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reiding-writing · 4 months

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Omg imagine Reid being incredibly touch starved and literally having this very primal craving for affection to the point it's all he can think about but he cannot for the life of him get over his fear of germs and it's just all this angst and ahh

deprivation [ s.r ]

Summary:

Spencer needs support. He needs it. But he for the life of him just cannot reach out for it himself. And after one particular case, you make an effort to try and quell is emotional rampage.

WARNINGS: germophobia, self deprecation, touch deprivation, emotional breakdown

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

genre: ANGST, hurt/comfort

wc: 2.8k

masterlist!!

a/n: great minds must think alike because i was actually already working on this when the request came in😭

i made this less angsty than originally planned, but i hope it suffices nonetheless the less, thanks for the request! <33

Spencer Reid was exhausted in every sense of the word.

His muscles ached, his head pounded, and he was so burnt out he didn’t even have any thing to say when JJ had incorrectly mentioned a ‘fact’ about a certain sub-species of butterfly that was supposedly native to Oregon.

His exhaustion only proved to get worse as the jet took off for Virginia, but the unfortunate rampaging of his own mind proved any chance of him sleeping on the flight home impossible.

“Hey… Are you okay?” Your voice seems to echo across the silence of the cabin despite you practically whispering to avoid waking your teammates, and Spencer’s eyes flicker up towards you, clearly not having expected you to be awake.

You stand up from your seat, walking down the aisle to take a seat on the sofa next to Spencer, his head resting in his hands as his eyes followed you. “You’ve been really quiet since the case ended,”

“I’m fine…” He said the words, but it wasn’t reflective of his tone of voice. There was something there. Something more, something beneath the words.

A sadness.

An uncertainty.

And if you listened to his voice, not just to his words, you’d hear a hint of pain, a deep seeded sense of misery that he was concealing beneath the usual layers of stoicism.

“Spencer you’re talking to a professional profiler, which I don’t even need to be to know that you’re not okay.” You can’t help the soft sigh that escapes your mouth, turning to sit sideways to face him properly.

"I'm fine," He said the words again, and this time they held a touch of force. But the words did not match his tone, still pained, wounded, and silently pleading with him to just be honest with you.

And as the words came out of his mouth, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if hoping that what he was feeling would be gone by the time he opened them again.

But when they fluttered open through his eyelashes he was still on the sofa of the jet and you were still sitting there and he still felt miserable.

“If you don’t want to talk about it then I won’t pressure you,” You dejectedly resign yourself at Spencer’s insistence, leaning your left side against the back of the sofa. “But just know i’m here for you if you ever want to get something off your chest okay?”

"It's just...It's just-" He paused, biting his lip as if unsure about what he was about to say. He knew it may be dangerous to let himself slip. So he considered his words carefully before he spoke again. "...it's just been hard...I’m so stressed and...I'm...feeling vulnerable. And I don't like it. I don't like it at all."

“Everyone’s gonna feel like that at some point Spence, especially in our line of work,” You tilt your head slightly at him, a soft expression painting your features that matches your tone.

"I know..." He said, " But...I don't like feeling like...like i can't cope. Like I'm scared. That's not who I am. I'm supposed to be the rational one. The smart one." Spencer dragged his palms up his face and back over his hair, leaning back against the sofa with his head leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t like being scared,”

And there, again, in that simple sentence was another hint of the hurt that his apprehension hadn’t managed to fully hide. “I’m meant to be better than that.”

“Spencer just because you are a functioning genius does not mean that you’re not allowed to be scared, that’s a part of what makes you human,” Your face furrows as you become increasingly concerned for Spencer and his mindset.

"I-...I know..." He said the words, but the underlying message was clear. He might know that he was supposed to have emotions and he might know that expressing them is healthy, but there was a part of him that was screaming at him to suppress them.

To bury his feelings and pretend to be the robot that his childhood (or lack thereof) had forced him to be.

He wasn't trying to be resistant, he was just...afraid.

“When was the last time you cried Spencer?” The question blurted it’s way out of your mouth as your concern for Spencer only continued to grow.

"Why would you ask me that?" His tone of voice was almost affronted by the question as if he were a little wounded that you had brought up something so sensitive.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and you swear that you could see his eyes glass over even in the dim lighting of the cabin. “Because i want to know exactly how much pent up emotion you’re dealing with right now,”

You make a conscious effort to relax your features as you look at him, sighing softly. “Please answer the question…”

Spencer took a second as he deliberated whether or not to answer your question, staring blankly across the cabin so he wouldn’t have to look at you.

"958 days ago."

He said the words coldly, but you could hear the emotion in the way he spoke them. This is the moment when he finally cracked. When he finally realised that hiding the way he felt wasn't a sustainable solution.

And its was also the point when he started to break down. The tears finally started to flow, and he couldn't stop them as much as he tried.

“Spence…” You reach out a hand towards him, but you barely get it up out of your lap before he firmly stops you.

"Don't..."

The words come out of him sharply, but there's something in his tone that saying the opposite. There’s a note of desperation in them. A plea. A cry for help. Because he wants you to touch him, he needs you to. But he's resistant to the idea, he keeps resisting it. “80% of communicable diseases are passed by physical contact. I don’t want to get sick.”

You curl up your hand into a ball as you let it fall back into your lap, pursing your lips as Spencer uses his statistical knowledge to stop you from touching him.

You knew he had an aversion to touch. That he was hyper aware of practically any illness that could possibly be transferred through human contact. You knew that he kept himself at a physical distance from everyone for a reason.

But you also knew that despite all of that he needed physical comfort. Words just weren’t going to cut it.

“It’s okay to need to be comforted…”

"I can get through this myself." He cuts you off harshly, and if you didn’t know that he was obviously mentally struggling his tone would’ve cut you deep.

He's in pain.

He's miserable.

And he's been alone for too long.

He needs emotional intimacy. He needs the affection and comfort of his friends.

He just can't bring himself to actually say that.

“Spencer, let me comfort you. please.” You bite the inside of your cheek as your eyes follow a tear that falls down his face, leaving a water streak in its wake.

“It’s not healthy for you to ball yourself up like this,” You plead desperately with him to let down his emotional barriers and just let you help him.

"There's nothing wrong with me." His words are still cold, but he's wavering now. His shoulders are lowering, his hands loosening from fists to lying flat on either side of him.

He wants you to touch him. He wants the affection that he's been deprived of for so long. But there's still that part in him that's resisting. The voice in his head telling him he can't.

“There doesn’t have to be anything wrong with you for you to need comfort Spencer,” You attempt again to hesitantly reach out a hand towards you, but your advances are again immediately shot down.

"Please.. Don't touch me." His words come out weakly. He's desperately resisting, but the tears are still flowing down his cheeks and you can tell that he’s trying not to completely break down.

“…Are you sure?” You hand retreats back to your side the second he denies you, but you both know he’s not entirely convinced of his own boundaries.

"I'm sure."

He's lying.

The tears were still streaming down his cheeks, and even one quick look at his eyes could tell you that he was desperate to be touched.

He was craving human interaction. But the words were still coming out of his mouth. He wasn't ready yet, not quite yet.

Your hand falls to the gap between the two of you on the sofa, a few inches left between his hand and yours as you suppress a sigh at the clear desperation coating his face despite his denial of your touch.

But you don’t want to overstep the boundary, even if he’s not 100% sure of it himself.

He stares back at you, still resisting the urge to reach out for your hand, even though he's not sure why. He knows that he would feel better if he could grab you and put his head on your shoulder, letting the weight of all of his problems wash away.

But there was still the little voice in his head shouting "Don't. Don't touch them. Don't." And he was struggling. Fighting with every inch of his being for self-control.

As the two of you fall into a slightly tense silence, you make a small movement to breaking Spencer’s self made barrier as you edge your pinky finger towards his own, just barely brushing his skin as you keep your eyes plastered on the opposite wall.

His eyes follow your fingers as they inch their way closer and closer to his. And when - at long last - you make contact, Spencer freezes. Time seems to just stand still as his eyes are transfixed on the single point of contact between your fingers and his.

He doesn't move, he doesn't speak. He just watches.

Over 200 breeds of bacteria are passed through people’s hands for every second they’re in contact.

But he can’t seem to pull himself away.

Because this is the connection he seeks. This is the release he needs. And finally, finally he gets it.

You continue to gently bridge the gap as your pinky finger links itself with Spencer’s, squeezing it with a gentle pressure as you try desperately to stop your eyes from averting back to him.

The second your finger links with his, a dam of emotions breaks. The tears flow faster and he lets out a whimper in the back of his throat.

As soon as you touch him, he leans into the feeling and turns his hand over, pressing his palm and his other fingers against your own, wanting more, needing more of this sensation that he's been starved of for so long.

You respond enthusiastically at his acceptance of the contact, interlacing your fingers together and giving his hand a soft squeeze as you finally bring your gaze back towards his face.

“You’re going to be alright Spencer…”

The moment your hand falls into his is a moment of sweet release. The flood gates have opened, the dam has broken, and there are no barriers between him and the overwhelming emotions he's been forced to bottle up.

And as the dam breaks so too does that small, insistent voice telling him to reject contact. That small voice that tells him he can't have physical affection.

Because that small voice is wrong.

And when you squeeze his hand he brings no hesitation into melting into you completely and burying his face into the crook of your neck.

You immediately shift to accommodate Spencer’s weight against your body, breaking the contact of your hands to pull him into a firm but comforting embrace, rubbing soft lines up and down his back as the other held his head against your shoulder.

With tears still flowing down his cheeks and his head buried in your neck, he lets out a soft, contented whimper.

His body relaxes in your embrace, and just lies there in your arms.

He's safe. He's finally safe, and it feels good. He no longer needs to hold himself together. And for the first time in years, he feels loved.

“I’ve got you…” You whisper the affirmation softly into Spencer’s hair as you rest your nose against the crown of his head.

He lets out more soft whimpers, his body relaxing as he leans into the comfort of your embrace, finally allowing himself to just let go.

He takes in big breaths, drinking in your scent as he tries to slow his breathing. He's still crying, but the tears aren't so severe anymore. He's finally started to calm down.

You lean backwards against the seat to support both of your weights comfortably as you focus on soothing Spencer through his emotions, running your fingers gently through his hair and massaging softly at his scalp.

The soft strokes against his head bring a wave of shivers, but they aren't like the shivers that he had felt when he'd been shaking so much.

These are better, these are warm and comforting, and it was like the tension was leaving his body from his head all the way down to his toes.

It feels good, it feels right.

Your touch was healing, and his whole body is relaxing in the gentle massage of your fingers.

“when was the last time you got a full night’s rest Spence..?” The question is soft against his ear as you continue to gently scratch and massage Spencer’s scalp, pulling him slightly towards you with your other arm to secure him safely in your lap.

“I… A while ago…” His words were hushed and sleepy, the exhaustion evident in the slight rasp that was present in his voice. He's been so caught up in the case and the work that he hasn't given a moment's thought to taking care of himself.

He's running on caffeine and willpower. He’s exhausted.

“You should get some sleep…” You carefully adjust the way yo two are sat until you are lying flat on your back with Spencer splayed out on top of you, burying himself in your presence at every point possible.

“I will…”

He's lying.

And based on the fact that his eyes are still squeezed tight against you and the way he's practically buried his body into yours it's clear that even he knows that he's lying.

There's no way that he can sleep right now. Not when he's finally feeling safe. When he's finally found comfort. He plans to bask in it for as long as possible.

“I’ll still be here when you wake up Spencer,” You know that he knows that you know he’s lying. “Get some rest,”

"But-"

He wants to hold this moment, to cling to this moment, trying to delay the passing of time just a little longer.

"I-“

He falters, realising that he's fighting against losing an argument that has already ended. He forces himself to breathe in and out in a slow and deliberate way as he resigns himself to the inevitability of falling asleep.

“…promise?”

He sounds less like a genius and more like a scared child when he says those words. A child who wants to be reassured. Who wants to be told that everything will be okay. That he'll be taken care of when he wakes up from his slumber.

“I promise.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #mgg #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #spencer reid angst #asks 🫶

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tojipie · 6 months

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Omg please please please write another fic about needy cry baby gf and Toji 😫🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

thinking abt him not realizing when he’s being mean because he grew up in a house full of boys where insults were a form of affection :( we’ve all got a little bit of crybaby reader in us me finks

content: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

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a sea of limbs dance and weave around the court with intricacies you won’t even pretend to understand, leaving you more confused with each passing minute.

you remind yourself that you’re here for toji, wanting to spend more time with him regardless of whether you were into the activity.

toji liked it, so you liked it. at least before the game got confusing.

“that was two points, right?” you ask him, trying to make sense of the shot a player had just made.

toji pauses, holding the chilled end of his beer can to the back of his neck.

“three, baby.” he corrects, kicking his work boots off. the older man relaxes into the soft embrace of the couch with a groan, propping his feet up on the ottoman.

“right… right.” you realize, listening as the announcer gives a rundown of what just happened. you look over and gauge his expression, searching for any acknowledgment of what you’d just said.

“sorry, not really a basketball fan.” you joke, hoping to alleviate the awkward air.

“not that smart either, huh?” toji chuckles, taking a sip of his beer.

your stomach drops at the comment. blood rushes to your ears as humiliation takes over, eyes welling up with hot tears.

you knew he was 100% joking. that’s just how toji was around the people he loved.

you were being too sensitive, right?

the two of you had discussed instances like this before, the older man explaining that that was truly just how he spoke to people.

he never meant to upset you, in fact he’d rather hang than ever hurt you on purpose. his words, not yours.

toji has promised you he was working on it, trying to choose his words more carefully around you.

that’s all it was, you tell yourself. a simple slip of the tongue.

or was he truly mad at you this time?

nope. just a joke. you tell yourself, fiddling with a loose thread in your sleeve to distract from the lump in your throat. you try to inhale around the blockage, accidentally releasing a sob that alerts toji right away.

“hey.” he mumbles, setting his drink down to look at you. calloused hands cradle your face as the older man takes a close look at you.

you pull away, trying to compose yourself. just a joke! you remind yourself.

a joke, not serious. just. a. joke.

“nonono, hey it’s okay.” he whispers, eyes blowing wide as he realizes the gravity of the situation.

“i’m sorry sweetheart, i’m sorry.” he pleads, muting the tv to focus on you.

“m’ not stupid.” you whimper, wiping each eye with the back of your hand.

“course not pretty girl.” he whispers, rubbing your back in soft circles. “i’m sorry, you know that’s j—“

“just how you talk.” you mumble, not sure if his explanation actually made it ok.

“but.” he starts, pulling you into his lap with a grunt.

“that’s not an excuse, right?” he asks you, clearly remorseful.

“need to watch my mouth around my girl, huh?” he chuckles, still rubbing small circles up and down your back.

“it’s ok.” you conclude, resting your head on his shoulder as he presses soft kisses to your cheeks and forehead.

“hate making you upset.” he tells you firmly, nuzzling into the crown of your head.

“you wanna watch something else?” he asks, placing the remote in your hand. “movie, youtube?”

you crawl out of the older man’s lap and onto the couch, pulling up prime to scan the comedy section.

“i fucking hate basketball.” you giggle, the man beside you breaking out in full blown laughter as you press play on the remote.

#adah’s asks #toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji fluff #toji drabbles #toji hcs #toji x reader fluff #toji x reader angst #toji x reader hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #toji x fem reader #toji x fem reader flufd #jjk #zenin toji #toji zenin #zenin toji x reader

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celestie0 · 2 months

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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.7 to lose someone you love

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, mentions of weed, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot

ᰔ chapter. 7/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 8.5k

a/n. sighhh i'm rly sorry for the wait. and thank you sooo much to the love for the last chapter omg :') this chapter is gojo pov and it's a bit different than the rest, but i still hope you enjoy and that it was worth the wait. if there are typos, they're not typos they're actually 100% intentional and you are the silly one

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 :: ch6 :: ch7 :: ch8 :: ch9 (pending)

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1

♬.*ﾟplaylist

When Gojo was just four years old, he called for the paramedics for the very first time.

He had wandered around the house, wide and innocent blue eyes searching the room for the landline in the dim light of the evening, his lip quivering in a pout. His small arm reached up to pet around at the top of his parents’ dresser before his fingers wrapped around the phone. He couldn’t remember what the number was at first, the one his mother always told him to call in case of an emergency, but he remembered he scribbled it down somewhere with red crayon in one of his coloring books. By the time Gojo first realized he needed to call for help, located the landline, looked through all of his little portraits of dinosaurs and spaceships sprawled across the carpet of his room, found those three numbers, and then finally dialed them, his father had already been seizing and shaking on the bathroom floor for longer than twenty-four minutes.

He was just a child. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know any better.

Gojo spent the remainder of that night hugging his mom in the hospital’s emergency room, his tears soaking through her shirt as she gently rocked him back and forth in her lap while whispering soothing words in his ear. His father lay motionless on the hospital bed before them, eyes shut, and Gojo will never forget the haunting sounds of the machinery that was keeping his father alive. It was a sudden onset seizure, likely stemming from the traumatic brain injury his father had suffered a few years ago, and the prolonged convulsions he experienced on the bathroom floor that night had resulted in severe brain damage. Gojo could still hear the echo of his mother’s silent cry when the doctors informed them that it’s unlikely his father would ever fully recover from this.

No reasonable adult would ever look a four-year-old in the eyes and say if you had called for help sooner or knew what to do, maybe your father would’ve still had the chance to live a long life. Yet, even at his young age, Gojo was aware of the energy in the room, and that explanation was the only truth his mind could grasp onto to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

After two weeks of clinging to life, his father miraculously woke up from his coma and persevered for the sake of his wife and son. Shortly after the incident, he began to have recurring seizures but fought through them each time. Without fail, he made Gojo breakfast in the mornings, even if it meant having to clean up the spilt orange juice on the counter every now and then because of how his hands could not stop trembling. He always walked Gojo to the bus stop, waving him goodbye, despite how troublesome and embarrassing he found it to use his cane. The love he had for his son was so palpable that it eclipsed the bitterness over how his life had ended up because of the blessing it had brought him.

In his prime, Gojo’s father was a renowned soccer player, so incredibly talented at the sport that he left a lasting mark on the way teams strategized, his presence on the field commanding respect, and he was one of the greatest talents the entire college division had ever seen.

He met Gojo’s mother at one of his freshman year games, a pretty lady in the stands that caught his eye from the sight of her laughter among her friends, her radiance drawing him to her from the field, and that’s how their love began. Exactly one year following that day, he stole one of his grandmother’s thrifted rings from her jewelry collection and that was what he used to propose. Gojo’s mother had accepted it with so many tears and so much snot running down her face, and he had never found her more beautiful. They married young and sweet, like most people back then.

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant.

No one knew that would be the last game of soccer he would ever play.

It was a freak accident, a distracted driver behind the wheel of a gray Chevy on a dark and rainy night, veered straight towards Gojo’s parents car to avoid a branch on the road. In a moment that could only be described as his instinct to protect, he quickly swerved his vehicle, taking the brunt of the impact on his side. His family surrounded him at his hospital bedside as they grappled with the news that he would be unable to play the sport ever again due to his traumatic brain injury that would lead to lifelong motor function loss. According to the doctors and police, had he not swerved to shield his wife and unborn child, the outcome would have been far more disastrous. After months of rehabilitation, he regained enough ability to walk and just enough function in his extremities to welcome his newborn son in his arms.

When Gojo was just six years old, two years after witnessing his father’s first seizure, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten soccer ball tucked away in the corner of the garage. When he eagerly presented it to his father, excitement gleaming in his eyes, he was only met with a scowl and the demand to discard it, to never bring such things like that to him ever again. His mother protested, ensuing in an argument, and as Gojo lowered his gaze to the ball in his hands, he noticed his father’s faded signature adorned with a heart and message of love for his mother. The ink, once vibrant, now faded with time.

It wasn’t until Gojo turned seven that his father finally relented to teach him more about the sport, knowing it was all his son wanted for his birthday. With determination in his heart, Gojo pleaded for his father’s guidance, eager to kick around a nearly deflated, weathered ball. His father watched his son, expression morphing from reserved and stoic, softening to surprise, then hopeful, and he found himself cheering on his son’s clumsy endeavors on the field despite how many times he tumbled and fell. Because that was his son, his pride and joy, reminiscent of him embracing the sport that he himself had cherished so many years ago.

As Gojo grew older and excelled at the sport, securing victory after victory in every youth league, his father’s health steadily declined. The recurring seizures caused by the brain damage from his prolonged convulsions on that fateful night exacerbated over the years and started to take an increasing toll on his body. Yet still, he never missed even a single one of his son’s games. Whenever Gojo swiftly sent the ball flying through the net, the first person his eyes would search for on the field was his father, the joy in his eyes being all he cared about in the world. Gojo lived to make his father proud, because it was the only thing that made him feel like he could make up for what little he had done to protect his father that night.

You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better.

The day following Gojo’s eleventh birthday, his father had his second major seizure, falling into another coma, but this time he never woke up. Two years later, his mother made the tough decision to end his life-support, and then he was gone from their lives. Gojo’s mother was inconsolable, and he knew that his father took a piece of her soul with him to heaven that night. The piece that allowed her to smile.

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

But why was he remembering all of that now?

The shrill of Gojo’s alarm clock woke him up from the intrusive memories that were washing through the fore-front of his mind, and he grumbled to himself before whacking at his nightstand haphazardly to shut the thing off. He ran a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away, features instantly settling into an annoyed scowl as he blinked his eyes open and the filtering sunlight through the windows harassed his vision.

He laid there for a few seconds, mending to the pounding headache at his temples with his fingers rubbing circles, and then he finally sat up in bed. Blinking at his sheets, the images of last night start to flash through his mind. The heavy music, the dim lighting of the bathroom, the dizzying jealousy, and the taste of you on his tongue–

The memory is supposed to arouse him, and would on any normal day, but because you had left him standing there stunned with no release of his own at all, he instead just feels a pulsing, soul-deep throbbing pain at his crotch that could really only be due to the fact he was left high and dry by you last night. He groans at the sensation, palm pushing down on his lower abdomen to try and relax the torture, which barely helped. It’s either he jerks off or takes a cold shower, and given the former was likely not possible for him right now since his god-forsaken brain decided to push the traumatizing experiences of his childhood to the forefront of his headspace first thing in the morning, meaning it’s unlikely he’ll be able to settle into the memory of you bent over that bathroom counter for him, he decides on the cold shower. And it’s safe to say that today already fucking sucked.

The moment the chill water hits the skin of his body, he recollects the look you had on your face right before you walked out on him. Soft, searching, to him almost seraphic, but you also looked wounded. And something from your anger with him since before he even had you in that bathroom, to the agonizing moment you left him in there by himself, told him he’d messed up big time with you somewhere along the lines.

He knew he had been a jerk last night. He didn’t really have much of a right to be seethingly possessive of you, but the sight of you kissing another guy had him seeing red and his knuckles turning white. He finds himself clenching his jaw at the unwelcome memory even now. He figured he probably ruined what would’ve otherwise been an enjoyable night for you, and so you decided to get revenge by walking out on him. However, he can’t shake the feeling that things are messy and complicated now, primarily because of him, and he felt like he needed to apologize for dragging you into his weird, confusing emotions.

He gets himself dry and dressed, grateful for the barely sufficient relief he had down south, and sighs as he grabs his phone and taps on your name, thinking about what to say to you, and just settles on typing out Hey, can we talk? and then presses send. He turns the ringer of his phone off, tosses the device onto his bed and then heads out the door.

Geto was sitting on the couch in the loft, rubbing an ice cube across his forehead as he sprawled on the cushions and let out low and consistent groans to himself. Gojo flopped down on the armchair across from him and assumed a similar position, rubbing at his temples to nurse his own headache. Geto opens an eye to look at him.

“Morning,” he grumbles.

“I take it I’m not the only one that feels like they’ve been hit by a truck?” Gojo asks.

Geto makes a disgruntled noise and throws his head back on the cushion. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. God knows how much I had last night.” He reaches over to the console table in the center for the bottle of Ibuprofen and tosses it to Gojo, who catches it and stares down at the label. “I didn’t really see you drink that much though. Don’t know why you’re hungover.”

Gojo sighs. He wasn’t hungover. His headache was from the fact that had a lot on his mind. Like the feeling of your skin last night. And then the pain of being blue-balled. And also for some reason his father’s death. Very exhausting to juggle those thoughts at once.

Gojo twists the cap off the bottle of Ibuprofen and pops two pills, drowning them in his mouth with Geto’s glass of water, then runs a frustrated hand through his hair. The man across from him raises an eyebrow.

“You good?” he asks.

“Super peachy,” Gojo replies.

He sighs. “Well, whatever it is, just make sure it doesn’t affect your play today,” Geto warns him, sinking further down into the couch. Gojo lets out an exhale through his nose. Geto usually pushed further for answers whenever he was in a mood, so the fact that he didn’t this time meant that hangover was bad.

“I’m more worried about you. You think you’ll be fine in a few hours?” Gojo asks. Geto just waves his hand in the air in response as he grabs the hand towel on his chest and drags it up over his face, shielding himself from the light of the room.

“I have no choice but to be fine. We have to win this game,” is all he says through muffling cloth.

Gojo nods, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the carpet. It was finally the game of the 28th, arguably the second-most important game of the season. If they take home the win, they’re automatically seeded into top sixteen teams, which means they’ll only have to win four more matches after today to take home the championship. But if they lose, they’re seeded to the bottom, and then four turns into a daunting eight. In the history of the league, not a single team has ever lost their pre-seed game and still continued to win the playoff championship. So Geto was right, they have no choice but to win today. Otherwise, they could kiss goodbye to a 12-year UTokyo championship streak.

“Not going for your run?” Geto asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Nah, not feeling up for it,” Gojo replies.

He clicks his tongue. “Never skip the pre-game ritual, man.”

Gojo groans, knowing that he’s right, and so he reluctantly gets up off the chair and heads back into his room. His phone lay there on the bed, facing down, and he felt so tragically taunted by it that he weighed the options of whether or not he should check if you replied back before his run or after his run. And then he’s wondering why you affect him this much in the first place.

He resolves to check after his run, and only gets one arm through his shirt before his hands betray him and he snatches his phone, eagerly tapping the screen to turn it on.

He sees your name at the top, where you had just replied barely a minute ago. Sure, we can talk. He blinks at his phone when he sees the polite period at the end of your message, and the proper capitalization, not to mention a vocative comma? He was starting to feel really nervous.

He didn’t care that you had only replied a minute ago, he quickly typed out his response and sent it.

|| 10:35am Gojo: Do you know how to get onto the stadium field today?

He sees you typing, and he’s holding his breath.

|| 10:36am you: yes, I do. I’m going in w the newsletter journalists. Was this what you wanted to talk about?

What did he want to talk to you about exactly? Something like I’m sorry about being an ass last night, totally not cool for me to be that territorial over you, although I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again because seeing you kiss someone other than me kind of made me want to die. Also, I’m sorry for acting like you’re just someone I know, I don’t know why I did it. I guess it’s because I didn’t know if you thought of me as any more than just someone you know either, and that thought was frightening. Did I mention I hated seeing you kiss someone that wasn’t me?

He’s never really been good with words. Or feelings.

10:37am Gojo: No, it’s not, it’s something else. I’ll come find you on the field before the game starts

He stands there, gaze fixed on his phone screen for the minute-long pause you took to respond, that for him felt like tortured eons, just for you to send-

10:39am you: k

Gojo finishes getting dressed for his run, anxiety brewing in his stomach drearily, and when he heads out the door of the house, the fresh morning air doesn’t help calm him down like it usually does. Of course, as he’s running, his thoughts wander to you. He’s thinking about the smell of your hair–or was it the perfume on your skin?–either way, it was intoxicating. The curve of your neck, that spot that made you whimper– fuck. Think of other things. Like the sound of your voice, soft and sometimes needy, but he enjoys it that way–makes his head spin. Or when you’re being sweet and thanking him for something you shouldn’t, because to him everything about you was a privilege and never a task. Even in the hot spring sun of the late morning, he finds himself missing the warmth from your body, and that look. That goddamn look in your eyes when you’re peering into his like you want him to–

“I’m sure he’s really proud of you.”

His legs stop him on their own, like they know something about the feelings in his chest that he doesn’t, and he’s standing still on the sidewalk of the neighborhood now. Short puffs of air escape his lips from his blood pumping fast through his body, and he could physically hear the sound of you in his head. Intimate enough to where he turns to the side slightly facing his surroundings, like there was no way it was just a memory and you weren’t actually near. He finds himself swallowing hard and having to consciously keep moving forward.

Gojo makes it back to the house, freshens up for the second time today, and gets dressed into his UTokyo soccer uniform with his signature #10 jersey. He leaves with Geto to campus, where all his teammates gather before eventually boarding the bus to the UTokyo stadium field ten minutes away. Coach Yaga yells their ears off in the locker rooms in an attempt to get their plays for today through their brains, and the exhilarating noises from the stands as they make their formal entrance through to the field fills Gojo’s senses, along with the obnoxiously loud music playing as pre-game rituals settle in. Gojo sets his bag down on the bench and joins the others in warm-ups for about fifteen minutes, before catching a chance to sneak away and look for you across the expansive pristine grass.

After lightly jogging around the perimeter of the field for a couple of minutes, he finally spots you, his raised eyebrows now flattening under the fringe of his hair as he relaxes. He didn’t realize he was tensing his shoulders until now. You were just beyond the sidelines near a hydration station, fidgeting with something in your camera case, lips pressed together in a frustrated expression, and he saw your body sulk with the sigh you let out as you must’ve realized you had forgotten something. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a slight smile, an unconscious reaction to seeing you look so damn cute from your troubled face decorated with a pout. And then he remembered he had been looking for you, and he had found you, and the only thing to do next was to be near you.

He ambles up to you, and you only catch sight of him when he’s just a few feet away and finally standing in front of you. He sees your eyes widen slightly, lashes blinking once, twice, and then there’s a blush of color to your cheeks as you fidget with the stadium access badge hung around your neck. He noticed there were grass stains on your jeans over your knees when he looked down.

“Hey,” Gojo greets you over the loud music playing on the field.

“Hi,” he sees you say, and he realizes he can barely hear you.

“Let’s go over there,” Gojo yells, jerking his head over to the side.

He leads you over to an area tucked near the east side entrance, a corner slightly underneath one of the sectioned stands where the loud cheers of the stadium somehow reflected off less. It was about as private or silent of a place that the two of you could manage to have a conversation on a soccer field before a match, if you could just ignore the dressed up school mascots rehearsing their walk-ins and walk-outs through the entryway.

You take a few steps backwards until your back hits the concrete slab wall, and he’s in front of you as he watches you study him for a second, taking in the sight of his uniform, before your eyes finally meet his.

“Are you ready to take your photos today?” he asks you, poorly attempting to make small talk despite the images of you with him in that bathroom last night flashing through his memory. Now was seriously not the time to be turned on.

You nod, and respond “I am”, giving him absolutely nothing to work with.

He sighs. “Listen, about last night, I just wanted to apologize. For dragging you into that bathroom with me, although you did ask me to-” He sees you narrow your eyes and cross your arms across your chest. “Sorry,” he sighs, “Seriously, I just…I don’t know what got over me then.”

“You don’t know? Or you just don’t want to tell me?” you prod at him. He briefly considers pretending he doesn’t hear your question over the sound of the stadium, but he knows he wouldn't get away with that, not with the way you’re looking at him like he’s just one more fuck-up away from making you storm off.

He looks at your lips. “I guess the only thing I know is that I didn’t like seeing you kiss someone else.”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I know you didn’t, Satoru. Otherwise last night wouldn’t have happened. What I’m asking is why.”

He’s struggling now, searching his head for answers, like he’s fighting for his life on a test that he didn’t study for. When he looks down, he notices your foot has been tapping impatiently. And when he looks back up, there’s that wounded expression from last night again. “I don’t know,” is all he can offer.

You uncross your arms from your chest, lips parting slightly as your eyebrows pinch upwards with a disheartened look. He sees your gaze shift slowly across the features of his face, searching, and he wonders if you can see something within him that he can’t. The thought terrifies him. “Fine. It’s my turn to speak.”

He nods slowly. He wasn’t sure what you wanted to say to him. He imagined you would just cuss him out with a few choice words for being a raging asshole last night and then you’d be on your merry way. But he senses sincerity in your voice. Not that he was phenomenal at reading people, though.

He watches as you clench and unclench your fists at your sides nervously, then twiddle with the strap of your camera, then tuck your hair behind your ears, then blink rapidly as you look up at him, then worry your bottom lip between your teeth, then open your mouth to speak just to close it again.

“Do you need me here for any of this?” he says in an attempt at a joke to ease you, but when all you give him is a glare, he’s fearful enough to be serious again.

“I like you.”

He blinks. “Thanks? I like you, too.”

“No, no. I like you as in I have feelings for you,” you clarify. Gojo’s eyes widen at the confession, and he stands up straighter.

“Oh,” he finally replies when he realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, “I…I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Holy shit, if that was how you felt, then he really has been a raging asshole this entire time.

You roll your eyes. “I know. You’re a hopelessly dense, menacingly flirty, sleazy frat dude college athlete,” you sigh, “But I still like you. Unfortunately, tragically, annoyingly, much to my dismay, against my better judgment,”

“Okay, I get it-”

“I think it started that night you stayed with me when I was stranded with my flat,” you confess suddenly, your chest rising a little bit faster, and his expression softened. “I just really appreciated you being there for me.”

His voice is gentle when he speaks next. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I would’ve been there if it happened ten times over,” he pauses, “although I’d seriously question your ability to drive if it happened that many times.”

“And I think it started when you walked me out to the practice field for the first time, and you told me you cared about my dreams,” you say with a slight step forwards to him, unable to acknowledge his words at all, as if there was a script you needed to stick to that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart in front of him.

He finds himself instinctively leaning towards you, close enough to where he notices you’re wearing a different perfume today. “But that was before the night of your car incident,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you nod, and there’s that look in your eyes that he loves, “and I also think it started that first night we met and you looked sad when I said we weren’t friends.”

Gojo’s eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and he finds himself breathing shallowly as he listens to your words. “y/n…I think you’re working backwards here.”

“I’m trying to say I’ve had feelings for you this whole time,” you say to him, “they were tiny at first, I didn’t really see them, but now they’re too big for me to hold all by myself.”

Gojo nods slowly, and he already knows what you’re going to ask of him next.

“I like you in a way that makes me want more from you,” you admit, eyes steadily on his with resolve, “I don’t want to be just someone you know, or someone only for sex-”

“y/n-” he tries to interrupt you.

“And I certainly won’t be someone that sits around to wait for a guy if he doesn’t want me back,” you say, but there’s an apprehensive look in your eyes when you speak next, “so, I need you to answer to my feelings.”

Gojo blinks at you, his heart beating fast in his chest from your confession, and he feels like with every testing second that he fails to answer you back, you slip further and further away from him.

He knew he had affection for you. He always wanted to be close to you, even when he already was, as if he couldn’t get close enough. He wanted to take care of you, and see that softness in your expression when he knew you felt safe and happy. He couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else, and it took him this damn long to realize as he stood in front of you that he had no interest in being with anyone else either. So then why did his chest feel so tight? And why was he struggling so much to give you an answer?

one day, you’ll lose someone you love. and everything following will fail to have meaning.

Gojo’s eyes widened as the memories of his life flashed through his mind, a chill running down his spine as they knock the wind from his lungs and he feels that same sense of dread that has been following him like a ghost since that day when he was just four years old, standing in the hallway, wondering why his father was having a nightmare on the bathroom floor when he should’ve known it was something far worse than that.

Gojo blames himself for so much that had gone wrong in his life. And he should know that it’s not his fault, but all of his grief was greedy to breathe and live, desperate to find a reason for why he had to lose someone he loved, and his grief found a home in all of his guilt.

And he was terrified to lose someone close to him again. Even if he decided to see what could become with you, even if he thought for a moment that he was allowed to feel any sort of happiness with you, the thought of falling short and failing frightened him. He was so tired of adding to a long list of regrets in his life. And he knew he wasn’t what you needed— what you deserved.

“I…” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way about you.” He knows he sounds convincing enough from the way the light in your eyes dimmed, anticipation faltering and replaced with a sad expression over your features. He needs to take a shaky breath to continue speaking. “It seems I’ve led you on in a lot of ways, and I apologize for that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen anymore.”

You’re silent for a long moment, twiddling with your fingers as you look up at him. “I see…” you say, and when he sees your lower lip quiver slightly, he feels sick. His instinct is to reach out for you, pull you closer to him, but he knows that’s not a luxury you would allow for him, and he knew it wasn’t one he deserved either.

Your voice is trembling when you speak next. “I appreciate you letting me know. And you don’t have to worry about not leading me on anymore, because this will be the last time you see me.”

His entire body runs rigid.

“Why?” It’s a stupid question, but he asks it anyway.

“So I can get over you.”

All he can do is stand with the feeling of a chill in his bones.

“And I ask that you’ll respect my space while I do,” you add on at the end.

He’s silent for a long moment, then lets out the breath he was holding in. “I will,” he says, the promise leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

There’s a moment where you both just look at each other, as though the two of you were trying to hold onto the moment, but you’re the one to break out of it first, and he’s the one to wish it would’ve lasted a little longer.

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” The words already sounded like goodbye. “I’ll make sure you look nice in your photos,” you say with a small smile, holding your camera up slightly, “and good luck today.”

He wonders if he’ll regret this moment.

“Thanks.”

He steps aside so that you can walk past him and back out to the field. Gojo takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and relaxes his shoulders. Well, that was intense. Definitely not the direction he thought that conversation was going to go in at all, but that’s fine. He handled it fine. Totally fine. Things were going to be totally fine. He just has to play the match now.

The first step he takes back towards the field, he feels his uneasiness return, with the second step the feeling of his heart beating becomes violent in his head, with the third step he swears he can’t feel the tips of his fingers, with the fourth he feels severely nauseous, and with his fifth- was he seriously about to throw up?

He barely makes it back onto the grassy field cutting across the obstacles of people at the sidelines, using all his strength to not double over before he reaches a table and grabs one of the water bottles. He sees a group of men, all dressed in suits and loitering near the team manager’s station, perk their heads up at the sight of him and he’s groaning internally. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to any damn recruiters, but he sees one of them bold enough to approach him in his periphery. He sighs, taking one last gulp of water, and tries to stand up straight and look like he wasn’t going insane.

“Hi, I’m Jousuke Tsuda, recruiter for Tokyo Metropolitan’s national league team,” he says and stretches his hand out for Gojo to shake. The man looked aged, with thick creases to his forehead that could only mean he’s witnessed a hell of a lot of life and he has the soul to prove it.

Gojo’s eyes widen at the mention of Tokyo-Met’s team, and he grabs onto the man’s hand in as firm of a handshake he could manage. “Gojo Satoru.”

The man laughs. It’s deep with a slight crackle. “I know your name, son. Every recruiter in the country does. You’ve got a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“I’m flattered.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you feel pressured.”

Gojo only hums to himself.

The man glances at his watch. “I know the match starts in a few, but if I could have a moment of your time. Take a walk with me?”

“Sure.”

The two trail down the line of the field. “I’ll get straight to the point, kid. Tokyo-Met’s really keen on scouting you for the national league following your graduation,” he says.

Gojo feels like he should be excited about that news, actually, he should be ecstatic and groveling at this man’s feet, but instead he just feels empty and hollow inside.

“Forget the fact that you’ll be playing in the nation’s most revered team,” the man continues, “but compensation is high, too.” He pulls his phone out from his front suit pocket, tapping away at his calculator app, then turns the screen towards Gojo. Holy shit. “I’m talking about a 350 million yen per year contract here. I could advocate for higher based on how well you perform the rest of the season.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Gojo responds.

The man is silent for a second then sighs. When the two of them reach a somewhat secluded bench near the corner of the field, he sits down on it and expects Gojo to do the same, to which he complies.

“You know, I’m used to much more enthusiastic reactions from players that hear this kind of news, although they’re usually ecstatic for barely a hundred million a year compared to what I’ve just offered you,” the man says.

“I guess it’s the pressure,” Gojo says to him, “it’s got my emotional response circuit all fried up, y’know?” He was pulling excuses out of his ass.

A small hmph noise is heard beside him before he sees the man pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his slacks. “I know your father has left big shoes to fill, kid. I can’t imagine the fear of feeling like you’ll fail, or the anxiety of an injury taking you out any time you’re on the field, not wanting history to repeat itself.”

Gojo’s eye twitches and he narrows his eyes at the man seated beside him. “My dad got injured in a car accident, not while playing the sport.”

“I know,” he responds, finally pulling a cigarette out of the pack, holding it between his two fingers as he rests his wrist on his knee. “The story touched the hearts of everyone in Tokyo, and the entire soccer community in general. I remember reading about it in the school newspaper. Back in the day when they still printed those things out.” Gojo’s surprised, and he’s only given a sideways smile before the man continues. “I knew your father, went to the same college as him.”

“I don’t think he ever mentioned you,” Gojo says.

He lets out a hearty laugh. “He despised me. I was a money-hungry finance major that saw a huge opportunity in mediator sports recruitment agencies. Figured if I could sign a player like your father to my start-up, I’d be set for life. He was a smart man not to sign, regardless of how things turned out.” He shakes his head musingly. “I gave up after that and got a real job. You’ll find a lot of your hopes and dreams die in college.”

“I see,” Gojo says.

The man leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and looks over with a serious expression on his face. “Tell me, son, what does this sport mean to you? Why have you dedicated your entire life to playing it?”

Gojo only gives him a cursory glance.

“Is it the fame and attention? The pride? The thrill? The prospect of earning millions and then retiring at thirty, and you get to watch your wife and kids playing in your grand estate’s pool on a sunny summer Sunday while you’re swirling around a glass of ‘90s scotch in your hand?” he asks, tone derisive but luring. “Or does it mean something more to you?”

Gojo looks down at his hands that were clenched tightly into fists. He relaxes them so that his fingers fall open weakly and his palms face the sky. He remembers the feeling of being a kid, the smell of freshly cut grass consuming his senses, the sight of bruises on his knees from how many times he fell on the field chasing after the ball, and the admiration in his father’s eyes every single time he stood back up. “It’s a chance to prove myself,” he finally says.

“Prove yourself of what?” the man pushes.

“That I’m capable of greatness,” Gojo admits, “like my father.”

The man nods slowly in acknowledgment. “Yes, your father was a great man. But not because of how he played the game. He was a great man because he knew which sacrifices were truly important.”

Gojo looks at him wearily. “Are you trying to tell a player you’re attempting to recruit that the sport isn’t important?”

He shakes his head, looking straight ahead. “No, it’s important. But it’s the meaning you give to your life outside of it that gives it importance.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow at him, not really sure what to make of the cryptic sentiment.

The man claps his hands together and stands up. “Alright, I’m sure that’s all the time you’ve got for me. Think about my offer, and if any other recruiters approach you with better ones, just know I’ll push for higher.” He hands Gojo his business card and brings his cigarette to mouth, balancing it between his lips. “Reach out if you have any questions.”

Gojo looks down at the card, his finger tracing the edge of it as he studies the shimmering gold lettering. “Why not just hit me with your best offer and leave? Why bother having this kind of conversation with me?”

The man pulls his cigarette from his mouth, pinching it between his two fingers once again. “We’ve all got regrets we want to make right, kid,” he says. And with his hands in his pockets, he walks away.

Gojo watches the man as he makes his way down the sidelines back to the cluster of men in suits. When he hears the referee whistle, he shoves the business card in the pocket of his uniform shorts, and makes his way towards the center of the sidelines.

His teammates instantly come up to him with optimistic smiles and encouraging pats on his chest and back, trying to keep the energy high to manifest a win for today, but Gojo just feels exhausted and like he’s drowning. He has so many thoughts swimming around in his head, he can’t even begin to explain, and he just wants someone to see through him at this moment.

The teams stand on the field for the national anthem, and then Osaka Uni’s team disperses while UTokyo’s alma mater plays. Coach Yaga yells for all the players to huddle before the coin toss and reminds them of their plays for the afternoon.

Nanami pulls his sweatbands onto his wrists, Geto pulls his hair back up into a bun, Chosou pulls tightly on the straps of his goalie gloves, and Gojo pushes his hair up off his forehead to snap his headband onto his face. He looks around to his other teammates and that sense of pride he feels to be a part of this team swells dully despite his emotions.

UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kick, and Gojo finds his place in the center of the field. The crowd is already cheering preemptively, their pride in their home team evident in the passion of the filled stands, and Gojo peers across the large expanse of the field as he rests his foot on top of the soccer ball. It’s a scene he’s seen a hundred times in his life, but the sight is daunting today. He takes his foot off the ball when he hears the referee signal the start of the match with a short piercing shrill of his whistle, and the second Gojo draws his leg back and his foot makes contact with the ball, sending it flying forward, he can already feel that something feels very off.

Every single time he had the ball in his possession, his footwork felt heavy and delayed. His teammates had set up more than three chances for him to score, and he shot wide every single time. The crowd’s cheers started to diminish, and he could feel the growing discontent and exasperation from all eyes on the field. Ten minutes before halftime, they were down 1-0, and stakes were starting to feel high.

One of his teammates passes a ball right to Gojo’s favored foot, the crowd instantly erupting with noise and stands to their feet as Gojo shuffles the ball past the penalty line, through Osaka’s defenders, eyes locked with the perfect opportunity to strike. This was good, he had his rhythm back, even if just for a moment, and he can see it, clear as day–the trajectory to the goal. With the feeling of slick sweat on his face and determination in his veins, he withdraws his leg back to kick the ball. The world went silent in his head, the only sound being the beating of his heart, and-

“this will be the last time you see me.”

When he recalls your voice, everything moves in slow-motion as his ankle slips slightly on the grass from his moment of hesitation, and then the ball is swiftly stolen by an opposing team player and maneuvered past him.

“Fuck!” he hisses, immediately turning his head around as he helplessly watches the opponents players move with fervor in pursuit of another goal. The crowd hushed in horror as Osaka passed the ball through UTokyo’s defense, swiftly steadying down the side and sending the ball flying through Chosou’s outstretched arms. 2-0, and the lead ref calls for halftime.

“Dude,” one of his teammates comes up to him as they walk back towards the benches and throws his arms up in the air, “what the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Seriously, man, not a single goal in the first half? You know how many times I’ve set up a shot for you?" another one of his teammates chimes in, nudging Gojo’s shoulder way harder than he’d usually warrant, and shortly after, a blaming fest begins among the players.

“Enough!” Coach Yaga yells out. All of the players quiet down and look at him, some grudgingly gulping down water while others just try to regain their breath. Gojo’s arms just hang at his sides in defeat. “We’re pushing everything on offense now, we can’t afford to miss any more shots,” Coach Yaga says, his fear of losing the match evident too despite his rough tone, “Satoru, I’m switching you out. Dai, take his place.”

“What?” Gojo asks incredulously, charging forward so he’s in front of the older man. “I’m not getting benched.”

“You will, because I say so,” Coach Yaga says sternly, “you’re distracted, boy. I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m n-”

“Just sit down,” Coach Yaga lets out a disgruntled noise. “When players are distracted, they get injured. Have faith in your teammates.”

“Coach,” Gojo asks again, this time almost pleading. He hardly ever questioned Coach Yaga’s calls, he had a great deal of respect for the man. But something within him just absolutely refused to get benched today.

Coach Yaga stares at him for a long moment, and it’s only when one of the refs chirps their whistle that he finally exhales and gives him a reluctant jerk of his head towards the field.

Geto sets up the perfect shot for Nanami to sweep for a kick that barely lands through the goalie’s lunge for the ball, and then on the next play, secures another goal himself. The score is tied, 2-2, with eight minutes left on the clock. Gojo manages to steal the ball on a defensive play, and it’s only really a stroke of luck that he manages in one solid pass the entire game, straight to Geto’s foot, crowd roaring, and he watches his best friend shoot and sink within the last minute and a half of the game.

3-2. UTokyo’s win.

Gojo sighs, exhausted as he makes his way to the bench, crouching down and zipping open his duffle bag. Spirits are low among the team despite the excitement from the crowd over their win because of how hauntingly close the loss felt during the last moments of the match, disinterested in celebrating at all as they meekly dispersed across the field. Gojo knew he was going to get a massive yelling-to from Coach Yaga and he could feel the searing disappointment from his teammates for not carrying the game more. This was just a bare win, could’ve gone either way, and his performance today wasn’t a good look for any recruiters either. He felt so emotionally and physically drained from this entire day, and he wasn’t sure how the hell he could feel any better.

Shuffling through his bag for a water bottle, his knuckles hit something cold and metallic-sounding tucked away inside. He hums to himself curiously before grabbing it and pulling it out.

strawberry vanilla soda.

Hm. This wasn’t the one you gave him a couple of days ago. He already drank that one. Did you sneak this into his bag? His brow furrows, and he stares at the sparkling smiling sloth on the label. When he turns the can in his hand, he sees a little note messily scribbled in black ink.

good luck today! u got this :) ur a star

His eyes widened.

And putting his heart through a shredder would’ve hurt less than when he realizes what an idiot he’s been this entire time.

He’s instantly searching the field, peering through crowds of people, mascots, banners, flags, for any sight of you. He’s not sure how or why he goes in the direction that he does, but deep down it’s because he knows you like taking millions of pictures of flowers, and the west side exit has endless blooms of them. And so when he runs out that way, cleats tapping against the concrete pavement that leads out into the courtyard in the front of the stadium, and spots you standing there, he finally lets out the breath of air he feels like he’s been holding in his chest all day.

You’re aiming your camera at teal and orange petals scattered across the decorative florals lining the raised concrete planters, then pull it down from your face and twiddle with the settings, tilting your head to the side. You then pluck at one of the blooms that was spilling over the edges, bringing it to the tip of your nose curiously. And he just watches, chest heaving from the urgency that he rushed to get to you, heart aching from the desperation of wanting to be near you. He wanted to ask you how you were feeling, he wanted to know how your pictures came along, he wanted to know what you were doing after this, and he wanted you to be with him. But most importantly, he wanted to make sure that this wasn’t the last time he ever saw you again.

It isn’t until a minute after that you seem keen on his presence too, and you swiftly turn your head in his direction, surprised. “Satoru?” you say. He wonders if he’ll melt. He wonders if those ice-cold barriers he’s built over the years could thaw just from the way you say his name.

But when he takes a step forward, you take a step back. And he halts. The expression on your face was unfamiliar to him. Once soft, curious, trusting. Now you looked at him like you were guarding something, keeping it safe from him, and he no longer had the right to intrude. And then he realizes the hell he’s put you through all this time.

He regrets pushing you away.

“I know I said I’d respect the fact that you want space,” he says through bated breath, “but I…I just can’t stand the thought of never seeing you again.”

You’re solemn when you look at him, reading the plea in his eyes, and then slowly shake your head. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

And then you walk out of his life.

a/n. thank you for reading! i have a few more author notes that explain a few things that i couldn't really find a way to fit into the chapter organically, but wanted to address before moving on, if you're curious you can find them here. hope to see you in the next one! pls lemme know if i missed any tags i'm sorry if i did :')

➸ take me to chapter eight!

taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @lost-resonance @foulprincesscycle @purplehallow11 @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @erencvlt @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @hojoslutoru @drthymby @ninitoru @btszn @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @fvsm4x @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @cierocanteat (thank you to everyone <3)

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midnightorchids · 14 days

Note

I feel like Jason and reader are the epitome of the “Person A thinking they are unlovable and Person B loving them like breathing.” trope. Honestly both ways.

You’re so right omg!! I thought about this idea all day yesterday and couldn’t help but write something! Thank you for the inspiration! It’s a little rushed, but I hope you enjoy.

For the longest time, it felt like Jason was drowning.

His mouth was below sea level and he was gasping for air, with every breath, there was a bead of water making its way to his lungs, suffocating him. His grief was suffocating him. Jason spent years trying to find himself again after the pit, but every attempt proved fruitless. He tried to love himself, his new body, his new life, but nothing worked.

He turned to his books and he'd let them lie to him. Tell him that after every storm there would be a rainbow, that things would get better. But it didn't feel that way for Jason. His life was a snow storm and there were no rainbows. Just big grey clouds and a sinking feeling.

His chest felt heavy on most days and every breath was a sigh. The sadness was gnawing on his insides and it hurt. He wasn't supposed to be here, he wasn't supposed to come back.

No one could love him, Bruce couldn't love him. His father, the man he looked up to, the man who was supposed to be his guardian.

Nothing could save him. There was no saving for Jason.

All this love in the world and yet, none of it was for him.

That was until the unthinkable happened.

It started out like another normal day in Gotham. The city's cold breeze bit Jason's nose and finger tips. He flicked his lighter with a small 'click' and brought it close to where his cigarette sat between his lips. He took a long drag of the stick and exhaled softly. He stared at the grey sky and then opened his copy of Little Women. He sat on a bench near his favourite bookstore and that's when he heard it. A voice so soft, he almost missed it.

"I love that book," the voice spoke again and this time he turned his full attention towards it.

There, on the opposite side of the bench sat a person, clutching a copy of Pride and Prejudice. His favourite.

He studied their face for a minute before letting out a sigh of relief. The person looked much like him, eye bags, bitten lips and messy hair. But unlike Jason, their eyes were warm and inviting.

Intoxicating, he thought. He needed to know more.

“Yeah,” he said, “is it any good?”

The stranger smiled gently and nodded, Jason couldn’t help but smile back.

The brief conversation blossomed into something Jason would’ve never imagined.

You made loving Jason feel like it was easy. You made him feel safe.

He grew up on the streets of Gotham, never really having a place to call home. But with you, he never felt that way. You were his home. When Jason was with you, it didn’t feel like his books were lying to him anymore, you brought him peace, a sense of solace.

If Jason was drowning, then you brought him back to shore.

You didn’t necessarily save Jason, but you made him believe in himself again. You never wanted to fix him, he didn’t need fixing in your eyes, you just showed him a different perspective. His dull, colourless life felt full and vibrant when you were around.

But it wasn’t just you, who made Jason see himself and the world in a different, much softer way. He changed you too.

All those nights where the ghosts of your past haunted your sleep were now replaced by much gentler thoughts. Your room no longer echoed with your harsh sobs. Jason made you believe in rainbows again and you started seeing the light at the end of tunnel.

He restored your faith in love. He didn’t fix you either, but he made you see yourself in another light. Loving you didn’t feel like a chore to him, he loved you with every fibre of his being and every cell in his body. Loving you was like a breath of fresh air that he didn’t know he needed so desperately.

It was simple really, he loved you and you loved him.

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

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siriussslut · 23 days

Note

Hiiii

i've been reading your blog and OMG it is sooooo good!!!

Sooooooo i've been obsessed with your virgin regulus, and the blowjob training, and i've been thinking, if he will get allowed to return the favour to the reader

hey baby, thank you🤭 & of course, i hope you enjoy <33

warnings: explicit smut, oral sex

masterlist

pt 1, pt 2

the second you’re in his room, you’re slipping your hair-tie off your wrist, pulling your hair up. “actually,” regulus stops you, “i was thinking…”

the nerves in his voice make you stop. you let go of your hair. “yeah?”

“well… i was thinking. i really want to return the favor. i don’t think it’s fair that i’m always the one…” his cheeks flush, “you know.”

you fight off a blush yourself. “oh. um, well… i don’t really need practice. and that’s all this is, right?”

“yeah! yeah, of course. you don’t?” his eye twitches and his jaw is clenched. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was jealous.

you grin slightly. “well it’s not like i’m a slut, you know, but i’ve… i’ve had some practice.”

“you can never have too much practice,” he offers.

“i… i guess.” you know it’s dumb, but the pussy wants what the pussy wants.

“really?” his eyes widen. his whole demeanor suddenly shifts, going from nervous to bursting with excitement.

you look down to hide your flushed cheeks. “um… sure.”

you sink into his bed.

he sits next to you. “s-so… um… you should…”

you cock your head, peering at him innocently. “i should…?”

his face is a fiery shade of crimson. “you know…”

“what are you talking about?”

he looks like he’s about to explode. you laugh. “i’m messing with you.”

you slide your skirt off, tossing it to his floor. your panties are lacy and green, with a small wet patch. he stares at it.

you scoot further back, leaning your back against his pillows and opening your thighs. you pull down on the panties, letting them pool by your knees.

his breath audibly hitches the moment your pussy is visible.

“wow,” he breathes.

you smirk. “have you never seen a vagina before?”

he doesn’t bother to conceal his blush. “…not in real life, no.”

“oh? not in real life? but in…?”

“shut up,” he says, eyes still glued to your slick folds. “how do i…?”

“just—” you rest your hands on his head, dark curls tangling around your fingers. you pull his face down until it’s a breath away from you. “lick.”

his tongue is warm and soft. the first lick is quick, nervous, a mere brush. his face falls slack at the taste of you. “oh.”

he licks you again, slower this time. he savors your taste on his tongue before he leans in all the way, engulfing his face in between your dripping lips.

his nose hits your clit as he devours the walls along your gaping hole. he’s moaning into you, humping the floor as he gorges himself on your pussy.

you can’t help but grind into his nose, releasing your own soft whimpers as he continues.

his tongue slips into your hole, feeling along your inner walls. your eyes fog over.

you weren’t lying about being experienced, but this. this is new. no one’s ever made you feel this way before.

you moan, your voice high pitched and breathy. “oh, go faster!”

he obeys, his tongue sliding in and out with a sense of urgency.

he’s lapping your wetness up, reveling in your taste. he’s still humping the ground, moaning into you like a bitch in heat.

for the first time in your life, you come in minutes. thick, warm liquid fills your hole, squirting around his plush tongue. he laps it up fervently, licking every inch of your overstimulated cunt.

he groans, his breath heating your core. he leans back, looking up through his lashes to meet your gaze. “was i better? than your… experience?” his face is painted with your cum, teeth grinding around his question.

“so much better.”

when he climbs onto the bed beside you, his pants are sticky and stained.

#regulus black #regulus black smut #regulus black x reader #regulus black x reader smut #marauders #marauders era #marauders smut #marauders era smut #smut #harry potter smut #hp smut

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slyscoutess · 1 month

Text

paring: logan sargeant x fem!reader summary: your boyfriend's fans are suspicious of whoever is behind the account that defends him, even if it means attacking others writer: honestly doing this because if I start saying everything I'm thinking about what Logan is going through I'll go to jail, they don't even know the existence of the words I'm thinking now

liked by willilovers, lovingwags, champalbono and 948.818 others

F1 🚨 BREAKING 🚨 Alex Albon to race in Logan Sargeant's car or the reaminder of the weekend. Albon's chassis was heavily damaged during FP1 and a third one is unavailable. Sargaent will sit out of the Australian Grand Prix.

view all of 8.513 comments

hamiltonmyking personally i think if you crash your car you don't deserve to take someone elses

alobonoaxx maybe if you are good they don't take your car loscarfun maybe if u are good don't crash your car then lillechair you should stop fueling the enmity between the two, it doesn't seem to be very easy for anyone at williams

reminnipredestinado the level of disrespect is astonishing

liked by yourusename and 48.234 others

maxmillian Logan was doing so well in those trainings, he as happy and confident

reputationsargeant p14 and p13, he should be feeling amazing albonothinker what a bucket of could water the threw at him

williaamsfandom James Vowles, that was so wrong of you bloody hell

russelalexxie nothing surprising with again another team neglecting the second driver like that lecleccharlie and yet we expect more from James

liked by yourusename and 190 others

lovedbywaaags are we all seeing Logan's girl liking comments here?

ynloggielchild she was always overprotective of him, I don't think it will be any different now mercgirlies she and jenson must be hugging the hell of him right now, he needs

jessymrsbutton gotta feel for logan, that is so increbily harsh on him. hope alex can pull off a decent drive and points finish

hamiltonthinker Funniest possible outcome is Albon crashes in the race as well

milliansaaainz bruh??? tf was this team decision? okay, Alex is better overall but you can't get Logan out of his car cause his colleague crashed his down

1644loverera were they really not prepared for something like this on the track best knwon for this kind of thing

liked by yourusename and 289 others

lover.sincerely unprepared team and then wait for the driver's results, honestly idots, if you're not prepared to be a team don't waste time or money on it.

sargeanthourly yourusername burner account is back

first story responses in instagram dm

ynloganluvchild mother comforting father

ynthinker huuug him for us mother

havanauuhlala HOW CUTE

rappf1loover not you attacking people on twitter with him cuddle up on you

kikagaaasly i loveeee you both so much

loganthinker our boy must be so sad right now

second story responses in instagram dm

chuusargieln JENSOON

alobonowillli THIS MAN IS FATHER

logansargeantfanclub question, he was with Logan's cell today??

yourusername we confiscated it for the day, this picture came from logan's logansargeantfanclub OMG YOU ANSWERED, hey can you hug our boy while you attack williams on burner yourusername will do, dear

logansargeant i look so good on this picture

As Logan lay atop his girlfriend, the weight of the day settled upon him like a suffocating blanket. It had been a grueling day, one filled with the relentless pressure of decision-making and the constant battle against his own insecurities. Each choice made by his team seemed to amplify his doubts, casting shadows of uncertainty over his every move. The fatigue that coursed through his body was more than just physical; it was a weariness that permeated his very soul. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, the cracks in his facade had begun to show. He had fought back tears as he grappled with the gnawing sense of defeat and betrayal that gnawed at him from within.

Now, as he lay nestled against his girlfriend's neck, Logan felt the weight of his burdens lift ever so slightly. Her presence was a balm to his weary spirit, offering a refuge from the storm raging inside him. He buried his face against her skin, seeking solace in the warmth of her embrace. Her arms enveloped him in a cocoon of love and understanding, providing a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. In the soft cadence of her breathing, he found a sense of peace he had been desperately seeking. For a moment, the tumult of his emotions was silenced, replaced by the gentle rhythm of their shared heartbeat.

But even in the safety of her arms, Logan could not escape the relentless assault of his own thoughts. Doubt and insecurity still clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to pull him back into the abyss. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to block out the noise of his fears. And yet, amidst the darkness, he found a flicker of hope. It was the realization that he was not alone, that he had someone by his side who loved him unconditionally, flaws and all. With that realization came a newfound strength, a resolve to face his demons head-on and emerge victorious.

As he lay there, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her skin, a sense of unease lingered in the air, palpable even in the silence that enveloped them. He was acutely aware of the tension radiating from her, the subtle tremor in her fingers betraying the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

He knew all too well the signs – the furrowed brow, the clenched jaw – that signaled her engagement in a battle, not just against faceless adversaries on social media, but against those who dared to assail him, to challenge his worth or question his choices. She was his fierce protector, his unwavering shield against the arrows of criticism and doubt. Despite the risks it posed to her own reputation and standing in the public eye, she never hesitated to come to his defense, to stand up for him even when it meant facing the wrath of the online masses. Logan couldn't help but marvel at her courage, at the depth of her loyalty and devotion. As he lay there, his senses attuned to every subtle shift in her demeanor, Logan noticed the telltale pause in her typing, the cessation of the incessant click-clack of keys on her cell phone. Instead, her hand drifted through his hair, a gesture both soothing and tender, as she released a frustrated sigh.

The words that followed were muttered under her breath, a barely audible expletive that spoke volumes about her state of mind. "Fucking idiot", she murmured, her voice tinged with a mixture of anger and exasperation, directed not at him, but at the unseen adversary on the other end of the virtual battlefield. In that moment, Logan felt a surge of gratitude wash over him, mingled with a pang of guilt. Guilt for the burden he unwittingly placed upon her shoulders, for the battles she fought in his name, and for the sacrifices she made to protect him, even at the expense of her own peace of mind.

Logan's awareness of his girlfriend's secondary account was not born out of snooping or suspicion but rather from a moment of transparency and trust. It was a measure of protection, a sanctuary where she could speak her mind freely without fear of reprisal or judgment. He remembered the conversation vividly, the moment when George had suggested the idea as a safeguard for her reputation. She had hesitated at first, reluctant to cloak herself in anonymity for the sake of preserving appearances. It wasn't her style to hide behind a facade or to suppress her thoughts and feelings. Her authenticity was one of the things Logan cherished most about her – her ability to speak her mind, unfiltered and unapologetic.

But when George broached the subject again, this time in the context of defending Logan's honor against the onslaught of online trolls and haters, something shifted within her. It was as if a dormant ember had been reignited, a fierce protectiveness rising to the surface. And so, with a sense of determination, she had created the secondary account, not as a means of deception, but as a tool of empowerment. It was a platform where she could unleash the full force of her wit and intellect, where she could confront those who dared to diminish the man she loved. Logan had never asked her about the account, respecting her need for autonomy and privacy. But he couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude and admiration for her unwavering loyalty and courage. She was a force to be reckoned with, a fierce defender of his honor and integrity.

As he lay there, his head cradled in her arms, Logan couldn't help but marvel at the depth of her devotion. She was his fiercest ally, his staunchest supporter, and he was grateful beyond words for her unwavering presence in his life. And as he listened to her muttered expletives and felt the gentle caress of her hand through his hair, he knew that together, they could weather any storm that came their way. As Logan whispered a heartfelt "thank you" against the soft skin of her neck, his voice barely audible amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within him, he felt a surge of gratitude welling up from the depths of his soul. His face remained hidden, shielded from the world by the sanctuary of her embrace, yet his words carried the weight of his appreciation for her unwavering support.

In that moment, as his breath mingled with hers, he felt her body tense slightly, a subtle shift in her demeanor that spoke volumes about the impact of his words. And then, as if in response to his silent gratitude, he felt her hand release the cell phone, the device dropping to the floor with a soft thud. Turning her full attention to him, she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her arms a reassuring anchor amidst the storm of his emotions. "What did you say?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern, her eyes searching his for any sign of distress. For a moment, Logan hesitated, unsure if he should reveal the depth of his gratitude or if he should keep it locked away in the depths of his heart. But then, meeting her gaze, he found the courage to speak his truth. "I said thank you", he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you for always being there for me, for defending me even when it's not easy."

Her eyes softened, a tender smile gracing her lips as she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You don't have to thank me, my love", she replied, her voice filled with warmth and sincerity. "It´s the bare minimun of my job as your wag, you know? love you, cherishe you, be there and kick some assholes asses on daily bases, that's what makes me president of the Logan Sargeant's fanclub" . Logan couldn't help but chuckle at her response, the tension of the moment giving way to a lightness that lifted his spirits. "Are you the president now?" he teased, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Do you have a whole fleet of social media accounts dedicated to worshiping me?"

He knew she didn't, of course. Her loyalty and devotion were genuine, not born out of obligation or duty, but from a deep-seated love that transcended any need for public adulation. And yet, there was something endearing about the thought of her as the president of his fan club, tirelessly defending his honor against all comers.

As he traced light kisses along her neck, eliciting a musical laughter from her lips, Logan couldn't help but marvel at the ease with which she could lighten the mood, even in the midst of their most intimate moments. Her laughter was infectious, a tonic for his weary soul, and he found himself drawn to the sound like a moth to a flame. As Logan peppered her neck with light kisses, each one carrying a whisper of his affection, he felt the weight of his emotions pressing upon him, urging him to speak the words that had been lingering in his heart for so long. Amidst the tender caresses and the soft laughter that filled the air, he leaned in close, his lips grazing against her skin as he whispered those four simple words: "I'm going to marry you."

It wasn't a question or a proposal, but rather a declaration of his unwavering commitment, a promise forged in the fires of their love. He had always known, deep down, that she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. But as the years passed and their bond grew stronger, that desire had blossomed into a fervent longing, a yearning to keep her by his side for all eternity. In a world where friendships faded and relationships crumbled, she had been his constant, his rock amidst the shifting sands of life. While others moved on with their lives, leaving him behind in their wake, she had remained steadfast and true, a beacon of light in the darkness.

And so, as he whispered those words against her skin, Logan felt a surge of emotion welling up within him – a mixture of love, gratitude, and hope for the future. For in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her embrace, he knew that he had found his home, his sanctuary, his everything. As she turned to him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, he knew that she understood the depth of his commitment, the magnitude of his love.

As Logan whispered those three cherished words, "I love you", against the tender skin of her neck, he felt as though he were baring his soul to the universe. In that moment, every ounce of his love, every flicker of his devotion, spilled forth like a river bursting its banks, flooding the space between them with an overwhelming sense of intimacy and connection. For him, those words were more than just a declaration of affection; they were a testament to the depth of his feelings, a vow to stand by her side through thick and thin, through every triumph and trial that life might throw their way. With each syllable, he poured out his heart, laying bare the raw essence of his love for her.

And as the words hung in the air, suspended between them like a delicate thread, he felt a surge of emotion welling up within him – a potent cocktail of vulnerability and exhilaration, fear and hope, all intertwined in the tapestry of his emotions. When she whispered those same words back to him, her voice barely more than a breath against his skin, Logan felt a swell of joy rising within him, buoyed by the knowledge that his love was reciprocated, that his heart beat in perfect synchrony with hers. And so, with a tenderness born of reverence, he finally pressed his lips to hers, sealing their love with a kiss that spoke volumes of their shared bond. In that fleeting moment, as their lips met in a sweet communion of souls, Logan knew that he had found his true north, his guiding light amidst the darkness of the world.

liked by yourusername, alexalbon, lilymhe and 86.845 others

logansargeant My Dearest, I find myself overwhelmed by the depth of emotion that courses through me, like a river flowing endlessly towards the sea. For you, my love, are the anchor that grounds me in this tumultuous sea of life, the beacon of light that guides me through the darkest of nights. With each passing day, my love for you grows stronger, deeper, more profound. It is a love that knows no bounds, that transcends time and space, reaching across the vast expanse of the universe to find its home in the sanctuary of your heart. You are my rock, my solace, my everything. In your arms, I find comfort and strength, a refuge from the storms that rage within and without. Your love has transformed me, shaped me into the person I am today, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Every moment spent in your presence is a gift, a precious treasure to be cherished and savored. Your laughter is music to my ears, your smile a ray of sunshine that banishes the shadows from my soul. And when you look at me with those eyes – eyes that hold the wisdom of the ages and the innocence of a child – I am reminded of the boundless beauty that exists in this world. I want you to know, my love, that you are the center of my universe, the axis upon which my world revolves. With you by my side, I am invincible, unstoppable, capable of conquering any obstacle that stands in our way. So, my dearest one, I pledge my love to you, now and for all eternity. Know that my heart beats for you and you alone, that my soul sings your name with every breath I take. And though mere words could never fully capture the depth of my feelings, know that they come from the deepest recesses of my being – your lover, sincerely and forever yours.

view all of 785 comments

yourusername oh I’m gonna ugly cry right now 😫😫

logansargeant I'll be here to dry your tears, the bare minimum as your boyfriend ynloggieluv JUST MARRY ALREADY luvlogaan WE BEG

georgerussell63 okay rude? Where is my credit for writing the text for you?

russalobono GEORGE WHO WROTE IT?

georgerussell63 Of course, do you think an American could write that? love.sincerely shut it, stingy from lazytown, you just helped

alex_albon Do you happen to know what making us in a relationship look like?

carlossainz55 not good, that’s for sure charles_leclerc Does he charge to write one of these for me?

lovingwags THE LUCKIEST WAG ON THE PADDOCK????

logansargeant I beg to differ, I'm the luckiest person in the paddock, just to have her to call mine williamsgiirls drivers with the Mercedes symbol on their clothes putting the bar up there

jensonbutton amazing text kiddo, I won't be reading all of this, but I'm sure it's amazing

oscarpiastri I will forever be proud of myself for helping bring this couple together

spicegirlies3 Are we just going to ignore that he just assumed that his girlfriend is the one who has been defending him and attacking others?

lilymhe THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE MY GIRL FALL FOR YOU??? damn you good

liked by logansargeant and 289 others

lover.sincerely I think it's finally time to retire and delete this account, the last comment made on it will be to make it clear how much I love you, how much you deserve everything good that comes to you, Logan Sargeant, you are the most special man of the world. I would also like to make it clear to fans, all the hugs you asked me to give, I am giving, he will never leave my arms, don't worry, I will always be here to take care of our boy, just like I know you guys also will be. — your lover, sincerely.

#🍂 - slyscountess smau #logan sargeant fanfic #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant smau #logan sargeant fluff #logan sargeant x you #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant #f1 smau #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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f1byjessie · 3 months

Text

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS ━━ LN4.

sometimes the right words are hard to come across, and sometimes everything you need to say can be captured in an image.

( lando norris x photographer!reader )

━━ part one.

INSTAGRAM.

liked by mclaren, landonorris, and 505,281 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername a smiley lando is the best lando in my books! to celebrate the end of the 2023 season, here's a handful of my favourite photos from throughout the year!

view all 3,171 comments

mclaren What a happy lad! We can't wait to see that smile again in 2024 😁🧡

↳ yourusername you and me both! 🤝🧡

user she's got the dream job omg

↳ user IKR??? imagine just getting to follow lando around and take pictures of him all day, i'd be dead within the first hour

↳ user he'd smile at me and i'd be asking “what are we” on god 😩😩😩

↳ user is that literally all she does??? she just follows him around and takes pictures??

↳ user there’s probably a technical term for what her position is and i just don’t know it, but bc there’s so much going on around the track at any given moment, sometimes the press and other media workers are focused on something or someone else, so she’s hired on by mclaren to specifically focus on mclaren to make sure that there is content for mclaren or mclaren sponsors to use. she’s not just lando’s photographer, she also takes photos of oscar, the pit teams, and the other staff that work in the garage, but she was hired on when lando started so her portfolio is pretty full of him. hope this helps!

user didn't know i could need so much orange in my life but here we are

user LANDO NORRIS SUPREMACY

oscarpiastri i see who the favourite is 🫤

↳ yourusername you literally SAW me picking photos for your post too

↳ oscarpiastri yeah but you posted his first 🫤

user guys this is the face of the 2024 wdc winner take it in now

user i could write a 50 page thesis on the importance of these photos and what they mean to me and how the serotonin they make me release could replace my depression meds

user lad’s like a mini danny ric with how smiley he is

landonorris best photog right here folks

↳ yourusername you're only saying that bc i always get your good side

↳ landonorris i'll have you know that all sides are my good sides 🤨

↳ yourusername whatev helps you sleep at night luv 😊

In 2019, when you took on the job of being McLaren’s lead photographer, you hadn’t expected it would garner you the amount of attention it has, or that it would slingshot your career to levels of success you never could have anticipated, or that you would get a best friend out of it.

When you first met him back in those early days, you’d thought Lando Norris was an arrogant, pretentious, self-righteous prick who thought he was hot shit because he was a Formula One driver. However, he’d quickly proven you wrong when he’d admitted to you that a lot of the confidence was an act━ carefully constructed to hide his insecurities about his performance both on and off the track.

“I mean, we’re drivers, yeah?” He’d said. “But we’re also actors. We’ve got these personas that we have to uphold even out here on the paddock, and I’m always worried I’m not playing the part well enough.”

It hadn’t made a lot of sense to you then, you thought he was pulling off the persona of Total Douche remarkably well, but in Shanghai, things changed.

After the Chinese Grand Prix, things were dour. Lando had DNFed━ the first in his Formula One career━ which contrasted greatly with his previous accomplishment of P6 in Bahrain. Carlos Sainz hadn’t been doing very well, either, and it didn’t paint a very pretty picture for McLaren so early in the season. You’d thought he’d throw a hissy fit, tear Daniil Kvyat apart for his role in the crash, or at the very least throw some shade his way, but he hadn’t done any of that. He’d accepted his fate with grace, joked to the media about how boring the race had been because of what had happened, and then gone on to congratulate Carlos for at least finishing.

What was even more shocking, was that despite his disappointment and the frustration he must’ve been feeling, instead of going back to sulk in his lonesomeness or drown out his feelings with booze and loud music at some club, he’d comforted you later that evening.

The morning of the race, as you’d been getting ready in your hotel room, you’d gotten a text from an unsaved number admitting to you that they’d been taking part in a months-long affair with your boyfriend but had been previously unaware that he was already taken and therefore wanted to let you know to clear their conscience. You’d managed to hold yourself together then━ mostly because you’d already done your makeup and, quite frankly, didn’t have the time to sob it all off and then attempt to salvage it━ but as the day drew to a close and the adrenaline of the race and its excitement wore off, and with nothing else to keep you distracted, you were struggling to keep yourself composed.

Lando had somehow noticed in that weirdly perceptive way of his that something was off, and he’d sat with you, asked what was wrong, and listened when you━ through tears━ explained the situation to him.

“He sounds like a total fucking muppet,” he’d commented after you’d said your piece, and he’d done it with such a deadpanned expression that it had startled a genuine laugh out of you. Because yeah, you’re (now ex) boyfriend had been a muppet.

After that━ and after all the rom-com and ice cream binging you’d both done in his hotel room afterward much to the chagrin of Lando’s nutritionist and the displeasure of his PR officer━ you’d rescinded your initial judgment of him. He was significantly less dickish than you’d originally thought, and it let you finally understand what he’d meant when he’d talked about putting on a persona.

The cocky, know-it-all prick that Lando pretended to be half the time was all just an act to hide his overly self-critical nature fueled by his insecurities.

By the end of the season, he’d gained a little confidence of his own and had subsequently toned down the assholery when he no longer needed to “fake it til he makes it,” and you were calling him your friend.

It’s 2023 now, and he’s since been upgraded to best friend status━ a role he takes very seriously, and constantly reminds you of.

“I’m your best friend━” case and point, “━you have to come to Bali with me. Literally, like, what am I gonna do without you there? Do you expect me to just go by myself? What if I get lost? Or what if somehow the mafia, who have unknowingly had a hit out on me for years, track me down there and I’m kidnapped and ransomed off for billions of dollars? What will you do then?”

“You just want me to take pictures of you,” you answer, rolling your eyes only because you know he can’t see you through the phone.

He gasps in mock offense. “I cannot believe you think I value you so little! I want you to take pictures of me and be here to help me make fun of awkward tourist spray tans so I don’t feel like a total asshole for being the only one who laughs.”

You laugh at that. “Well, unfortunately laughing at bad fake tans doesn’t pay the bills.”

“But taking pictures of me does.”

“Yeah, when McLaren is paying.” You turn back to your laptop, a photo put on pause mid-edit splayed across the screen. It’s of Lando, as most of your photos tend to be despite your attempts at keeping things even between the McLaren boys. It’s the last of the images you need to send over for their 2023 sendoff, and when it’s finished you’ll officially be without work for a painstaking two months. “I’m on break too, technically, until they need promotional shit for the new season.”

He huffs, and you can almost imagine the childish pout on his face. “What are you even doing, then?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want Lando to know about your winter plans, but because you don’t really know how he’ll react, which means it could be anything between genuine happiness for you and congratulations, or abject horror and feigned screams of anguish. He’s always been dramatic like that, but even more so now that he’s comfortable enough with you and himself to have crawled a decent way out of his shell.

Even still, he’s your best friend and it would make you a pretty shitty person if you didn’t tell him.

“Believe it or not,” you start, wringing your hands together, “but Manchester City actually hit me up with an inquiry. Asked if I’d be interested in working with them on a project documenting their training throughout the winter months. I said I would love to.”

He pauses for a good long moment, and you prepare for the screaming, but all he says is━ “Man City? You traitor. I thought Man United was our forever!”

“Be so fucking real right now, Lando Norris,” you answer, laughing as you do so. You’re relieved, at least he hasn’t gone the feigned anguish route, but you also can’t tell if he’s happy for you or hiding his true feelings behind humor like he’s prone to doing. “You know damn well you only watched them for Christiano Ronaldo and he hasn’t played with United since 2009.”

“Technically he played for them in the 2021-2022 season,” he grumbles.

“Yeah,” you deadpan, “and he was dogshit. We both agreed to pretend it never happened.”

He groans, “I can’t believe this. My day is ruined and my disappointment is immeasurable.”

“Oh, get over yourself. It’s only for the winter. I’ll be back in McLaren Papaya by February when they need me snapping shots of you and Oscar next to the new livery,” you promise.

The reality is that it’ll probably be sooner. McLaren has always been good about getting you back at HQ pretty quickly, either to get some snapshots of the beginning of Lando and Oscar’s pre-season return or to just capture some material of the engineers at work to promote their readiness. You understand why they can’t keep you around all year━ no Lando and no Oscar means no you━ and with the sheer amount of content you capture and edit for them throughout the season, they’ve got enough to last them the handful of weeks you aren’t working.

Unfortunately, you aren’t working with a driver’s salary to keep you sustained over the break and rent certainly hasn’t been getting cheaper. In past years, your bank account has been chirping with crickets when you’ve returned to work after the winter, and that was before your landlord had decided to make your life a living hell.

You have an important job, but it’s by far the most important, and sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Working in sports media taught you that early on.

“Who knows?” Lando’s voice snaps you back. “Maybe Jack Grealish with his perfect hair and perfect calves will steal you away and you’ll be in sky blue forevermore.”

You laugh, “Jack Grealish is a happily taken man, and although he does have perfect hair and perfect calves, I’m more of a Haaland girl anyway.”

He guffaws. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re so far gone that you already have a preferred player. Jack Grealish is England’s poster boy! Everyone loves him whether they like City or not!” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “Christ, I can already feel you slipping through my fingers. I give it a week over there at Etihad before you call me up telling me I can find a new best friend because you’ve replaced me with Phil Foden and Julian Alvarez.”

“For someone who supposedly hates Manchester City, you’re certainly well-versed in their roster.”

“Well duh, I need to know my competition,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“Ah, yes,” you snark back sarcastically. “Because you, a Formula One driver, have to be worried about the football players of Manchester City.”

“Apparently I do if you’re calling yourself a Haaland girl now!”

You burst into cackles and he’s following shortly after with chuckles of his own that eventually peter out into a comfortable silence. You are really going to miss him for the few months you aren’t working with him.

The Formula One schedule is so jam-packed across the season that it typically means you’re getting to see him every day for an hour or two at least, if not for the entirety of the time he’s at the track. You follow him and Oscar to their sponsor obligations, their interviews, and everything in between. It’s honestly rare if you’re not getting a moment to goof off and dick around with one another━ and it’s even rarer for you to not actually see one another face to face in passing at the very least.

The off-season is your least favorite time of the year for this very reason, and though it makes you feel a bit full of yourself to think so, you imagine Lando doesn’t enjoy this time of year much either for the same reason.

“I promise I won’t replace you with any of the City boys,” you say after the silence has stretched on a moment longer.

He huffs again, but you can envision the smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose even if you do, I’ll just show up to a match and steal you away again.”

“As if. Have you seen Grealish’s calves?”

INSTAGRAM.

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footballfansofficial BREAKING: Manchester City Forward Garrett Ward caught with mysterious woman revealed to be well-known Formula One photographer Y/N L/N! The two were seen sharing a romantic evening on Friday, the 5th of January, ringing in a passionate start to 2024. Garrett Ward has been with Manchester City since 2021 but was out on loan to a lesser-known Championship League team until 2023. He has just recently begun to play for his team again, but an injury early into the season has seen him benched for a majority of his time back. Y/N L/N is a photographer for Formula One racing team McLaren and has been working with them since 2019. Recently, she has been working with Manchester City to help promote a new docuseries following the men’s team’s winter training. Check the link in our bio for the full article!

view all 12,971 comments

user OMG GARRETT WARD??? NOTORIOUS BACHELOR GARRETT WARD???

user who is she? like genuinely how is she relevant 🤔

↳ user no literally cuz like who even gives two shits about formula 1?

user girl works in f1 why can’t she stay there

↳ user i’m sure there are plenty of drivers who’d smash her idk why she needs to try and get footballers too like bffr 😒😒😒

user aint no way this bitch is kissing my man rn

user literally what does he even see in her??? she’s not even cute AND she’s wearing man united colors 💀💀

user Y/N L/N??? I THOUGHT SHE WAS WITH LANDO NORRIS???

↳ user LITERALLY ME TOO?? like she posts him all the time on insta so i just kinda thought they were an item or smth?? trouble in paradise maybe

user she’s fucking ugly wtf

user i wish these footballers who get with regular women would realize there are so many better girls out there that would ACTUALLY treat them well and would support them in their careers. like i bet this girl doesn’t even know anything about football. she works in f1 and that’s where she should stay bc nobody cares about that shit round here. she probably doesn’t even know the first thing about how football works, but i bet she’ll be at matches pretending like she knows what’s happening. garrett ward is gonna flush his career down the troilet for this chick bc she’s gonna convince him his busy schedule ain’t worth it and then city will be down a great forward for good, and it’ll all be her fault

user i mean she’s kinda pretty tbf

↳ user stfu she really isn’t

↳ user she gen looks like any random bitch off the street

user these comments are not it…. 😬

↳ user maybe you f1 fans just don’t know how to handle constructive criticism

↳ user is the constructive criticism in the room with us rn?? cuz all i’m seeing is bullying and hatred directed towards an innocent woman who’s only “crime” was going on a date

user ok so she can take photos?? 🙄🙄 maybe she should get a real job

↳ user she’s probably only with him so she can mooch off of him like a fucking gold digger

user AINT NO WAYYYYYY

user it’ll last a month max 😌 i’m calling it

user ayo lando come get your girl

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette

━━ a/n: here we have it! took me a bit longer than the start of american smile did, but lando's story is officially here! (and it's a whopping 2.9k words to start us off). first and foremost, before we get started, garrett ward is 100% an oc and obviously does not play for manchester city, and this is bc i would feel absolutely horrible portraying a real person in the way that garrett will be later on. gather from that what you will haha! regardless, i hope you enjoy this first part and stick around for the rest!

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #social media au #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #ln4 #oscar piastri

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moon-rivr · 5 months

Note

stalker/yandere!Miguel x civilian!reader (female)

like this miguel still have his spider man power , and hq but… has an interest in reader who’s is a reporter in NYC. Reader is (I feel like ) a kind sweet person who take care of others. As well as her boyfriend 🤭(that Miguel Is going to kill 😭🤭) but before miguel do SUCH thing. Her boyfriend has problems with going to work late at night (at least saying it was work 🙄) and coming home drunk after night, after night and night, sometimes reader see him with lipstick stains in his pants or smells like perfume , which reader just say ‘it ok there a lot of women who’s work with him’…. which get reader sad and Miguel pissed through seeing all of this through a window.and some day reader get bored and want to her boyfriend to touch her … and you know get little touchy together. But her boyfriend says work is important.and always leave her alone feeling miserable about it. So like it the night where Miguel come late to do his daily visits to stalk-I mean check up on reader. And this night Miguel hear different things and a different in voice of reader. The window was open a Little bit, but to be able to hear sound. And the curtain was open. And the when Miguel saw reader masturbate with a dildo,bouncing on it,while wearing a long t shirt. and that get Miguel hard and some of reader moan was being heard…it was music to his ears ( in fact reader voice was always music to Miguel hear 🤭. ) but reader was moaning her boyfriend name… which pissed Miguel off, it should have been him instead of that cheating shit…but that wasn’t going to take the fun to see reader masturbate . (Miguel pov I feel like 🤭🤭) it going it be me that she screams at. And so after that night of seeing reader masturbate he couldn’t get himself to see reader when ever she come to him to ask questions (reader is doing her report job to Miguel who’s is spider man) which Miguel would just pat her head or signal that he is going to leave or just leave, or just flirt with reader when he has a couple of minutes left before going off.

Omg I can’t wait to see what you can do DAYA! I am COMPLETELY Grateful for whatever you make and how long you make it! bye I hope you have a great day!

should’ve been me

pairing: yandere (?) miguel o’hara x fem reader

contents: cheating (not from reader or miguel), masturbation, use of toy, reader gets called a slut, stalking-ish, doggy, unprotected p in v, riding

a/n: i hope i did your request justice 😵‍💫

word count: 4k

Loud gravel clashing against one another, car alarms blaring as debris fell onto them, and high pitched screams broke you out of your thoughts while you were editing one of the latest pictures for the newspaper. While most people made a beeline to get out of danger, you ran straight through it with a camera in your hand. You angled the camera up, trying your best to frame the picture of the vulture-like man crawling up a building. You'd managed to capture a few good photos before you were suddenly taken off your feet into the air.

While you did live in a futuristic world, the need for a reliable news source didn't waver which is where you came in. You worked for the a newspaper that emphasized mostly on providing a non-biased source, given that the company wasn't relying on any government or outside funds to keep going. While your boss wasn't exactly too pleasant to be around, he gave you the opportunity to work the hours you wanted and gave you a decent pay. You worked as a photographer and a reporter, focusing mostly on the topics that would fill you up with a sense of adventure.

That sense of adventure now had you hanging on the side of the Empire State building as Vulture held you for hostage reasons. "Will the spider come out to play?!" His voice boomed, fear igniting in you as he dangled you closer and closer to the edge. A crowd had gathered underneath, their cellphones in the air as they waited for how the events would unfold. You silently begged that Spider-Man would show up soon, seeing him as a hero as opposed to most newspapers in the city who painted him as an anti-hero.

The vulture lunged forward from a kick that Spider-Man delivered from behind, a sadistic grin on his face as he dropped you. The camera hanging from your hands slipped out, landing on the ground as the pieces scattered. You were expecting your life to flash through your eyes, but all you felt was a sense of panic at wanting to stay alive. A loud scream ripped out from your chest as you started to continued to fall, bracing yourself for the impact.

A few feet away from the ground, you found yourself dangling as a spider web wrapped around your waist. Spider-Man swung towards you, your back plush against his chest as he lowered you down on the floor. You felt the adrenaline pumping through your body as you watched Spider-Man swing back up to the building, clawing his way through the Vulture's suit. Once the shakiness in your hands had dissipated, you brought up the spare camera up once more and began taking pictures of the events unfolding.

Once the fight ended with Vulture getting captured, you walked back to the office. you were practically in a frenzy state, your mind overrunning with different headlines and different ways to format the paper as ideas rushed through your head. You were so distracted in how you were going to formulate this edition that you didn't notice that you'd bumped into somebody. You muttered out an apology, stepping back to see who you'd just bumped into.

"Spider-Man, wow! I'm so sorry for bumping into you, I wanted to also thank you for saving my life back there. I didn't get the chance to with everything going on," you told him, speaking quickly out of excitement. "Don't worry about it, I understand. I actually had something to ask of you if you didn't mind," he told you, his imposing figure looming over you.

"What's up?" You inquired, looking up at the blue mask almost like you were trying to read his expression through it. "I want you to be my personal reporter of sorts, the other ones paint me like i'm evil or something. I'd give you a heads up before the fight got started," he responded, completely taking you for surprise. "Sure, I'd love to," you replied, his request being the easiest thing you could've said yes to.

You got back home from work to see a package awaiting for you on the front step. You looked down at the box, checking to see if it had your boyfriend's name on it but it was blank. You opened up the box to see a brand new camera inside along with a tripod, a note attached to the side. 'From your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man', his handwriting came out rushed but you appreciated the fact he took time out of his schedule to do this gesture for you.

Ever since then, Spider-Man made sure to inform you when a fight was going to occur beforehand to make sure you were first at the scene. This partnership between the two of you gave your newspaper surged the rise of revenue and in exchange, Spider-Man could patrol the cities without getting a hot dog thrown at him. He even gave you some exclusive interviews when he had the time, the sessions feeling more like you were talking to a friend than the hero of Nueva York.

"I was starting to think you weren't gonna show up Spidey," you told him as he dropped into your balcony, a small smile on your face. "Wouldn't miss hanging out with my favorite reporter. Where's your little boyfriend?" He responded, leaning against the balcony a bit. "He's not that little, you're just a giant. But he texted and said he'd be working late today," your face dropped a little as you speak, having a suspicion in the back of your mind at your boyfriend's infidelity.

You remembered that Spider-Man was still there, waiting for you to start the interview with him and you quickly schooled your expression back to normal. "Sorry about that, come on in," you told him, opening up the porch door before stepping back inside your apartment. Spider-Man followed suit, shutting the door behind him before sitting down next to you on the couch.

You turned on your recorder, giving him a thumbs-up to Spider-Man just to give him the heads up that you'd started. "So this interview's kind of a twist, I didn't come up with the questions but the people of Nueva York did," you told him, waiting for a couple seconds before you started with the questions. "So they want to know if our hero is single?" You asked, watching as the eyes on his mask narrowed slightly. "They had the opportunity to ask anything and they ask that? But I am single, yes."

The questions continued until further in the night and you couldn't help but feel just a twinge of worry that your boyfriend wasn't home yet. Almost as if calling out to him, he showed up through the door with lipstick stains on his pants and evidently drunk. "Hey, you're home late. Was work okay?" You asked him, helping him onto the couch. "It was, sorry about the mess. Some girl fell over at work and her face conveniently landed by my crotch," he slurred his words as he spoke, his admission striking a feeling of disgust in you towards him.

You helped him get cleaned up and changed, leading the way for him to go lay down afterwards. As you lay down in your bed next to him, you can't help but think about just how plausible his story was. You found it a bit silly that you were even questioning it, knowing that he worked with a lot of women and it was quite likely. You even felt a sense of guilt for even thinking that, knowing how hard he worked to provide for the two of you. Eventually, you managed to fall asleep after tossing and turning in your bed uncomfortably.

The following day, you were off from work and you decided to try out a new lingerie set in order to initiate some kind of intimacy between the two of you. Your boyfriend didn't do as much as blink twice when he got through the door, taking off his coat as he hung it up on the wall hook. You didn't allow yourself to be deterred by his reaction, approaching him as you placed small kisses up his neck. "Baby, can we please have sex? Or if you're not up to that I can just give you a bj," you spoke up, his loud groan causing for you to step back.

"I just came back for a change of clothes, I have another shift at the office today," he told you, making a beeline for the bedroom to get changed. You followed suit, putting on a oversized Spider-Man shirt you bought a while ago. "You like that insect so much it's scary. Anyways, don't wait for me," he told you, leaning into press a small kiss on your forehead before he left. You curled up into a ball in your shared bed, holding his pillow close in an attempt to replace the absence of your boyfriend.

You got up a little while after, feeling an ache growing in between your legs. The dildo in the back of your closet had become your best friend throughout the course of this relationship, something you often had to resort to. You placed it on the ground, squirting some lube onto the toy before lowering yourself down to it. The sleepwear shirt that you had on bunched up around your thighs as you sunk onto the dildo. You started fantasizing about a scenario with your boyfriend, allowing yourself to paint him in a romantic light as you clenched around the toy.

Miguel had told himself that he was checking up on you solely because he was worried about you, even though it was something that he found himself doing more than he'd like to admit. He heard your moans through a crack in the window, his first reaction being to check if you were in pain. He looked through the window, seeing you bounce on the dildo as your fingers went under your shirt to play with your breasts. He felt his cock harden up with every moan that you released, the hitch in your breath as you bottomed out. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at seeing you wear the shirt, wishing that he would be the one to make you scream like that.

Miguel felt fury coercing through his veins as he listened to your sweet moans of your boyfriend’s name through the walls, the sound going straight to his cock. He felt that it should be him making you moan that way, knowing that your boyfriend was off having sex with some random woman instead of focusing his time on devoting you the way you deserved. He forced himself to leave that rooftop once you finished, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor as he roamed the streets of Nueva York. Police sirens blared throughout the city along with cries of help, but all he could think about is how you would feel underneath him.

Miguel was approaching the end of his patrol when he saw your boyfriend walking down the street, slightly swaying from side to side as he made his way to your apartment. He saw a hickey blooming on the side of his neck along with a couple lipstick stains on his shirt, practically seeing red as he dropped down in front of him. "Spiderrrr-Loserrr," the man slurred, pointing a finger at him. Miguel pushed the man into a dark alleyway, his body blocking any chance of him getting out.

"I want you to break up with her," Miguel spoke, the man's brows furrowing until he realized who he was referring to. "This is all about that stupid slut? You're doing me a favor by asking that," the man responded, going into a tangent about how you weren't good enough to be with him. Miguel felt himself growing even more furious as he heard him speak of you that way, knowing what a good person and how giving you were towards those around you.

Miguel grinded his teeth together under the mask, turning around as he tried to calm himself down before deciding to disregard it. He punched the man in the face, his fist knocking out a few teeth in the process. "End things and don't ever speak about her that way again," Miguel told him before leaving, the man sputtering out blood as he cursed Spider-Man and his existence. Regret washed over him for all the wrong reasons, concern mostly just the fact that you would be the one to deal with this when he got home.

"Oh my God! What happened to you?!" Your face morphed into one of complete shock as you looked at your boyfriend stepping in through the door, so focused on his face that you disregarded how disheveled he looked. "Your little hero happened to me," he grumbled, stumbling onto the sofa as he held his mouth in agony. "What? No. Spider-Man wouldn't do that," your response had come out more defensive than you would've liked at the moment and you saw your boyfriend's anger shift towards you.

"You're so naive, aren't you? Always thinking that people have the best intentions when they don't," he huffed out, giving you the feeling that he wasn't just talking about Spider-Man at the moment. "What do you mean?" You asked him, handing him a bag full of ice for the swelling in jaw. "You're so stupid it almost makes me want to break up with you," he grumbled, snatching the bag as he placed it up to his face. "It's because of that other woman, isn't it?"

You expected him to deny your accusation right away, bracing yourself for the impact that his words would leave, but you only received a bitter laugh in response. "See what I mean? Fucking stupid. There is no other woman because you are the other woman! You're only a distraction when my wife can't stop bitching around!" He told you, standing up as drool leaked down his chin. "You were supposed to be an easy play-thing for me to have but you're more complicated than her! I’m done with this shit," he grumbled, grabbing his coat jacket and leaving.

Miguel felt his heart drop as he listened to the conversation unfold, your sniffles melting through his exterior. He knew that he'd done you a favor by getting you out of that relationship, but that didn't mean that he still got some satisfaction from hearing your cries. He wanted to go in there and comfort you, to tell you that you deserved more than that scum but he was also aware of the fact that he shouldn't even be here right now. Despite the fact that everything in him told him to turn around and go hug you, he left and went back to HQ.

You'd never felt so alone before the week that followed your breakup, spending your days either at work or at home. While you mourned the loss of your relationship for a little bit, you'd cried so much throughout the entirety of your relationship at justifying his actions that it didn't hurt so much after a while. What did hurt you the most was that Spider-Man no longer tried to make stupid banter with you or even look you in the eye after he was done fighting. He'd simply pat you on the head to acknowledge you or give you a sideways glance, never speaking to you directly.

That night you decided that you were tired of Spider-Man ignoring you and you decided to do something stupid, willingly placing yourself in danger in order to get his attention. You put on the shortest skirt that you owned and a crop top before walking out the door, keeping a small can of bear mace in your bag just in case he didn't show up. Before you even got the chance to make it out your apartment building, a hand gripped around your arm.

You turned around with bear mace in hand, not expecting to find Spider-Man standing there so quickly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" His voice practically boomed throughout the empty street, his anger seeping through the mask. “This is the only way I could get you to even look me in the eye, Spidey," you responded, his grip on your arm loosening a bit. "I didn't mean to ignore you, but let's go inside. It's too dangerous for you to be out here."

You changed back into your pajamas once the two of you stepped into your apartment, coming back to see Spider-Man without his mask on. you instinctively covered your eyes, not wanting to break that boundary between the two of you but he pulled your hands away. You looked up, meeting his auburn eyes while he held you close to him. "I'm sorry for making you think that you had to put yourself in danger just to see me," he told you, holding your chin up as he met your gaze. "Why'd you avoid me then?"

The question hung in the air for a little bit and you could see that he was hesitant to answer, taking in the way that his eyebrows scrunched up. "I've been sort of looking out after you and I came over to find you when you were using the toy. I wanted that to be me so badly but you were calling out for your ex boyfriend," he responded, avoiding your gaze. You were the one holding up his chin this time, bringing your face closer to kiss him.

The way that you kissed him wasn't something out of romance book, it was something that you'd done out of need and neglect. A feeling of intimacy that you'd craved. Your hand was buried into his hair as your teeth and tongues clashed together and you took the opportunity to lead him into your couch. "I've missed you so bad Spidey, please. I need you," you told him, his mouth attaching itself to your neck as he sucked and kissed on the skin there. "Call me Miguel."

Miguel took your shirt off in one swift motion, his suit following soon after. He kissed your collarbone, leaving some marks in his wake as he made his way down your breasts. He sucked your nipple through your bra, his tongue swirling around it as the nub hardened up underneath. Your hand came down to his messy hair, tangling itself in it while he did quick work to remove your bra. "Don't know why you stayed with that bastard so long, he didn't treat you like you deserved," he spoke up, his voice coming out muffled from your breast in his mouth.

His hand came up to play with the other one, giving it the same attention as the other one. He swirled your nipple under his finger tips, tugging it gently before kissing his way down to your navel. "Auch pretty little panties and he didn't even look at them twice," Miguel took notice, sliding his finger underneath them before sliding them off. You looked down to see his cock was already hard, bracing yourself for having him in you. He was not only bigger than your toy, but also thicker.

He pushed his cock into you slowly from behind, your hands gripping onto the side of the couch while your wet cunt engulfed him. He pushed deeper when your walls stopped fluttering enough, your cunt stretched out beyond its limit as he slid in. "Look at that, your pussy was practically made for taking my cock," he mused, finally bottoming out as his heavy balls slapped against your ass. His hand came to your shoulder, gripping it as he retracted his cock before pushing it back in a swift motion.

Even though he was taking it slow, you felt the tip of his cock brush up against your cervix every time that he thrusted in. His hips snapped against your ass, starting to move inside you with much more ease. Your walls were still clenched around his cock like a vice, but it wasn't too difficult for him to slide in and out. "Tell me what you want me to do you," he spoke in between thrusts, his voice wavering a bit as he spoke. "Treat me like your slut, Miguel. Please, I just wanna be fucked like the slut I am."

Miguel's eyes darkened a bit once you finished talking, his hands now coming to each side of your hips as his thrusts got faster and more punishing. The grip he had on your hips was bruising, but he knew that a part of you would be happy to see these marks tomorrow. "Yeah? Pretty pussy's just been neglected for so long," he responded, watching as you nodded dumbly to his words. "Always taking care of everyone else but no one to take care of you."

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when you felt the sting of his hand on your ass, a loud moan escaping from your lips. "Just like that, Miguel!" You pleaded with him, his hand delivering another slap on your other cheek. Your nails were digging on to the couch as he continued to push inside of you, the sensation much better than what your stupid toy could provide. "Go on and ride me, sweet girl. Want to see you work for it."

His head leaned back on the couch as you got on top of him, watching you intently as you aligned the tip of his cock with your cunt. The two of you let out a collective gasp as you bottomed out, his cock nestled inside of you. Though you struggled a bit to move on his cock, you made the attempt to push yourself up before coming back down. His hands were on either side of your hips, giving you some assistance as you moved slowly.

Your mind was all fuzzy as his cock hit your g-spot in this position, the pleasure almost overriding the soreness in your thighs. "You need me to fuck you, princesa?" He asked you and you nodded, your hands resting on his shoulders as he started thrusting his cock into you. You couldn't help but pout at not being able to do the task correctly but he chuckled, kissing you to get rid of the expression on your face. "You did so well for me, don't worry. I understand it's a bit of an adjustment."

You couldn't help but laugh at the cocky bastard, the sound quickly turning into a moan as he pushed into you faster. "I'm not fucking you right if you're still making fun of me," he noted, his grip on your hips tightening. You brought your face down to his, chasing his lips as you kissed him. "Don't worry, I understand it's a bit of an adjustment," you responded, using his words against him. ahis hips snapped into yours, his thrusts deeper and much faster.

He brought his hand down your clit, rubbing the nub at the same rhythm that he was thrusting into you. Your back arched when he brought his face forward, taking your breasts into his mouth. You clenched around his cock tightly, your vision blurring at the ends as the euphoria inside of you built up. He'd successfully fried every thought in your mind, your only focus being on cumming around his cock. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you reached your peak, your release coating his cock providing him with extra lubrication while he sought out his own release.

His thrusts started to stutter a bit the more that he moved inside of you, feeling that he could come just from looking at you so blissed out. Miguel let out a loud grunt, coming inside of you as his cum painted your walls white. His thrusts came to a halt, your body simply just pressed against his as his cock softened up. You got off from him, watching as he made his way through your apartment like he owned the place. He came back with a rag in hand, cleaning up the cum leaking onto your thighs and the couch. "Thank you," you mumbled weakly, reaching over to get your panties from the floor. "Don't mention it, it's the least I could do," he replied, going to clean up the rag.

"Yeah, but I just never received that before so thank you," you told him, pushing the shirt over your head before fixing it. "Just because your boyfriend gave you the bare minimum doesn't mean I will. Get used to the little things," he told you, his arms wrapping around your torso as he pressed his lips against your forehead. “Should kill him for the way he treated you,” he murmured, a small chuckle erupting from your chest. “Nah, he’s not worth it. I have better ways you could be spending your time.”

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