was only fair it was his turn. 

Hastily, Oscar pushed his boxers from his hips. 

Tall and proud. That was the only way you could describe it as you stared. And I mean stared. Unable to tear your eyes away from his tip, which already seemed to be weeping. 

It wasn't supposed to be pretty. In the few experiences you'd had, from the little bit of porn you'd stumbled across, you knew it wasn’t supposed to be pretty. But it was. If you were any other woman, your mouth would've watered. 

But you remained composed. Somehow. Maybe it was the knowledge that you couldn't push it that far with Oscar. Something in the back of your mind was telling you it was a bad idea. That taking the man who'd just had three of his fingers buried inside of you into your mouth was a bad idea. 

You listened to that small, annoying voice. But you still wrapped your hand around him, swiped your thumb over his tip. You gathered what was there and brought it up to your mouth, licking it off. 

His hips subconsciously rocked. “That was…” 

“Hot?” You asked. 

He nodded. 

Wrapping your fingers around him once again, you pumped him. Not enough to be considered foreplay, almost like you were getting him warmed up as you laid back and parted your legs. 

Oscar got the hint. He climbed in between them and his breath caught. For a moment, he laid there. Your arm was trapped between your bodies at an almost awkward angle as you held him, ready to guide him in. “Hey,” you said and he looked at you. 

You'd always found his eyes pretty. Even that day you'd met and he had been an unwanted distraction. Every part of him was pretty, you knew. Every. Single. Part. 

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he kissed you. You let go of him, brought your arm up from between you and wrapped them around his neck. “Gonna get on and fuck me or what?” You mumbled against his lips. 

He dragged your bottom lip between his teeth. Hips rutting against yours, the feeling of him nestled between your lips. Blunt head nudging you in all the right places, you just needed him to take that leap. 

And he did. Oscar sheathed himself inside of you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, mouth falling open in a mix between a gasp and a moan. 

At first, he was still. Mouth still against yours, but he seemed to be watching you carefully. Gauging your reaction to his every little movement.

“Move, Osc,” you had to whisper. 

He nodded his head rapidly, sweaty hair falling in front of his face. His eyes were closed, mouth open when he began to move, when he pushed himself further inside of you. There was a slight stretch, but you were loving it. The way he seemed to be just too big for you, even with the preparation he had put in.

He hissed through his teeth as he moved his hips. You couldn’t help but moan as you attempted to kiss him, to kiss any bit of skin you could get your lips on. When you kissed his neck, Oscar tipped his head to the side, gave you more room to work with. Clearly, neither of you cared as much about painting his neck in purple bruises. 

“Want,” he began, eyes still shut. “Want you on top.”

Oscar flipped you over. You went willingly and settled on top of him, your hands against his chest. He gave you all the time you needed to adjust to the feeling that came with the new position, like he was rearranging your guts. “Don’t know how the girls in the fantasy books do it,” you managed to say, 

Oscar laughed. Hands settling on your hips, he laughed. A beautiful, melodic sound that was cut off when you began moving. You lifted yourself up as best you could and sank back down onto his dick. It took more effort than you were expecting, giving up after doing it a few times.

But Oscar had you. He kept hold of you as he drew his knees up, feet on the bed to thrust into you. Again and again as you kept yourself braced on his chest. The noises you made spurred him on, along with the way you clenched around him. 

When you came around him, your eyes squeezed so tightly shut you looked as though you would never open them again, Oscar swore he saw stars. Just a few more thrust, just a few more until he came inside of you.

Breathing heavily, Oscar slipped out of you. “Holy,” he breathed, chest rising and falling. 

Your limbs shook as you laid down beside him. It wasn’t graceful, your body seeming to just fall beside him. “Can’t believe we did that,” he mumbled as you snuggled closer to him. 

Two sweaty bodies pressed together, you fell asleep. Neither of you were aware enough to regret it. Minds too tired, bodies too exhausted, and the alcohol still moving through your veins. 

Wallaby Taglist: @nurse-floyd

@mimisweetz

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

Warm Us Up

Natasha X Reader 18+

Summary- After a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are left stranded in a safe house with nothing but a small fire to try and keep you warm, leading you two to resort to sharing body heat to not freeze to death.

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI- Hate/Love, Sexual tension, Resolved sexual tension, Naked cuddling, Dom/Sub, Oral Sex, Fingering

This is an old fic I found from my ao3 so the writing quality isn't that good, apologies but I don't have the time to improve it.

General Master List

W/c- 2.1k

“Fuck,” you growled as you and Natasha walked into the safe house in the middle of nowhere. You and Natasha had been paired for a mission in Siberia even though you didn’t get along meaning that when everything went to shit, as in went to absolute shit, you were left in the extreme climates to fend for your lives. Luckily there was a safe house only a few miles walk from where you were so you both walked in a tense silence throughout the snow.

“Why are you so angry? You’re the one who fucked the mission up,” she snapped at you while u saw a fire place.

“Me?” you shouted back, “I’m sorry but if I didn’t have to save your arse none of this would have happened!” You quickly made a fire with the wood that was left in the cabin and went in search for something to heat you up. Walking through the cold and wet had left you both in soaked suits in freezing climates. Thankfully you had super-soldier serum in your blood meaning you weren’t as cold but that didn’t mean Natasha wasn’t.

“I didn’t needed saving and you made a stupid move!” she screamed back while shivering at the fire place. You searched the cabin while she continued to yell at you and found three large sheets that could warm you up.

“Take your clothes off,” you said making her look at you with an annoyed look.

“Excuse me?” she growled.

“You’re clothes are soaked meaning if you stay in them you will most likely get a bad case of hypothermia and as much as I hate you I don’t need the team on my back for letting you die.” You state while throwing her two of the sheets. “Take them off and put them in front of the fire so they can dry. I’ll do the same but in another room. Call me when you’re done.” She huffed at your commands but listened anyway and quickly stripped herself of the wet clothing leaving her naked in the sheets wrapped around her body. After a few minutes she called you in and you walked with the sheet wrapped around you. You didn’t really think it through when you gave her the sheets as you accidently left yourself the smallest one meaning it just about covered your body.

“So what now?” she asked as you sat near her in front of the fire. Natasha couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering around the skin she could see. Your body was extremely toned due to the intense training you would do every day and she could see the muscles in your back moving as you shivered. She was extremely grateful you gave her more sheets as she was still cold in this but not as cold as you would be.

“Warm up and then try and find a way to get in contact with anyone,” you said and she didn’t miss the way your voice wavered due to how cold you were. Despite having the serum even your body couldn’t deal with low your body temperature was making you shiver uncontrollably.

“Come here,” the spy said and you slowly looked at her.

“What?”

“Come here we can share body heat and use the sheets to stay warm,” she said while watching your body tremble.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you manage out and she answers you by moving in between your legs and settling her body there. She takes one sheet off her self and throws it around your shoulders making the other sheet drop lower and oh.

“Uh Natasha,” you stutter out while she kneels in front of you making sure the sheet is around your bare skin.

“What?” You look at her and she sees the blush on your face before looking down at herself. “Oh,” she says before quickly fixing the sheet and turning so she can sit and rest back against you. You awkwardly keep your arms by your side as you don’t want to make her uncomfortable. You only hated her because she was a total bitch to you when you first arrived and it made you feel worthless. You had the stupidest crush on her and wanted her to approve of you but that never happened so you just learnt to ignore her remarks. You didn’t want to admit your feelings to her because you didn’t even talk to her so how could you possibly feel anything for her? You tensed behind her when she wriggled backwards so her back was fully flush with your front and her backside flush with your core. You stifled a groan at the contact as you had one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen naked in front of you. “What’s wrong?” she asked at your sudden stiffness.

“Nothing,” you breathed out against her neck and she shivered at the feeling. Natasha had to stop herself from breaking. She only pushed you away because she was scared of her feelings and attraction to you. So being here with you was making her extremely wet and she couldn’t stop the little noise that left her lips when your breath touched the bare skin.

“Can I move your arms?” she asked while moving hers hands to hold yours. She felt the slightly raised skin of a scar on your forearm while she waited for your response.

“Yeah sure,” you whispered out. She guides your arms to wrap around her middle. If anyone was too see you both like this they would assume you were lovers wrapped up in the sheets naked by a fire like in some romantic film but that was not the case.

“You know I never thought you would be a cuddler,” you tease, your hot breath making her body feel hot under your touch.

“Well I’m trying not to freeze to death,” she says while turning her head to look at you. Unconsciously you glance at her lips then her eyes which seemed to have dilated.

“I can think of a way to warm us up,” you say while staring at her lips. The next thing you know your on your back with Natasha pressing her lips against yours. She moans into the kiss and moves to straddle you, the sheets falling off both of your bodies. You both groan into each other’s mouth as her bare pussy makes contacts with yours. You move to sit up and grab onto her ass making her sigh against your lips. You break away from the kiss panting for air and you move one hand to move the hair out of her face. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” you rasp out while watching her face for any sort of uncertainty. She threads her fingers into your hair and pulls your back in for a bruising kiss. You move her so her hips straddle one of your toned thighs so she can grind along it.

“Oh fuck,” she moans as you guide her hips along your leg, her clit rubbing against your thigh and her wetness now dripping down the side of it. You break away from her lips to pepper open mouthed kisses along her jaw and neck before sucking hard. Her breath hitches as you suck a mark into her skin and you cant help but chuckle against her skin. You move your kisses further down and take a breast into your mouth while moving one hand off her backside to cup the other breast. You lick and suck one of them while rolling and pinching the nipple on the other before switching to pay them both equal attention. Her hips are starting to buck more wildly and you take that as a sign that she’s close.

“Do you want to come for me?” you murmur at the top of her breasts while a hand moves to rub at her clit.

“Please,” she whimpers while riding your thigh, her hands tugging your face back up to her. “I’m so close please,” she whined against your lips.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” you purred out before crashing your lips to muffle the scream that left her lips. Her hips stuttered as she came on your leg, the wetness now completely coating your thigh. You helped her ride out her high and placed gentle kisses along her jaw and neck while she recovered.

“Still cold?” you tease and she lets out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah actually,” she jokes back and moves her hips so she’s straddling your waist. Your hand slips through her soaked folds and the moan that leaves her lips will forever stay in your brain. You easily slip a finger into her and her hips start to roll and grind on your hand. You return your attention to her breasts while her hands made her way to your shoulders and back. “Fuck Y/n,” she moans as you slip another finger into her core and she tightens around you.

“Fuck you’re so hot when you moan my name,” you groan before biting a mark in the valley of her breasts. You increase the pace your thrusting your fingers in and she moans and whimpers above you as she gets near another orgasm. “You’re so tight,” you murmur while moving to kiss her lips again. You move your thumb to rub circles on her clit sending her over the edge once again. She lets out a string of moans against your lips as she rides out her high. When she’s ready you pull out of her and bring your fingers to your mouth. She watches you with a hunger in her eyes as you lick off the cum on your fingers and moan around your digits. “You taste delicious,” you say before she crashes her lips back onto yours for a feral kiss. She moans when she tastes herself on your lips and pulls away panting for air.

“I think someone else needs to be warmed up,” she says while pushing you so your back is on the floor. She crawls down your body leaving kisses and bites everywhere she could. You groaned when she took a nipple into her mouth and sucked lightly on it, teasing you, before moving to the other. You moved your hands to tangle in her fiery locks and pulled her away from your chest and back for a kiss.

“No teasing,” your tone warning and she quickly listened by running a finger through your dripping folds. You leaned forwards to kiss her and moaned into her mouth when she slipped a finger in. She quickly added another finger and pulled away from your lips to move her head lower. You were already a moaning mess beneath her as she thrusted her fingers in and out of you but when she kitten licked your clit you were fucked. You arched your back at the feeling as she licked and sucked in your clit while increasing the pace of her fingers. It didn’t take long for you to tense and fall over the edge. You came with a guttural moan and she carried on until the aftershocks of your orgasm had finished. She swiftly made her way back up your body and kissed you making you groan at the taste of yourself on her tongue. You wrapped your arm around her and pulled the sheets up so they were covering you both.

“You ok?” you breathlessly asked.

“Yeah just tired,” she mumbled against your chest. You held her close as you both drifted off to sleep.

The next morning you woke up with Natasha fast asleep on top of you and you smiled down at her. You managed to slip out from under her and tucked the sheets around her before grabbing your now dry clothes and putting them on. You searched the safe house for some kind of food and only found some snack bars. You also found out the taps worked and hoped that the water was alright. You went back to see Natasha stir awake and you both ate your ‘amazing’ breakfast in a comfortable silence. Once you had finished you both found a way to communicate with the rest of the team and someone sent the Quinjet to get you.

“I see you didn’t kill each other,” teased Steve who was in the jet.

“Ha ha Rogers,” you sarcastically remarked. While Steve was flying he let the two of you rest after the mission and change into better clothes. What you didn’t expect was for Natasha to come and see you. You felt her presence behind you as she purred into your ear.

“Meet me in my room at 11,” she nibbled on your earlobe before walking away, swaying her hips.

[skill7spark04]

a story where the premise is the world leads you to believe the narrator is unreliable, but the narrator is telling nothing but the truth. the reason why the world lies to you is because the characters in the book are actively making it look like the narrator is wrong, so you don't trust the narrator, (an entity that can only describe what is happening by nature, never fabricate truth) and instead trust them, (the sentient characters who are very much self aware of the story they are in and want to GET YOU.)

Unreliable narrators are one hell of an idea. You can just write whatever, and if a reader points out "hey the way this scene happened should not be physically possible if it's done the way this character described it", you can just be like "yeah I don't trust that fucker either."

[kxsagi]

Hii can I request a reader that is always loud, laughing, joking (darkest and driest jokes) but actually serious and responsible in work, like she’s always being silly, but suddenly getting serious when it’s come to her assignment, feel free to do with any BLLK characters but can you include Karasu and Yukimiya?

Thank you so much ily 🥰🔥

“𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬”

a/n: OKAY THIS READER DESCRIPTION IS SPOT-ON ME, LIKE THIS IS LITERALLY ME

anon are you on my alt??? 

ft. karasu tabito, yukimiya kenyu, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, mikage reo, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

karasu tabito

the first time he met you, he genuinely thought you were a walking meme compilation. you were doing a deadpan reenactment of your funeral, complete with “my last words will be ‘sybau’ while laying on the floor like you were auditioning for a broadway tragedy. karasu’s like “yo... what is wrong with her 💀” “nothing, what’s wrong with you for being alive during my performance?” his soul left his body. instant love. 

but the day he saw you working for the first time? jaw-dropped. you were elbows-deep in paperwork, planner color-coded, firing off deadlines, and actually emailing people back like a normal adult? you even hit him with a “can’t talk right now. i’m working.” in the most monotone, CEO voice ever. karasu just blinked like, “… where did my unhinged girlfriend go???” 

he finds the contrast sexy as hell. like yes, joke about your own funeral, but also please help him organize his taxes because he hasn’t done that in three years. 

he will literally follow you around going, “say something messed up” like a fanboy just to hear you hit him with another “if i got run over, would you keep the pieces as a souvenir?” 

sometimes he gets whiplash. you’ll be laughing at a meme, and then suddenly turn to him with “babe, did you turn in your PR proposal? the deadline’s 3PM JST.” and he’s like, “how did you– bro i forgot that even existed…” 

yukimiya kenyu

he thought you were deranged at first. you met at a charity gala, and you made a joke about "selling your soul to capitalism, but at least doing it ethically.” he laughed, but cautiously. like you were a tiger in clown makeup. but then you were laughing so hard at your own joke, and the way you wheezed like an old radiator made him soft. 

what really made him fall, though, was seeing how responsible you were behind all the dry jokes. you handled all the event logistics like it was second nature, emailing sponsors, correcting billing issues, and still cracking the occasional “if i die from stress, make sure my ghost finishes the job” in your corpse-dry voice. yukimiya was like, “wait… so she’s the brains and the chaos???” 

he’s a bit of a perfectionist, so he really respects your ability to flip the switch. when he’s spiraling about a brand deal or a photoshoot, you’re the one who calmly reminds him that “you’ve already survived worse. remember when your hair got fried in that one ad? and you still slayed.” 

he listens. because underneath the sarcasm and your “i hope the earth explodes” humor, you always get things done. 

the two of you are basically opposites: he’s elegant, poised, and a little dramatic; you’re loud, meme-obsessed, and unfiltered until it matters. he thinks you’re the perfect balance of chaotic good and responsible queen. “i love that you’re insane, but i also love that you scare HR with how efficient you are.” 

isagi yoichi

his first impression: “she’s hilarious, but needs to be monitored at all times.” you were making jokes about tax evasion and pretending to haunt people through google docs. “i wrote ‘i’m behind you’ in size 2 font at the bottom of every spreadsheet.” “WHY.” 

but when the blue lock PR team asked someone to help manage the team’s community outreach campaign, you went full commander mode. suddenly spreadsheets, schedules, polite corporate emails, and you booked everyone’s appointments like a pro. isagi was SHOCKED. “wait, you’re actually a professional???” “i am literally linkedin-certified. don’t play with me.” 

isagi now just lets you talk your insane talk as long as you walk the walk (which you always do). but he does sometimes worry when you casually say things like “if this deadline kills me, cremate my body and mix it into office coffee.” “love. are you okay?” “no, but i’m still doing my job better than everyone else.” 

kaiser michael

at first, he thought you were annoying. too loud. too sarcastic. too many disturbing jokes. until one day he caught you managing your own press schedule, negotiating deals over the phone like a shark, and drafting a marketing deck for your brand in the same breath as “haha if i get hit by a bus at least make sure it’s a mercedes.” 

kaiser’s respect for you skyrocketed. because that’s his energy – joking around, acting like he doesn’t care – but being a monster at your craft? that’s how you earn his interest. now he just follows you around like a smug little bodyguard. “you’re a menace. and you’d probably make a million dollars scamming me in a powerpoint.” 

when you two work together on anything serious, it’s absolute power couple energy. he’ll be leaning against your desk like, “are you done being hot and responsible?” and you’ll deadpan, “no. but your face is delaying my work productivity.” 

mikage reo

honestly? he was enchanted from day one. you were cracking jokes like “if i win the lottery, i’m investing it in haunted dolls,” while organizing a full event on your phone and replying to work emails with scary speed. reo watched with his jaw dropped like “are you even real???” 

he’s used to people who joke around, but flake out. you are the rare breed that jokes harder and works harder. he finds your duality fascinating. you’ll clown someone to their face and then finish your budget projections by 3 AM. “how do you have so much chaotic energy and still have a retirement plan?” 

reo is obsessed with your balance. he calls you “joker boss” because you’re both unhinged and terrifyingly capable. he’ll 100% show you off at events like, “yeah, she made our whole business plan… while doing a bit about eating drywall.” 

itoshi rin

you physically hurt him. not because you hit him, but because the first time you met, you made a joke so vile and deadpan, he choked on air and stared at you like you were a walking red flag in human form. something like: “i hope the company burns down, but like... on a friday so we don’t have to work monday either.” “what the actual f–” 

he genuinely thought you were an unserious clown. like the kind he’d never tolerate. until one day during a group project, everyone was slacking off and joking around… and suddenly, you flipped into hyper-efficient, eyes-glinting, do-it-or-die mode. you whipped out a laptop, started outlining deliverables, assigning tasks, and saying terrifying things like “i’ve already emailed the supervisor your excuses. now pick up the slack.” rin was stunned. aroused. slightly afraid. 

now he just watches you in silence whenever you’re in your serious mode, trying so hard not to look impressed. but then you break the tension by going, “anyway. if i die tomorrow, bury me in a blazer and tell god i was productive.” and rin's brain just short circuits again. he thinks you're mentally unwell. he's also never been in love like this. 

you actually motivate him. he’s already serious about his career, but you’re the only one who outworks him and makes him laugh like a man losing brain cells. 

sometimes he hears you laughing at your own jokes at night and just sighs into the pillow like, “she’s so weird.” then goes back to cuddling you tighter because you’re his weird. 

itoshi sae

sae heard your laugh before he ever saw you. loud. wild. from the gut. he turned around like “who let a maniac in here?” then you walked past him saying something like, “if i disappear, tell my manager i ascended. into the void.” he watched you leave and muttered, “what the fuck...” 

but the next time he saw you, you were on a work call, serious voice on, notebook open, calling shots and speaking like the CEO of a fortune 500 company. and when the call ended? you dropped your pen, leaned back, and went: “anyway, if this job doesn’t kill me, i will.” sae almost choked on his drink. 

this man is dry. so dry. but you? your humor is even drier, darker, and more sarcastic than his, and it physically pains him to laugh at your jokes. like the one time you said, “my toxic trait is being really responsible while secretly hoping society collapses.” “... that’s so stupid.” but then he’s laughing five hours later on the team bus because of what you said. 

he secretly loves watching you flip from “chronically online chaos gremlin” to “scary competent adult.” he’ll watch from a corner, drink in hand, smirking while muttering, “they’re not ready for her. poor bastards.” 

you stress him out when you’re too funny during serious moments though. “sae, if you die mid-game, can i have your bugatti?” “no, and i’m blocking you when i haunt you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢