#Solid Works Engineer Jobs

[orcelito]

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I didn't switch out of engineering after my freshman year of college. I could've been a computer & electrical engineer.

Or if I'd pursued my middle school interest in architecture (that I still lowkey have). I used to draw floor plans just for the fun of it. I think it might've originated from building in the sims, bc I recently did a massive build in the sims 2 after years and years without playing, and I was having the time of my Life. I ended up deciding to pursue engineering in high school tho bc there's a family history to it (my grandpa was one, my sister is one, my dad studied it before dropping out of college, & my ex step grandpa was one too). Also it pays better lol.

But what if I didn't give it up? I could've been an architect. Just the other day I found out from European friends that their buildings don't tend to have ventilation systems built into the walls & I went on a whole nerd research binge learning about how European buildings have air circulation (it generally varies by region, colder climates often having ventilation systems while warmer climates often just get air circulation from windows). Yeah, the architecture interest is still there.

If I go Real far back, little me wanted to be a nurse lol. But that was just because my mom was one and I still looked up to her. I've long since accepted I wouldn't be able to make it as a nurse (I'm too squeamish + tend to get attached easily, so i think it'd be pretty soul crushing for me to work in a job where patients do die sometimes)

Idk. I'm close to finishing my degree in IT, so my general life path is pretty set. And it just has me wondering about the different jobs I've wanted throughout my life & what things would be like if I went to that instead.

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[sirfrogsworth]

I've been thinking deeply about "good people" and "bad people" and how those labels don't work for me anymore except in rare cases (Elon, Trump, MTG, etc).

I've switched to good and bad behaviors as much as I can.

Jay Leno the comedian was just bad behaviors all the way down. He literally made Monica Lewinsky's life nearly intolerable. He was in some part responsible for her brush with suicide. Not only did he make jokes about her every night, but he has kept those jokes in his act TO THIS DAY.

He was probably the first mainstream transphobic comedian. When Cher's son Chaz Bono came out as a trans man, Jay did jokes for months. To his credit, he later did an interview with Chaz and you could see in real time Jay thinking, "Oh, this isn't what I thought." It seemed like meeting an actual trans person changed his perspective a bit. (Imagine that.)

And, of course, the entire saga screwing over Conan was just peak bad behavior. Conan's 60 Minutes interview is the perfect thing to watch if you want to know more.

HOWEVER...

Jay Leno the boss is a solid dude. He was the Anti-Ellen. Got along with everyone. Took an interest in their lives. He'd give them extra jobs like paying the art department to recreate vintage car advertisements for his car museum.

He rewarded loyalty and took care of his crew for the run of his show. He'd give them bonuses and expensive gifts for years of service. When there were strikes he would pay their salaries. He was so loved as a boss, that many of his crew members stuck with him for the entire run of his Tonight Show. They once did a thing where they showed the crew babies born during the Tonight Show and it looked like they brought in the entire student body of a grade school.

Jay Leno the car historian is a sweet old grandpa doing important work in conservation. Cars are a part of our history and I think it is important to have a robust historical sample. Jay does not just collect expensive cars just to have them and show off his wealth. He collects cars throughout history, preserves them as they were (to the best of his ability), and he *drives* them.

So many museums will do this historical pausing thing where they take an old thing, stop any current degradation, and then preserve it from that point forward. Or they might restore the car to its former glory and then do the pause. Keeping it on display and never driving it again.

But I find this problematic with cars for a couple of reasons. First, when you do that, you lose the context of how the cars needed to be maintained. You can lose access to mechanics that can work on them and create parts for them. Cars are not just visual objects, they are mechanisms with thousands of moving parts and the history of those moving parts is important too. Cars need to be driven to be maintained. The longer you let them sit, the more they will break down, the harder it will be to keep them in working order for preservation. Perhaps one paused and one driven would be a better approach due to the risk of accidents.

But also, the experience of driving these cars is important historically. How fast were they? How good was the acceleration? How did they corner? What did all the buttons and dials do? Were they fun to drive? Were they scary death traps? (Looking at you Dodge Viper. How many dentists did you kill?) The actual driving of the cars has important historical context. I think car museums should be next to a track and people should be allowed to experience riding in them.

Jay is an amazing historian and has a wonderful sampling of important cars going back to steam. He even has a steam fire engine from the early 1900s. He is a gracious host and gives lots of people access to his collection. He does weekly videos so there is a great visual record of this history and anyone can watch and learn about these old (and new but inaccessible) cars.

If you were to poke me with a stick, I'd say Jay Leno the comedian is a giant asshole. And Jay Leno the boss and historian is a solid dude.

And holding those two ideas in my head breaks my brain a little.

But I think there is merit in thinking of people as collections of good and bad behaviors rather than just giving them a singular verdict of good or bad person.

Jimmy Kimmel is another interesting study in good vs bad behavior.

He started doing comedy in the misogynistic manosphere genre. Famously, he did "The Man Show" with Adam Corolla. What's funny about that is I think Jimmy thought it was mostly satire (though he was absolutely problematic) and Adam was a true believer who thought he was really sticking it to those feminist bitches.

Jimmy Kimmel might be one of the most public examples of genuine, authentic growth. A person who analyzed his bad behaviors and decided to limit or replace them with good behaviors. I'm guessing his marriage and family helped push him along. But he started this journey long before that. He learned he could still push the limits of crude humor and even satirize his misogynistic past while generally being a solid dude. Slowly he became one of celebrities' favorite shows to go on. And, because of his growth, he started making friends with tons of them. You would not believe how many big stars are good friends with Jimmy Kimmel outside his show.

And when Trump came along, Jimmy got fucking WOKE. (The OG usage) His empathetic side came out in a big way. He couldn't hold it back with his crude man humor facade. He started caring about the world and what his kids were going to grow up in, and he added scathing political humor to his repertoire.

Jay Leno remains apolitical as much as possible with some mildly shitty conservative views popping out every once in a while. He is into old school WWII style patriotism and thinks everything should be made in America. Like, when someone says a car part is made in America, I worry Jay is just going to jizz in his pants right on camera.

Is Jay Leno a bad person? Sometimes. Absolutely.

Was Jimmy Kimmel a bad person? Sometimes. Absolutely.

Is Jimmy still a bad person? Not as far as I can tell.

Is Adam Corolla a piece of shit? Absolutely. Absolutely.

[norrisainz33]

enemies to… pt.2 || mv33

summary: you have the race of your life in canada and a certain someone helps you celebrate against your better judgement

pairing: max verstappen x driver!reader

fc & warnings: none and bad language, very suggestive - you are responsible for the content you consume

a/n: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote a driver pairing and the two drivers i was basing them off had a blinder of a race when i was starting part 2 ,,, id have 2 nickels and that’s not a lot but it is weird it happened twice.... LETS GO KIMI AND GEORGE!!!!! p.s i got way too invested in this this is a LONG one xoxo

masterlist | pt 1

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

“YESSS! YES, YES, YES!!” you screamed into the radio, barely able to keep your hands steady on the wheel as you crossed the finish line in third place. p1. your first formula 1 win.

the mercedes pit wall exploded in cheers and through the radio crackle, toto’s voice came through steady as always but proud. “y/n! huge drive today, kid.” you could hear the smile in his voice. “you are a race winner! great work.”

you let out a shaking laugh, already crying. “thank you, toto. thank you for everything.” your voice cracked with emotion as you waved to the grandstands on your cool-down lap, heart thundering against your ribcage. this was it. the moment you’d been chasing your entire life and now, you’d finally caught it.

“what a race! great job, y/n!” bono chimed in next. “how do you feel?”

“so good!” you gasped, breathless and beaming beneath your helmet. “god this feels so good. i'm so grateful to you, to the team, to everyone who’s believed in me. this means everything.”

ahead, you caught sight of isack giving you a thumbs up from his parked car a small but solid nod of respect from one of your favorite people that made your chest swell even more.

your hands trembled as you unclipped your belts and rolled to a stop in front of the glowing red number 1 marker. with practiced motion and adrenaline-fueled excitement, you pulled off your steering wheel and set it on the car’s nose before hoisting yourself out of the cockpit. the noise of the crowd hit you in full force.

throwing your arms up to the sky, you let the roar of the fans wash over you. their cheers mingled with the sound of your own name being shouted by your crew. you leapt off the nose of the car and took off in a sprint toward the waiting arms of your mechanics and engineers, all of them ready for you, shouting, clapping, crying just like you.

you barely made it a few feet before your teammate caught you in a tight hug. “you bloody legend!” he shouted over the noise, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he lifted you a little off the ground and spun you around. “first win and a double podium for us! i’m so fucking proud of you.”

you couldn’t stop laughing, the sound mingling with the tears still clinging to your lashes as george set you back on the ground. “george! I can’t believe this—”

"believe it, superstar.” he slung an arm around your shoulder leading you toward the rest of the mercedes crew as you ripped your helmet off your head.

parc ferme was buzzing. high fives were being thrown, people were shouting your name, someone handed you a mercedes flag to wave, and another mechanic pushed a bottle of water into your hand while bono clapped you on the back. you were surrounded by joy, your joy and you let yourself just feel it.

then the crowd shifted. you glanced to the side, heart still pounding, and there he was.

max verstappen, hair damp with sweat and race suit unzipped, walked toward you with a half-smirk and that unreadable look in his eye. he clapped briefly for you, once, twice then stopped a few steps away.

george dropped his arm from your shoulder and gave max a stiff nod before retreating to let you have a moment.

max held your gaze. “p1, huh? guess all that pushing i forced you to do this season has paid off."

you laughed, “p2 isn’t so bad either. i thought you might catch me at one point.”

“i was close. annoyingly close, actually.” he squinted at you with a teasing glare, and then softer, added, “you deserved that today though. that was a hell of a drive.”

you smiled, a small but genuine one. “thanks, max. for that and for not running me off the track this time.”

he gave you a dry look but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “i like to keep things interesting.” then, quieter so only you could hear, “happiness suits you.”

you opened your mouth to respond but before you could say anything, a pr rep called your name from behind, reminding you it was time to head to the cool down room. max took a slow step back but didn’t break eye contact. “see you up there, winner,” he winked before turning and walking to the post race interview with nico rosberg.

✿

ynuser has made a post

liked by lando, georgerussell63, maxverstappen1, yourbff, mercedesamgf1, lewishamilton, flavy.barla, iamrebeccad, and 874,205 others

ynuser: P1 BABY LETS GO! WE FINALLY DID IT!!!! the car felt absolutely incredible today and i couldn’t be more pleased with this result. thank you to the best team in the whole world, the amazing and incredible fans who cheer for me every weekend, my friends and family who dared to dream big with me and to one of my biggest cheerleaders and overall best teammate ever, george. love you all more than anything 🩵

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user1: my y/l/nrussell heart i’m crying

yourbff: OK SHES AN F1 RACE WINNER

ynuser: YES SHE IS!!

user2: so deserved you are incredible

georgerussell63: it was always when not if 🩵

ynuser: thank you for always helping me keep my head up and for encouraging me to be the best me. i love you georgie 🩵

georgerussell63: love you more stinker

user20: honestly they don’t make teammates like this anymore. these two are the sweetest most supportive duo i can’t

lando: MY GOAT MY GOAT MY GOAT

ynuser: that’s you 🥀

lando: stfu! let me be proud of you! (even tho u neglected to shout me out in this post?)

ynuser: you’re one of my fans no?

user14: best day in the world for annoying people

maxverstappen1: congrats, y/n!

ynuser: thanks max!

user3: shaking did they really just interact like that after the race and comment on each others instargrams?! who do they think they are

user6: yeah i sobbed the entire last lap watching you cross that finish line

carmenmundt: so proud of you my beautiful girl 😘

ynuser: thank you carmen 😭🤍

mercedesamgf1: that’s our girl 🩵

ynuser: 🩵🩵🩵🩵

user99: y/n and george’s celebration may have been the most wholesome thing i’ve ever seen in all of sports

maxverstappen1 has posted to his story

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user2: a y/n post?????? on main???????????

charlesleclerc: very interesting post we’ve got here

maxverstappen1: what ever could you mean by that

charlesleclerc: you know what i mean mate. 2 weeks ago you told me she was one of your least favorite people on the grid and now you’re showing up to races with her, publicly congratulating her in your post race interview and NOW POSTING HER ON INSTAGRAM

maxverstappen1: one could call it personal growth

charlesleclerc: you confuse me mon ami

user3: didn’t you try to kill her in spain

lando: 🤨

maxverstappen1: don’t even start

user5: brb claiming this energy! my y/l/nstappen agenda will never die

ynuser: crazy how you were there on the podium with me for my first win in karting and now you’re here with me in f1 🥹

maxverstappen1: wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else for either of them!

ynuser: you’ve gone soft on me

maxverstappen1: man enough to admit that yes! i 100% have

ynuser: it feels a little weird but i like it

maxverstappen1: me too

user6: ok so what was all that fighting for then

victoriaverstappen: is this who i think it is???

maxverstappen1: yes 😌

victoriaverstappen: so you two really worked everything out?

maxverstappen1: i’d like to think so! we definitely still have some figuring out to do but i think we’re headed on the right path

victoriaverstappen: i’m so glad to hear that 🤍

user8: t minus 3 hours before we get f1gossip posts of you guys kissing at some party

✿

“oh my god lando.” you grabbed his arm, eyes wide as you stared across the dance floor.

he blinked, very tipsy and very much mid-dance. “what?” he shouted over the pounding bass, lifting his drink to take another gulp.

"max is here!” you hissed, gripping his forearm as if he might blow away with the fog machine smoke. your hands trembled just slightly as you watched max verstappen part the crowd, dressed in a plain black tee, fitted jeans, and a ball cap low over his eyes. he was effortlessly casual and stupidly attractive... NOT that you’d ever say that out loud.

lando squinted in the direction you were looking. “okay...?” he gave you a confused look. “didn’t you invite him?”

“well yeah but now I’m scared!” you whisper-shouted, not understanding what lando wasn't picking up on here.

before lando could respond, george appeared behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder like the affectionate annoyance he was. “scared of what now?” he mumbled into your ear, already half-laughing.

you patted his cheek to shoo him off. “nothing, georgie. go away.”

“oh, it’s not nothing! don't lie now, y/n/n,” lando chimed in, way too gleeful for your liking. “miss p1 here invited verstappen and now she’s afraid to even look at him.”

george pulled back, narrowing his eyes like you’d just told him you were planning to join red bull. “since when are you afraid of max? i thought you were friends now?”

you shot him a warning glare, “now is not the time.” max was nearly at the velvet rope, weaving through bodies like he was making his way through eau rouge , casual but focused.

“y/n/n's got a little cru—”

“lando!” you hissed, smacking him in the stomach to shut him up. he made a dramatic show of stumbling back like he’d been shot.

“hey guys!” max greeted, flashing a smile. his voice was relaxed but his eyes lingered on you longer than they did on anyone else and you thought you may have even caught him giving you a once over which made you instantly self conscious.

george gave you a look so smug it could’ve been illegal while lando was still pretending to nurse his “injury” from your stomach smack. you swallowed, forcing your face into a smile. “hi max. you made it.”

“you invited me so of course i did.” he said, arching a brow in slight question. you were saved from replying by someone handing you another drink which you downed a little too quickly for dignity’s sake.

max just chuckled, leaning in slightly. “you always this nervous around me or just when you’re celebrating a podium?”

you laughed way too loud and way too fast, “don’t flatter yourself, verstappen.”

he smirked, “wouldn’t dream of it.” but his gaze lingered on you as charles called him over from the bar.

as he turned to go, promising to come right back, george nudged you. “you are aware he was flirting, right?”

✿

lando posted to his private story

view all story replies

maxfewtrell: when is she not?

lando: now thats a good question

alexandrasaintmluex: brb on my way. charles and max are in some heated conversation and i want my girly

lando: WAIT WAIT WAIT ABOUT WHAT

alexandrasaintmluex: max not shooting his shot or something with some girl

lando: oh alex do i have some news and a mission for you

alexnadrasaintmluex: WHAT

lando: i think they may be talking abt ur girly. please gather some intel before i spill more bc she will kill me

alexandrasaintmluex: oh my god charles just said: if you don't get back over there and get y/n alone i'm going to start screaming in the middle of this bar

alexandrasaintmluex: does she want that???

lando: Y E S

alexandrasaintmluex: brb going to weasel my way into this conversation and get max to go get her

lando: MY GOAT LETS GOOOOO

georgerussell63: real

lando: thanks for always getting it mate

ynuser: lack of rizz and aura yet i look hot as fck here

lando: you look stupid?

ynuser: i hate you so bad

lando: ok go hang out with max then?

ynuser: I HATE YOU SO BAD

isackhadjar: man where was my invite

lando: dunno mate! get your ass to stereo!

isackhadjar: omw!

francolapinto: would u hate me if i said she has rizz and aura and i kinda like it

lando: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW EW EW EW EW

francolapinto: message received

✿

as you made your way back from the bathroom the room spun in that warm sparkling way alcohol and adrenaline combine after a night you’ll never forget. you were very much caught up in your own thoughts as you weaved through the sea of bodies. you and max had just made up, barely a a few weeks removed from finally squashing years of tension, mind games, and trackside fights. you’d told him, rather explicitly, that you wanted to focus on being friends. keep things simple. focus on racing.

but the high of winning, of finally standing on the top step, of the club lights glinting off champagne flutes and the bass thudding in your chest was all making it really hard to think about anything other than how badly you wanted to figure out how max’s hands would feel tangled in your hair or gripping your bare waist.

“alright, alright, alright,” george declared as you flopped down onto the velvet couch across from him. he looped an arm around carmen’s shoulders and tugged her into the conversation. “here’s a thought. what if,” he grinned, “we get my darling girl to lightly suggest to mr. verstappen that he should make a move on you?”

carmen blinked, clearly blindsided by the proposal. “i’m sorry, what am I being recruited for?”

“absolutely not!” you said quickly. “we are not sending secret agents into battle!! this is not year six disco night.”

“but it kind of is,” lando chimed in, sipping his drink and loving the chaos. “you’re both single, both here, both trying to act like you're not wildly into each other.”

george raised his hands in defense, mischief still dancing in his eyes. “come on, y/n. you just won your first race! i haven't seen you like this in a while, you're absolutely buzzing. let yourself enjoy it. blow off some steam.” he leaned in with a knowing look, “and now that max has been demoted from Public Enemy Number 1 to… let’s say attractive rival with unresolved tension, I mean this is literally the perfect setup. and lets not forget you literally invited him.”

"the alcohol invited him," you glared at george, “and don't drag carmen into this mess.”

"too bad because i already dragged alexandra into it!" lando announced causing your stomach to drop. "and would you look at that! here she comes with max!"

you sat upright nearly knocking over your drink as your eyes landed on alexandra weaving her way toward the vip booth with max just behind her. "you meddling twat," you hissed at lando but he just smiled back at you.

alexandra arrived first, all glowing skin and glittering eyes, dropping a hand dramatically onto your shoulder. "hope you're ready," she whispered just as max came to a stop beside her.

"hey," he greeted the group but his eyes were on you. "congrats again."

you gave him a smile, shy and unsure, the complete opposite of how you’d felt ripping around circuit gilles villeneuve earlier that day, “thanks again.”

before the awkwardness could settle, alexandra clapped her hands together, “alright, so here's the deal... lando, carmen, george and i are going to go check out the bar across the dance floor with charles. apparently he's doing vodka maple syrup shots or something equally ridiculous.”

lando blinked, “wait, we are?”

“yes,” alexandra snapped, shooting him a 'shut up and follow my lead' look. “it's for the bit.”

“but-” you started, panic rising in your throat as your friends started to all stand up.

alexandra leaned in, close enough only for you to hear. “you’re welcome, babe!”

before you could protest further, the group was moving and within and instant it was just you and max. he let out a sigh and slipped into the spot beside you on the couch, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “our friends are real subtle, huh?”

you laughed, "yeah, i kinda hate them right about now."

max smiled with a shake of his head, "i don't."

you looked over at him and the way he was watching you was maddening. you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the fact that he’d just looked straight at you like you were his next trophy but your brain was a puddle. you tilted your head toward him, trying to sound light, “didn’t we agree to just be friends?”

he shrugged, his fingers circling the rim of his glass as he looked away briefly then back at you. “well yeah but friends can sit too close on a couch, right?” and just like that, he shifted, just an inch, maybe two, closing the space between you so that his leg rested completely against yours.

you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of everything now.. the sweat-slicked air, the warmth radiating off him, the music thrumming like a pulse around you. “friends who sit close,” you echoed, “that’s a dangerous game, no?”

max leaned in, slow and unhurried, his voice low, “only if you don’t want to play.”

“you’re not going to make this easy, are you?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

a cocky grin spread across his face, “nope.”

you opened your mouth to say something else but he was already moving again. slowly, carefully, max reached for your hand that was resting on your bare leg. his fingers brushed yours, then laced them together. his eyes flicked to yours searching for some sort of protest but when he didn't find it, he moved your hand further and placed it on his thigh causing you to gulp.

“i’ll be good,” he said quietly, with a look that told you he wouldn’t. “that is... unless you want me to be bad.”

you let out a laugh that was loud, unexpected, full of disbelief at both him and yourself, "you? good?"

he looked proud of himself, “for you, maybe.”

“shut up,” you muttered, hiding your smile in your glass as you took a sip but you didn’t move your hand and neither did he.

his thumb traced lazy circles against the top of your hand, the heat of his thigh beneath your palm sending your thoughts into disarray. max leaned in a little closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “I think you like this more than you’re letting on,” he murmured, voice half a dare, half a promise.

you turned your head again just enough to meet his eyes. “and if I do?”

he didn’t answer right away. he just stared at you, gaze dropping briefly to your lips, then back up again - checking, asking. you could’ve said no. you could’ve pulled away. you could’ve reminded him, and yourself, that you were supposed to be keeping things simple. instead, you whispered, “do something about it.”

that was all he needed. max leaned in and kissed you, it was slow at first, like he was testing the waters but the second you kissed him back, squeezing your fingers around his thigh, the tension broke like a wave. his free hand rose to your jaw, steadying you as he deepened it, your lips moving together like they’d been waiting years to do this like every race, every fight, every side-eye in a press conference had been foreplay.

you barely noticed the buzz of noise from the bar fade until it was broken by an unmistakable round of slow, sarcastic clapping. you pulled back from max just in time to see the whole group standing across the room, absolutely beaming like a bunch of proud, meddling idiots.

“about time!” lando shouted, raising his drink in a toast.

max let out a low groan, burying his face in your shoulder for a second before turning to the group with a mock glare.

“you’re welcome!” george called, making a heart with his hands.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off your face as max leaned back in, whispering against your ear, “we’re never living this down, are we?”

you shook your head, still breathless. “not a chance.”

“worth it,” he said, before kissing you again this time without hesitation and definitely without regrets. "lets get out of here."

✿

ynuser has posted to their private story

view all story replies

lando: i am filled with disgust at 1) the slander and 2) the image and implications of the image

ynuser: you advocated for this to happen let me reminder you AND you told max f within maybe 2 minutes of catching max and i kissing the first time

lando: LIAR

alexandrasaintmluex: you're welcome sweetie pie

ynuser: thank you my knight in shining armour

georgerussell63: brb leaking this as we speak

ynuser: make sure you at least blur out the words so they don't know its you doing it

georgerussell63: already done

maxverstappen1: they'll surely leak it now

ynuser: undoubtedly!

maxverstappen1: thanks for spending the night and the whole day with me.. i wish you didn't have to leave

ynuser: 🥹🥹🥹 i'll be back in a few hours!!

maxverstappen1: hurry

yourbff: GIRL WHAT HAPPENED TO JUST FRIENDS????

ynuser: your honor i am just a girl and to be fair we are still technically just friends…….. with a benefit or two

liamlawson31: is that…… is that max verstappen??

ynuser: can neither confirm nor deny

danielriccardo: thank god honestly

ynuser: real

iamrebeccad: i miss one gp and you win and post a man?

ynuser: yes 😔💔 i wish you were here. i'll catch you up in austria though i promise

✿

you glanced over at max, his face calm and focused as he was in the process of finishing a sim race, fingers moving with casual precision. the hum of the setup was the only sound in the room. he looked so at home like that with his headphones on, tshirt slightly askew, brows drawn in concentration.

you’d spent most of your time off together this past week with lazy mornings, late night drives, quiet dinners on the couch. it felt natural, easy even and like something you should have been doing for a long time. but something about knowing you’d both be flying to austria tomorrow, back into the high-speed chaos of the paddock, made your stomach twist.

you stared at your hands in your lap and whispered, “i don’t want to be friends.”

max didn’t hear you at first or maybe he wasn’t sure he had. his head peeked around the his chair, brows raised. “what was that, liefde?”

you met his eyes and forced the words out clearly, “i don’t want to be friends.”

he paused his game without hesitation, almost startlingly quick. he turned in his chair to face you fully, still wearing that look of confusion, “you don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

“no,” you said quickly, standing and moving toward him. “i mean, yes, obviously I do but not just that. i want… more. i want to be more than just your friend.”

max's shoulders dropped with relief, his lips twitching into a small smile. “you do?”

you nodded, heart pounding. “i do. but… i also want to keep it just ours, at least for now. i know the others know we're seeing each other casually but I don’t want to anyone to know its official official until we’re both ready. just you and me for now.”

max stood up slowly, taking your hand in his. “being yours is all i've ever wanted.”

you grinned and the tension melted off your shoulders. outside, the world waited - austria, media, podiums, gossip, all of it. but in here, it was just you and him and that was more enough.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: i love writing driver!reader fics sm. likes and reblogs appreciated!!!

tagging y'all because you mentioned a part 2 🤍 @agmoon03 @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @how-what-why-huh @ceekokocee15 @mydearmoonyy. @rawr-123s-stuff @freyathehuntress

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[pankowcrumbs]

Over the Radio X Lando Norris

18+

Plot: You are Lando's new race engineer and the flirting is everything even though it's forbidden.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

The headset felt heavier than usual.

It wasn’t the weight, obviously. It was the pressure. I’d just been promoted me, Y/N, twenty-five, notoriously chatty and chronically single to the role of Lando Norris’s race engineer. A job I’d secretly daydreamed about since joining McLaren as a junior engineer three years ago. Not just because I loved strategy or thrived in high-stakes environments.

But because Lando made work… dangerous in the best way.

We’d always had this flirty, electric thing between us laced through teasing in the paddock, lingering glances after debriefs, and him playfully tapping his pen against my shoulder when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. But I’d never let it go further. Too complicated. Too public. Too… risky.

And now?

Now I had a mic strapped to my head and a driver... that driver relying on my voice to guide him through every sector.

“Alright,” came his voice through the comms during FP1, low and casual, “I’m just going to say it I like hearing you in my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks already heating. “You’re supposed to like hearing me, Norris. I’m your engineer now.”

“I liked hearing you before you got the promotion.”

“Focus.”

He chuckled, the sound crackling slightly over the radio. “Can’t help it when you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Bossy.”

Jesus Christ.

I muted myself for a second just to let out a laugh. He was testing me already, barely ten minutes into the first session. I should’ve expected nothing less.

Back on comms, I cleared my throat. “Alright, let’s try the medium tyre run, please. Box now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I swear he said it just to get a rise out of me.

By qualifying, he was in full performance mode razor-sharp on track, but his mouth still didn’t switch off completely.

“Tyres feel great,” he said mid-run. “Or maybe it’s your voice lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“Glad I can soothe your inner chaos.”

“Oh, you do. Might ask you to record bedtime stories next.”

“Eyes on the apex, Norris.”

“Yes, boss.”

I caught one of the mechanics chuckling nearby.

It didn’t help that we were the same age. Didn’t help that he looked at me like I wasn’t just a voice in his ear, but something he wanted and maybe always had.

Didn’t help that part of me… wanted it back.

Race day.

This was it.

Lando was starting P4, and I was trying not to throw up from nerves. We stood by the car before the formation lap, the crew swarming around us in a flurry of final checks and tyre warmers and last-second whispers.

He walked over to me, helmet in hand, curls slightly damp under his cap.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

He grinned. “You’re in my ear today. I’ll be great.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me mid-race. We’ve got a championship to chase.”

“No promises,” he said, leaning in just enough for no one else to hear. “You make strategy sound sexy.”

He winked and walked off before I could swat him with my clipboard.

God help me.

“Radio check.”

“Loud and clear.”

The lights blinked off and the race began.

For the first few laps, everything was clinical. Tyre temps. Fuel delta. Turn eight oversteer.

But by lap twenty, he was settled and cocky again.

“Okay, love, talk to me.”

“Your pace is solid. Holding strong at P3.”

“Love that. Love you, too, but we’ll unpack that later.”

I flushed despite myself. “Lando”

“You sound flustered.”

“You sound overconfident.”

“I’ve got the world’s prettiest engineer in my ear. Hard not to be.”

I bit back a smile. “Focus on Leclerc. You’re gaining three-tenths in Sector 2.”

“Yes, boss. I like when you take charge.”

He was impossible.

And brilliant.

And absolutely relentless.

By lap 37, he was chasing P2, and we were in the thick of strategy calls. I tried to keep my voice even, professional, despite the sweat on my palms.

“Box this lap, confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

He flew into the pit lane. Tyres off, tyres on, and gone again textbook.

Back on track, I checked data. He was flying. We were flying.

Then came his voice, smug and smooth.

“You’re amazing at this.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I meant being sexy and strategic at the same time, but sure.”

I laughed couldn’t help it. He was unreal.

“And you’re dangerously close to being muted.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

I was. A little.

Maybe more than a little.

By the final ten laps, he was in P2, battling for the lead. My heart was pounding as hard as his engine.

“Push now, Lando. You’ve got the grip. He’s vulnerable.”

“Copy. For you, I’ll push.”

“You’d better. Don’t make me come down there.”

“Oh, please do. You threatening me in person? Hot.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.

He overtook on Lap 59. Clean. Bold. Beautiful.

P1.

“YES!” I yelled, forgetting to mute. “You’ve done it!”

He was laughing in my ear. “Sounded like you just...”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying...”

“Drive the bloody car, Norris!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He won.

He bloody won.

I barely remembered the cooldown lap, too overwhelmed with numbers, data, and his smug little voice in my ear.

“You were perfect,” he said, a bit breathless. “I don’t just mean the car.”

I didn’t reply.

I couldn’t. Not when my heart was beating that loud.

In parc fermé, I waited on the pit wall, still breathless as the crew jumped and cheered around me. He leapt out of the car, helmet off, curls damp with sweat, eyes scanning until he found me.

And then he ran.

Straight to me.

Lando didn’t hesitate just wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me clean off the ground, and spun me like we were in some bloody film. I was laughing, flushed, and fully aware the world was watching.

“Lando!” I hissed, “Cameras!”

“Don’t care.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He looked at me all mischief and heat and said, “You realise this means I get to flirt every race now, right?”

I grinned despite myself.

“Only if you keep winning.”

“Deal.”

He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Guess we’re going to be unstoppable, then.”

It didn’t take long for the world to catch on.

The radio clips the ones where Lando called me love, where he shamelessly flirted mid-race, where I threatened to mute him while trying not to laugh went viral before we even packed up the garage.

The fans were obsessed.

I saw the edits first little videos stitched together on TikTok, set to romantic pop songs, captioned things like “find someone who talks to you the way Lando talks to Y/N” or “she’s his soft spot, I’m in tears”. There were screenshots of me on the pit wall, flushed and grinning like an idiot, side by side with photos of him beaming in the car.

#LandYN was trending by morning.

I nearly dropped my phone when I saw it.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, scrolling through endless fan theories. They’re secretly dating. They’re in love. She’s his lucky charm.

One clip had already reached a million views it was a montage of our comms from the race, ending with Lando yelling “You were perfect!” over the radio.

My cheeks ached from smiling.

Still, I knew better than to get too carried away. It was fun, sure, but it was dangerous too. Teams didn’t love distractions. And even if part of me burned for him always had, if I was honest I wasn’t going to risk my career over a few flirty radio messages.

Or so I told myself.

That afternoon, we were ushered into the press tent for post-race interviews.

Lando was his usual charming, grinning self, hair still messy from the helmet, race suit tied around his waist, white McLaren tee clinging to him in all the right places.

I tried not to stare.

Tried harder not to think about how he’d lifted me off the ground in front of half the paddock hours earlier.

The reporters, of course, pounced almost immediately.

“So, Lando,” one of them called, “incredible win today. Do you think the new race engineer had anything to do with your performance?”

He smirked and flicked a glance at me where I was standing just off-camera.

“I mean…” He shrugged dramatically. “Have you heard her voice?”

The whole room laughed.

I buried my face in my clipboard.

“She keeps me calm,” he went on, grinning like the devil. “Keeps me focused. Also keeps me on my toes. Sometimes I listen just to hear her yell at me.”

Another ripple of laughter.

I shot him a glare over the top of my clipboard. He winked.

Another reporter jumped in, voice eager. “There’s a lot of talk online about how much chemistry you two have. Any truth to that?”

My stomach dropped.

This was it. This was the moment where he’d laugh it off, make a joke, move on.

But Lando paused.

His smile softened.

“I mean, it’s not fake,” he said simply. “We’re close. We trust each other a lot. Makes a difference when you’ve got someone you… y’know. Care about.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, all the way to my ears.

The reporters caught it instantly, shouting follow-up questions, but Lando just grinned and gave a playful two-finger salute before ducking out of the interview area.

I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

Later, tucked away in the back of the motorhome, I cornered him.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, grabbing his wrist before he could escape. “Did you hear yourself?”

He looked at me, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

“‘Someone you care about’? Lando, they’re going to eat that up! The fans are already....!”

He cut me off by tugging me closer, voice low and teasing. “Why are you so panicked, love?”

“Because...” I sputtered. “Because it’s my job, and people are already making bloody fan fiction about us!”

His hand slid lazily down my arm, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It was maddening how casual he was, like my heart wasn’t currently trying to punch a hole through my ribs.

“Let them,” he murmured. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be. It’s a media circus out there.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the lingering leather and soap on his skin.

“Y/N,” he said, smiling faintly, “I meant it.”

I blinked up at him. “Meant what?”

“That I care about you.” His hand tightened slightly around my wrist, grounding me. “I don’t care who knows.”

My stomach flipped so hard I nearly stumbled.

“Lando…”

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek. “You think I’ve been flirting with you all this time just for fun?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No one else gets under my skin like you do,” he said, laughing under his breath. “No one else makes me want to win more, just to hear you call me perfect again.”

I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t.

But I surged up onto my toes and kissed him.

It was clumsy at first too fast, too desperate but then his hands were cupping my jaw, anchoring me, and he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it forever.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, he rested his forehead against mine.

“‘Bout bloody time,” he whispered.

I laughed, shaky and giddy.

“I’m still going to yell at you over the radio,” I warned.

He grinned. “Good. Gets me going.”

I smacked his chest, and he caught my hand, threading our fingers together like he had no intention of letting go.

The motorhome door rattled somewhere behind us. Someone calling for him, for debriefs or photos or something equally less important than this.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

“C’mon, love,” he said softly. “Let’s give them something real to ship.”

We didn’t even make it a full twenty-four hours before the team called us in.

It was Zak who asked for the meeting polite but firm and as soon as I walked into the glass-walled conference room and saw Lando slouched in a chair with that sheepish, boyish grin, I knew we were in trouble.

My stomach twisted.

Zak didn’t exactly tell us off he’s too clever for that but the message was clear.

"You two have great chemistry," he said, steepling his fingers under his chin, "and it's good for morale. Good for the fans too. We're not here to kill the vibe."

Lando nodded along, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy.

"But," Zak continued, voice harder now, "there's a line. Banter’s fine. Flirting, fine. It stays on the radio. That’s it. No relationships. No... fraternising. You know how it looks otherwise conflicts of interest. Favouritism."

I felt my heart sink to the soles of my shoes.

"If anything beyond the job happens," Zak said, tone grave, "I'm sorry, Y/N, but you'd have to go. We can't have that. It's non-negotiable."

The words hung between us like a guillotine.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Understood."

"Understood," Lando echoed, though his voice was quieter.

Zak smiled, all business again. "Good. We trust you. Carry on."

The meeting ended without further fuss, but I felt hollow as I followed Lando out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us like a wasp.

I was two steps from escaping when he grabbed my hand and dragged me, fast and urgent, into his driver's room.

The door shut with a soft thud.

"Lando" I started, but he spun to face me, blue eyes bright and burning.

"We just have to be careful," he said quickly, crowding into my space, voice low. "That's all. We can work this out."

I stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Are you insane?" My voice cracked. "I can't risk my job. I love this job, Lando."

"I know," he said, hands finding my hips like magnets, grounding me. "I know, love, I swear. I’d never let anything happen to you."

I shook my head, heart hammering. "One wrong move, and they’ll sack me. I’m not risking my career for..."

"For us?" he finished, smile tilted, heartbreakingly soft. "Not even a little?"

I glared at him, but it had no heat. God, he was dangerous when he wanted something. Sweet talker. Charming bastard.

He took my silence as an opportunity, nosing gently along my temple, voice a whisper against my hair.

"Secret meetings," he murmured. "After long race days. Hotel rooms. Locked doors."

I shivered.

"No one has to know," he coaxed. "We'll be smart. We'll be so bloody careful, they'll never suspect a thing."

I bit my lip, torn between every instinct screaming be sensible and the way his hands curved around me like I was already his.

"You’re asking a lot," I whispered.

"I’m asking for a chance," he said simply. "For us."

He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a long second, we just breathed each other in. Him and me and the impossible thing growing wild between us.

I was so tired of fighting it.

Of pretending.

One night. One chance. Maybe that was all it would be maybe it would end in heartbreak but right then, with his thumb stroking slow circles into my hip, I didn’t care.

"Fine," I breathed, caving, heart racing. "But careful, Norris. I mean it."

His grin was a flash of sunshine.

"Careful's my middle name," he teased, then leaned in and kissed me, slow and sweet and reverent, like we had all the time in the world.

God help me, I was already addicted.

Another race day. Another chance to push the boundary without crossing it.

I was clipped into my headset, the familiar weight of it comforting as I stood on the pit wall, heart thundering in rhythm with the engines.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio.

"You miss me yet?" he teased during formation lap, the lightness in his voice making me smile against the back of my hand.

"Focus, Norris," I said, keeping my tone prim, but the smile was audible, and we both knew it.

"Hard to focus when you sound that pretty," he quipped back, low enough that only I would catch the meaning behind the words.

I heard the collective swoon of the fans in my mind. They’d catch the exchange they always did snipping, editing, posting. #LandoYN was trending every bloody week.

The race itself was chaos late rain, tight corners, pit strategy coming down to seconds but God, he drove like a man possessed.

Each time I gave him a call, he responded instantly, trusting me, trusting us.

On the final lap, I told him, "Bring her home, Lando."

His laughter was breathless over the comms. "Anything for you, love."

And when he crossed the line first, victorious, the roar from the team around me was deafening.

I barely remembered throwing my arms up, screaming with the others, heart exploding with pride until I caught sight of him in parc fermé, helmet off, curls wild, grinning like the sun itself.

He found my eyes across the chaos and winked a quick, cocky, secret little thing that made my stomach swoop.

The media circus after was worse than ever.

"So, Lando," one of the interviewers said slyly, mic shoved in his face. "Your radio with your race engineer... getting pretty famous. Fans are shipping it, mate."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

"Yeah, well..." His eyes flicked to me, lingering a second too long. "Some people just... bring out the best in you, don’t they?"

The crowd erupted.

My whole face burned.

Bloody hell, Lando.

Zak would have kittens.

But secretly, deep down, it thrilled me how he didn’t hide it. How he let it show.

Later that night, long after the champagne showers and the debriefs, after the media had cleared out and the garage was dark and still, I found myself outside his hotel room door, heart hammering.

I hesitated for a full thirty seconds before knocking.

It swung open almost immediately.

He stood there, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot, wearing nothing but grey joggers slung indecently low on his hips.

"Hi," he said, voice rough from the day, from the screaming, from the adrenaline.

"Hi," I whispered.

Before I could lose my nerve, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and tugged me inside.

The door shut with a soft click behind me, cutting us off from the world.

We barely made it two steps before he had me pressed up against the wall, mouth on mine.

There was nothing polite about it.

It was hungry.

Months of tension, stolen glances, secret touches it all snapped free like an elastic band stretched too far.

His hands skimmed up my thighs, grabbing beneath the hem of my dress, squeezing like he couldn’t get enough.

I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of him against my belly.

"God, I’ve wanted this," he groaned, lips trailing along my jaw, my throat. "Wanted you."

His hands were everywhere sliding under my dress, dragging the zipper down with one quick, impatient tug.

I wriggled out of it, letting it puddle at my feet, standing there in nothing but a scrap of lace and my heels, breathing hard.

Lando stepped back, eyes dark, devouring the sight of me.

"Fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He dipped down, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, trailing lower.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, gasping when he mouthed at the tops of my breasts, teasing with slow, maddening patience.

When he dropped to his knees, I thought I might collapse.

"Lando" I choked out, but he only grinned up at me, wicked.

"Let me take care of you, love," he murmured.

And then his mouth was on me hot, clever, relentless.

He hooked my leg over his shoulder, hands gripping my hips like a lifeline, holding me steady as he licked into me with devastating skill.

I buried my fingers in his curls, tugging helplessly as pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly.

It didn’t take long I was wound too tight, too desperate and when I came, it was with a cry muffled against the back of my hand, thighs trembling around his head.

He kissed his way back up my body, nipping and soothing, whispering praises against my skin.

When he finally lifted me arms strong, careful and carried me to the bed, I didn’t resist.

I didn’t even think.

I just held onto him, heart racing, trusting him to catch me.

And he did.

All night long.

[smallestapplin]

Cybertronian courtship headcanons

Yes I should be writing requests but friends asked, and I went on a decently long ramble that I wanted to share.

Hi yes please add more if you wish, or even ask me about how this would work with a human partner. Or anything really.

-

-

Vehicle mode Cybertronians can be flashy, speeding around taking tight turns, taking dangerous leaps, doing donut around their courted or the one they are trying to court all in the name of getting your attention and keeping it.

This can differ based on the cybertronian, but older mechs (e.i Ratchet, Skids, and Kup) don’t do that, their show is more action that even wrecking bots take after, more placing their alt mode between you and others, any lights they have, headlights or emergency lights will also flicker or turn on with no siren, this is called ‘Flashing’ and it will confuse them once they get to Earth.

Flustering bots with sirens (i.e Ratchet, Prowl, First Aid, Red Alert) can also earn you a ‘whoop!’ Of their siren popping.

Speedsters (i.e Hot Rod, Smokescreen, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, etc) perfer the flashy loud engine revving ways, but they can also flash their lights, its just faster flickering or solid several seconds off and on for stunts.

Music based Cybertronians take a vastly different approach, their lights flash to the beat of music they are playing. They also make and write music based on the person they have affections for, personalizing it to the person, and performing it as a gift, this also comes with dancing.

Dancing with a music based Cybertronian often comes with EM field coming into play, this field is meant to silently match your wavelength and electricity. Music based mechs dance all the time and dance with friends, however the act of ASKING to dance is seen as an attempt of asking them out, and most will reject you harshly for it if you are not close.

For more clarification

It’s the act of asking that is seen as taboo, as it means you want one on one time, just the two (or maybe three) of you to dance, alone, and match each other’s rhythm.

Flight based Cybertronians and their wings are perhaps the flashiest, but this is still debated amongst them and speedsters.

Flight based bots will often take to the skies in their alt modes and do aerial shows for you, leaving a smoke trail behind them to make designs in the clouds for you. Sometimes this can turn into a battle if two or more flight based bots won’t the same person.

Still most are quite protective over their stuff, often liking rocks and metals and sharing such finds only with their person or courted.

Flight mode bots also speak a lot with their wings, it’s a second language on Cybertron amongst them. Cybtertronians with door wings also fall into this, however their wings are often smaller and clunkier so a jet mode bot and a car mode bot can have very different conversations as the door wing bots speak in a more simplified version as opposed to like a Seeker.

Flight mode bots wings, however, play a large role in their relationships, their wings are their greatest assets but if injured can ruin their jobs and lives if not treated or unable to fix, due to this they are protective over them.

If you are asked to help clean up their wings it is a sign of deep unwavering trust, this can either be friend or partner, the only way to tell is the words their wings speak to you, trusting you as a friend their wings will not more often, usually staying straight up and out.

But if viewing you as a partner their wings move often helping you reach deeper places, or often drooping down as their relax into your touch.

Also in public, if a flight mode bot is trying to court you, their wings will flare out and stretch wide in an attempt to block your view from any other bot from the surrounding area, trying to keep your attention on them and only them.

[wendichester]

⊹౨ৎ ₊˚ i'm home,

summary. dean comes home after weeks away.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 1216

notes. slight smutty ; mdni!

The front door swings open with a heavy thud. The sound is sharp enough to make your breath hitch, but you know it’s him—there’s no hesitation, no fumbling with the lock. Just the unmistakable weight of Dean stepping into the house.

Your heart jumps. You weren’t expecting him. You never do. His job—whatever the hell he does in that mysterious, classified “military” role he claims—keeps him away for days, sometimes weeks. He doesn’t have a schedule, doesn’t give you warning. He just shows up, worn and bruised, carrying the weight of something you don’t fully understand.

And yet, the second you hear his duffel bag drop, you’re moving.

You rush toward the door, socked feet slipping slightly on the hardwood, your body already reaching for him before you can think. And then there he is.

A mess.

Blood stains his shirt in dark patches, dirt streaks his jawline, and sweat clings to his skin. He smells like engine grease, like gunpowder, like Dean. His knuckles are raw, split open in places, his lip swollen, a thin cut riding high on his cheekbone.

But he’s here. He’s whole. And the smile he gives you—crooked, exhausted, so full of warmth it makes your chest ache—tells you everything you need to know.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice like gravel, and suddenly you’re breathing again.

“Dean.” His name comes out as an exhale of relief, as you throw your arms around his neck, pressing yourself into him. He grunts at the force of it but doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, wrapping you up tight. His fingers splay across your back, holding you against the solid heat of his body, as if he needs the reassurance just as much as you do.

“Missed you,” you murmur against his neck, feeling the rough scrape of stubble against your lips.

Dean lets out a breath, his grip tightening. “Missed you more.”

You pull back just enough to take him in—his tired green eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the exhaustion he wears like a second skin.

“You look like hell,” you whisper, reaching up to brush your thumb over the cut on his cheek.

Dean huffs a laugh, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. “You should see the other guy.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know what battles he fights, what enemies he faces out there, but you know one thing—he always comes back. To you.

“You’re here,” you murmur.

“I’m here,” he echoes, voice low and sure.

His eyes flick down to your lips, and that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes against yours, swallowing the words you might have said. It’s desperate, aching, a kiss that feels like a promise and a prayer all at once. His hands roam over your back, up your sides, gripping, holding. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and he groans into your mouth.

You barely register the way he starts moving, guiding you backward until your back meets the bedroom door. He kicks it open, walking you inside without breaking the kiss, without letting you go.

His hands slip beneath your shirt, palms rough and warm against your skin, tracing the curve of your waist before tugging the fabric up and over your head. He drinks you in like he’s been starved, his eyes dark, pupils blown.

“God, you're so beautiful,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping and sucking in a way that has heat curling low in your belly.

You reach for his shirt, but he beats you to it, yanking it off and tossing it aside. The sight of him—battered, scarred, but so breathtakingly solid—makes your pulse stutter.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, tracing just under the wound on his upper arm that was poorly patched up. Messy stitches, made by his brother Sam—which you had yet to meet.

Dean catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your fingers. “I’m fine,” he assures you. “Better now.”

He backs you up toward the bed, lips meeting yours again, slower this time, more reverent. His hands work their way down, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings, pushing them past your hips. They fall to the floor, and then he’s lifting you, laying you down with careful hands.

He follows you down, settling between your legs, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way. His lips never leave yours, not even when he reaches for your panties, tugging them down and tossing them blindly—where they land somewhere near the dresser, forgotten.

His fingers trace along your thighs, slow and teasing, sending shivers up your spine.

“Dean,” you breathe, arching into him.

He groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “You have no idea how much I love hearing you say my name like that.”

He kisses his way down your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands roam your body, memorizing, relearning, making up for every second of lost time.

When his fingers dip between your thighs, you whimper, hips rolling up into his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, watching the way you fall apart for him. "You always this needy for me?"

You nod, breathless.

His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark, heavy with something raw. He leans in, voice dropping.

"Missed you so much," he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your stomach. "You have no idea."

Then he’s between your thighs, and all you can do is feel.

The heat of his mouth, the slow drag of his tongue, the way he groans like he’s the one being wrecked by it. He holds you down, grips your hips like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Could be minutes. Could be hours. But by the time he finally drags himself up your body again, you’re panting, dizzy, wrecked.

Dean smirks, kissing you slow, deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Then, just as slowly, he lines himself up and sinks into you.

You both gasp, foreheads pressing together as he stretches you open, fills you in a way that makes you feel whole.

His breath is ragged, his hands trembling where they grip your hips.

"You okay?" he rasps.

You nod, nails raking down his back. "Yeah."

Dean exhales sharply, then moves.

It’s slow, deep, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he wants to remember this. His hands roam your body, his lips press hot kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, voice breaking. "You know that, right?"

Your heart clenches. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

"Always," you whisper against his lips. "I'm all yours."

Dean groans, rolling his hips deeper, dragging another gasp from your lips.

The world melts away.

Hours later, you’re tangled together beneath the sheets, your body still humming, your limbs heavy and satisfied. Dean’s arm is slung over your waist, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against your hip.

You shift, turning to face him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You should sleep.”

He huffs a tired laugh, eyes barely open. “Not yet.”

Your lips curve. “Why not?”

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Because I’m home.”

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @KayleighWinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @lmg14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20

[onlyangel4]

change of pace. ln4. smau.

wwe interviewer!reader x lando norris

synopsis: you never expected a wwe f1 crossover to change your life, but there you were, trading the ring-side mic for the formula 1 paddock. what started as a one-off commentary swap for charity turned into something much more when you met lando norris. his smile was disarming, his charm effortless, and somehow, between engine roars and media chaos, you two just clicked. one race weekend was all it took to blur the lines between two worlds and make your heart race in an entirely new way.

faceclaim: cathy kelley

skysports

liked by y/ninsta, lando, jensonbutton and 823,338 others

tagged: y/ninsta

skysportsf1: as a charity challenge wwe interviewer y/n y/ln and our very own jenson button will be swapping jobs for one night only with y/n working on the interview team for the austin gp and jenson joining pat mcaffee and michael call for raw the following monday. this is quite the challenge for both parties partaking and both are up to have fun.

view all 11,283 comments

y/ninsta: f1 fans please be nice to me, i have working in hocley, basketball and baseball but never motorsports

jensonbutton: wtf is a suplex

user1: this is so stupid. i love it.

user2: i have no idea who she is but she is gorgeous

user3: this is such a fun idea

user4: as y/n's biggest fan i can't wait

y/ninsta posted a story tagging skysportsf1

written: beginning to regret taking on this challenge, see you tomorrow austin

inthepaddock posted a story

written: wrestling interviewer y/n y/ln has made it to the austin paddock for media day ahead of her swap with jenson button.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you adjusted the mic in your hand, trying to ignore how out of place you felt surrounded by carbon fiber and pit crews instead of steel chairs and pyrotechnics. the formula 1 paddock was a different kind of chaos, sleek, precise, but no less intense. still, you had a job to do, and you weren’t about to let a different kind of adrenaline throw you off your game.

your producer gave you the nod, and right on cue, lando norris approached with that easy grin you’d seen on a thousand highlight reels. he was dressed in full mclaren gear, hair slightly messy from the helmet, eyes bright and a little curious as he glanced at your wwe-branded mic.

"hi", he said, his voice light, playful. "you’re definitely not from around here."

you laughed, holding out your hand. "guilty. i’m from the other ring, less tires, more steel chairs."

he chuckled, shaking your hand. his grip was warm, confident. "this’ll be interesting."

"it’s a crossover special", you explained, lifting the mic between you two. "i’m here to ask the real hard-hitting questions."

"oh no", he teased, raising his eyebrows. "should i be worried?"

you tilted your head, playing along. "that depends. on a scale of one to ten, how emotionally attached are you to your helmet?"

his laugh was instant, boyish and genuine. "a solid nine. i think i just fell in love with your interview style."

you blinked, caught off guard. he wasn’t flirting was he? but then again, the way his smile lingered and his eyes didn’t quite leave yours, maybe he was.

and just like that, something shifted. the interview went on, full of easy banter and soft laughs, but you both knew it: something had started in those first few minutes. maybe it was just the novelty of two worlds colliding or maybe it was the beginning of something much more thrilling.

the interview wrapped, but neither of you moved right away. your mic was still in your hand, though lowered now, and lando lingered just a little too long for someone with a tight schedule.

"well", you said, smiling, "thank you for humouring the wrestling world today. you survived."

"barely", he said, mock dramatic. "you asked about my helmet and my skincare routine. brutal stuff."

you shrugged playfully. "people want answers."

he tilted his head, giving you a look that felt curious. intentional. "are you staying for the race?"

"i am", you said. "they’ve got me on commentary. something about getting an ‘outsider’s perspective,’ which is probably code for ‘let’s hope she doesn’t say anything that gets us sued."

he laughed again, that same warm, infectious sound. "well, in that case, i'll make sure i win."

you raised an eyebrow. "oh, confident."

"you’ll see", he said, backing away a step. but then he paused. "hey, uh, after the race, if you're still around..."

your heart skipped.

"would you be up for grabbing a coffee or something" he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish in a way that made him even more charming. "unless that's against code or something."

you smiled, trying not to look as giddy as you felt. "i think i can break a few rules."

he grinned, that boyish kind of grin that made the paddock blur for a second.

"good", he said, walking backward, pointing at you. "it’s a date. kind of."

you watched him disappear toward the garage, your mic still in hand, your heart still thudding louder than any engine in the paddock.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

landofan posted a story

written: i don't know who y/n is but i need her interviewing lando every race weekend because look how happy he was

y/ninsta

liked by lando, georgerussell3, rhearipley_wwe and 348,582 others

tagged: skysportsf1

y/ninsta: first ever gp was a success if i do say so myself

view all 11,238 comments

lando: it was great having you in the paddock

y/ninsta: thank you for answering my stupid questions

rhearipley_wwe: never leave me again

y/ninsta: missed you mami

user5: the last slide. im gonna be sick.

user6: i only found out who you are on thursday but now i'm obsessed

user7: petition to get y/n at every gp

user8: obsessed with how you vibe with lando

y/ninsta posted a story

danielricciardo posted a story tagging lando

written: reunited for something very fun.

landonorrisupdates posted a story

written: lando has arrived at madison square garden with daniel ricciardo ahead of monday night raw.

danielricciardo posted a story

written: i just met john cena. wtf.

lando posted a story

written: i feel like a wag

lando

liked by y/ninsta, skysportsf1, oscarpiastri and 928,384 others

tagged: y/ninsta

lando: six months ago we met when you came to my work, thought i'd repay the favour.

view all 29,848 comments

y/ninsta: best surprise ever

lando: loved watching you work

danielricciardo: thanks for letting me third wheel. meeting john cena is bucket list shit.

skysportsf1: changing my job title to matchmaker

user9: omg what a perfect couple

user10: i need new content immediately

user11: those are my parents

[kayawolfhorse]

He sticks around for a while after the disappointment of his failed trap. There’s no one left to sue him over it.

The blood is just starting to crust over where it clings to Joel’s scabbard, and it flakes upon his skin. His clothing is still filthy, but it hardly matters—the grime is of this server, and will remain with it when he leaves.

Sunset blankets the world in fiery oranges and brilliant pinks, dripping darkness like spilled ink across cliff sides and into pocket-marked craters. In its wake, without the chaos of the wild cards, in the absence of any living thing, the silence is near-deafening. Joel sighs once, loudly, just to fill the space, and does it again when he thinks about how it’d annoy Jimmy if he were still here.

The bridge to the base is remarkably intact, and the planks creak beneath Joel’s steps. He spares Gem’s empty cobbled barn a fleeting glance and reminds himself that he’ll see her soon as he marches up to his car and sets about ridding his inventory of unnecessary junk in the grass next to it.

He can practically hear Grian’s insistence that he get on with it already, but one of them is dead, and the other has a car to fix, so Joel effectively banishes the thought and pokes his tongue out in the vague direction of the sky above him.

Joel works through the night. Exploded as it had been, just about every part of the car needs repairing. The exterior comes easily enough, and it’s by torchlight that he reconstructs the engine, using up the last stores of his and Gem’s iron before raiding Etho’s waterlogged chests to finish the job.

Just before dawn is about to break, Joel slides into the driver’s seat and gives the keys a turn. The engine sputters for a moment before roaring to life. Joel grins.

It’s a bumpy ride through the center of the map, and Joel doesn’t want to talk about the times he had to rapidly construct a bridge across the rivers to get across. Once the ruined bases are confined to his rearview mirror and all that stretches before him is unmarred terrain, he floors it, giving a whoop in delight as the speedometer climbs higher and higher.

The blue shimmer of the world border overtakes the frame of the windshield. The pale morning sun has just started its ascent. Joel pushes forwards, hands tight against the wheel, teeth clenched firmly together. Thirty blocks, twenty blocks, five blocks away—

Joel slams through the border to the sound of shattering glass, and his vision goes black all at once.

—☾—

“For the record, that should not have worked,” Grian says. “And did you really have to bring that here?”

Joel’s not entirely sure where here is. Grian looks mostly corporeal, though his edges waver like the illusion of water against hot pavement, and Joel himself feels pretty solid, but all around them is vast nothingness. Pearl and Scott are bright flashes of red and blue somewhere behind Grian, and Joel can just barely make out Martyn and Scar further back.

It’s a little dizzying, honestly, and Joel quickly resolves to not look down. Despite the nausea that threatens to bubble up his throat, he makes no move to stop the smirk that spreads across his face. He gives the car’s hood at his side an affectionate pat, and is smug as he says, “Much like family, the car is forever, Grian.”

Grian buries his face in his hands.

[zerosbubble]

hey lovely! it's @nevereclipse (on anon cause side blog). I'm absolutely obsessed with your like father, like rookie series (anything you write with Tim is just chefs kiss). would you mind writing a story where Tim's rookie is really stressed about their six months exam? like perfectionism, either superrr stressed before hand or not happy with their mark afterwards, and Tim helps them/comforts them? love your work sm!

What You Don’t See Yet.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, Like Rookie.

POV: Overwhelmed by the pressure to be perfect for your six-month evaluation, Tim Bradford sees through the cracks—and he won’t let you spiral. Through quiet guidance, firm words, and on-the-job moments, he helps you realize you’re more ready than you think.

A/N: Always a pleasure to hear from you, Eclipse! Thank you for the sweet message and request, this is adorable and I definitely enjoyed writing it! 💕

You hadn’t stopped moving since the start of shift. Not really.

Your nerves were like a second heartbeat—fast, insistent, relentless. Hands fidgeting with your vest straps. Pacing while waiting on call sheets. Tapping your pen against the desk during report writing until Tim’s eyes cut over with a sharp look that made your hand freeze mid-air.

But now, seated in the passenger seat of the shop, you couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Your knee bounced, leg jittering with a mind of its own like you were wired straight into a live socket.

Tim noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You gonna shake the whole damn shop apart, or what?” he asked, his voice even, calm—eyes still on the road.

You startled like you’d been caught stealing. “Sorry,” you muttered, forcing your leg to still. “Just… tired.”

Liar.

You could feel the word in his silence before he even said it.

“Bull.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “What?”

“I said bull,” he repeated, tone clipped. “You’ve been on edge all day. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

You tried to swallow the lump crawling up your throat. Looked out the window like the lights passing by might drown out your thoughts.

“It’s—it’s the six-month eval,” you finally said. Quiet.

Tim didn’t respond right away. Just flicked the turn signal, calm and composed, merging into a slower lane like he was waiting for you to keep going.

“And?”

You shifted in your seat, feeling every buckle and seam in your vest. “And, I need to crush it.”

He finally glanced at you—one of those looks. The kind that felt like floodlights cracking you open. Like he wasn’t just hearing you—he was reading between every damn word.

“Crush it,” he echoed, tone unreadable. “Why?”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Because if I don’t, it proves everyone right. That I’m too young. That I’m not ready. That I don’t belong out here.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

Instead, he turned on his blinker and pulled the shop smoothly into a parking lot—quiet, mostly empty, lit by a flickering overhead light and the orange glow bleeding from a liquor store window.

The shop rolled to a stop. He put it in park. Killed the engine.

Silence.

You sat there, hands twisted in your lap.

Then Tim turned toward you fully, the weight of his posture shifting—shoulders squared, arms crossing in that solid, grounded way of his.

“You listen to me, and you listen good,” he said, tone hard but not harsh. “This job doesn’t give a damn how old you are. What it cares about is how you show up. And you? You show up. Every single day.”

You parted your lips, some excuse or protest waiting on your tongue, but he cut you off with a look.

“Do you make mistakes? Sure. So does everybody else. You think your eval needs to be perfect? It won’t be. Because you’re not perfect. And you don’t need to be.”

His words echoed in your chest like they were being carved into bone.

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You’ve already proven yourself.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice dropped an octave—deeper, more pointed.

“You think I didn’t bomb parts of my eval? You think I haven’t sat where you are, thinking if I messed it up, I’d never get taken seriously?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re not here to be flawless,” he continued. “You’re here to learn. To grow. To take hits and keep moving. That’s what makes a good cop. That’s what makes you worth the badge.”

Your fingers curled around the hem of your shirt. They were trembling. Just a little. But enough.

Tim saw it.

He sighed, quieter this time. “You’re good, kid. Better than you think. And yeah, I’m hard on you. You know why?”

You nodded, voice small. “Because you want me to be ready?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Because you are ready. You just don’t see it yet.”

The words landed with a thud—solid and final. Like the earth settling beneath your feet.

You blinked, jaw clenched against the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Tim didn’t soften. Not visibly. But his hand reached over and patted your shoulder—firm, grounding, real. It wasn’t tender. It was steady.

“Now take a breath. Straighten up. We’re not done with shift, and I need you clearheaded.”

You nodded once. Shaky. Then again, stronger. “Yes, sir.”

His voice was gentler then, but just as sure. “Good. Let’s go.”

He started the engine again, shifting it into gear without fanfare. Just Bradford, making damn sure you knew your worth—even if he had to drill it into your head himself.

And the world kept turning—but slower now. Calmer.

You weren’t okay yet. Not fully.

But you believed him.

And that was enough to keep going.

Post-exam, though? Hit you like a brick with malicious intent.

The fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the bullpen. It was late—too late for how long you’d been sitting in front of your locker, still in uniform, still frozen.

You stared at the evaluation sheet in your hands. It had crumpled slightly from your grip, edges damp where your fingers had trembled. You read the feedback for what had to be the tenth time, the words blurring around the edges. Your chest was tight. Too tight.

“Satisfactory in judgment. Needs improvement under pressure.”

That line echoed over and over in your head, louder than the rustling papers, louder than the clacking keyboard a few desks away. It was all you could hear.

You blinked hard, throat aching. The scent of old coffee grounds lingered in the air. Someone had microwaved leftover pasta—again—but it didn’t even register.

You should’ve done better. You needed to do better.

Footsteps approached from behind—heavy, measured, and familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Kid,” Tim’s voice was gruff, cutting through the spiral. “You planning on camping out here, or…?”

You didn’t answer.

Tim sighed, and the bench beside you creaked under his weight as he sat down. You kept your eyes on the paper, willing it to disappear, or change, or both.

“Talk to me,” he said.

Your throat closed up.

“I messed it up,” you murmured. “I should’ve scored higher. I knew the scenarios. I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Didn’t respond fast enough. Froze when it mattered.”

The paper in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve. The words were smudged a little near the corner from how tightly you’d been holding it—creased, sweat-softened, like it had been through war and back. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up just yet.

Tim’s gaze remained unreadable but steady. You felt it on you, the way you always did. Sharp. Grounding. Impossible to shake.

He glanced at the paper, then back at your face.

“You passed,” he said, voice calm, slow and deliberate—like it needed to be heard through the static in your head.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. “I barely passed,” you bit out. “That’s not good enough. Not for this job.”

The words came fast, bitter, too familiar. You’d been saying them in your head all day. This was just the first time they slipped out loud.

A pause stretched between you. Not long. Just long enough to feel like the air had thickened.

Then Tim’s voice came, low but sharp—like the snap of a taut rope.

“Good enough for who?” he asked. “For Grey? For me?”

He remained sat next to you, his stance firm but not aggressive. “Because neither of us put barely on your report. You did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. No words came. Just that lump in your throat—the same one that had been there since you got your results. It burned behind your ribs, a quiet kind of shame you couldn’t shake.

You looked down. Couldn’t meet his eyes.

He shifted slightly, not backing down.

“You want to be perfect. I get it. But that’s not the job. The job is making the call, learning from it, and staying alive to make the next one.”

The words scraped against the wall you’d built up all day. Slowly, brick by brick, they chipped it.

Your fingers clenched the paper again, crumpling it tighter in your grip.

“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess up out there. I don’t want to get someone hurt. Or get you hurt.”

The admission cracked something open—soft, exposed. You hadn’t even realized it until it came out. But it was the truth.

The room went quiet. Not the awkward kind. The kind that settled around you like a pause before impact.

Tim didn’t move for a long second. Then his expression shifted—subtle, but real. The edge in his eyes softened. His voice lowered, not losing strength, but gaining something steadier. Warmer.

“You’re not going to,” he said. “Because you don’t quit. And because I’ve got your back.”

The words hit hard. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

And that made them worse.

You blinked fast, vision blurring slightly.

A memory flashed—uninvited but vivid. Your first week on the job. Nervous energy riding high. You trailing too close behind him on a call, trying to prove you were sharp, fast, useful. And Tim yanking you back by your vest a second before a suspect swung wide with a pipe.

No shouting. No panic. Just that laser-focused look he’d fixed on you as you stood there stunned.

“You’re here to survive. Do that first.”

Back in the present, your breath hitched. The locker room blurred again at the edges.

Tim hadn’t looked away. He never did, not when it counted.

“Take the win, kid,” he said, voice a little softer now. “You passed. Not because you got lucky, but because you’re learning. Every damn day.”

You gave a slow nod, jaw tight, voice caught somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t speak—not yet. You weren’t sure if it’d come out steady if you tried.

Tim didn’t push. Just gave you a moment, then added, businesslike but not cold:

“I want you rested for tomorrow.”

You looked up, confused for a beat.

“Because I’m putting you behind the wheel for most of the shift,” he continued. “And I expect you to call the shots when it’s your turn.”

That made you blink. “Wait. Me? All day? You never let me drive—”

He gave a short nod, like the decision had already been made and he didn’t see the point in debating it.

“Best way to prove to yourself what I already know.” He got up, already facing toward the doorway, but his words lingered. “You can do this,” he said. “Even when your head says otherwise.”

Then he was gone—out the door and down the hall, leaving you in the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of his belief in you.

And for the first time all day, the paper in your hand didn’t feel so heavy.

The next morning started early—before the sun even had a chance to warm the streets of Los Angeles. A low fog lingered above the pavement, curling between squad cars in the lot like smoke that hadn’t cleared. You stood by your locker, already dressed, boots laced, vest snug. But your hands were trembling.

You could still feel yesterday in your bones.

That exam. The feedback. The way it made your stomach twist. And worst of all, the expression on Tim’s face when he told you “You passed”—firm, serious, but not the kind of praise you felt you deserved. He said you did well. Your brain told you he was just being nice. He wasn’t. He never was.

But logic and feelings never played fair.

You were zoning out again—thinking too hard—until a paper coffee cup appeared in your peripheral vision.

“Drink it,” Tim said, not waiting for a thanks as he walked past, heading for roll call.

You stared at the coffee for a second, then followed, hands finally steadying with the warmth of the cup in your grip.

The first call was routine—at first.

Dispute in a strip mall parking lot. You followed Tim’s lead, clipboard tucked under your arm as you approached the two arguing men. One was pacing, the other red-faced and shouting. You kept your tone calm, your posture open, repeating everything you’d been trained to do.

You were halfway through separating them when one of them threw a punch.

You didn’t freeze this time. Your reflexes were faster than your thoughts.

You ducked. Moved in. Grabbed his wrist, pivoted your body like you’d practiced in defensive tactics, and forced him back against the hood of a car, cuffing him with clean, practiced motions.

When it was over, your heart was pounding—but you weren’t spiraling.

You looked up and Tim was already watching you from across the lot, one hand on his belt, expression unreadable.

Back in the shop, after turning the guy over to another officer, Tim gave you a nod.

“Clean,” he said.

You blinked. “Clean?”

“Your takedown. No hesitation. No overcorrection.” He glanced over his shoulder at the commotion dying down. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re growing. You didn’t let your nerves get in the way of your instincts.”

Something about hearing it now, in the field, after doing it right—meant more than the score on your evaluation ever could.

You nodded slowly, your chest feeling lighter.

“Thanks, sir.”

Tim shrugged. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who put in the work.”

The shift moved on. You responded to a stolen vehicle, a shoplifting call, and a welfare check. Each scene came with moments of doubt—split-second flashes of memory from your early weeks, moments you’d stumbled, fumbled, froze.

But you didn’t now.

You kept moving. You remembered Tim’s voice, his corrections, his dry sarcasm and steady calm.

And at every stop, he was just… there. Quietly guiding, standing just far enough to give you space, but close enough that if anything happened, he’d be in your corner in half a second flat.

It wasn’t until the last call—almost at end of shift—that the day gave you one final test.

A teenager had been reported missing, last seen leaving school.

You and Tim canvassed the area, checking alleyways and bus stops, when you spotted someone curled behind a dumpster. Thin frame, hoodie pulled low. You crouched, gentle voice easing the kid out, while your heart pounded in fear of what you might find.

She was okay. Scared, cold, but okay.

You offered her your jacket, spoke softly while you waited for her parents to arrive. Your words were careful, calm. Reassuring.

And Tim? He stood back and let you handle it.

You didn’t notice he was watching you like a hawk until it was all over.

Back in the shop, you slumped into the passenger seat, the door clicking shut behind you with a dull thunk. Your vest felt heavier than usual—like your body had only just remembered how tired it was now that the adrenaline was gone.

You rubbed your hands together, then dragged one down your face, the skin clammy with sweat and tension. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, like your lungs were still catching up from the last call.

Tim didn’t speak at first. Just adjusted the rearview mirror with a practiced hand, his movements calm, deliberate. The cruiser’s engine hummed under you, warm air filtering through the vents, soft against your chilled skin.

Then, without looking over, he said, “I remember when that would’ve wrecked you.”

His voice wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. Just matter-of-fact, grounded in something that felt like pride.

“When you would’ve stumbled over every sentence trying to talk to her.”

You let out a slow exhale, head tipping back against the seat. The hum of street noise outside dulled to a low murmur through the glass. “Yeah,” you said quietly.

You remembered too.

You remembered that first call with a DV victim—how your voice had caught in your throat, how your hands had trembled when you tried to take a statement, how you’d looked to Tim for backup not because the scene was dangerous, but because you didn’t trust yourself to get it right.

But today, it had been different. You’d moved with purpose. Spoken with clarity. You had looked her in the eyes and told her she wasn’t alone—and meant it. You’d navigated the entire scene without a single glance toward your T.O.

Tim didn’t say anything else. But his silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t the kind that made you second-guess yourself or fill the air with nervous chatter.

It was solid.

Like brick and mortar.

The silence of someone who had seen your worst days and never once backed away from them. The kind that said you did good, without needing to spell it out.

You turned your head slightly and caught his profile—jaw set, gaze steady on the windshield, one hand resting lightly on the gearshift. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just about passing the eval anymore.

It wasn’t even about the numbers on the report or the comments scribbled in the margins.

It was about every rough shift that came before this one. Every moment you thought you couldn’t keep up, every time you’d failed and come back anyway. It was about how you showed up today—not perfect, but prepared. Capable.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t trying to convince anyone that you belonged.

You weren’t trying to convince him.

You were trying to convince yourself.

And in that quiet space between shift calls, in the warmth of the shop’s late afternoon light filtering through the windshield, something in you finally settled.

You believed it.

You belonged out here.

The precinct had thinned out by the time you returned. Most officers were already gone, the last rays of sun bleeding over the city like the world had exhaled a little. The bullpen was quiet, low-lit, with the hum of vending machines and distant radio chatter the only background noise.

You were at your locker, peeling off your vest, when Tim reappeared with two bottled waters and a couple of granola bars.

You stared at them, one brow arched. “This your version of a steak dinner?”

Tim leaned against the row of lockers beside you. “If you wanted a steak, you should’ve tackled a better suspect.”

A small, tired laugh left you before you could stop it. He cracked the faintest smile in return.

“Seriously though,” he said, tone dipping into something lower, more even, “you did good today.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Felt different. Like… I wasn’t constantly second-guessing every move.”

“That’s because you weren’t,” Tim said. “That wasn’t luck out there. That was training. Control. You let your instincts kick in because you trusted yourself.”

You looked down at your hands, flexed them once. “I think… part of me still doesn’t believe I passed.”

Tim’s voice was quiet but firm. “Then believe me.”

You looked at him.

He nodded once. “You’ve come farther than you realize. And I’m not gonna let you burn yourself out chasing some imaginary finish line.”

You blinked hard. “You really suck at pep talks.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, crossing his arms again, “you suck at eating lunch without being told.”

You smiled, warm and lopsided. “Touché.”

Tim reached out and ruffled your hair—not playfully, but with a certain worn fondness. Like someone used to watching over something fragile until it found its strength.

“Go home,” he said. “Get some rest. You earned it.”

You hesitated for a second. Then, softer: “Thanks, sir.”

He gave a single nod, eyes steady. “Anytime, Kid.”

And as you stepped out into the fading sun, boots heavy from the day but heart a little lighter, you realized something important:

You weren’t just surviving out here anymore.

You were growing.

And Tim had seen it before you ever could.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads @gublerstylesobrien1238

[f1withespresso]

It's always fucking Max | pt. 3

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — chapter word count: +4.2k

✎ — radio: psst... new chapter is out! Thanks for all the incredible feedback! Unfortunately I am not able to tag everyone in the taglist (i don't know why??) but the plan is to post a chapter every day, so yeah... Anyway: at the end is a little playlist :) Enjoy!

series masterlist

The cherry blossoms have already started to bloom in Suzuka, but there is no time for you to appreciate the soft pink haze clinging to the trees. Not when your head is pounding with the sound of Oscar Piastri’s name echoing through the paddock like a fucking mantra. "Oscar Piastri takes the win in Suzuka! What a start to the season for McLaren in this third race!“ Cue the fireworks. Cue the orange shirts. Cue your jaw locked so tight, you are half convinced your theeth will start cracking as you are grinding them against each other. Second place. Once again. And not a satisfying second either. No, this one was teeth-gritted, front-wing-nudging, brake-smoke-in-the-mirrors kind of second. You’d fought like hell, diving on the inside of Turn 1, flirting with gravel at the Degner Curve, practically spooning Verstappen through the Spoon Curve to catch up—and still, it wasn’t enough to get to Oscar. "Solid drive," your engineer says, voice static-crackled through the radio. "P2. Great points for the team.“ You don't answer. There is nothing to say on radio that wouldn’t be career-ending.

The press room in Suzuka smells like burnt coffee and sweat, and you are sandwiched to the side of Oscar and Max in the world's most pissed-off party sandwich. Max looks frustrated with his P3. He had wanted this to be a win so bad as well. Oscar, ever the golden boy, smiles like he had a permanent deal with Colgate. "Incredible race, Oscar," the interviewer gushes. „Almost back-to-back wins to open the season. Did you expect to be this dominant so early on?“ Oscar chuckles modestly. "The car feels good. We’ve done a lot of work over the break, and yeah—it’s paying off.“ You fix your gaze on a point above the camera and don’t blink. "[Y/N], great recovery after a tough qualifying," another journalist chimes in. "Do you feel the pressure, knowing your teammate's now leading the champtionship again after you were tied after last race?“ You tilt your head, lips curling into a blade-thin smile. "Pressure’s part of the job. But if I wanted easy wins and no competition, I would have never made it beyond karting.“ Oscar looks at you then, just briefly, and there is something in his eyes. Like he is still trying to find the version of you from last season—the one who used to throw popcorn at his head during Netflix nights in hotel rooms and send him memes at 2am. The one he would yap with throughout press conferences, which would drive journalists crazy, because they never got a proper answer to their questions, only meaningless jokes. That version is dead. This new version of you is much stranger. Much more serious. 

You don’t remember much after the press conference. A blur of cameras, damp handshakes, and the polite chill of Suzuka’s paddock. Now, almost a day later, you're in your apartment in London — jet-lagged, hollowed out, and still wearing the hoodie you fell asleep in on the plane. The suitcase sits unopened by the front door, wheels dirty from the streets of London between Paddington Station and your apartment. Rain taps softly against the window, steady and relentless. You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under you, a mug of tea gone cold on the table. The TV’s on but muted. Your mind is somewhere else entirely when your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you — sharp, sudden, insistent.

Oscar [8:34 p.m]: Great drive yesterday. Proud of you.

You stare at the message until the screen dimmes. Then open the team group chat instead. 

You [8:36 p.m.]: Will need new tyre data in the morning. Let’s go over stint degradation before Bahrain.

📍Suzuka International Racing Course

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and 465.075 others

yourusername fought hard for that one 😓 not the result i wanted, but we go again! 🇯🇵🌸

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mclaren P2 with grit and fire — proud of you, always. Let’s keep pushing 🧡

oscarpiastri still one hell of a drive!

username1 You still killed it [Y/N]!! P2 is still amazing 🔥

username2 she’s gonna snap one of these days and I fully support her shunting him into a gravel trap if he pulls another smug cooldown room moment 😭

username3 She’s clearly under insane pressure. Honestly think she’s struggling to process what it means to be in a title fight now. Don’t forget, this is only her second full season

username4 oscar’s comment is so boyfriend coded wtf is going on 😭 and WHY is she ignoring him in this post omg say something back pls 😭😭😭

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Bahrain is hell under floodlights. The desert wind blows sand into your helmet visor and the tarmac radiates heat even after nightfall. But you feel it in your bones: this was your race. You launch off the line from P3 like you’d been fired from a cannon, slicing past Charles before Turn 1 and harassing Oscar’s rear wing like a mosquito on a mission. The team warnes you to cool the tyres. You ignore them. You are done playing safe. Lap 23. DRS wide open. You go for it. "Driver ahead: Piastri, half a second. You’re gaining,“ is your engineer informing you over the radio. You lunge into Turn 10, late braking like a lunatic, tyres locking up with a scream. For a split second, your front wing is right there—a breath from Oscar’s diffuser. But he holds it. Just barely. "Careful," comes the radio. "Watch the temps.“ „Copy,“ you reply dryly. You follow the teams orders. Manage your tire and brake temperature. Keep your head down. It brings you P2. After the race, cameras catch you stalking down the pit lane, race suit peeled off halfway, expression carved from granite. Another goddamn podium ceremony where Oscar will get the big trophy and you'll have to smile like it didn’t feel like swallowing glass. The broadcasters love it. "Rising tension at McLaren! Championship battle heating up already—„ "—and it seems like [Y/N] is starting to crack under the pressure.“ "—maybe it’s just too hard to stay objective when your biggest rival used to be your closest friend.“ „Or more,“ someone adds.

The flashbulbs hit your eyes as you step off the paddock scale. Your race suit is still half-zipped, fireproofs damp with sweat, jaw locked so tight you’ve nearly bitten through the inside of your cheek. The Sky Sports mic is already waiting. Natalie Pinkham smiles — kind, professional, doing her job — and you force your shoulders back, adjust your posture. You know how you look. You know how you have to look. “You had a great drive today, [Y/N],” Natalie starts gently. “Another podium finish, P2. I imagine that’s still a frustrating result for you after last weekends win?” You give her the tightest smile your cheek muscles will allow. You’re sure it doesn't reach your eyes in the slightest. “No, it’s not what I wanted,” you say. “P2 is fine on paper, if you only care about the constructer's, but I didn’t come here to finish second. Not to Oscar, not to anyone.” Natalie raises a brow, almost impressed. “There’s a lot of talk around the garage — around the whole paddock, honestly — about how competitive you and Oscar are. McLaren’s got a real title fight brewing between the two of you. Do you feel like you’re being treated as the second seat?” You exhale through your nose. Not a laugh, not quite. “ The media can talk. People can speculate. I, for my part can say, didn’t get into Formula 1 to play supporting cast. I’m here to fight. And I am fighting. Every weekend.” You see her posture shift — not defensive, just alert. The reporter knows that she struck something real. “Right,” Natalie says. “Speaking of fighting — you made a pretty bold move on Oscar going into turn ten. We all held our breath up in commentary. Were you feeling the pressure today?” You nod, calm, composed, not letting the adrenaline clawing at your chest show. “I'd not necessarily call it pressure. I am already doing a good job out there and the team is very happy about a 1-2. But for me it's P1 or nothing. That’s racing. If there’s a gap, I’ll go for it. Clean. Hard. That’s the kind of driver I am.” “Some people are saying you’ve changed this year on and off track,” she adds, voice lowering slightly. “That the relationship between you and Oscar—last year’s chemistry—it feels different. Hollow, even.” It’s like someone cracking open a door you’ve spent weeks bolting shut. You lift your chin. Smile. Say it like you’ve practiced. “We’re teammates. We respect each other very much. But we’re also fighting for the same goal. That changes things.” Natalie hesitates, but only for a second. Then she goes for it. “And what's that goal of yours? First female World Champion?” You don’t blink. “Exactly. I think I have a very good shot at it this year. The car's great. My driving is great. I am way more experienced than last year. I don't think I have any reason to hide out there on track.” Your voice is flat. Unshakable. You want it to sound like the boom of an engine, like thunder rolling in from the distance. A warning. A promise. Natalie smiles again, this time with something that looks like admiration. “Strong words. Thanks for your time, [Y/N].” You nod once and walk away before she can say anything else. You’ve played your part. Held the line. But it burns behind your ribs—the quiet rage of almost winning. You think about turn 10. About how close you were. How much closer you’ll be next time. They think you're under pressure. They think you're unraveling. Let them. You’re not here to be liked. You’re here to win. And you’re not done yet.

username1 not her staring down the camera like it insulted her personally, she’s coming for that championship username2 the shift in tone from “me and oscar are just vibing 😇” to “i will destroy him and drink champagne from his hollowed-out helmet” username4 she’s so done playing nice username5 “she’s cracking under pressure” no babes she’s sharpening the knife username6 she is one P2 away from cutting the brake lines on his MCL39

The Bahrain post-race debrief has descended into a swamp of technical analysis and clipped voices. Telemetry comparisons. Tyre degradation curves. Aero balance. Words thrown across the room like grenades, dressed up in professionalism. You barely hear them. You sit there — posture perfect, jaw set, eyes fixed on the data screen even though the numbers had started to blur. Sweat still clings to the back of your neck under the collar of your McLaren shirt, dried now, but acrid. Like defeat.

„Stint two again," someone is saying over the headset. Maybe Will. Maybe Oscar. Maybe a ghost. "That's where the delta opened up.“ You clench your jaw tighter. You know. Of course you fucking know. Your mind had been running that moment on loop for hours — every apex you kissed too late, every kerb you mounted too hard. You'd practically tattooed the Bahrain International Circuit across the inside of your skull. Your mouth feels like it had been stuffed with cotton. You sit up straighter, adjusted your posture like a soldier being inspected. “Stint two was my fault. I wasn’t as good on hard tire managment as I should be,” you say flatly, cutting across whoever was still talking. “And I already took too much out of the tyres in the first stint. Lost grip under braking into turn 8. Cost me a second or two. Won’t happen again.” Oscar’s head tilts slightly. Just enough for you to catch it out of the corner of your eye. “That’s what I was thinking too,” he says. His voice is... careful. Polite. Like you were teammates again. Like anything was normal. You don’t reply. You don’t look at him. The moment passes like bad air — stifling, then gone. Nothing's normal anymore.

After the meeting, you storm out before the others could even wrap up. PR tries to follow. You wave them off with a clipped “not now” that brokered no argument. You need space. You need silence. You need— “Hey, wait!” His voice stops you just outside the motorhome. Oscar. You turn, arms crossed. Professional smile. Barely. He is already holding his phone. Social media filming duty. Right. Fucking fantastic. “They need like five minutes of content,” he says. “They want us to do a ‘driver reaction’ thing together. Bahrain edit. Win and all.” “Of course they do.” You smile through gritted teeth. “Then let's do it, I suppose.” The camera light clicks on. Oscar puts on his media face: soft grin, bright eyes. “We just wrapped up the Bahrain Grand Prix — amazing job by the team, car felt incredible, great fight out there.” He looks at you for your cue. You don't miss a beat. You know how to play this game. “Yeah, congrats to Oscar for the win. I gave it everything, but P2 today. I’ll come back even stronger in Saudi!” Your voice is even. Friendly. Fake as shit. Oscar glances sideways — maybe expecting a bit more. Maybe remembering how last year you would’ve nudged him in the ribs or thrown in some snark. Nothing now. Just the heat of the desert night between you. They cut the recording. You turn to walk away. But he says your name again. You stop, fists clenching just out of frame. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, too soft for anyone else to hear. “You don’t have to ice me out.” You turn, slowly. Met his eyes. They are too kind. It makes you angry. “You’re ahead in the championship,” you say. “Just don’t get greedy.” His jaw twitches. You don't wait for a reply.

And that night, it all comes apart. You sit on the floor of your hotel bathroom, legs pulled up to your chest, still in your team gear. The room is dark, the only light a soft white bleeding in from the hallway under the door. Your visor is long gone, but it still feels like something was fogging up your eyes. You can hear the echo of the broadcast still playing in your head — the way your name was spoken with that frustrating tone. Admirable effort. Strong second. Another podium. Another second. Another almost. And Oscar? Oscar was golden. Precise. Cool under pressure. With that same ever-cool, humble smile as always. You used to admire it. You thought it was cute. Now, it just pisses you off. Your phone buzzes beside the sink. You don’t check it. Don’t need to. It would likely be him. It always is after a race — he never let a Sunday close without saying something. You used to love that about him. Now? Now it is a landmine. You press the heel of your palm to your forehead, nails digging into your scalp. You are so fucking tired. But not sleepy. No, sleep was a luxury for people who weren’t being turned into a headline. „[Y/N] struggles under championship pressure.“ "McLaren’s golden duo turning frosty.“ "Too emotional. Too reckless. Too close to Oscar Piastri.“ God, they really were vultures, you come to that realisation once again. But you are feeding them, aren’t you? By finishing second. By flinching. By caring. You bang your head lightly against the tiled wall behind you. Just once. Just enough to feel it.

And then, just like a curse, his voice drops into your head, clear as if he was there beside you. "Let’s go over sector two together, yeah? I think we’re losing time there.“ You remember exactly when he’d said it. Not today — not even this race. It was Brazil. Last season. A shitty quali had put you P9, he was starting third. You were fuming — mostly at yourself, but he'd found you in the driver’s room, your hands trembling around a water bottle you weren’t drinking from. No cameras. No PR. Just Oscar. Unfiltered. "We’ll fix it. Come on. Sector two — you always push too early into the Descida do Lago. Let’s go over it together.“ You had looked up at him then. The way he’d said “we.” Back then, it had meant something. Now? Now it was a knife. Not we. Not anymore. You pull your knees tighter to your chest, like you could hold yourself together physically if your brain was trying so hard to fall apart. The phone buzzes again. You finally look.

Oscar [21:47]: Hey. If you want to go through the onboards later, I’ve got them clipped already. Just ping me.”

You stare at it. Then turn the phone face down. Then take it back up. You scroll through all the messages he had sent you and that you hadn’t answered. 

Oscar [post-Japan]: Great race. I know that was a hard one for you. Want to grab food later? Oscar [next day]: Didn’t mean to overstep. Just… you okay?

You stare at all of hem. Deleted nothing. Replied to nothing. The only one you answered came after the media schedule was emailed.

Oscar [Wednesday, 09:12]: You good to film the preview piece for Miami next Tuesday? You [Wednesday, 09:17]: Yes. What time?

Work. Only work.

You are still contractiually obligated to spend time together, at least to film content for Social Media and sponsors. That’s why you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Oscar on a narrow couch that was clearly designed for “cozy” media content — the kind the F1 social team will slice into reels, slap with a TikTok sound, and post with some cheeky caption like “Rivals or roommates?” He doesn’t look at you. Hasn’t since you sat down. He’s in a McLaren Polo, you optioned for a hoodie from the upcoming collection, smiling on command, pretending everything isn’t cracked down the middle. The camera guy counts down with his fingers. Three. Two. One. “Let’s have fun with this!” chirps the producer off-camera. She’s all sunshine and caffeine, headset askew, clipboard covered in highlighter scribbles. “First task: say one nice thing about your teammate!” Oscar stays quiet. You answer first. “They’re consistent,” you say, and your smile is all teeth. The room pauses. A couple crew members let out polite laughs, unsure if it’s a joke or just cruel bluntness. You don’t clarify. Oscar breathes out a sound — a huff that flirts with being a laugh. But he doesn’t turn to you. “She pushes me to be better,” he says, voice low but clear. It hits like a fucking brick. Because it sounds real. Because he means it. And maybe that’s worse. You swallow it down, keep your expression neutral. If your jaw’s tight, if your pulse jumps—no one has to know. You nod once, and your smile holds steady, plastic and perfect. The producer doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay! Next one: if you two swapped set-ups for a day, who would crash first?” Oscar chuckles slightly. His media laugh that he had newly adapted. The one you know isn’t real. “I’d keep it clean,” he says, finally glancing at you, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Not sure [Y/N] would make it longer than the first lap.” Everyone laughs. It’s the kind of line they’ll clip for socials. The kind that makes people think everything’s fine and it’s all just playful banter. You stare into the camera, voice flat. “I’d win.” No smile. No wink. Just a clean shot to the ribs. The laughter dies awkwardly. The producer claps, still too cheerful. “Alrighty! Moving on!” You shift in your seat, spine straightening, gaze fixed. You try to get as much space in between yours and Oscars body as the seating arrangment will allow. Partially because you fear a bodily reaction hard for your mind to control. Oscar had, or maybe still has, that kind of effect on you. Oscar shifts beside you too, subtly—like he wants to say something, like maybe he thought the banter would be fun again. Like maybe he forgot that the version of you who used to bump his knee and throw him off mid-answer doesn’t exist anymore. You don’t look at him. And he doesn’t try again. They move on to other questions. Favourite track. Pre-race rituals. If you’d survive on a desert island together. You say “I’d eat him first” with a smirk. Oscar huffs a laugh and plays along. The cameras eat it up. But under the surface—under the noise and the bright lights and the friendly performance—there’s a silence between you loud enough to crack concrete. Later, this’ll be edited to look like chemistry. They’ll cut around the dead air. The flat tone. The tension. But right now, in this room, on this couch, with the cameras still rolling and the space between you cold as a knife edge—it doesn’t feel like chemistry. It feels like grief. Like little bits from something you once had and that you now have to pretend are still there. No pretending, the communication director had said. Just focussing on racing, had been the order. And that was what you did, or at least tried to do. 

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Back in your small London apartment you watch the little highlights video from the Bahrain race on your iPad. Alone. You had seen the most important parts of yours and Oscars race already multiple times,  but without radio messages and you always found it nice to see what happened on other parts of the track while you were chasing your teammate. The highlight video is already racking up views — ten minutes of polished footage, curated chaos, and radio snippets engineered for narrative. You press play, even though you already lived through it. Lap 43. You’re chasing Oscar. Again. The clip plays your onboards — the orange blur of his rear wing growing smaller, even as your engineer screams something about brake temperature management in your ear. You know how this ends. You’ve watched the gap grow. Felt the bite of your tires falling off. Heard the whoop in Oscar’s voice when he crossed the line. But you watch it again anyway. The footage cuts to Oscar’s cooldown lap. “Yes boys! Two in a row!” he shouts over the radio, voice bright and breathless. “Car felt mega today. Thanks everyone, amazing job.” He sounds giddy. Golden. Like the sport was built for him. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. The video cuts again — a slick jump to the media pen, Oscar standing with his hands on his hips, drenched in sweat but still glowing. He looks lighter now, freer. Not a trace of tension on him. “…I think we’re in a good place, yeah,” he tells the Sky reporter, grin intact. “It’s a long season, but two strong weekends in a row like this — that’s a great sign.” “Would you call yourself a title contender at this point?” the reporter asks, leaning in, clearly fishing. Oscar laughs, just enough humility to be charming. “I mean it’s only been four races so far. A lot can still happen in the twenty more races to go. We expect a lot of teams to upgrade their cars massively. Especially Red Bull, but also Mercedes. After all, let’s not rule Max Verstappen out of the driver's championship yet. He’s a little behind, but right now he’s putting that car in positions it has no right to be in. That’s because he’s an amazing driver and he is pushing very hard for that fifth title.”

You freeze. That’s it? Max fucking Verstappen is his biggest challenger in the champtionship? The guy whose like forty points behind him, whereas you are basically on his heel.  The interview keeps going. Another question about upgrades. Then tire strategy. No mention of you. Not a single word about how you finished second again, how you fought him tooth and nail, how this is now a thing — a rivalry, a pattern, a storm brewing under McLaren’s glossy PR smile. Nothing. Just Max. You pause the video. Stare at the frozen frame of Oscar wiping sweat from his temple, still smiling. You tell yourself you don’t care. That you’d rather be underestimated. That it’s classic Oscar — acting humble, pretending you’re not a threat to mess with your head. Subtle games, softly played. But part of you wonders if it’s something worse. What if he’s just decided you can’t take it? What if this is him being kind? What if he thinks you don't have what it takes to be a world champion? That would be worse than stupid, silly mind games. You lock your iPad. The screen goes black, and your reflection stares back at you, lit only by the bedside lamp. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. You finished second. Again. And this time, no one’s calling it a battle. Not even him.  Not anymore. 

📍London

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and 334.935 others

yourusername it's always nice to come home to good old London after a double header!

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mclaren Always good to have you close to the MTC, [Y/N]! Loved those race weekends — proud of you! 🧡

oscarpiastri London looks good on you — almost as good as you looked battling out there 🙂 can’t wait for the next round!

username1 honestly the fire in her driving lately is unmatched! she wants this championship so bad and it shows

username2 the silence between her and oscar is SO LOUD like… what happened to the fun paddock banter and those stupid little tiktoks 😭

username3 if i see one more headline implying she’s “emotional” for wanting to win i will riot

username4 she's clearly fighting a war on two fronts: the media tearing her apart and her own teammate turning into a championship rival 😬

username5 someone hug her. now. immediately.

username6 That flower shop pic tho! Balance on point. 🌷✨

username7 the media’s acting like she’s crumbling but the real ones know: she’s charging up, just wait

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[starset21]

I Know Love Pt.1

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!sister reader

Summery: Lando has always been a friend, her brother’s easygoing, fun-loving teammate. But when a fleeting moment in the garage—a near fall, a steadying touch—sends an undeniable spark through her, she starts to see him in a different light. And she’s not the only one. Oscar notices the shift, and he’s not thrilled.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: Wow a Lando fic? who am I?

The McLaren garage was a controlled storm of movement—mechanics tightening bolts, engineers huddled over screens, the scent of fuel and rubber thick in the air. It was a world she had always been a part of, but this year, it was different. This year, she wasn’t just Oscar Piastri’s sister. She was an engineer. Fresh out of university, she had spent the last year interning with McLaren while finishing her degree. Now officially part of the team, she was living the dream she had worked for—traveling with one of the most competitive teams on the grid, analyzing data, working with some of the brightest minds in motorsport. And yet, as she stood in the garage, taking in the organized chaos around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lando Norris.

He was perched on the edge of a workbench, race suit tied around his waist, arms crossed as he half-listened to an engineer briefing him about car setup. But his eyes—those sharp green eyes—kept flickering toward her. He had been doing that a lot lately. She tried to ignore it, just like she had ignored the lingering glances, the subtle teasing that felt just a little too personal, the way he always managed to be near her, even when there was no real reason to be.

Lando had been in her life since Oscar signed with McLaren. She had known him as her brother’s teammate, as the guy who spent way too much time in their apartment, as the one who dragged Oscar into ridiculous online challenges and way too many rounds of golf. But now?

Now she wasn’t just Oscar’s little sister who tagged along to races. She was a part of this team. She was someone Lando wasn’t supposed to flirt with, wasn’t supposed to look at like that.

And yet, here they were.

“Hey, rookie!” She turned at the sound of Oscar’s voice, watching as her brother waved her over from across the garage. She rolled her eyes at the nickname. He was already half-suited up, looking effortlessly in his element, the Piastri name printed proudly across his back. “Can you grab the updated telemetry from the board? We need to go over it before FP2.”

“On it,” she called back, already moving. The responsibility of being part of McLaren, of making real contributions to the car’s performance, was still something she was adjusting to. But she was good at her job. She had worked too hard, spent too many late nights studying aerodynamics, data analysis, and race strategy, to be seen as just Oscar’s sister. She was here because she had earned it. Navigating the crowded garage, she focused on her task—until the moment she didn’t. Her foot caught on a thick cable running across the floor, and before she could react, she was falling. A sharp gasp left her lips, but before she could hit the ground, strong hands grabbed her, pulling her back against a solid chest. 

Everything stilled.

A familiar scent of cologne and race fuel filled her senses. A steady grip held her firmly, keeping her upright. She knew exactly who it was before she even turned her head. Lando. His hands lingered on her waist for a moment too long before he finally loosened his grip. “You alright?” he asked, voice lower than usual, his breath warm against her cheek. Her heart was hammering in her chest—not from the fall, but from this. From him. She straightened quickly, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her neck. “Yeah, I just—” she exhaled, forcing a light laugh, “—was testing gravity. Works great, in case you were wondering.”

Lando smirked, the familiar mischief flickering in his expression. “Good to know. Maybe try not to test it in the middle of a race garage next time?” She rolled her eyes, brushing herself off. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But then, his voice dropped slightly, softer, more serious. “Careful, though,” he murmured. “I’m not always around to catch you.” And just like that, the teasing edge was gone, replaced by something heavier, something unspoken.

Her breath hitched slightly, her brain scrambling for a response, but before she could find one, Oscar’s voice cut through the moment. “What the hell was that?” She spun around to see her brother standing a few feet away, arms crossed, brows raised. Lando immediately stepped back, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair like he hadn’t just been holding her like that. “Nothing,” she said quickly, shooting Oscar a look. “I just tripped.” 

Oscar’s gaze flicked between her and Lando, his expression unreadable before he exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. Well, try not to break anything before FP2, yeah?” She gave a mock salute. “No promises.” As Oscar walked away, she turned back to Lando, expecting another smirk, another teasing remark. But he was already looking at her—like he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying. She should have walked away. Should have ignored the way her stomach flipped. Should have reminded herself that this was a bad idea. But instead, for a split second, she let herself wonder.

What if?

The garage was alive with movement—mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers cross-referencing data, the rhythmic hiss of drills filling the air as tire changes were simulated over and over. It was the kind of organized chaos she had come to love, the pulse of an F1 weekend beating strong around her. And yet, she felt… off. She was supposed to be locked in, completely focused. But ever since yesterday—since him—something had changed. It wasn’t anything obvious. Lando still moved through the garage like he always did—laughing with the team, listening to the engineers break down data, cracking jokes to lighten the mood. To anyone else, nothing was different. But she knew better. It was the way his eyes flickered toward her across the room, how he never seemed to look away fast enough. It was the way his presence felt closer— lingering near her workstation when he never used to before, standing just a little too near whenever she was giving Oscar or the engineers updates. And it was in the way she noticed him more now, too. She wasn’t blind—Lando had always been easy to look at, and plenty of girls did. She had spent years rolling her eyes at every new headline linking him to a model or influencer. It had never mattered before. So why did she care now?

She was deep in concentration, reviewing telemetry for the upcoming session, when Lando’s voice cut through the hum of the garage. "Whatcha looking at?" Before she could answer, he leaned down over her chair to glance at the screen, one hand bracing against the desk beside hers. His arm brushed against her shoulder, his body heat close enough that she could feel it even through the fabric of her team shirt. Her fingers tensed on the keyboard. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to keep her voice steady. “You suddenly care about telemetry when we aren’t in a debrief?”

Lando smirked. "I care about looking fast. And if you have some secret data to make that happen, I should probably know about it." She rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away. “If you’re looking for extra speed, maybe listen to your engineers instead of flirting with them.” His smirk deepened. “Who said I was flirting?” She turned her head then, her breath catching slightly at how close he was. Their faces were only inches apart, and there was something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of amusement, yes—but also something heavier, something deeper than his usual teasing. For a split second, neither of them moved. Then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Lando straightened, grabbing a water bottle from the table like nothing had happened. “See you out there, rookie.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving her heart racing in his wake.

In the engineering office during a quiet moment between FP3 and qualifying. She was sitting at her workstation, buried in a complex set of calculations, when she heard it— Her name. Soft. Slow. Amused.

"Hey, you."

She glanced up and, of course, it was him. Leaning against the desk next to hers, looking far too relaxed for someone about to drive a car at 200 miles per hour. And then he did it again. Said her name, except this time, there was something in the way he dragged it out, a teasing lilt at the end that made her stomach flip against her will. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice level. “What do you want, Norris?” His smirk deepened, and she instantly regretted saying his name. “Just checking in,” he said, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “You seemed stressed earlier.” She huffed, turning back to her screen. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he asked, his voice dipping lower, quieter. She clenched her jaw. Focus. Focus. But then he leaned down, elbows on the desk, close enough that she caught the clean, fresh scent of him—something woodsy and warm that made her thoughts scramble. He tapped a finger against her laptop. “You work too hard.” She forced a scoff. “I think that’s a prerequisite for working in F1.”

“Doesn’t mean you should forget to have a little fun.” She turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re offering?” He grinned. “Maybe.” Her pulse spiked. It was dangerous how easy this was for him.

She thought she was done for the night. She thought she’d made it through without anything happening—without slipping up, without letting whatever this was get to her. But then she stepped into the hotel elevator and the doors started to slide shut, only to be stopped by a hand catching them. Lando. Of course. He slipped in, the doors closing behind him, and suddenly it was just the two of them in the small, enclosed space. And there it was again—that feeling, that unshakable sense that something had changed. They stood in silence for a moment as the elevator started its slow climb. Then Lando spoke, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “You’re avoiding me.” She inhaled sharply, keeping her eyes locked on the floor numbers slowly lighting up. “I have not been avoiding you.” Lando scoffed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Oh, really?”

“You’re just in my space more,” she shot back. His lips quirked, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe.” Silence stretched between them. She could feel the weight of it pressing against her chest, thick and heavy. Then, he leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his voice was meant just for her. “You know I see you watching me, too, right?” She inhaled sharply. Heat crept up her neck, and she cursed her own reaction. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Lando let out a low chuckle, shaking his head and stepping into her space. “I think you like me.” Her jaw clenched. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Not denying it, though.” She glared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. But before she could snap back, the elevator dinged, she instinctively stepped away from him and the doors slid open to reveal Oscar standing on the other side. His eyes flicked between them, sharp and questioning. Lando didn’t move for a moment, as if debating whether to push just a little further, but then he stepped back further with a knowing smirk. “See you tomorrow, then,” he murmured before walking past Oscar with an easy nod, disappearing down the hall. She exhaled, realizing just how tightly wound her body had been. Oscar, still holding the door open, gave her a look. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up.” He didn’t say anything, but she felt his judgment.

[finelinefae]

the aviator [pilot!harry x teacher!yn]

synopsis: It’s the 1950s. Harry is the best pilot on the Air Force base and y/n is a teacher at a nursery.

word count: 8.5k

contains: fluff, flirting, opposites attract, bad boy/good girl dynamic, Harry has a southern accent, alcohol, smoking, allusions to childhood trauma

This is part 1 of a new series that will probably have 3-ish parts !!

. . .

Offutt Air Force Base, situated in Omaha, Nebraska, housed thousands of civilians working in or connected to the military.  People living in the nearby town would often hear the loud plane engines as they take off and land on the runway. They’d look out the windows of their home and see spitfires piloted by men undergoing training, executing missions, or just having a good time, even when they technically weren’t given permission. 

“Wah Hooo!” The spitfire trembled as it finally landed on solid ground. Harry braced himself for the landing, pushing himself back against his seat to stop himself from jolting around. He did his best to hide his smile and remain nonchalant as he heard the familiar voices yelp in excitement as he landed the aircraft. 

He removed his helmet and pushed the canopy of the cockpit open, leaping down and getting familiar with feeling the solid ground beneath his feet after being in the air. Two figures ran up to him, flailing their arms and screeching in excitement, “Tha’s what I’m talking about!” Harry opened his arms, unable to stop himself from laughing the two men almost knocked him over as they joined in a group hug. 

“You flew her like a champ, H. Never seen anything like that in my life.” Harry looked into two sets of eyes an identical colour to his own. 

Standing in front of him were his two brothers, Sonny and George. All three of them were pilots in the military and had been since they left school to sign up after the War. There wasn’t too much age difference between them which was probably one of the reasons the brothers were so close.  Harry was the oldest, just over a year senior to George, who happened to be taller despite being the middle child, and Sonny was the youngest.

“Yeah well, she still needs some work. One of her engine cylinders is faulty.” The three of them walked side by side towards the maintenance shed. Despite their differences in height, anyone would assume the three brothers were triplets from how similar they looked. Most people on base knew them for their signature sea-glass green eyes and their brown hair. 

“Oh I’ll go and tell Ruddy, he might still be here.” Sonny ran ahead 

“Oh and Sonny,” Harry called for his younger brother, “Good job.” Harry winked at his younger brother, referring to his work on the plane he had just flown. In response, Sonny straightened his shoulders and smiled feeling proud after receiving a compliment from his older brother. 

Harry and George both lit a cigarette each, pausing outside the door to the warehouse to smoke together. “I opened up a letter this morning from Ma.” George exhaled, smoke escaping past his lips. 

Harry tried not to show his annoyance, “Wha’d she say?” He grumbled.

“She misses us… All of us and she wants us to stop by, come visit for dinner one day maybe.” George explained.

“Is she still with that old bastard?” Harry looked up at his younger brother.

George nodded, “Last time I heard.”

“Then we’re not going, none of us are.” Harry thought back to the last time he had allowed himself and his siblings to visit his mother. It was going well in the beginning, she’d cooked them up a roast pork and engaged in conversation, until their Father came home. It wasn’t long into their visit before they left the house and Sonny had gone home with a black eye whilst Harry had to get his hand stitched up at a hospital on the journey back.

Harry had grown up in Dallas, Texas, in a tacky old house that barely stood upright just on the outside of town. Whilst his Father was out working on a ranch somewhere and getting pissed up every night, Harry would spend most of his days keeping the house together whilst tending to his younger siblings. His mother was often somewhere in the house - nobody knew exactly what she was doing, since she wasn’t exactly all there half the time - but she was there.

Every visit they made back home was a reminder as to why they had entered the military in the first place. Whenever their mother would send them a letter, it was either because she wanted something or wanted them to come home so she could ask for that same something in person. The last time Harry had bought his siblings home was the first time in years. He thought his mother would be different yet he had no idea why - she was still letting that old man walk around as if he was the one who kept the house from falling. 

“Sonny and I agreed you’re picking up Elise from nursery by the way,” George smirked, chucking his cigarette on the ground and putting it out with his foot. 

“You and Sonny agreed that?” Harry frowned, receiving a nod from his brother, “I’ve been flying all day and y’ still want me to go pick up the baby?”

George clapped his older brother on the shoulder, “We’ve both got to help out in the warehouse this evening and besides, you’re Offutt's best pilot, I think you can handle picking up a two-year-old on the way home.” 

Harry didn’t have time to argue with his brother as he stepped into the warehouse. He let out a deep sigh and took one puff of his cigarette before throwing it to the ground. He put his flight cap on his head to cover his messy hair and straightened his aviator jacket, walking towards the nursery. 

. . .

“How have you found your first day Y/N?” Midge, one of the other nursery workers asked as they stood at the sink together to wash up some of the paint pots a few of the kids had been playing with in the afternoon. 

“It’s been wonderful, Midge.” Y/N grinned. Although she was tired, she also felt ecstatic to finally be working again after months of searching for a new job.  She had always been good with children thanks to her older sister having a kid of her own for her to babysit now and then. So when the opportunity arose to work a well-paying job at a nursery on the military base, she couldn’t pass it up. They’d even offer her free accommodation and discounted food for groceries which was perfect considering she didn’t have much of any of those things when she was living alone.

“I expect most of the kids will be getting picked up soon,” Midge glanced at the clock, “Everyone will be returning from work.”

Y/N hadn’t expected pick up time at the nursery to be so busy but fathers and mothers bustled in to pick up their children to take them home all at once. Once the majority of the kids had been picked up, Y/N glanced around to see the mess that had been left from the day that she’d have to clean up by herself. Her shoulders dropped as she landed on a small figure, realising she wasn’t completely alone yet. 

“Elise, what are you doing?” Y/N smiled at the tiny girl playing in the corner, she was picking up picture books and flicking through them as if she were actually reading them. Y/N crouched down in front of the small toddler, “Are you enjoying those?” 

Elise just grinned, picking something up with her small fingers and trying to put it in her mouth. Her brown, curly ringlets were no longer in uneven bunches like they had been this morning and her overalls were covered in food and paint stains. Y/N picked up the two-year-old to place in her lap, “Shall we read something before your dad comes to get you?” Elise babbled a reply. 

Halfway through their fifth book, Elise was near enough asleep on Y/N’s lap. It had already been an hour since all of the other children went home and it wouldn’t be long before the sun would set. Y/N carefully picked Elise up so her head was on her shoulder and it was comfy enough to sleep as she stepped towards the telephone to see if Elise’s father was coming to pick her up. 

As her hand went to pick up the telephone, a voice stopped her, “Hello?” It was deep and southern and husky like he had just smoked a cigarette or two, “I’m here to pick up Elise.” 

Y/N turned around, and her breath caught in her throat as she spotted a tall figure leaning casually against the door frame. He wore a brown leather aviator jacket and grey trousers, with his flight cap tucked under his arm. His piercing green eyes, similar to Elise's, met hers, framed by brown curly hair. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. 

Y/N had never seen anyone like him in her entire life. 

“Y-yes,” She cleared her throat and forced her eyes to look away from his intense gaze. She stood and walked over to where he stood by the door with Elise in his arms, “You must be Elise’s father.” 

“M her brother,” He corrected. 

“Excuse me?” Y/N wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly, too busy gawking at him to actually pay attention. 

“M Elise’s brother, one out of three of her brothers to be exact.” He repeated, his eyes glancing at the sleeping girl Y/N was holding. 

“O-oh,” She blushed, “My bad, you look so similar I thought you were her father.”

“Easy mistake,” Harry smirked, “Would you like me to take her from you?” 

“Yes, of course,” Y/N gently removed Elise from her and passed her to Harry.

“There we go,” He cooed as Elise whimpered at the sudden movement, “There’s m’ little Elise.” 

Y/N thought her ovaries might explode as she watched the pilot interact with the small girl in his arms, making sure she was comfortable enough so she could remain asleep. “Are you new here ma’am?” Harry spoke his focus now back on Y/N.

“Yes actually, today’s my first day here,” She explained. 

“No wonder, I ain’t ever seen y’ around the place. How’re you liking it so far?” 

“I’ve only been here a couple of days but it’s been nice. Working here at the nursery has been lovely too,” 

“Yeah?” Harry’s lips curled, “I hope this one hasn’t been giving y’ much trouble. She can be a little devil with my younger brothers.” 

Y/N immediately shook her head, “No, she’s been lovely honestly. Think I spent most of the day with Elise out of all the other children.” 

Y/N noticed how Harry focused on her face as she spoke to him, every now and then his eyes would dart to her lips and then back up to meet her eyes, “Y got any friends here?” 

She paused, “Any friends?” 

“Yeah, you know,” He half smiled, it felt almost flirty but maybe Y/N was just imagining it, “People y’ like to hang out with.”

“Uh yeah, I share a house with a few of the girls who work in various places around the base. I get along with most of them and the ladies who work here at the nursery too.” Y/N explained, cringing at how awkward she was and how she’d probably be replaying this conversation back later only to die of embarrassment of all the things she said. 

“Y’ know there’s a dance down at the community centre this Friday, y’ should come, oh and invite some of those friends of yours too.” 

“Oh I don’t know, I think I’m working this Friday and-” 

“A lot of my buddies who I fly with go there sometimes - a good time they said. It might be a good chance to meet some of the people here,” He shrugged, “Could offer y’ a dance or two if you’d like.” 

Y/N wondered if all this was really happening right now or if she was just so tired that she was hallucinating, “O-okay,”

Harry grinned, a dimple carving into his cheek, “Well alright then,”

“Alright then,” Y/N tried to keep her smile at bay as she took it as his queue to leave. She kept the door open so he could easily step out as he walked backwards with Elise in his arms and his eyes still on Y/N even as he said nothing. 

“So I’ll see y’ at the dance?” 

“Maybe,” Y/N shrugged, even though she had already decided she was most definitely going to the dance. 

“Alright, maybe I’ll see y’ at the dance then,” Harry responded with a light, amused chuckle. 

Y/N watched as he turned his back and began to walk down the dirt road until he stopped briefly and spun around, “I didn’t catch y’name by the way,” He called out to her.

Y/N cupped her mouth, “It’s Y/N,”

“Y/N,” He said the name like he was testing how it sounded, “M Harry. Hey, I better see y’ at that dance Y/N, I don’t handle rejection all that well.” Y/N couldn’t help but giggle.

“I can believe that,” She yelled back.

“I’d say goodbye but I wanna see y’ at that dance so I’ll say goodnight instead.” Harry said with a casual salute before turning and continuing down the road.

Y/N shut the door and leaned against it, clutching her hands over her chest in complete disbelief. Her sister had warned her the pilots on the base would be young men near enough her own age and that she ought to be careful hanging around them. However, her sister hadn’t warned her that a man like Harry would stumble over to her workplace to pick up his sister and invite her to a dance on Friday night.

Y/N quickly cleaned up the nursery, shoving things into boxes and wiping down the tables, before grabbing her coat and running down the road to her house.

On every street on the housing estate, there was a row of houses that all looked the same but were owned by different types of people. Some had big families all living under one roof, others were men who lived alone. Y/N’s house was the first house on the street. It was a traditionally designed home with a pitched roof, a small front porch and symmetrical windows. She shared it with three other girls who all worked different jobs across the Air Force base. 

The sun had already set by the time she entered the house. All the lights were turned on and the gentle music of Buddy Holly sounded from the living room. Y/N kicked off her heels and hung up her coat, walking to the living room where Patsy and Molly were lounging on the couch. Molly had Patsy’s foot in her lap as she painted her toenails a wine red. 

Y/N collapsed on the couch next to Molly, “What’s wrong? Work not go so well?” Molly inquired.

“No,” Y/N huffed, resting her head on Molly’s shoulder, “It was wonderful.”

“Well, what’s got you so blue Peggy Sue,” Patsy questioned, her tone playful. She was reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette. 

“A man came into work after everybody left to pick up one of the girls, Elise.” Y/N clarified. 

“You mean Elise Styles?” Molly asked. 

Y/N sat up, “Yes, you know her?” 

“Just about every woman on this base knows her. She’s the Styles’ little sister.” Molly explained, “We’ve all had to babysit her at least once for those brothers.” 

“Yeah and neither of us will be doing it again,” Patsy piped up, as if reminding Molly. 

“Oh, you must know Harry then,” Molly paused, shoving Patsy’s foot off of her lap and turning to face Y/N.

“Is he the man you’re sighing over?” Patsy’s magazine fell to the floor as she too stopped to listen. 

Y/N furrowed her brows, confused by their reaction, “Y-yes, what about him?”

“What about him?” Molly stood, grabbing a cigarette from the packet on the coffee table and lighting it up, “Y/N you oughta be careful around all three of those brothers but especially Harry.”

“What do you mean?” Y/N glanced at Patsy who nodded in agreement with Molly. 

“That boy is not good news. He’s Offutt’s best pilot and he thinks that gives him the right to go around sniffing out every woman that steps foot onto this base.” Y/N frowns, watching as Molly begins to pace back and forth, “He didn’t ask you to go out with him did he?”

“Well he asked me to the dance on Friday. The one at the community centre.” 

“Oh, I bet he did!’ Molly exclaimed, “Listen Y/N, I’m telling you this because I don’t want any trouble for you. That boy is no good, he’s slept with half the ladies residing here and even the wives too I bet! He asked Patsy to go out to dinner with him one night and stood her up to go see another woman.”

Y/N glanced at Patsy, “He was flirting with two different women inbetween the moment he asked and our date a week later.” She added. 

“That’s right. Y/N darlin’, we shoulda warned y’ before y’ stepped foot out of this house this morning. Those Styles brothers will mess you around and leave y’ lonely for sport. You’re too nice to deserve all of that.” 

Y/N's shoulders slumped, “But he seemed so… nice.” Y/N pictured Harry with Elise and how gentle he was with her. 

“He’s not a bad person Y/N but when it comes to women, there’s no guessing what that man turns into.”

“Everyone’s heard plenty of things about why they came here too. If you ask me, his home wasn’t exactly a perfect example to him.” Patsy said.

“Well, whatever reason, best stay away from him.” Molly finished. 

Y/N heaved a sigh, “So I shouldn’t go to the dance on Friday?”

“Oh no, we’ll go to the dance. Harry’s not the only fine, young pilot on base I’ll tell you that.” Molly smirked and Patsy cheered with excitement at the thought of going out Friday night. 

Y/N attempted to smile, but she couldn't shake off the sadness upon realising that the man she had met earlier in the evening wasn't as kind as she had initially believed. Molly fell back onto the couch next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, “Cheer up sweet cheeks. I’m sure plenty of men will want to take you out after this dance.” 

Y/N managed a weak smile, grateful for Molly's comforting presence. "Thanks, Molly," she murmured, leaning into her friend's embrace.

"Yeah, plenty of fish in the sea, darlin'. You'll find one that's worth your time." Patsy chimed in.

Feeling a bit more reassured by her friends' words, Y/N nodded. "You're right. I can’t let one bad apple ruin my night."

Molly squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "That's the spirit! Now let's focus on having a great time at the dance. We can tell you about some of the other fellas who live here too."

With her friends' support, Y/N felt an inkling of hope return. She might have been disappointed by one man, but she wasn't about to let it dampen her spirits for the rest of the evening. She was glad she told her friends about her interaction with Harry and now she was left with one rule stitched into the back of her mind.

Keep away from Harry Styles. 

. . .

The night sky was clear enough to see the stars glittering against the pitch-black backdrop. A soft, gentle breeze flowed through the air as Harry lay back on the swinging chair on the front porch of the house he shared with his three brothers. 

This was his favourite time of day when it was completely silent and the air was cool and crisp. He didn’t like the nights so much when he was living with his parents. After midnight, or sometimes just before, his father would come in through the backdoor stinking the place up with alcohol and waking everyone up with his nightly rampages. 

Nowadays, the nighttime was the most relaxing part of the day and Harry savoured every second of it. He often finds himself sat out on the porch after putting Elise to bed. He’d smoke a cigarette or two, and maybe play his guitar a little bit. 

Tonight felt a little different though. Whilst his brothers were upstairs trying to put a fussy Elise to bed after she’d napped when he brought her home from nursery, he came outside and could think of nothing but the woman he found holding his little sister in her arms. 

Harry knew everyone on base the same way they knew him. He recognised faces easily and had at least one brief encounter with everyone he met in passing. However, the face he had met for the first time this evening was unfamiliar and new. 

Her features were delicate and angelic, with large doe eyes that held a hint of shyness to them. A soft, rosy blush adorned her cheeks and her lips were full and plush that he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of them. Her movements were gentle and her voice was airy and sweet, Harry thought of her stuttering and the way she’d blush whenever she spoke. He hadn’t seen anything like her in his life - he wasn’t a religious or spiritual person but, at that moment, he was pretty sure an angel had landed right in front of his very eyes. 

Even her name sounded as though it came from some kind of mythical text - one full of beauty and purity, love and light. 

Harry wasn’t the purist of men, far from it. He had slept in the beds of women he couldn’t remember the name of and indulged in his fair share of reckless behaviour. But in the presence of Y/N, he felt an unfamiliar stirring within him, a sense of longing tugging at his heartstrings. He didn’t know what it was and he wasn’t so sure he was ready to find out yet. 

He lit a cigarette with a matchstick and exhaled into the air, tendrils of smoke dancing above him. The sound of footsteps thudding inside of the house as someone walked downstairs, broke the silence he had been basking in. 

The door swung open and George stepped out, “Finally managed to get Elise to settle down though it took a whole round of nursery rhymes. Sonny’s still up there now, he’s afraid she’ll wake up again if he stops singing.” George took a cigarette from the pack Harry had in his pocket, “I thought you told those ladies at the nursery not to let her nap before she comes home.” 

“I did,” Harry spoke, his voice husky. 

“What? They didn’t listen to y’?” George chuckled. 

“There’s a new worker. I’ll let her know next time I see her.” Harry hadn’t wanted to tell Y/N that Elise wasn’t allowed to sleep so late in the afternoon because it was harder to get her to go to bed at night. He didn’t seem to have the heart to as he watched her hold the small girl in her arms. 

George scoffed, “A new worker? Is she a knockout at least?” 

Harry didn’t reply, instead asking,  “What do y’ think about the three of us going to the dance at the Community Centre on Friday?” 

George laughed until he realised his brother wasn’t laughing with him, “You’re serious?” 

The door swung open again and out stepped Sonny, “I swear if that baby wakes up, you two can sit in there and dance circles around her singing Miss Muffet for all I care. I ain’t doing that again.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, “Can y’ pass me a cigarette, George?” 

George handed the cigarette to Sonny, “Hey Sonny, Harry wants to know if we’ll go to the dance at the Community Centre this Friday.”

Sonny chuckled but that quickly went away, “Oh shit really?”

“Yeah tha’s what I thought,” George said.

“You got your eye on someone Harry?” Sonny spoke, “Is it that girl from the med centre? She sure is something.”

Harry sat up and turned to face his two brothers, “No, it’s not that,” He lied, “Jus’ thought we could go do something other than sit around and drink at the bar.” 

“But the dance?” Sonny quirked a brow, “You hate dances.”

“I never said that,” Harry said, even though he always made it known how much he hated the dances they held every Friday night. 

“No, I definitely think I remember y’ saying dances were for people who wanted to get laid but couldn’t,” George spoke, backing up his younger brother who nodded in agreement. 

“Alright,” Harry held his hands up, “Alright maybe I did say that. C’mon, what are you, Gunther and Francis? Sit down the pair of you.” They followed their older brother's orders, sitting on the seats opposite him. “Maybe there is a girl.” He sighed.

“Oh yeah?” Sonny smirked.

“Yeah, little shit,” Harry chuckled, “So if you could both do me a favour and get yourselves cleaned up Friday night because we’re going to a shitty dance and I won’t be having either of y’ covered in grease and soot.”

“Okay, alright, H.” George took a puff of his cigarette, “But you’re paying for drinks after.”  Harry shook his head, unable to suppress a chuckle.

. . .

Y/N stood in front of her bedroom mirror when Friday night rolled around. She had left the nursery in a hurry, needing as much time as possible to get ready for the dance at the Community Centre. She had been wracked with nerves all week, knowing there was a high chance she would see Harry there and she’d have to do her best to ignore him like Molly had told her to. 

She had picked out her outfit the night before. It was one of her best dresses- a lovely duck egg blue, satin fabric with a fitted bodice and a sweetheart neckline that showed off her decolletage. From the waist, the skirt flowed down in a full, flared A-line silhouette, gently swaying with every step. She wore white low heels on her feet and decided to carry a small purse with her too. 

Most of her time in the evening was spent on her hair and makeup. Y/N had almost used an entire can of hairspray to ensure her hair would stay intact the whole night. Molly had even given her a French manicure the night before and she spent the whole day at the nursery trying her best not to ruin her perfectly shaped nails. 

It had been a long time since she had put this much effort into going somewhere and it was all for a measly dance. There would be many other pretty girls who had spent more or less time on dressing up who probably had a better chance of catching the eye of a man than Y/N did. Yet she wasn’t hoping for the attention of just any man. 

Even though Molly and Patsy had warned her of Harry’s nature, she couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. The way his eyes sparkled when he smiled and the sound of his voice as he spoke in that deep, southern drawl. Every time she thought of going to the dance, he would appear in her mind. Maybe she didn’t necessarily want anything from him but she wanted to at least catch his eye enough to make a lasting impression on him. 

Y/N applied a little more powder to her nose and did one final check in the mirror. She straightened her shoulders, “This will have to do,” She muttered, grabbing her purse. 

Patsy and Molly were already downstairs drinking margaritas and listening to Frank Sinatra on the record player. “Oh and another one comes to join us,” Molly grinned, wearing a navy, spotty dress with a red belt wrapped around her small waist. 

“What took you so long?” Patsy grinned, pouring a drink in a martini glass and handing it to Y/N.

“O-oh no thank you, I don’t drink.” Y/N shook her head and forced a smile out of politeness.

“What? You don’t?” Patsy replied like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. 

“Oh c’mon! Just one little sip - liquid courage and all that.” Molly took the glass from Patsy to give to Y/N who forced herself to take it from her. She held the glass to her lips, taking one small sip and feeling a tiny burn from the alcohol. 

“Good right?” Molly smirked, lighting a cigarette and holding the packet open to Y/N. 

“No thank you, I don’t smoke either.” Y/N laughs nervously. 

“Fair enough,” Molly shrugs, passing the pack over to Patsy who happily takes one for herself. 

Y/N places her drink on the table, knowing she won’t be touching it again. “We’ll be heading out in a moment, we’re just waiting on one more.” As if she could hear them talking about her, footsteps thumped down the stairs and into the living room.

Y/N’s eyes widened when her eyes landed on the tall, blonde standing in the doorway. She was wearing a black dress with a neckline that showed off her bust and a tight waistline that accentuated her curves. The strands of her golden, blonde hair were tied back into a high ponytail with her fringe perfectly curled. She wore red lipstick on her plump lips which made the blue in her eyes even brighter than they already were. 

“You’ve been in your room for hours, Nancy,” Patsy whined. 

“Yes well, I don’t just plan on getting wasted tonight Patsy.” Nancy retorted. 

Nancy was Y/N's other housemate, but Y/N didn't know her as well as she knew Patsy and Molly. Even though they lived together, Nancy seemed a bit distant compared to the latter two, who were friendly and nice. Nancy would smile politely, but she didn't say much else. Oftentimes, Y/N would get a strange feeling about Nancy like how she would make little comments that seemed to be jabs masked by forced politeness or how sometimes it felt like Nancy enjoyed pointing out Y/N's mistakes, like how she did her laundry or what groceries she bought. She wasn’t sure what she had done to upset Nancy but Y/N hoped it was just her over-thinking that made her believe she was this way and that tonight would allow them to get to know each other a little better. 

Nancy’s eyes fell on Y/N and looked her up and down, “Nice dress,” She said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.

“Thank you,” Y/N offered her a smile but received nothing in return. 

“Alright ladies,” Molly stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, “Let’s go catch us a few good men.”

“A few?” Patsy giggled.

“You’re right, I think a few is a little too much for this place.” Molly huffed and led the way out of the house and towards the community centre. 

Y/N could hear the live music coming from the centre as they walked down the street. Patsy and Molly were stumbling ahead, arms linked together as they laughed side by side. Y/N tried not to laugh at her friends as she walked alongside Nancy. 

“You planning on hooking up with anybody tonight?” Nancy’s voice broke the silence between them. 

“No I don’t think so,” Y/N replies. 

Nancy scoffs, “These dances are mostly for that you know, better prepare yourself when a fella tries to talk to you.”

“You think they’ll want to?” Y/N asked, hopeful.

Nancy glanced at her, “I’m sure they’ll snatch you right up those pilot boys.”

Y/N blushes, “Is there anyone you’ve got your eyes on tonight Nancy?” She liked this, conversing with Nancy. She hoped this would be the start of breaking the ice between them and maybe they could become friends eventually, or at least build acquaintances. 

Nancy smirks, “Only one.” She said nothing after that. 

The girls walked into the community centre which was already full of people from all over the airbase. A live band was playing Elvis Presley songs, the music blaring into Y/N’s ears once they stepped inside. “Any of you girls want a drink-”

“Molly is that Everett?” Patsy pointed to a man in the corner, talking to a woman. 

Molly’s face scrunched up, “I guess he’s back from Italy.”

Nancy interrupted the conversation, her eyes darting across the room like she was searching for somebody, “You girls grab something to drink, I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

“Who’s Everett?” Y/N asked Patsy as they walked towards the drinks table. 

“A guy Molly had a thing with last year,” Patsy explained.

“Yeah until he told me he was going to Italy for a year and wanted to break things off so he could get laid by an Italian woman.” Molly ranted, leading the girls to the drinks table. 

A bowl of punch resided in the centre of the table, Molly grabbed the ladle and poured them all a drink. Y/N took a sip and allowed her eyes to scan the room. Couples were dancing in the centre whilst others spoke in groups off to the side.  

Eventually, her eyes caught sight of a group of men walking through the door. Each one of them was dressed in a similar uniform, a navy blue tailored jacket and matching, fitted trousers. She watched as an entire group of them continued to flood in through the doors until the last man stepped through. 

He was wearing the same uniform as the others and his hair was gelled back with one curl falling in front of his forehead, unlike the messy curls she had seen when they first met. Y/N couldn’t help but stare as he weaved through the crowd and interacted with people as he walked past them. Everyone seemed to know him from the looks of it. He exuded confidence and bravado, people’s faces lighting up whenever he stopped to talk to them.

“Patsy?” One of the boys spoke. 

“Here we go,” Molly muttered, forcing a smile. 

A man with features that looked similar to the man Y/N had been eyeing, walked up to them with a taller man following him. “Hi Sonny,” Patsy greeted. 

“Y’ sure know how to make yourself look good when you want to,” He winked, eyeing her up and down.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patsy put both her hands on her waist. 

“You know what I mean,” Sonny argued, realising he might have said something to offend her even though he had no idea what that might be. 

“Hi,” The taller man behind him spoke. Y/N looked up and was met with familiar green eyes except they were a little bit lighter than the ones she had seen. 

“Hi,” Y/N blushed.

“I’m George. Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around.” He wondered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to the crowd as he spoke. 

“Y-Yes, I arrived recently actually. I just started working at the nursery.” She clarified. 

“Oh, the nursery! You must know my little sister Elise.”  Y/N’s lips turned upwards thinking of the little girl she had been spending so much time with over the last few days. Since her first day, Elise had constantly been wanting her attention whether it was to nap or play with things or read books. “You must have met my older brother then.”

“Older brother?” Y/N didn’t have enough time to register as George glanced around the room and called out his brother’s name. 

“Harry, c’mere!” He called. 

Harry’s head turned towards them in the middle of his conversation. His eyes landed on his brother until they found hers. He offered a small smile and began to walk towards them with a drink already in his hand, “This is one of the new workers at Elise’s nursery.” George introduced even though he didn’t really need to. 

“Yes, we’ve already met,” Harry said and Y/N thought she might melt into a puddle on the floor at the sound of his voice. “Hi there,”

“Hello,” Y/N smiled, shyly.

“So you came?” He teased. 

“I did.” She laughed, lightly. 

“And these are y’ friends?” He looked to Patsy and Molly who were bickering with Sonny who seemed to have said something else to offend them, George now joining in on the argument as he let Harry and Y/N talk. 

“Yeah, they’re my friends,” Y/N said, feeling nervous under his gaze. But despite her nerves, she couldn't deny the thrill of being the focus of his attention.

“Good to know,” He murmured, “Y come here with anyone else?” 

"Um, no, just the girls from my house," Y/N stuttered, feeling a rush of nerves as Harry's gaze lingered on her. "I don't know that many people. Other than the girls I live with and the ones from the nursery, who are all lovely, by the way," she added, her words tumbling out in a nervous ramble.

Harry grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement at her flustered state. "You know me too," he stated, his tone playful as he leaned in closer. 

Y/N gulped the air she breathed just as the lights in the centre dimmed. The fast-paced music began to slow down and couples gathered to the dance floor to slow dance together. “Y wanna dance with me Y/N?” Harry asked. 

“I-I’m not very good at it,” Y/N smiled sheepishly, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush. It was impossible to resist the charm that radiated from him.

He held out the palm of his hand and Y/N’s lips parted as she glanced down at it, “S just swaying tha’s all. Think y’ can do that?” 

Y/N hesitantly nodded, her pulse quickening as Harry's long fingers gently wrapped around her wrist. A tingling sensation danced across her skin, sending shivers down her spine and causing goosebumps to rise in response to his touch. He led her to the centre of the dancefloor and turned around so they were face to face. Harry took both of Y/N's hands in his own, his touch sending electric currents coursing through her veins. With a tender yet confident touch, he trailed his fingers down her arms, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. As his hands settled at her waist, Y/N's breath turned shallow, her heart racing as the music floated through the air. 

She was stiff at first, unable to relax until he leant forward and whispered, “Relax birdy,” She felt his breath against her neck as he spoke. He squeezed her waist a little and she dropped her shoulders, trying her best to loosen up under the circumstances. 

“Birdy?” Y/N spoke, questioning the new nickname.

“I spotted y’ as soon as I stepped through the door. Your dress is blue ‘n it reminded me of the bluebirds I used to see back home whenever I’d go up in the mountains with my grandpa.” He explained. 

“I didn’t know you’d seen me.”

“I searched for y’ as soon as I walked in. I only came because of you, if I couldn’t find y’ I’d probably just turn back and go to a bar or something.” He chuckled and Y/N laughed with him.

“No Elise?” She questioned, unable to stop herself from asking about the little girl she had become fond of. 

“Elise is staying with the family next door. Little rascal tried to get ketchup on my uniform,” He rolled his eyes, “I got a free house if that’s what you’re implying though.”

Y/N’s face turned beat red, “N-No that’s not what I’m implying at all.”

“M just messin’” Harry grinned, cheekily.

Y/N relaxed, composing herself and trying to pull herself together, “I’ve heard things about you, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry smirked, “What things?”

“Just things.” Y/N felt his fingertips press her skin for a moment.

“And do you believe these things?” Harry murmured, leaning in a little closer.

Y/N looked him in the eye, trying to see if she could read him without having to ask him a thousand questions, “I don’t know yet.” 

Harry opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by the sudden change in music and the lights turning on above them. People cheered as they gathered back into big groups and began dancing again. Harry bit back a grin, shaking his head, “Y wanna come outside with me?” He asked, shouting over the loud music. Y/N bit her lip and nodded, taking his outstretched hand and allowing him to pull her through the crowd of people. 

The air was cold once they stepped outside. Harry led her over to a small bench nearby where fewer people were gathered. He pulled out a cigarette and offered her the pack, “Oh no thank you, I don’t smoke.” She declined, politely. 

Harry smiled around his cigarette, his gaze lingering on Y/N for a beat or two as he casually slipped the pack into the pocket of his trousers. The air between them was filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft sound of music drifting from inside the centre. Sensing Y/N's slight shiver, Harry swiftly removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders without saying a word.

"But you'll get cold," Y/N protested, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Don't y’ worry about me. I don't get cold," Harry quipped, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he shrugged off her concern. His white t-shirt revealed toned arms adorned with a few tattoos littering his tanned skin. 

As Harry tilted his head back to blow smoke into the night air, Y/N couldn't help but admire the way he carried himself with effortless confidence. Gathering her courage, she decided to strike up a conversation.

"Were those your brothers back there?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Yeah, Sonny and George," Harry confirmed with a hint of pride in his voice.

"They look so much like you," Y/N remarked, her curiosity piqued.

"Strong genes, I suppose," Harry shrugged, his tone becoming more serious as he opened up about his family background. 

"What about you? Do you have any siblings?" He inquired.

"Just an older sister and my little niece, Rosie Jean," Y/N replied, a fond smile tugging at her lips as she thought of her family.

"And your parents?" Harry pressed, his gaze intense as he studied her reaction.

"My parents are doctors, they work at a surgery in town," Y/N explained, feeling a pang of homesickness as she reminisced about her upbringing.

"And yours?" She prompted, turning the conversation back to Harry.

"M parents are nobodies," Harry's voice took on a sombre tone, clearly his family life was a sensitive topic. Sensing his discomfort, Y/N chose her next words carefully.

"What about Elise?" she asked, hoping to lighten the mood with talk of his sister.

"Elise is better off being raised by us three than being left alone in a house with batshit crazy," Harry scoffed, his protective instincts kicking in.

Feeling the weight of their conversation, Y/N searched for a way to lift Harry's spirits. "What made you want to be a pilot?" she asked, genuinely interested.

“Sonny came home wanting to sign up for cadet training after they visited his school. He came home running through the doors with a flyer in his hand and told everybody he was going into the army. I told him ‘No brother of mine is going anywhere that requires trench foot and guns.’ He didn’t talk to me for a week after that. It wasn’t until I found an advertisement where y’ could train to fly planes when I decided I was gonna make a better life for myself and my siblings. It just so happened Sonny and George wouldn’t let me go at it alone.” He inhaled his cigarette before tossing it to the ground. 

As Harry shared the story of how he and his brothers found their way to Offutt, Y/N couldn't help but admire his determination. She found herself drawn to him even more, captivated by his strength and the way he always included his brother’s in everything he spoke about. 

A comfortable silence settled between them. Y/N's heart skipped a beat as Harry smoothly slid his hand next to hers, their fingers intertwining effortlessly. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. 

"Have I told y’ how beautiful y’look tonight?" Harry's voice was soft, his gaze locking with hers in a way that made her heart race.

Y/N blushed at his compliment, unable to tear her eyes away from his. "You're lying," she protested, feeling a surge of warmth spread through her cheeks.

"I swear it," Harry insisted, his hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Swear on m’ life, birdy."

Y/N's heart fluttered at the nickname, a secret thrill running through her as she turned to face him. His eyes held a tenderness that melted her defences, and she found herself smiling back at him.

"Hi, birdy," Harry murmured, a dimple appearing on his cheek as he leaned in closer.

"Hi, Harry," Y/N whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she savoured the moment.

Harry's shoulders dropped and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, though he seemed to be fighting to contain it. “I can’t lie to y’ birdy, I can’t stop thinking about kissing you,” Y/N's breath caught in her throat, her heart racing at his words. “I was gonna lie and tell y’ I’d been thinking about it since I saw you tonight but… quite honestly, I think I've been dreaming of y’ since I met y’ the other day.” 

Y/N didn’t know what to say, she felt as though someone had put a zipper straight across her mouth and she couldn’t get it to open. All she could feel was every muscle in her body beating against her skin as though they were trying to force her to surge forward and kiss him herself. “Y-You can if you want,” She stuttered, cheeks pink.

Harry laughed, “What about if you want? Can’t go kissin’ y’ if y’ don’t want it birdy.” 

“I do want it,” Y/N nodded. 

“Yeah?” He spoke but it came out more like a whisper. 

“Yeah.” Y/N gulped, feeling nervous. 

Harry didn’t hesitate once the word had left her mouth. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss, soft and exploratory. Y/N's heart fluttered as she melted into the warmth of Harry's embrace, her senses flooded with the taste of his lips and the scent of his cedarwood cologne.

Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the sweetness of the moment, their kisses deepening with each passing second. Harry's arms wrapped around Y/N, pulling her as close to him as possible. 

In that instant, everything else faded away—the noise of the party, the chill of the night air—leaving only the two of them, lost in the heat of their first kiss. 

They were both breathless as they pulled apart. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open to find Harry already looking at her, his eyes filled with emotion and intense desire. She noticed his tongue poke out to lick his bottom lip and she couldn’t help but giggle when she noticed the red lipstick stain she had left on his mouth from her kiss. 

“Where abouts do you live?” Harry murmured.

“Clemon Street,” Y/N spoke, her voice coming out a whisper. 

“Yeah? That’s on my way home,” He grinned. 

“Oh really?” Y/N bit back a laugh, “I thought y’ lived on Newark Street - it said so in Elise’s file.” 

Harry shrugged, “I like to go the long way round.” Y/N didn’t bother pulling him up on the fact that the two streets were on opposite ends of the housing estate. 

“Can I walk y’ home?” He asked, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of her dress. 

Y/N nodded, biting her bottom lip, “Yeah I’d like that.” 

Harry grinned, “Well alright then.”

They stood up, Y/N keeping his jacket around her shoulders since it was still cold out, “I’ve just got to go to the bathroom,” She motioned towards the community centre. 

“I’ll wait for y’ at the door,” He said, following her as they walked to the community centre side by side. Y/N walked up to the steps and opened the door, she looked over her shoulder to make sure Harry was still there- that he was real and not just someone she dreamt up.

Harry caught her eye, “M not going anywhere birdy,” he winked, “hurry up so I can walk y’ home and kiss y’ again.” 

Y/N laughed and hurried straight to the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the cubicle door behind her and sank down onto the lid of the toilet seat, a wide grin spreading across her face. Unable to contain her excitement, she let out a delighted squeal, her mind buzzing with thoughts of the moment she had just shared. 

She pulled out the pocket mirror from her bag and quickly reapplied the lipstick that had been smeared off. She fluffed up her hair with her hands and rubbed her aching cheeks from where had been smiling so much. She stood up and held Harry’s coat in her arms.  As Y/N stepped outside the community centre, she scanned the area in search of Harry, hoping to catch a glimpse of him waiting for her. Her anticipation turned to disappointment when she couldn't spot him anywhere, and her shoulders slumped slightly in resignation. Just as she was about to turn away, a figure caught her eye—a silhouette that had a striking resemblance to Harry—standing in a shadowy corner illuminated by the lights from the community centre.

Heart fluttering with excitement, Y/N smiled and took a step forward, eager to walk home with him. However, her joy quickly turned to dismay when she realised he wasn't alone.

A sudden giggle pierced the air, causing Y/N's heart to sink. Molly's warning appeared typed out in big letters at the forefront of her mind, filling her with regret and dread as she hesitated, frozen in place. With each step she took closer, the scene before her unfolded—it was Nancy, her housemate, clinging to the man she had just kissed.

I imagine George to be Callum Turner and Sonny to be Timothee Chalamet specifically from ms stevens but you can imagine whoever you’d like ! <;33

[kzrosa-writes]

rivaling contradictions | dottore x reader

cw: fem!reader, harbinger!reader, dottore n reader are rivals, nsfw, riding, teasing, edging, dottore being a teensy bit desperate, bondage in the first half, dottore is a meanie, MINORS DNI!!!!

summary: after a meeting with the rest of the harbingers, you were in dottore's room, paying the price for foiling his research and results.

likes , reblogs n follows r appreciated!

Never in your life would ever imagine yourself sprawled out on the bed of your rival, legs spread apart with your thighs wrapped around his waist. Such a thought would’ve had you scoffing, considering it absolutely ridiculous. But when you feel that rosy tip prodding against your folds, you are snapped back into reality and reminded that yes, this is real.

The Second Harbinger has always been known as a cruel man, with his brutal experiments and ruthless methods of quenching his thirst for knowledge. A power-hungry man he was, and he certainly was living up to the reputation as he rubbed and teased at your clit. You suppressed a whimper, and the harbinger knew he was doing a perfect job at riling you up. 

Sliding a hand down the expanse of your exposed torso, he brushed his fingers against your right breast, cupping it in his hands before squeezing it gently. His actions were so tender, you almost forgot who the man on top of you was.

Il Dottore, your biggest rival.

Ever since you joined the Fatui as a harbinger, you were delegated important tasks by the Tsaritsa personally. You were a well-known inventor and scientist who studied and graduated from the Akademiya, and moved to study engineering in Fontaine. Well-versed in the realm of science and engineering, you were constantly pitted against the Doctor. Although it was never your intention, foul rivalry had sprouted between the two of you; a battle of wits and genius. The constant pressure and competition coming from Dottore’s side had caused you to harbour less than pleasant feelings towards him, and his snarky behaviour towards you did not help one bit. Soon enough, the two of you had grown to become fully-fledged rivals, always seeking ways to outdo the other.

It was only during a meeting with the rest of the harbingers when everything came crashing down. The Jester was listening to everyone sharing what they had managed to accomplish since the last meeting, until it came to Dottore’s turn. Dottore was flaunting one of his research results, as usual, when you suddenly intervened with data results of your own research, completely contradicting his. Your claims and results had more solid and concrete evidence, causing the Jester to completely disregard his work. 

“You’re going to regret that stunt you pulled back there,” were Dottore’s last words to you before storming out of the meeting room once the meeting was over.

And that is what led you to your current situation.

Laying on your back, legs wrapped around his waist and his lengthy girth brushing against the sensitive skin in between your legs, in Dottore’s bed. Your clothes had long been discarded on the floor, long forgotten. Your hands were bound together by his belt, which he tied to the bedpost. You were practically immobile, the thrusts of your hips for friction the form of movement you could make.

But even that was rendered impossible when he gripped your hips roughly, his calloused fingers digging into your skin in an attempt to keep you still. You whimper, your lips swollen and glossy with the remnants of the kiss you shared previously. He squeezed his hips before leaning slightly forward, his figure practically towering over you. 

“Hmm… Do you really deserve to be touched, darling? Do you deserve to have my cock up your pussy?” Dottore teased, the tip of his cock barely brushing against the damp cavern between your legs.

You could only whine in response as one of his hands slid in between your thighs, readjusting its grip around his waist. Your mind was too hazy with lust to comprehend a single word he said, only the thoughts of his large dick buried deep in your walls.

Dottore chuckled derisively as he began to circle your clit with his cock. He watched with amusement as your face contorted into expressions of pleasure, your eyes closed and your fingers curling in the air. Without warning, he slid his shaft inside of you, causing you to jerk forward and gasp as you felt him stretch you out.

“S-So big!” You whined, your chest heaving from the sensation. 

“Darling, we’re just getting started. If you think that is big…”

You suddenly felt a sharp thrust upwards, eliciting a scream from you. “Y-You bastard!”

He only chuckled before dragging his length out of you in a slow, lazy manner, teasing and taunting your cunt. Turns out he hadn’t pushed himself fully into you, and you weren’t expecting him to feel that big inside of you. 

He pressed his cock back inside of you before pulling out again, his pace gradually growing faster and rougher. The sound of his deep grunts with each thrust had you clamping around him, rubbing it against your walls.

You threw your head back in pleasure, strings of moans echoing throughout the room. Watching you succumb to his touch brought the harbinger an immense sense of pleasure; unbridled, sadistic pleasure.  

Hastily grabbing a pillow, he lifted your hips before sliding the plush material under your back, before changing his angle. This new position granted him better access to all of your sweet spots, and the ability to thrust deeper into you, deeper than you thought wasn’t possible. Lewd, needy moans escaped your lips as you felt his cock slam roughly against your walls, his free hand exploring and mapping out the contours of your body. 

Not long after, you could feel the familiar, warm knot forming in your stomach, and you knew you were close. His once sharp thrusts were now sloppier, his hand gripping tightly on your hips while his free hand continued to tease your body. With the way he was holding onto you, you were almost certain that his grip would cause marks and bruises the next day. 

Just a little more, you thought. Just a few more thrusts and a few more touches and a few more thrusts—

Your eyes widened as you felt him withdraw from your pussy, a lewd squelch emitting from the withdrawal of his cock. You let out a shaky whimper, mourning the loss of the fullness inside of you. You thrust your hips upwards, desperately yearning for friction. You heard Dottore chuckle before gently lowering your legs onto the bed, his touch tender; a stark contrast to the ruthless way he fucked you not even a minute ago.

“Aww, is my little inventor needy?” Dottore cooed, a cocky smirk plastered on his lips. You huffed in annoyance, still squirming from the loss of contact. “You don’t deserve to cum, darling. Not after that humiliating stunt you pulled on me earlier.”

You whined, your eyes screaming and begging silently. Just another thrust, you wanted to say. Just another thrust and let me cum—

You were cut out of your thoughts when you felt him undo the buckle of his belt, freeing you from your restraints. You looked at him with confusion, unsure where this was heading. But when you saw him sit himself against the headboard, with his legs spread out and his hands patting his thighs, you understood immediately what he wanted.

You wasted no time climbing onto his lap, sitting yourself comfortably on his thighs. Your own thighs were straddling his waist, his hands finding its way to your hips once more. There was a hungry look in his eyes, for once lacking the familiar coldness as he looked into yours. 

“Lift your hips up for me, baby,” He said, his voice deep and raspy. You swore you could have felt your pussy clench around the air. You abided, carefully lifting your hips up for him. He held your hips as he lined your pussy against his cock. You carefully took hold of his shaft, your thumb gently caressing the tip. He let out a deep groan before tightening his grip on your hips ever so slightly. 

“Slide it in, baby.”

He commanded, and you abided. You carefully lined his cock against your hole, before slowly sinking fully onto his lap. You let out a shaky moan, the sensation of this new position bringing tingles of pleasure all over your body. Dottore let out a groan on his own, leaning his head against the headboard as he felt your velvet folds encircle him. Slowly, he helped you to lift your hips high enough before pushing you down once more.

“Fuck, baby— you feel so fucking good.”

He guided your movements against his cock, his movements slow and unhurried. Dottore had you wrap your arms around his neck as you rode him, your fingers curling around the loose strands of his blue locks. With such a close proximity to him, you only realise now just how fucking hot he looked without a mask. His deep, crimson orbs, the skin right at the point of his left cheekbone decorated with a faded scar, and his lips so soft, so sweet, so kissable—

You were snapped out of your trance when you heard him pant heavily, his arms now wrapped around your waist as he sloppily thrusted upwards. You could tell from a mile away that he was reaching his breaking point. You were too.

“Archons, your pussy is so fucking good, darling,” He grunted, burying his face in your neck, his breath fanning against your already warm skin. “I wanna cum inside you, baby.”

Your eyes widened momentarily at his words. Inside of you? Wasn’t he just opposed to the idea of you getting off to his cock? You both were too far gone now, you were certain that he had forgotten that you were his biggest rival in the Fatui. Honestly, you didn’t even care anymore. All you wanted right now was his big cock inside of you, and sweet, sweet release.

A loud groan escaped Dottore’s lips as he felt you quicken your pace, bouncing eagerly on his dick. He could tell that you too were chasing your high, and he wasn’t going to do anything to stop it this time. Not when he was close to squirting his cum inside of you. 

Dottore’s hips jerked upwards, causing you to gasp from how deep his girth had pierced into you. You pulsed tighter around his cock, your moans like a sweet melody to his ears. Desperately, Dottore cradled the side of your cheek before pulling you into a needy kiss. You moaned against his lips as you continued to grind against him, your fingers messily tangling into his hair. You could feel him shudder against you as you tugged on his locks. He nipped at your bottom lip, his tongue running against the plump flesh before slipping into your mouth. His tongue explored your mouth, aching to map out every inch of you. He pulled away hastily, his breath ragged and erratic. 

“I’m g’nna cum, darling. Are you gonna cum f’me?”

Hearing his words caused a wave of heat to rush to your cheeks, but your desire for release was stronger. You nodded shakily, your movements against his hips growing more sloppy and lazy. 

With a final thrust, you felt the walls of pleasure come crashing down, a loud, desperate moan running off the tip of your tongue as you felt yourself cum all over his cock and thighs. Dottore let out a low moan before gripping your hips tightly, bouncing you roughly on his dick when you felt a warmth fill you with a rapid speed. 

“A-Archons— D-Dottore–!”

Dottore’s movements slowed down as the aftershock of his climax declined, his length still buried inside of you. You gently lifted your hips to pull out his cock, watching at the pearly beads of his cum mix with the sticky juices from your pussy. You carefully got off his lap, aiming to rest beside him, when you felt a tight pair of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your eyes widened with shock as you felt the male hold you close, his breathing still laboured from your previous activities.

“D-Dottore…” You whispered, your voice hoarse. 

He didn't budge, his arms still firmly wrapped around your waist, the feeling of his chest heaving against yours. For a moment, the two of you stayed that way, in each other's arms. 

When Dottore finally pulled away, he reached his hand out to cup your cheek, your fingers gentle and tender. “You were amazing, darling— absolutely breathtaking.”

His praise caused you to blush, looking away briefly from shyness. But he only pulled your chin back to face him, his eyes filled with a soft, tender gaze — one so unfamiliar from a man like him.

“If you ever do something as ridiculous as foiling my research, I will fuck you even harder next time and make sure you can’t walk for the next week.”

You only chuckled, a small smirk forming on your lips as you looked up at him. “I look forward to it.”

— masterlist ・ navi ・ request rules ♡

[bluespace-writer]

Hi. I want to make a suggestion: Their s/o goes completely missing. How does the mercs react?

If not all mercs, van I suggest Sniper, Soldier and Engineer?

TF2 Mercs reacting to s/o going missing - [platonic, romantic]

Mercenaries: (Sorry I didn't do all of them): Scout, Solider, Sniper, Spy and Engineer

Scout:

> Scout is the first one to notice your absence. He walks around the base looking for his bud but when unsuccessful his first thought will be "Ah, they probably went on a mission or something" and goes back to continue his activities

> When some time passes Scout starts to worry. Sure he could understand that some contracts are hard to finish but everyone were always back before day ends. And you are still not back.

> He can't stand it and decides to look around the base trying to find you. Unsuccessful after his research Scout is getting more worried

> I imagine him runing around from room to room, asking some guys about you only to hear that you still aren't back. Oh boy where are you?

> His reaction that you are missing next day fills him with worry. Why? How?! Where are they?! Why did they disappeared??

> First one to volunteer to look for you

> If you are his partner or if you have crush on each other be ready to be swarm with hugs and worried fast talk after this

> After you are found his first reaction is to put his arms around your shoulders and ask milion questions. Where were you, etc. Now he won't leave you for a whole week. "What? Noooo I wasn't worried about you, but don't disappear like that!" won't admit it but he missed you. A lot.

Solider:

> He won't see your absence at first, it will take some time for him to realize there was supposed to be 10 and not 9 people around

> He will shrug it off thinking you are just away

> He is going to find out you are missing only when someone points out your absence to him in person

> "SHALL KNOW NO FEAR MAGGOT!! MISSING WILL BE FOUND!!" He screams out loud, while running to the next room to look for you

> Alright.... it's been some time now. Where are you?... He is going to miss you buddy. He cares for his team, and is actually worried.

> When you are found he will lecture you how to not get kidnapped or lost again. That especially applies if you are his partner (you won't escape crushing night cuddles)

> Give him love, he missed you a lot, even if he doesn't show it

Sniper:

> He notices your absence after a while. Does it make him worry about you? Nope. He is going to come back to him van or practice his sniping skills not thinking about your disappearance too much. You all have a lot of work to do after all

> Hours will pass before he finnaly decides to look for you. Just to see where you are so he wouldn't have to think about it anymore

> When checking your most visited spots don't bring him any luck he'll ask some of teammembers about you.

> When it brings no luck he decides to look for you on his own. Come on.... where are you mate.

> After you are back safe and sound expect him to be not far away from you for.... three or more days, watching you from far away. Just to be sure you won't disappear without a word.

>If you are in relationship with him, he won't show any signs of beeing worried, but privately he'll give you a hug, or hold your hands close to his face

> He missed you... and he is glad you are back

Spy:

> He know you are missing before anyone does.

> He know his teammates well, from their activities to schedules and habits. He is a Spy after all, his job is to mimic people.

>When you are not doing something that according to his observation, you were supposed to do, he is going to look for you (invisible of course)

> Strange.... you are not here... not in your favourite spot... not around your favourite people. This.... is bad news.

> He lets everyone know you are missing, and is the first to volunteer to look for you

> Back at the base he isn't going to stick around you very long. Just long enough to know you are well. He is kind enough to make you a drink

> When you are that one special person close to him, know he is going to take you to his room to give you best treatment you have ever received in your entire life. He will ask questions, how, who, what, why's and all that. Be patient with him, he wants to know details.

> Kisses on cheeks and hands, to let you know he missed you

Engineer:

> He is a busy man, but he is observant one too and is going to notice you aren't around.

> Will ask around first instead of looking for you by himself. When answer won't satisfy him, this is when he'll look for you.

> Is the first one to rase the alarm to let everyone know you are missing

> Come on.... where are you?? It isn't like you to just be gone for so long...

> He is the one to find you and bring you back safely. Is the one to give you check up alongside Medic

> Expect him to ask you a lot of questions, just to be sure you are feeling alright. Will not leave your side for a while and is going to check on you from time to time bringing cookies or something to drink, like water or tea

> "Darlin' stay with me will Ya? Just... want to be with you" He is sweet one, wanting best for his partner, in the romantic way too. He doesn't want you to be missing again when he is being distracted with his work. Hold his hand and kiss him! He wants to be sure you are save dear...

[im4rmy]

bf!jaemin x fem!reader (idol AU) II

IMAGINE: You call him crying after an especially brutal shift.

TW: mention of child death, grief.

• You leave the hospital with heavy steps, barely functioning as a human as you make your way to your car, parked not too far away. You struggle to open the door, then drop into the driver’s seat, tossing your bag into the back without a second thought. Today was horrible. The worst day of your life, honestly. All you want to do now is cry until there's nothing left in your heart—and that’s exactly what you do. You grip the steering wheel and let the sobs shake you for a solid ten minutes before realizing you can’t drive like this. With trembling hands, you grab your phone and scroll through your contacts... hovering over one name in particular.

Would it be too weird to call him?

You’re officially together now—you’ve slept over, been on a million dates—but... you’ve never even seen his place. And he’s never seen yours. You know he’s the right person to call. The only person who’d make sense right now. But still—he’s never even seen you without makeup, and right now you’re in your scrubs, with tear-streaked cheeks and exhaustion written all over your face.

Screw it. You need to get away from this hospital asap.

• 📞“Hello?”

📞“H-Hi… um, am I—am I bothering you?” *sniff*

📞“Not at all, I’m at the gym. Is everything okay?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a miserable sob.

Jaemin freezes mid-step near the weight bench, where Jeno is already doing his reps. Concern immediately takes over his face as he presses the phone closer to his ear.

📞“Are you crying?”

You sniff a couple of times, still unable to speak.

📞“What happened? Are you hurt?”

He’s already grabbing his stuff, ready to leave, catching Jeno’s attention.

📞“I—It’s just... I can’t drive. Could you—can you come get me? P-Please.”

📞“Of course, sweetheart. Where are you?”

📞“I’m still a-at the hospital.”

📞“Wait for me, okay? I’m coming.”

📞“Mhmh.”

You hang up right away and melt into the steering wheel again, letting more tears out before your boyfriend arrives.

• Jeno watches him, confused. “What’s going on?”

"I’ve got to pick up Y/N from work.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know—she didn’t say. She was crying.”

“Her job must be insane. I could never.”

“Same. But she never seems tired or stressed, you know? I don’t know if she’s just really good at hiding it or... anyway, I gotta go.”

• When you see his sleek black car pulling up to the employee exit, you get up from the hospital steps where you’ve been perched, wiping your cheeks one more time. You head toward the car and climb in, avoiding his gaze.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Jaemin doesn’t say a word as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. You try to speak a couple of times, but nothing comes out. You know if you say anything, you’ll just start crying again.

“You hungry?”

You just nod, and Jaemin answers with a soft “okay.”

• You focus on your breathing and stare out the window—until you realize where you are: a drive-through. Jaemin pulls up beside the ordering window and glances at you.

“What do you feel like having?”

You take a deep breath. “Double cheeseburger menu. Large. And a chocolate donut… please.”

He chuckles softly before pressing the mic button and ordering for both of you. Then he rummages in the glove compartment, grabs a black mask, puts it on, and pulls up to the payment window.

• Ten minutes later, you’re parked in the lot of a closed-down grocery store—completely deserted. It might’ve felt creepy if you weren’t with the sweetest man you’ve ever met and devouring the biggest (and free!!) cheeseburger of your life. Jaemin even puts on the latest episode of a comedy variety show on his phone. Laughter—soft chuckles and deep belly laughs—fills the car as you both eat this ridiculously low-budget meal, a rare treat compared to the five-star restaurants and luxury hotels he usually takes you to. It’s perfect. But now the episode’s over, and so is your burger, and you know it’s time to tell him the truth—even if he hasn’t asked.

• “Thank you… for coming. And for the food, of course.”

He just smiles, soft and sweet. “You feel a little better?”

You nod, letting out a long breath as you look ahead. “Today—uhm… a child—he was brought in almost two months ago.”

You can feel the tears building again, but you push through.

“He died today. We couldn’t save him.” You cover your face with your hands as the sobs return.

“Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

You feel the warmth of his arms around you instantly, and you collapse into his chest, crying for the patient you lost.

“He was eight. And so sweet. How—how can something like that happen?”

“I don’t know, baby. I really don’t. I’m so sorry.”

• Jaemin holds you close until you calm down—or at least until the crying stops—pressing soft kisses on your head.

“What can I do for you?”

You sniff and think for a second. All you want is for him to stay.

“Can you stay with me?”

“Of course, princess. How about we go to my place? I’ll run you a warm bath, you can wear my clothes, and we’ll cuddle up on my king-size bed. Sound good?”

“That sounds perfect.”

And that’s how you realized Na Jaemin was someone worth holding onto.

And hey—tonight, you met his cats!

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other jaemin's chapters:

bf!jaemin scenario

jaemin - when you first met

jaemin - your first time together

bf!jaemin scenario II ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ you're here!

OT7 chapters:

your contact names in each other's phone

his favourite part of your body

when he hurts you during sex by accident

when he comes back from tour

⇘ nct dream idol AU index ⇙

·˚✎ ﹏im4rmy's masterlist

Taglist: @carelessshootanonymous

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