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inkandapex · 4 months ago

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racing heart

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary : Y/N is determined to prove she’s got the skills to take on Lando’s karting challenge, but Lando’s protective instincts go into overdrive. Despite her insistence that she’s fine, Lando can’t help but fuss over every little detail, from her seatbelt to her speed, unable to hide his concern.

Words : 2.1k

Warnings : some swearing, small crash.

— (tbh I wrote this one half-asleep, not my favourite but here you guys go!)

As soon as Y/N watched Quadrant’s new video with Keegan Palmer, she was immediately determined to try the challenge herself. Almost without fail, she’d been pestering Lando to let her have a go. But ever the protective boyfriend, Lando wasn’t so easily convinced.

The four sat around the table, waiting for their lunch to arrive—Max and Lando deep in their own conversation, while Pietra and Y/N chatted away. It wasn’t until Pietra reached over to grab Max’s hand, catching his attention, that the table suddenly fell silent.

“Y/N has a question for you,” Pietra starts, a grin already spreading across her face.

“Oh, here we go,” Lando sighs, reaching for his glass to take a sip, already knowing exactly what’s coming.

“What?” Max asks, confusion written all over his face as he glances between his girlfriend, his friend, and Y/N—all of whom are wearing entirely different expressions.

Lando sets his glass down with a knowing look. “She’s about to try and get you on board with letting her do the karting challenge we did with Keegan.”

"That sounds sick actually—"

“Right?!” Y/N interrupts excitedly, eyes practically glowing with joy.

“No,” Lando says firmly, shaking his head.

“Mate, we’ve gone karting with Y/N before,” Max points out.

“Yeah, indoors—and those karts weren’t that fast,” Lando argues, trying to reason with him.

“Lan, please, it looks so fun,” Y/N pleads, leaning in.

“Baby, no—”

“Lando, you go over 200 miles per hour, and Y/N never says a word about it,” Pietra cuts in, backing her friend up without hesitation.

“That’s different, P… Max wouldn’t let you do it either,” Lando huffs, turning to Max for support.

“I would, actually.”

“Lando, please,” Y/N presses, eyes wide with excitement. “You and Max would be there to teach me! I’ll be safe, I promise. We can even—”

“—Fine! Fine, alright,” Lando finally caves, running a hand through his hair, already regretting his decision.

“We’re filming this, right?” Max smirks, barely holding back his laughter.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

At the same track where they did the last challenge, Max holds the camera, zooming in on his friends standing near the circuit. Both Y/N and Lando are dressed in fireproofs, helmets in hand. Lando gestures animatedly as he talks, the mic picking up his voice as he explains the racing lines and braking points to Y/N, who listens intently.

Max moves closer, camera still in hand, ready for a quick interview. “How you feelin’, Y/N?”

Y/N turns to the camera with a big grin, giving a small wave. “So excited.”

“Lando?” Max pans to his friend.

“I’m gonna shit myself”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Baby, you’re a walking hazard.”

“That’s true, actually.” Max briefly turns the camera on himself, giving a small nod of agreement.

“Guys—no, remember Silverstone last year?” Lando points accusingly. “Y/N showed up with her arm in a sling because she missed the bed while trying to jump onto it and landed straight on her shoulder.”

"That's different—"

“—Alright! So you already know what’s about to happen,” Max says, handing off the camera before stepping between his two friends, slinging an arm around each of them. “Lando’s gonna set a lap time, and Y/N will get a shot with different karts—one faster than the other to see if she can beat him.”

The camera zooms in on Lando’s face, his expression a mix of nerves and dread, clearly uncomfortable.

“Mate, you look ill.”

“I will be after this,” Lando chuckles softly, trying to lighten the mood.

“She’ll be fine. C’mon, go ahead. We’ll be up there watching,” Max laughs, giving his friend a pat on the back. “I’ll make sure to give her tips as you go.”

"Oi, excuse me? Hold on a minute! Where's my kiss?" Lando pouts, feigning offense. "I can’t believe you’re not being sweeter to me after I agreed to do this."

Y/N halts, throwing her head back and laughing. "Sorry! Just really excited." She jogs back towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Have fun, be safe."

You could almost see Lando's body relax—maybe for the first time all day—as he holds her face with his free hand and gives her a soft kiss. "You're lucky I love you," he mutters against her lips. "Go on then, let me get the job done." He chuckles, ruffling her hair before turning to walk toward the kart.

---------------------------------------------------------------

As Lando takes his warm-up lap, Y/N can be seen sitting beside Max, listening intently as he gives her pointers. Max talks her through the track, explaining the braking points and the tricky corners she needs to watch out for, doing his best to guide her through every detail. Y/N nods along, fully focused, ready to take on the challenge.

"Unbelievable” Max muttered with a scoff.

“What?” Y/N, concerned, turned to Max.

“He’s going slow on purpose.”

“No way…”

“He’s already two seconds behind the lap time he set last time we did the challenge.”

“He clearly doesn’t want me on the faster karts then” Y/N slouched in her seat, deflated.

Max nodded, grabbing his radio to speak to Lando. “Mate, you have to do one more. The clock wasn’t working properly, sorry.”

“Copy,” Lando replied, completely unaware that his girlfriend and best friend had caught on to his little trick.

Lando took one more lap, and it was even slower than the previous three. The two of them walked over to the track to greet him.

“How was that?” Lando asked, pulling off his helmet with a grin.

“Yeah, no, mate—no chance,” Max said, shaking his head. “You were going slow on purpose.”

"No I wasn't!" Lando immediately shouts in defense

"I'm setting the lap time," Max says, handing over the stopwatch to Lando before heading back into the building to grab his own helmet.

Y/N stands with her arms crossed, staring at her boyfriend with a look of clear disapproval.

"Oh, come on, baby," Lando chuckles softly, stepping toward her and pulling her into his arms. "You can’t be mad at me."

Just then, Max walks back out, helmet on, heading toward the kart. "Alright, lovebirds, enough with the mushy stuff," he teases with a grin.

"Max I swear—"

Y/N tugs on Lando's arm, dragging him to where her and Max were previously sat, leaving Max to get to his kart "Goodluck Maxie! Fast and safe yeah?"

"Always"

--------------------------------------------------------------------

As expected, Max set a solid lap time, one that left both Lando and Y/N chasing after it. The three of them were all significantly faster than any of Lando's previous attempts, creating the perfect challenge for Y/N to take on and hopefully beat.

The scene cuts to the three of them back on track, with Max standing off to the side, a sheepish grin on his face as he watches Lando double, triple, and maybe even quadruple-check every little thing while Y/N sits in the kart.

"Mate, at this point, you’ve checked her seatbelt so many times, I’m pretty sure it’s been inspected more than your car before a race," Max laughs, shaking his head. "You planning to give her a full service next?"

Lando lets out a sigh. "Hey, better safe than sorry," he says, tugging on the straps for what feels like the hundredth time.

Max chuckles. "At this rate, she’s gonna need a nap after all your—"

Y/N, fully embracing the teasing, drops her head forward and lets out exaggerated snoring noises. "Oh— and she's down," Max laughs, enjoying the moment.

Lando rolls his eyes and shakes his head, his focus not breaking as he checks the brakes one last time. He leans in to gently lift her head, making sure she looks at him.

"Don’t push yourself beyond what you're comfortable with," he says, his tone serious but soft. "If at any point you want to stop, just let us know. And if anything feels off—"

"I know, baby," Y/N interrupts with a playful smile, brushing him off. "I’ll be fine. You worry too much."

Lando gives her a soft smile before planting a quick kiss on the top of her helmet, then gives her a light tap on the side before starting her kart.

"Okay, let’s go, lover boy. Drive fast, Y/N!" Max teases, already dragging Lando off the track.

"I will!" Y/N calls back, already revving the engine.

Lando pauses, his voice rising as he watches her take off. "Safely, baby, please! Drive safely!" He shouts after her, hands still hovering nervously at his sides.

Max smirks. "You're really gonna keep yelling at her like that from the sidelines?"

"I've only got one of her, I’ve got the right to worry," Lando mutters, but a smile creeps onto his face.

----------------------------------------------------------

The challenge was going smoothly, with Y/N only a couple of seconds off the target lap time on her first attempt. By her third kart, she finally beat it by just tenths of a second. However, that didn’t stop her from wanting to try out the fastest kart they had available, much to Lando’s frustration.

"Baby, you’re already faster than the rest of us. Why do you need to go any faster?" Lando groans, running a hand through his hair as she approaches the kart.

Y/N grins mischievously, her competitive spirit clearly not satisfied yet. "Because I can. Besides, I’m just warming up," she teases, hopping into the sleek, speedier kart.

The first lap went perfectly, with Y/N letting out shouts of joy as she sped through the track. Lando and Max watched from the sidelines, impressed by how well she was handling the kart, both commenting on how fast and smooth she was. However, by the fourth turn of her second lap, they began to notice a change. Y/N’s arms were starting to give out. She was struggling to keep the kart under control, her once-smooth movements becoming more jerky with each turn.

Lando immediately grabs the radio, his voice laced with concern. "Y/N, love, you’ve gotta slow down now, alright? Your arms are giving out a little, you’re gonna go off track."

Lando watches anxiously, his fingers gripping the radio tightly, waiting for her response. Before he can radio her again, he sees Y/N miss the braking point, her kart spinning out and slamming into one of the barriers on the turn.

Both Lando and Max jolt up from their seats, the panic flashing in their eyes. Lando grabs the radio and bolts down the track, Max following closely behind. Their feet pound against the ground as they rush toward where she’s spun out.

"I'm okay. Just dizzy from the spin," Y/N's voice crackles through the radio, making Max stop in his tracks and squat down on the spot, letting out a relieved breath.

Lando, however, doesn’t slow down. He keeps sprinting toward where she’s stopped, his heart racing as he sees her starting to get out of the kart.

Max, noticing her movement, immediately grabs the radio. "Hey— no. Y/N, slow down. Wait ‘til we get to you. Lando's nearly there, sit tight."

Lando’s feet hit the track faster, his worry growing with every step as he sees Y/N trying to move. He reaches her in no time, dropping to his knees beside her. With quick, precise movements, he removes her helmet, immediately inspecting her for any signs of injury.

"What's hurting? Are you okay? What hurts?" His voice is frantic, eyes scanning her for any sign of damage.

Y/N shakes her head, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Lan... I'm okay. It wasn’t that bad, really. Just felt like a soft bump to the side. I’m feeling peachy, I promise. Just... embarrassed is all," she admits, a hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Fuck me... Right, we're done for today. C’mon." Lando pulls her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before gently helping her out of the kart.

Max, still out of breath, finally catches up to them. "You good, Y/N?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Still in one piece," Y/N laughs, giving a thumbs-up, earning a facepalm from Lando.

"That looked really bad from where we were," Max says, looking at the kart, then back at her with concern still lingering in his eyes.

Lando shoots him a look. "Yeah, thanks for the commentary, Max. We’re all fine now, though." He turns his attention back to Y/N, making sure she’s steady on her feet. "Let’s get you checked out properly, just in case."

The three make their way back to the building, with Lando softly checking in on Y/N, making sure she’s still feeling alright after the spin. Their light chatter fills the air as Max trails behind, looking at the pair with a sheepish grin.

"So, uh... we’re keeping this on the video, right?" Max asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Lando glances over at him "You muppet"

Y/N smirks, giving Max a playful nudge. "Honestly, I wouldn’t mind. They live for drama."

Lando groans, but a grin tugs at his lips. "You're both impossible."

#lando fanfic #lando norris #oneshot #f1 one shot #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #lando x you #f1 #f1 x reader #formula one #lando norris imagine #landonorris #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #formula one x reader #formula one imagine

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formulafanfics13 · 3 days ago

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how to parent a sick girlfriend by Lando Norris and several unqualified men

Masterlist

summary: You wake up in the McLaren motorhome with a fever and zero energy. The first red flag? You don’t insult Lando. The second? He starts screaming for garlic and wizards. Chaos unfolds as the entire grid descends into full-blown hysterics — until Toto Wolff arrives with paracetamol and judgment. Lando? He’s useless. And also in love with you.

warnings: pure chaos, fever/sickfic, group stupidity, concerned boyfriend Lando, comedic grid reactions, medical-level overreaction, fluff, softness under the madness, found family energy

The first sign that something is catastrophically, irreversibly wrong isn't the nausea. It isn't even the pounding in your head or the way your spine feels like it's been used as a battering ram. It's the fact that you don't insult Lando Norris during breakfast.

He's wearing his new McLaren team jacket, too orange, too smug, slouched in the motorhome chair with hair still damp from the shower and socks that don't match. He's halfway through biting into a banana when he narrows his eyes at you. "I look good today, don't I?"

Nothing. No retort. No eye-roll. No, 'you look like a sentient highlighter.'

Just you, sitting at the little round table like a Victorian ghost in team loungewear, eyes glassy, breathing shallow. He sets the banana down. "Okay, no. What's happening. Who are you. Where is the real you."

You blink at him, slow and blank.

"Babe?"

Still nothing.

Lando's face morphs into horror. He slowly sets his mug down, leans over the table, and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. "FUCK," he announces at full volume. "You're boiling. Like fever-boiling. Not in the hot way. I mean, you are hot in the hot way, but not-fuck."

You groan and drop your head into your folded arms. "My bones hurt."

Lando shoots out of his chair like he's been tasered. "Right. Okay. We need assistance. Immediate assistance."

"Do not make a scene-"

But he's already gone. Outside. Screaming.

"GIRLFRIEND DOWN. CODE ORANGE. SHE'S DYING. GET HELP. GINGER. GARLIC. AN ACTUAL WIZARD IF YOU KNOW ONE."

Oscar is the first on the scene. He walks into the McLaren motorhome holding two bananas and a protein shake like he's reporting for duty. "She dead?"

"She's boiling alive!" Lando hisses.

Oscar approaches you gently, as if you might be contagious through eye contact. "Are you okay?"

You lift your head a single inch. "I want to crawl into a freezer and die."

Oscar turns back to Lando. "That's above my pay grade."

"You finished school."

"Not med school."

"You literally built a go-kart out of IKEA furniture last week. Fix her."

Oscar looks helpless. "She's not a gearbox."

Charles appears next, breathless. "Did someone crash?"

"No," Lando says. "She's got a fever."

Charles visibly deflates. "Mate, I thought someone's brakes failed. Or like, a concussion."

"She can barely move."

George arrives with a tote bag and a mission. "I brought emergency tea. Herbal. Caffeine-free. And a homemade oat milk tincture from my mum. I also have a lavender roller and one of those wheat bags you put in the microwave."

Yuki pokes his head in and asks, "Should I call a priest?"

You groan louder.

"She needs electrolytes!" Oscar shouts.

"No!" says George. "She needs tea!"

"Move," Max says, barging through the door with a bag of frozen peas and your grapes. "I brought cooling."

Lando is vibrating. "She needs SOUP."

"She needs Jesus," mutters Yuki.

Pierre arrives like he's entering a Paris runway show. "She needs rest. And elegance. And to be carried somewhere dramatically."

Carlos shrugged as he entered, "We could take her to the mountains."

Lewis sighed deeply, "You all need to shut the fuck up."

Somewhere across the paddock, James Vowles is sipping coffee when a junior Williams engineer runs in, panting. "Sir... i think we need an adult at the McLaren motorhome..."

James blinks. "Did someone die?"

"Worse. They're doing crystals."

Ten minutes later, Toto Wolff enters like a fucking war general, flanked by Andrea Stella and Zak Brown.

What they see: You, slumped like a flu-ridden corpse across the McLaren motorhome couch, surrounded by lemon wedges, cooling towels, and what might be someone's weighted blanket.

Max, now eating grapes and playing with the frozen peas. George whispering affirmations. Charles calling his physio on speaker. Oscar scrolling through how to make your girlfriend un-sick on Reddit. Pierre fanning you with a team media credential. Carlos sketching a plan to get you to a mountain retreat. Lewis doing literal breathwork. Yuki has taped a sign to the door that says DO NOT REVIVE — TOO LATE.

"OUT," Toto commands.

The drivers scatter like children caught robbing a liquor store. Lando stays, arms spread like a human shield. "She's dying. I don't know what to do!"

Andrea crouches by you like an actual adult and touches your cheek. "She has a fever."

"I KNOW," Lando shouts.

"She needs rest. And hydration."

"AND soup," mutters George from the hallway.

Toto physically picks you up and carries you bridal-style to a quieter private lounge.

Zak calls catering. Susie appears with Gatorade. James Vowles brings paracetamol like it's a blessing. Andrea Stella starts adjusting everyone's schedules. Toto tucks you into a makeshift sickbed with military precision.

"No stress. No media. No Lando."

From under your blankets, you croak, "Lando is stress."

Lando appears in the doorway, eyes wide and heartbroken. "I brought you your stuffed McLaren bear."

"You sprayed it with cologne."

"It's familiar!"

"Out," Toto says.

"Just for a minute?"

"NO."

"Five seconds?"

Toto glowers. "No."

You and Lando burst out laughing. Lando ends up sitting in the chair next to your makeshift bed, blanket pulled over his head like a ghost, hand linked with yours under the covers.

"Thanks for trying," you whisper.

"I did my best," he mumbles. "And by that I mean I summoned a grid of fucking idiots."

"Who summoned the team principals."

"And caused a minor FIA panic."

"And got me Gatorade."

He grins into the blanket. "I love you."

"Even sick?"

"Especially sick. You can't run away when you're ill."

You smack his arm.

Across the paddock, Toto is sending a follow-up email to the FIA titled: EMERGENCY PROTOCOL FOR EMOTIONALLY INCOMPETENT DRIVERS.

And honestly? Fair.

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ijustwannabecool · 2 months ago

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It’s Just a Word, Right?

Lewis Hamilton x wife!reader

Summary... After a chaotic doubleheader weekend, Lewis returns home ready to unwind. But when their son repeats a word from the paddock at school, it sparks a parenting clash that cuts deeper than expected.

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The smell of dinner hits Lewis before he’s even stepped out of the car.

It’s been two races back-to-back; Imola and Monaco. He flew home straight from debrief, wearing the same Ferrari jacket he left the circuit in. There’s still engine grease under his nails and a faint scuff mark on his cheek from a chaotic media pen scrum.

He’s not even through the front door when Sofia barrels into his legs, arms wrapped around him, curls wild and still a little sticky with honey.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Lewis lifts her easily, pressing a kiss to her cheek as Y/N calls from the kitchen, “Wash your hands first! Dinner’s just about done!”

Leo and Mateo are already at the table, perched in their chairs with plates of rice, roasted chicken, and steamed veggies in front of them. Y/N is cutting up Sofia’s portion, still dressed in her tank and joggers, looking like home.

Everything feels right.

Until Leo opens his mouth.

“I don’t want any more fucking broccoli.”

Silence.

Y/N freezes mid-slice.

Lewis pauses, mid-hand-wash, eyes flicking to his son with disbelief. He almost laughs. Almost.

“Leo,” Y/N says, voice sharp, calm, but barely.

Leo shrugs, poking a carrot with his fork. “Uncle Toto said it when he dropped the sandwich.”

Lewis chokes on air.

Y/N’s eyes laser in on him like she’s about to start qualifying laps around his ass. “Uncle Toto said it?”

Lewis wipes his hands on a dish towel, walking toward the table slowly. “Babe, c’mon, Toto probably did say it. I’ve heard him swear in six languages.”

“I don’t care if he said it in Morse code. Our son just said it at the dinner table,” she snaps.

Lewis crouches down beside Leo, trying to keep his tone light. “Where’d you hear that, really, bud?”

Leo looks up at him, completely unbothered. “The garage. You said it when the rear jack didn’t lock.”

Y/N doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.

Lewis sighs. “Okay. That one’s on me.”

“It’s always on you,” she mutters under her breath, gathering up the juice cups.

Leo starts chewing on a breadstick like it’s no big deal, but Mateo whispers, “You’re in trouble.”

Sofia nods solemnly beside him, eyes wide.

“We don’t say that word, baby,” Y/N says gently to Leo, crouching to his level. “Not at school, not at home, not anywhere. It’s not kind.”

“But Daddy says it all the time,” Leo says, frowning. “You do too when your computer crashes.”

Y/N blinks.

Lewis snorts and instantly masks it with a cough.

“Oh my God, don’t laugh,” she says, shooting him a glare. “You’re the reason he told his whole class the brake pedal was ‘fucking toast.’ Do you know how many calls I got?”

“It was toast,” Lewis defends. “I almost put the car into the wall at 305 KPH an hour because someone didn’t torque the—”

“Lewis.” Her voice is warning enough.

He stands, frustrated but biting his tongue. “It’s a word. He didn’t hit anyone. He didn’t steal anything. He just... he just repeated something I said. I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re not getting it.”

“No, babe, you’re not getting it.” His voice sharpens. “They already live in a world where everyone watches them because of me. I just want them to feel normal, not like they’re walking on eggshells every time they say something wrong.”

Y/N’s jaw tightens. “And you think letting them swear is normal?”

“I think letting them be kids is normal.”

“You want them to be kids, or you just want to feel better about the fact you barely see them two weekends a month during the season?”

It slips. She doesn’t mean for it to. But it cuts through him like a wing mirror shattering.

Lewis stiffens. Silence falls again.

Sofia stabs a carrot with her little fork. “Mummy’s mad.”

Leo nods. “Like when the blender exploded.”

Lewis just walks away, back into the hallway, jaw clenched. He doesn't slam the door. Doesn’t yell.

He just sits on the stairs for a second. Breathing.

Two minutes later, Y/N follows, guilt already rising in her throat like a lump of gravel.

“I didn’t mean that,” she says quietly, sitting beside him.

Lewis doesn’t look at her. “Maybe you did.”

She places her hand on his knee. “I get frustrated. But you’re a good dad, Lew. The best. I just want to raise them right. Not like we were.”

Lewis finally looks at her. His voice is quieter now. “I want that too.”

They sit like that for a moment. Side by side.

From the kitchen, a sudden giggle erupts.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Mateo!” Y/N yells.

Lewis sighs. “Oh, come on.”

“I will end you,” she says, already getting up.

He catches her hand before she storms off, and grins, sheepish. “Still want to kiss me later?”

She glares. “Wash your mouth out with soap first.”

-------

flashback

It was years ago.

Pre-kids. Pre-marriage. Pre-Ferrari red. Just a messy hotel room in Monaco, the scent of champagne in the air, and Lewis Hamilton flat on his back, one arm draped over his eyes.

Y/N stood by the open window, robe half-tied, eyes on the Riviera lights below.

“You ever think about kids?” she asked, barely above the hum of traffic and late-night waves.

Lewis didn’t answer right away. She turned and saw it in his face, tension. Not the kind he got before a race, but the kind that lived in the cracks of a past he never talked about much.

He lowered his arm. “Not really.”

She climbed into bed beside him, soft and slow, tracing a finger down the lion tattoo on his chest. “Why not?”

He looked at her then, eyes dark and serious. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be a dad. Not a real one.”

“You had one.”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

Then he added, quieter, “I don’t want to be the kind of father I had. Detached. Controlling. The guy who showed up to take credit but never stayed long enough to do the work.”

Y/N rested her head on his chest. “Then don’t be.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. Love them more than you hate the way you were raised. That’s how you break it.”

He closed his eyes, breathing her in like she was the only real thing in the world. “I don’t want to mess up a kid.”

She kissed his chest. “Then maybe don’t have one with just anyone.”

Lewis huffed a laugh, eyes opening. “What, and have one with you?”

She smiled. “You’d be lucky.”

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face in her hair. “Don’t tempt me.”

---------

The house was quiet.

The kids were finally asleep. Mateo tucked in with his dinosaur nightlight, Sofia curled up with a plush lion, and Leo sprawled across his bed like he fought demons in his sleep.

Y/N padded into the ensuite bathroom, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a soft cotton robe tied around her waist. She was brushing her teeth when she felt Lewis’s presence before she saw him.

His reflection met hers in the mirror, shirtless, boxers riding low on his hips, tattoos stark in the dim bathroom lighting.

“You still mad?” he asked, voice low and rough.

She spit into the sink, rinsed her mouth, and turned. “A little.”

Lewis stepped closer, caging her in with one hand on the counter behind her. “Want me to make it up to you?”

She didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow.

“I mean,” he murmured, lips brushing her cheek, “I could wash my mouth out with soap… or I could use it on you.”

That did it.

Y/N shoved his chest, half-laughing, half-annoyed, but he caught her wrist mid-push, twisting it gently until her back hit the bathroom counter.

Lewis leaned in, lips grazing her jaw. “You love when I’m like this.”

“You’re a menace,” she whispered, but her thighs were already squeezing together.

“I’m your menace.”

He kissed her slow at first, maddeningly so. Then his hands were on her hips, sliding her robe open, parting the fabric until it slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the tile.

Lewis sank to his knees without a word, palms dragging down her sides until they gripped behind her thighs.

“Still want to punish me?” he asked, looking up at her from under those lashes.

She smirked. “Only if you beg.”

He grinned. “Bet.”

--------

The bathroom lights are still on, casting a soft glow into the bedroom where they’ve ended up, a trail of clothes and discarded thoughts leading from one room to the next.

Y/N is sprawled across Lewis’s chest, her cheek pressed to the lion ink she’s always loved, the one she used to trace when she was just his girlfriend sneaking into hotel rooms under fake names.

His fingers draw slow circles on her back, steady and grounding.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, voice low and rough with the edges of sleep.

Y/N hums. “Not really. You were right… kind of.”

“Kind of?” he repeats, smiling.

“You’re a good dad, Lew.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He just holds her tighter, like if he doesn’t, she might vanish. Then he speaks, quiet and real.

“I always thought I’d mess this up,” he says. “I used to tell myself I didn’t want a family because I couldn’t handle it. Because the paddock was my whole life, and anything outside of it felt… far.”

Y/N lifts her head to look at him, eyes soft. “And now?”

He gazes at her. “Now it feels like the rest of my life is the time between coming home to you.”

Something about the way he says it makes her chest ache.

Lewis continues, almost like he needs to get it out. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I still panic when they cry too hard. I still think I’ll say the wrong thing. But I love them. God, I love them.”

“They know,” she says. “Every time you hug them, every time you show up, even when you’re exhausted. They know.”

Lewis swallows hard. “Sometimes I think about that night in Monaco. You remember?”

“The one with the robe and the champagne?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I said I’d never be a dad. Said I’d ruin a kid.”

Y/N brushes her fingers along his cheek. “And now you’ve got three who think the sun rises because you told it to.”

His laugh is quiet. A little broken. Full of disbelief.

She kisses him gently, murmuring against his lips, “You didn’t ruin anything, Lew. You built this. You built us.”

They lie in silence for a while, nothing but the hum of the house and the softness between them.

Then he whispers, “You’re still a bitch, though.”

Y/N laughs, swats at his chest, and lets herself fall back into him with a sigh. “Yeah, well. You married one.”

“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”

--------

The end.

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earthsparked · 2 months ago

Text

Four hummingbirds, who also had never met

Chapter 1/2 (You are here) | Chapter 2/2 | (Story on A03)

Don't step on the organic!

You're crouched under a giant table, shivering with reaction despite the soft blanket thrown around your shoulders. It smells slightly of what you think might be silver polish, but it's tight and warm. The pressure around you, holding you to earth, is a small kindness in the wake of what you've just been through.

Huge metal bodies come crashing through the door in a ballet of moving parts that is dizzying to watch. The red and white robot who'd plucked you away from the tangled wreckage is helping the three larger ones, who haul in your metal person-that-was-a-car who started this whole mess. You watch, frozen, edging further under the massive slab of a table when they come clattering toward you with their smoking, sparking, dripping burden. It's alarming how much this one, they'd called him Bluestreak, both does and doesn't look like a corpse despite First Aid's promises that he wasn't dead.

What are these people?

You'd been minding your own business, delivering pizzas to make a few extra bucks. You were on your last leg of the day, picking up an order to an address way out in the middle of nowhere. You'd had your tunes cranked up, singing along and thinking of making something non-pizza for dinner. You cursed and flinched when a very fancy car blew past you in the opposite direction, going at a lethal speed. Who in the absolute fuck -

You glance in your rearview mirror to track them for a beat. Only for you to slam on your brakes and fishtail when a god damn fighter jet descended like an angry dragon, chasing after the car and flying way lower than any air traffic control would ever allow.

For a heartstopping second you're sure you're about to die. The stack of Hawaiian and barbecue chicken pizzas in their keep-warm bag go flying, and there's one order you won't be getting a tip for delivering. You head whips back against the seat as you fight physics and death and the steering wheel. The jet blasts over you and past, there and gone like a hallucination, if not for the dirt and roadside trash that gets thrown up against your car from the force of its passing.

You only start breathing again when your car's come to a halt, half on the shoulder. Your music's turned from some nonsense in the background, to the full soundtrack of your heart pounding out of your chest and the roar of jet engines. It was going slow, you realize, because there wasn't a sonic boom.

But you have no time to ponder that or anything before there's a noise that's not a sonic boom, but also like nothing you've ever heard before. And then your car, the pizzas, your entire body, the ground, the world shakes like a giant hand has picked the earth up and dribbled it like a basketball.

You scream as there's a massive WHUMPF. All the windows and both windshields blow out in a shatter of safety glass, and the force of it all knocks your car forward and a few dozen feet off the road. The wheels tilt and you think for a sickening second you're going to roll, but then the car crashes back town on its tires. One of them pops, because of course it does.

You hear the sound of jet engines growing slowly more distant. You're shaking and bleeding from tiny bits of glass as you slowly open your door, nearly forgetting to put your car in park and turn the engine off. You all but crawl out and look for danger, for shelter, but all you see is a tangled pile of metal. Glinting silver turned to sootstained black, twisted wreckage splayed out across the road a few hundred meters behind you.

Oh, god.

The - the jet. It had been chasing whoever was in that car. It had fired a missile at it.

You crouch down by the rear tire of your car, not quite hiding. You can't make yourself walk over there, you can't. Your active imagination makes it possible to envision what you might find...but then the scene in your head switches to someone gasping out their last breath, while you wait here for them to die alone and afraid. You can't do that, either.

You force yourself across the distance. Dripping small drops of blood on the blacktop as you go, the adrenaline drowning out any real pain. It's the most hellish walk of your life. But you get there.

You're not sure what you're looking at. There's shrapnel everywhere. It doesn't even really resemble a car anymore, though you can see a shredded tire and broken glass. There's something pink all over the place. If you weren't already so shocked, you might have noticed the way it made a little current run through you when you stepped in a puddle of it. But you hardly notice.

Where would...the driver...? You're fighting down nausea now. You step closer. You start to think there's no way in all the hells that anyone could have survived that. Not and be in anything like one piece. But you call out anyway, tentatively, as if the jet might hear you and come back.

Hello? Can you hear me? You're not alone. I don't know how to help you...can you see me?

You slowly circle around the wreckage, feeling incredible heat baking off it. There's all sorts of weird smells, and you're scared to get too close in case it bursts into fire. Or, well, more fire. You've gone from thinking about survivors, to desperately hoping you don't find one, because what would even be left of them? A quick death, at least –

-llo? skrrzt ye-

A voice speaks up from the wreckage, or you think it's a voice. You inhale sharply and close the last remaining distance, wincing at the heat. Where are you in there? Can you - maybe stick your hand out, wave to me? Can you move at all?

Maybe then you can at least spot what part of the car they'd ended up in? Your eyes are wide, watching, expecting - hoping - dreading to see a hint of skin, a flash of bright or dark red. You jump back and let out a shocked screech when a huge hunk of the wreckage itself twitches toward you.

And then that marvelous pattern-recognition software that is the human brain does its thing, and the magic eye puzzle in front of you, abruptly comes into awful focus. It's a person. The whole thing's a person, a giant metal person. You'd call them a jaeger or a robot or something, but you can see their face. There are eyes there, blue, barely visible. And as you stare in horror, it twitches again, making you realize it's a hand reaching toward you. You had asked them to move. You stand in the road, bleeding, terrified, and start crying.

You don't know exactly how you know this is a person, but they look like one, they have a face, what's left of it. And they moved. And they tried to speak. Then they try to speak again, static lacing the words as they cut in and out.

-don't- bshhts -afrai-

You clasp a hand to your mouth. Now you're openly weeping.

You had always been afraid that you were alone. That this life, this world, these people were all that would ever be. You'd dreamed that there was more out there. Someone, anyone. Whatever it took so you weren't just one faceless insect in a hive of eight billion, drifting through space.

The day you find out you're not alone, is the day you become more alone than you could have imagined. You rush toward them, heedless of the heat, the sharp edges, the broken glass. You grab on to what might have been a hand, and you hold it tight. You get one single moment of the hot metal twitching under your palms, a precious glimpse when your eyes meet theirs. And then the light dims, and the limb you're holding is wrenched out of your grip as it falls heavily to the ground. You follow it to your knees, getting even more of that pink stuff all over you, and other fluids too. But the agony in your heart drowns it all out, as you sob and crumple over this person you'd just met. This person who died trying to tell you not to be afraid.

Maybe that's why, a few minutes later, when a caravan of emergency vehicles comes down the road at Mach Jesus, all lights and sirens, you hunch over your metal person as if you could protect them from the questions that were to come. The dissections, the desecration that would follow whenever the people in power got word of this being's existence.

You can hardly hear anything but for your own sobbing cries, but it's impossible to miss when the ground shakes and deep shadows fall over you. You can feel attention on you. You steel yourself and whip around, fists clenching, ready to do god only knows what.

Don't fucking TOUCH him! Go away! you shriek through your blurred vision, stumbling a few steps forward. Only to be caught, gently as a plucked dandelion seedhead, in a cage of giant metal-and-rubber hands. They steady you, and you look up into an echo of blue eyes. But these are bright and vivid, and the hands that hold you are strong, and the deep red paint that covers the being looks like they'd just stepped out of a spray tan booth for robots.

Oh, oh no, please don't be injured. There's such dread in their voice as they kneel by you that it catches you off-guard. I can fix Bluestreak, I can't fix an organic! And you're the first one I've ever met! Please, little guy...oh, no, no.

The other giant beings rush to the still wreckage and doing things to your metal person. One is big, stocky almost, and white and red. Kind of like the one steadying you, but not exactly. You push weakly at the enormous fingers that prod and press against you with a sort of worried care, gathering information about you from the touch.

I'm not. I'm not hurt! There was a jet, and it came out of nowhere, and it - it -

The tears return, and you're wrong that you're not hurt, because your heart's broken. You'll never be the same. The red and white being makes several alarmed noises, their face a startling picture of empathy.

I'm sorry. I tried to help, but they d-died, you hiccup. Are they your friend?

The being looks surprised, then confused, and by the time you have grasped that their facial expressions are similar enough to yours that you can read them effortlessly – they're smiling, and you can even read the nuance in it. You can see they're a little sad, but a little happy too.

His designation is Bluestreak, and he's not offlined. Not "dead," the being tells you, as if he had to find the right word to explain. His smile grows to something bright and beautiful as you choke on your tears and shake your head in disbelief, but feeling hope rise in your chest. You look over to where the other giant metal people are doing all sorts of weird things to your metal person.

He's not? But -

He will be if we don't burn rubber to get him back to base, one of the other metal people says, and it's short-tempered enough to make you cringe into the shelter of the one not-quite-holding you.

The grumpy one seems to notice, and those blue eyes land on you with the intensity of a pair of lasers. You get the feeling this one doesn't miss much. You're not sure you want to know what they - he? is seeing of you. You startle and squirm when they actually sweep you off your feet, effortlessly, as if you're an unruly kitten getting a vet exam.

Oh, Primus. Now you've gone and done it, 'Aid. You just had to go picking up strays, soft-spark. AND this one's damaged, of course. That red fluid's supposed to be on the inside of them...I'm pretty sure. The grouch is nevertheless gentle as he moves your limbs, glowering at the spatters of blood from the glass that cut you. He heaves what is clearly a disgruntled sigh. Well, you found 'em, you can take care of 'em. And YOU can explain to Optimus and Jazz. Take them and let's go before more of the natives show up.

Now you're trembling as the world flips wildly and you're unceremoniously handed over like a beanbag. The red and white nice one doesn't restrain you, just cups you to his chest. His expression turns worried again as you struggle to get your balance, and have to sit down or else fall down. Suddenly you're feeling awfully dizzy, and your head is throbbing. Aw, fuck. Whiplash. Maybe groucho there wasn't wrong after all.

...I might be hurt a little, you admit, and the metal person who's not your metal person, but is pretty nice even so, starts cooing over you like a mother dove with a single, slightly toasted chick.

Poor thing. We saw your vehicle. You were in that when Starscream...? Merciful Primus, how are you even alive? He seems to realize that's not terribly comforting, and gives himself a little jolt.

Ratchet's right, you're coming back to base with us. Don't worry, I just want to help. And you can see Bluestreak when we have him repaired. He's in stasis lock, which isn't good, but Ratchet's the best medic we have. He'll be all right.

He's taken to gently rolling the pad of his thumb over your shoulder and down your arm, and you're not quite sure if he even realizes it. Um. Do you- have a name, too?

Oh! Yes of course I do, it's –

FIRST AID! Get a haul on! the one called Ratchet bellows. And then you see the metal person change and shift, collapsing into a...oh, god, that's an ambulance. It's so stupid that you start laughing, only to almost immediately start crying again. This is all way, way too much.

Shh, no no, it's all right, don't cry, First Aid croons. Look, see? Trailbreaker and Hoist are ready to go with Bluestreak. We're going to go back to base, and I'll get you cleaned up. Whatever you need. Are you in pain? Where is it? How bad? Are you cold? Hot? Is your airway clear? There are so many things that can go wrong with organics! he nearly wails.

You pat him awkwardly, but you hope it's at least a little reassuring. It seems to snap First Aid out of his worry-cycle enough to carefully put you down and turn into another, different ambulance.

Can you get in on your own, or do I need to call one of the others back - oh, good, he says, relieved, as you tremblingly haul yourself up into his cab, correctly guessing the popped-open door was an invitation. He stops hesitating once you're in, a seatbelt sliding around you of its own accord, pressed right over your heart. You wonder if he can feel your heart juddering wildly. Probably? He seemed to have very good pressure sensors in his hands, at least.

Which only made things worse when you catch a glimpse of Bluestreak being hauled away. He must have been in so much agony. You wonder how they feel pain. If it's anything like the way you do.

We're going, all right? First Aid gently questions, though you're not sure what the hell else you could do. You're in no shape to drive, physically or emotionally, with your headache coming in something fierce now, and who knows if your car would even start. So you just hiccup and nod, as First Aid closes his own door and tears off. Lights and sirens going, but the sound is muffled in his cab.

I don't even have proper materials for securing you. I should have something bracing those cervical struts - bones of yours, he mutters. If you start feeling very ill or having a lot of pain, you speak up, little one, and I'll divert to get you to a human medic. No matter what Prowl or Ratchet say about it.

You drift a little, mentally, on the drive back to "base," whatever that was. Not asleep, but not quite in your body. You get the feeling First Aid notices, because he keeps up a soft, meaningless patter of talk, low and quiet. It's a while before something he's saying actually breaks through to your conscious mind.

Blue's going to be so glad to see you when he's back with us. He's been pestering Jazz and Prowl for ages to let him sneak out and play with the cute organics, but, well. They didn't want anyone in the general population to become aware of us. I suppose that turbofox is out of the metalmesh sack, now. Blue's going to just love you, really. You'll like him, too, I'm sure. He's a very nice mech...

Why- why are you hiding? The world turns to a bit clearer picture. Is it because of that jet? or is it because of us?

Bluestreak had told you not to be afraid. They were certainly self-aware to know, humans could be clannish and reactive. Prone to shooting first, shooting second, continuing to shoot and then picking up whatever pieces might remain. But you didn't like the idea of them having to hide.

First Aid makes a sigh-sound far less grumpy that the one Ratchet had made. That jet was Starscream, a Decepticon. They're on the other side of a war we're fighting. We're Autobots, from the planet Cybertron. And we came to Earth, some would say by accident. But maybe it was providence.

Even with your throbbing headache and slight nausea and dizziness, you manage to learn a lot about your new metal people in the half-hour it takes them to get back to base. Which, it turns out, is a crashed spaceship half sticking out of the side of a mountain. You're so tired by now that everything's a bit of a whirl.

Next thing you know, you're being set loose and swaddled in a warm cloth smelling of something like silver polish, being asked to wait just a minute while Aid helped get Bluestreak settled on the table. Don't step on the organic! he reminds them as they bring the badly injured metal person in for help.

You want to watch what they're doing to Bluestreak, as if you can help him be okay just by fact of not taking your eyes off him. But the many clomping feet feel incredibly threatening. Before you know it you're backed up against the struts of the table, huddled and shivering like a tiny purse dog with a chill. You start to wonder if something might actually be badly wrong with you.

As if they could read your thoughts, Ratchet, his hands already wrist-deep in Bluestreak's innards, and First Aid both peer under the table at you at the same moment.

Adrenaline crash. Too much of a survival hormone being dumped from their system all at once. Shock and a rattled processor, Teletraan says. Some fluid buildup, surface abrasions. Painful, bad, but not fatal. Usually. You get the feeling this Ratchet person is half expecting you to drop dead any second, despite his words.

Caught in a hellish place of jangled nerves and exhaustion, you can't help but flinch back even from First Aid's gentle hands when he reaches for you. You're in a strange place, surrounded by strange metal people, and YOUR metal person is currently undergoing like...five or six kinds of surgery. Most of which seemed to involve a lot of sparking wires, fluid spraying everywhere, and mechanical cursing in what must be their own language, as Ratchet goes back to his work.

Go on, get 'em cleaned up, 'Aid. You're not going to be any use here, distracted like that. Gruff, grumpy. But for the first time you sense a spark of something else when Ratchet says, I commed ahead and had the scouts grab some human-sized med kits from ...somewhere. They're over in exam room four. That one's got running hot H20, at least, even if half the ship's still a disaster area. They're homeothermic mammals, they won't like being cold or dirty. And Primus only knows what all that energon is doing to them.

You stare up at Ratchet, feeling him out. Reevaluating. Then you shrug off First Aid's hands to toddle, wobbly as a foal, to drape yourself across Ratchet's foot. He goes immediately still, looking back down under the table, blue eyes bright and surprised.

Thank you, Ratchet, you tell him. You hug him until you're scooped up again, blanket and all, by First Aid. He's smiling down at you in wonder as he carefully carries you off to the exam room, so he can finally treat your injuries.

Hmph, you hear behind you, and then whirring and clanking of metal-person surgery resumes.

First Aid waits until you're safely seated on another enormous table in the exam room to say, I've never met an organic like you. You're so familiar, but so strange at the same time. Your servos are so tiny. How can something like you even be alive? But you are. You're so very much alive.

You let him drape your hand over his, admiring his fine control despite the size difference; as much as he's admiring the delicacy of the tiny system of calcium strut and sinew-pulleys and muscle that let you flex and close your fingers.

I've never met metal people before, you tell him. So I guess it's a new thing for both of us. This time when he smiles at you, you're able to meet it with a shaky one of your own.

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers first contact au #human distribution system #first aid x reader #damn it I didn't mean for this to be more than a oneshot but #hey first aid anon come get your metal wife

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aangelinakii · 3 months ago

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CRASH–CRUSH.

— get your driving checked!

summary : on your way to a tutor session at the library, you almost hit someone. when you find your table, you find someone else.

note : i thought of this after i came back from driving lessons but don't worry i didn't actually almost hit anyone it's okay

next time you're running late you'll remind yourself not to drive so fast. or maybe, you know, you'll remind yourself not to be so late.

maybe the lead foot on the gas pedal is fuelled by the anger and embarrassment of being told by your professor that you're failing your course — and it doesn't feel any much better when you get told one of your fellow students will be getting paid to tutor you.

pretentious piece of—

shit!

one foot slams on the clutch whilst the other pounds on the brake, your hands on the wheel swerve and you almost drive up onto the curb. at least the pedestrian's safe, although they were jaywalking. although you were going a little faster than you should.

breath catching in your throat, eyes wide, molars clenching in the back of your mouth, you look up at the road — no cars, but the person you almost hit was still standing there. not afraid, just very, very angry.

as your eyes meet — his beneath furrowed brows — he seems to angrily mouth something, gesturing something just as rude with his hand.

there's nothing much else you can do but shrug in response as he walks off onto the pavement on the other side. some people's children...

with one quick glance over your shoulder for any incoming traffic, your eyes land on the man again, sauntering off down the sidewalk; although you hadn't registered his face properly in your brief encounter, you could recognise that silky black hair anywhere.

of course you'd recognise it, when it was the silky black hair you purposely sat behind every lecture. well, the ones you attended.

you didn't even know his name; all you knew was he was gorgeous, from the front and back.

but apparently didn't take lightly to almost getting hit by cars.

hopefully you'd be fine; it wasn't like he ever turned around anyway.

not that it was your fault there was no parking around here, but by now you're beginning to understand you should've left your house earlier — who knew the library would be such a sought-after place today?

as you pull out to do your umpteenth round of the block, your phone buzzes in the cup holder. after your near-miss, you will yourself to keep your eyes on the road, and foot light on the gas.

after a good ten more minutes you give in and park another two blocks away from the town library. at least you'll get some steps in.

finally, as you shoulder your bag, you tap into your message app and scan through the text you received from your student tutor. judging by the limited texts you'd shared so far, he seemed nice, named richard — but anyone who willingly signs up to be a tutor for someone else in your course is pretentious as fuck. they couldn't have just paired you up with a professor?

so sorry, running a little late. the parking around here is awful.

something in your ribs rips away, relief pooling over your chest as you rapidly type back. with everything that had happened this morning (no parking, almost running someone over) it was safe to say you were glad richard was having a late day so far too.

no worries! i just managed to find somewhere to park but it took absolutely ages! i'll be there in a few, sorry

just as you move to shove your phone in your pocket, it buzzes again, and you glance back with raised brows at the screen.

that's ok, i'm seated at the back near the thrillers. no pun intended.

what the pun was not supposed to be, you're not sure, but richard's already in the library, and you aren't, so you need to speed up.

despite the horrendous parking, stepping into the library is somewhat anti-climactic; there's only a light buzz of tapping away on keyboards and the flips of bookpages, and the hushed chatter behind shelves. with the state of the roads, you would've expected everybody to be here today.

eyeing up the genre signs above each row of shelves, you step further into the depths of the library, looking around for the thriller section, as well as any nerdy-looking guys at tables.

there's some guy with glasses outside romance fiction a–d, and a skinny red-head lingering by the comics, but none of them look like richard.

without a face to the name, it's difficult to tell what he looks like anyway.

but when you find the thriller section, your heart all but drops.

there, seated at one of the tables, laptop sprung open, digital blue light washing over his handsome features, an open notebook page settled before him, is the guy you almost ran over — the guy you consistently sit behind every lecture.

that couldn't be him, right?

he's probably here drafting up an essay you didn't know about, being an amicable student.

you glance around the space, where there are a few other people working solo at tables in front of laptops or journals; any of them could be richard, apart from maybe the old lady struggling to use the mouse on one of the library computers.

quietly you step back, half-covered by the shelf of hardback thrillers, and pull out your phone.

hey sorry almost there, where abouts will you be?

a phone buzzes loudly on a table, and you glance up, as well as a few others peeved off by the sound.

something uncomfortable squirms in your stomach when gorgeous lecture guy/near-miss hit-and-run guy lurches forward to grab his phone before it can buzz again. he starts tapping away, not without a semblance of annoyance, and you look back down at your screen, where a grey speech bubble is bobbing up and down.

here's hoping he didn't get to memorise your face when he almost got hit.

you don't even leave your phone on long enough to see his reply, you just bite down your pride and keep it in the pits of your stomach.

when he notices your presence, richard looks up, and barely a second goes by where his face is devoid of anger; maybe it wasn't that you'd hit him, maybe he's just always like this. "you have some nerve," he grumbled, a crease forming between his furrowed brows, ocean eyes darkening like a tempest.

"yeah, well, i don't really want to be getting tutored by a big man-baby either, so..." you respond coolly, though the paleness of your knuckles as you grip the straps of your bag may be letting you down.

richard realises almost immediately the irony of the situation, and the idea of getting paid for his time going over the course content with you seems to smoothe out the lines etched into his face, but he can't let go of them fully. "i see," he states, sitting a little straighter. "do you usually run over your tutors, or was it just for me?"

you pull out the chair opposite him and slide into place, moving your bag from your shoulder. "i haven't had a tutor before."

his eyes flicker over to his computer screen and back. "judging by the grades you're getting in out course, i can see that."

so, pretty boy doesn't have a personality to match the face. you should've guessed by how much he puts his hand up in every fucking lecture. like, come on, just let the professor speak.

a few beats of silence pass, and you're sure you're doing a bad job of trying to conceal your irritation. richard — or should you say dick — is looking ahead, cool as a cucumber, as if he's used to being a douche for a living.

"so... about earlier..." you begin, but richard cuts you off.

"oh, is this where you say sorry for almost ramming me down in that thing you call a car?"

there's a lot of words for him right now, and luckily he's already been born with that name, so you don't need to worry about offending him.

your jaw sets. "does anyone ever call you dick?"

maybe your mind's been messing with you ever since you almost hit someone, but you're sure you can see the shadow of a smile on his lips.

richard watches you for only a moment more, before he turns to his laptop. "shall we get started, then?"

although you're unsure whether you've won or not, you'll gladly call an unspoken stalemate — and if he stays this nice, maybe you won't mind coming back for a second lesson.

#aangelinakii #dc #dc comics #dc imagines #dc reactions #dc headcanons #dc universe #nightwing #nightwing x reader #dick grayson #richard grayson #dick grayson drabble #dick grayson imagines #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson headcanons

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orlaunderrated · 25 days ago

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The Edges of Us: Chapter 9

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: LMAO i wrote this at 'work' (i have a weekend job where i work as a 'supervisor' and i sit in an office and play the sims and get paid for it). THNAK YOU EVERYONE for the kindest of words. my heart is so full with everyone talking about this series.

also this chapter is a bit of a love letter to my friends at my own version of The Van. i pray they never see this but i love those guys. also also you all need to play Beerio Kart it goes so hard.

xxx

By the time I get to Ruth’s, her flat is already buzzing. It's the Tuesday crew from The Van, and a few extra people I don’t recognise.

There’s someone from the soup run — I think his name’s Leon — curled up in the armchair, nursing a can of lager and shouting advice at the screen. One of the newer volunteers, Naomi, is painting her nails on the coffee table like it’s not covered in half-eaten biscuits and empty crisp packets. And someone I don’t recognise — probably someone’s partner or flatmate — is crouched in front of the TV cabinet, trying to get the Switch working, sleeves rolled up like it's been a tough day at work.

Ruth lights up when she sees me. “Ugh, finally. We’re all sick of Quiplash. Come teach everyone Beerio Kart”

She claps her hands like a teacher calling a class to order. “Okay! Y/N is going to explain the rules for those of us who don’t know how to play… which is all of us.”

She practically shoves me onto the couch like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk.

I lean in, pointing to my fellow volunteers like a revolutionary leader. “Rule one: you can’t drink and drive. Mario world has standards. Both hands off the controller while you’re drinking.”

“Justice for Toad!” someone yells. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Two: you have to finish your beer before the race ends. Or you lose. Morally.” Everyone is now calculating their strategies.

“You can drink during countdowns, when you fall off the track, when you get shelled—”

“—when your ex texts you mid-race and ruins your whole life,” Naomi adds from the floor. More laughter. I laugh but I do not get the joke, or if there even is a joke.

So I drop into the last open spot — a beanbag wedged between Tom (a guy from Thursday nights who always brings his own gloves) and someone covered in tattoos who’s currently balancing a beer can on their head.

“Three… two… one—GO!” someone shouts, and half the room starts chugging like we’re at some sacred, chaotic communion.

To my left, Amina (who's homemade banana bread is to die for) downs her entire beer before her kart even moves. By the time she slams her can down, she’s already in 12th place, but she’s grinning. “Now I can actually drive, losers!”

Across the room, one of the quieter volunteers — Sam, I think — is casually cruising in second place until he brakes right before the finish line and sips the rest of his can like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Bold move, Sam,” someone mutters, as he finishes with one dramatic gulp and crosses the line with milliseconds to spare.

I, on the other hand, am doing what most of us are doing: swerving off Rainbow Road, nursing bruises from red shells, and sneaking sips during every crash. I’ve barely made it through half the can and I’m losing spectacularly, but Ruth keeps shouting, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” every time I get back on track.

There’s shouting, laughing, cans cracking open. Someone yells, “Wait, I spilled beer in my controller!” and no one stops playing. No one even really cares who’s winning. The flat smells like beer, dry shampoo, and warm energy.

My character flies off the edge of the course for the third time in one lap.

“Perfect time for a drink,” I mutter, tipping my can back.

From across the room, Ruth hollers, “THAT’S the spirit!”

It’s stupid and chaotic and none of it makes sense. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Not even a little bit.

I'm still getting to know these people, but they’re kind. Loud in the right ways. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. Ruth shoots me a grin from the corner, one that says: See? Told you this would be fun.

And for a minute, it is.

Even if I've been inked and and I’ve been hit by three shells in a row.

Even if the memory of Will’s kiss — and George’s look — hovers at the edge of my mind like stormclouds threatening to crack open.

Right now, I’m here.

And I’m winning.

Sort of.

Xxx

The Uber was called, and the room still buzzed with energy. People darted around, perfecting eyeliner flicks and dabbing on last-minute lipstick. The chaos from Beerio Kart had settled into a warm, tipsy glow — everyone flushed and laughing, convinced the game had been a smashing success.

Ruth caught my eye and tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“So, why were you late?” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, cheeks heating up. “Kissing Will,” I blurted, half proud, half embarrassed.

Her eyes practically popped. “WHAT, no way! Spill the tea — I did not see that coming. I mean I did, but I was thinking in like, 3 to 6 months.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but damn, the memory of his lips was still burning a hole in my brain.

We lean in like we’re conspirators plotting something way more interesting than makeup tips.

I explain to her that George had a bunch of his friends over for pre-drinks, “So, he texts me, right?” I grin, leaning in like I’m spilling some top-secret intel. “He can see my shadows moving—and straight-up demands to be let into my room. Like, no ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up,’ just full-on ‘open this door now’ energy.”

Ruth bursts out laughing. “Oh girl, that’s borderline stalker-chic. I’m here for it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, it worked. Then he hits me with, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you,’ which is like, okay, chill.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, so he’s got a soft side? Didn’t know that was in his skill set.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Right? And then he goes, ‘I would’ve kissed you back’—which is crazy work, so obviously he’s been talking to George.” Ruth looks unamused at that.

“But then we kiss, because, what else do you say to that? It was literally crazy. Fully like Nick-And-Jess-From-New-Girl-First-Kiss-Vibes. It was soooo unexpected but damn, electric.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Electric, huh? And then what? Spill.”

I laugh, cheeks warming. “Okay, so then I tell him to leave, and he pushes me against the wall and kisses me again. More like ‘can’t-help-myself’ vibes. I swear my brain took a coffee break and my lips just did their own thing.”

Ruth claps her hands softly. “Girl, that’s textbook ‘can’t resist’ behaviour. Love it.”

I’m laughing. Genuinely. Not performative or polite — real.

Then Maya—Ruth’s close friend—sits cross-legged on the floor, phone out as a mirror. She's moving her lip gloss wand with the precision of a heart surgeon. She glances up at me, wine glass wobbling in her hand. “Wait, is this Will? Like, your friend WillNE on YouTube?”

I don’t even have to wonder how she knows; Ruth’s been bragging about living with ‘influencers’ all week. I freeze just enough for Maya to catch it.

She grins, totally misreading my silence. “Sorry, I only ask ‘cause I thought he had a girlfriend.”

My stomach twists. A tiny, traitorous lurch.

“What?” I say, too casual, too fast.

Maya’s already scrolling on her phone but keeps talking. “Yeah, he’s all over this girl’s Insta. Brunette, Welsh, really pretty. Posted a pic with him at some gig last week—total boyfriend vibes. Hands-on-thigh kind of thing.”

Ruth shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t meet it. My face stays calm, but inside my heart is pounding like a drum.

“Oh?” I say, voice thin, stretched too tight, like a balloon about to pop.

I stare into my drink, the buzz fading fast, the edges of the room blurring and going cold.

Cue the slow-motion crash in my chest. Sharp, hollow, humiliating. Will never mentioned her. Not once. And here I am, catching feelings like an idiot, clinging to every glance, every inside joke, every stupid little moment like it meant something. Like he meant something.

I thought he was a friend. That’s the worst part. He’s been inviting me everywhere, pulling me into his life like there was space for me. Making me feel like I belonged. I thought he saw me. Really saw me.

And now? Now I just feel used. Like a placeholder. Like some sad, temporary girl who was dumb enough to believe that any of it was real. That feeling creeps in, the feeling where he looks at me like some kind of charity case. Something broken he could fix to feel better about himself. A project. Nothing permanent, just a distraction dressed up as concern.

I feel like an idiot.

Stupid for letting myself want more — for a second kiss, a text that means something, anything that isn’t just some blurry grey area he gets to walk away from untouched.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to wash the embarrassment down with cheap rosé and bravado. But it lingers, tight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes. God, I feel so naive. Like a punchline he forgot to tell me I was part of.

Maya’s already moved on, chatting about something else, blissfully unaware of the landmine she just stepped on. But my mind is miles away now — back in my bedroom, back against the door, his mouth on my neck, whispering things that now feel like lies. Or worse.

Just meaningless.

I decide I'm back to hating him again, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not at all.

But I already know that I will.

Xxx

The club is a boiling pot of chaos — packed, sweaty, East London at its wildest. Bodies press against each other in a blur of sequins, smoke, and flashing lights. The bass doesn’t just shake the floor — it owns it — thudding through my chest with a relentless rhythm that matches the anger simmering just beneath my skin. Every beat feels like a dare, every strobe flash a spotlight on the pieces of me I’m trying to burn away.

I’m already buzzed, teetering on the edge of drunk, riding that sharp, reckless wave heartbreak always leaves behind — the kind that makes everything shimmer and sting at the same time. There’s glitter stuck to my collarbones, a smear of lipstick I don’t remember applying, and a voice in my head saying: Don’t think. Just move.

So I do.

I dance with my head thrown back, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. My arms are in the air, hair sticking to the back of my neck, spinning in circles like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on my skin. Around me, strangers cheer and twirl and grind and kiss like they’ve never been hurt. Like none of it matters. And maybe, for a moment, it doesn’t.

Someone hands me a drink — I don’t ask what it is. I just down it like it’s a potion to forget. Like it might bleach out the part of me still holding onto his name like it’s something sacred.

I’m hot, dizzy, untouchable. Or at least, I’m pretending to be. There’s something feral in me tonight — a girl made of spite and vodka and eyeliner, just daring the universe to give her another reason to self-destruct.

And under the lights, with my heart cracked wide open and every nerve on fire, I almost feel free.

Almost.

Then I see them.

George, Chris, and a few other familiar faces slice through the crowd like sharks hunting territory. I spot the two Arthurs and Bach, who I’m pretty sure I met once, maybe? One of the group I recognise as he threw a party the first week I got to London. A couple are Sidemen members — I know that because Will’s hyped about them all the time and even showed me a video where he was in. There are others too, faces I don’t fully recognize but feel like I’ve seen somewhere—maybe on my FYP, scrolling past late at night.

How did this even happen? How do a bunch of broke volunteers and a pack of overpaid YouTubers end up in the same club in East London? It feels like a cosmic joke, like the universe just couldn’t resist putting me in the middle of some weird influencer fever dream. I’m in op-shop boots and borrowed eyeliner, and they’re in designer jackets and thousand-pound smiles, casually famous in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Basically, I feel surrounded. Like I’m the odd one in a sea of familiar strangers.

Then, my eyes lock on the girl Maya showed me earlier. Small, built, gorgeous—she moves through the crowd like she owns it, every inch the part. And yeah, she’s with Will.

George locks eyes with me — that same deer-in-headlights look I’ve seen on him before, like he wasn’t expecting me to be here, like I’m some ghost that just stepped through the smoke machine haze. But there’s something else tangled in his expression now. Something darker. Jealousy? Regret? I can’t tell.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something — or maybe it’s just shock. He doesn’t move. Just stares across the crowd like I’ve knocked the air out of him. And maybe I have. I’m not sure what I was expecting from him — a wave? A smirk? Indifference? Anything would’ve hurt, but this uncertainty burns.

The lights flash blue, then red, then white, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looks good. Stupidly good. Which only pisses me off more.

So I turn away first.

I throw my head back and laugh at something someone beside me didn’t even say, just to make sure he sees it. I let my hands slide down the arms of the person dancing with me. It's Quiet Sam. He's a bit confused, but he's also very drunk (he played Beerio Kart with shots). He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and safety. It’s petty. It’s deliberate. It’s survival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George shift. Like he wants to move toward me, or maybe away? Like he’s caught in the middle of two impulses and doesn’t trust either one. He raises his drink to his lips and downs half of it in one go. His hand is tight around the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s a beat, just one, where the crowd parts a little and there’s nothing between us. No bodies. No bass. Just silence and neon. And in that breathless, glittering pause, I see it again. Not just jealousy. Not just regret.

Longing.

And it knocks the wind out of me, because for a second, I want to reach for him too.

But then Amina grabs my hand, spinning me in a lazy circle. I let it happen. I let the moment pass. I don’t look back.

And then, Will spots me.

It happens mid-laugh — his, not mine. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in one hand, surrounded by people who probably don't even know his last name. His head’s thrown back, mouth open in that easy, effortless way that used to make my stomach flutter, fuck it still does. Then his eyes flick toward the dance floor—just casually, just a sweep—and he sees me.

He freezes.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a perfect song. Like I’ve just stepped out of a dream he thought he was still safely inside.

And to be fair, last time we spoke — what, five hours ago? — we were making out like idiots in my bedroom when all of his friends were in the next room. Breathless. Hands tangled in clothes. Him saying things like “I’m tired of pretending”, me believing them for long enough to let my guard down. He texted me after and I didn’t text back.

He has no idea I’m mad.

He has no idea.

So when he sees me now — glitter-smeared, mascara smudged, drink in hand like a weapon — he’s smiling. That same smile he wore when his mouth was on my neck. Open, stupid, happy. Like we’re still in that soft moment. Like nothing’s changed.

I make sure it shatters.

I don’t smile. I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge him.

Instead, I tilt my head back and laugh at something that Sam says in my ear— laugh like I’m free, like nothing in the world is heavy or complicated or still haunting me. Then, without even thinking, I lean in and kiss that same guy on the cheek. Just loud enough that Will sees it. That everyone sees it. A blatant, glittering middle finger. A declaration: I’ve moved on. You were never that important.

It’s petty. It’s calculated. It’s completely unhinged.

But God, it feels good.

And when I finally glance back — just for a second, just to twist the knife — Will’s no longer smiling.

He looks confused. Hurt. Like he can’t quite compute what the hell just happened. He shifts his weight, scanning my face for any version of the girl who kissed him against a doorframe just hours ago. And he can’t find her. Because I buried her the second Maya said “girlfriend.”

He’s blinking too fast. Adjusting. You can see it all playing out behind his eyes: Did I do something? Did she regret it? Is this a joke?

And maybe I should feel bad — but I don’t. Because I did mean it. Every second of it.

And he didn’t think I deserved the truth.

Eventually, Will corners me at the bar, where neon flashes bounce off the bottles. He leans in, shouting over the bass. “You’re ignoring me!” He doesn’t let go of my gaze.

I raise my voice back, trying to sound casual but fierce: “Figured you’ve got options. Don’t let me get in the way.”

He blinks, clearly thrown. “What are you talking about?” He says loudly, confused, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know existed.

Before he can say more, the girl sidles up to him, shouting something I can’t quite catch over the pounding bass. She pats his back like she owns the moment, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there like a question mark.

Will’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, darting to the floor, to the crowd—anywhere but me. I can almost hear the shame vibrating through the thrum of the music, mixing with the sweat and heat and everything else suffocating the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to explain, maybe to beg.

So I spin away from him, grab another drink, down half of it in one go. The sting in my chest has nothing to do with the tequila. I throw myself into the rhythm—into the chaos—trying to drown the ache in bodies and basslines. The club is heaving, sweat and light and noise pressing in on all sides.

And then it changes.

A slower song pulses through the speakers, the bass heavy and honey-thick, like it’s moving through molasses. The lights shift, casting everything in a red-blue haze. It’s still loud, but the energy has dipped into something darker, more charged.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of him at my back. His breath close to my ear, just above the music: “Let me just talk to you.”

I don’t move. Not right away. My body goes still, rigid.

And then—I turn.

And we lock eyes.

And for a second, just one suspended moment in the chaos, it’s like the entire club goes silent. Like the bass cuts out, the crowd dissolves, the song holds its breath. Just me, him, and the gravity pulling between us. His face is flushed, eyes wide, desperate and soft all at once.

I nod. Barely. But he sees it.

And he reaches for my hand.

The noise crashes back around us as we move—shoulders bumping, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing past—but it all feels distant now. He’s pulling me toward the exit, and the club peels away behind us, like a fever breaking.

Like the night’s about to change.

We slip out of the chaos of the dancefloor together and into the smokers’ area. Neither of us smokes—thank God—because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked, and I remember how the smell clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, even his lips. I swore back then that I’d never kiss anyone who smoked again. It was one of those teenage promises I thought I’d never break.

To be fair, most people out here are vaping instead, that sweet, artificial fog hanging in the air instead of smoke. It’s better, I guess—less harsh, less lingering—but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s a reminder of all the times I tried to convince myself that love could change things. That people could change.

The cold night air hits my skin, sharp and real against the muffled thrum of the club behind us. Suddenly, everything feels quieter, slower—the kind of space where you can finally breathe, and maybe even say what’s been tangled up inside your chest all day.

I glance over at him, searching his face in the dim light, and wonder if he has any idea how much has shifted in these last five hours since we were tangled up, kissing, careless. Five hours since he sent that text, expecting a reply I never gave. Five hours since I decided to hold all my words inside, bottled up like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

Here, away from the crowd, away from the noise and flashing lights, the weight of it all presses down. And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment where we either break or begin to mend.

“What's going on? Why didn’t you answer my text?” Will asks, his voice low but urgent.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I heard about your girlfriend. I’m not interested in being the sidepiece, especially for someone like you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Okay, ouch. Also… what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I nod toward the club. “That girl in there. She’s touching you like she owns you. Maya showed me her Instagram.”

He scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. “Becky? She’s a YouTuber like me. She touches everyone when she’s drunk.”

I fold my arms, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

He looks hurt, defensive. “You’re going to believe Maya—someone you’ve never even spoken about—over me?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “God, if you actually watched any YouTube, you’d know this.”

“Sorry, I have a real job,” I snap back. He looks at me in a way I can’t describe — hurt, maybe, or just tired of this. Of me. I don’t mean it, obviously, but I go for the kill anyway, aiming for something I know will land. “I never asked to be your little project, Will. I don’t need your charity.”

He breathes in deeply, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going back. We can have this conversation when were both sober”

He’s true to his word. Without another glance, he turns and melts back into the smoky swirl of strawberry-ice haze, leaving me standing there with the sharp sting of unanswered questions—and a bitter taste that isn’t from a vape.

I return inside, the club swallowing me back up like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just stood outside in a fog of strawberry vape and bad decisions, tearing into someone who maybe didn’t even deserve it.

The music has shifted — something bouncier now, unserious and sticky with synths. I find the guy with too many tattoos by the speakers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and grinning like the night owes him something. He pulls me into a lazy twirl without asking, and I let him. It feels good to move. To not think.

Leon joins us halfway through the song, clutching two drinks and somehow still managing to shimmy in time with the beat. “I lost the others,” he yells over the music. “Maya tried to get into VIP by pretending to be Dua Lipa’s cousin.”

"She’s got the eyebrows for it,” I shout, grinning.

We fall into step, hips swinging, limbs loose. At some point, Tattoo Guy tries to do a body roll and almost knocks over Leon’s drink. We’re all giggling too hard to care. Leon makes a show of pretending to sue him for emotional damages.

“My cocktail is trauma now,” he shouts, faking solemnity, holding up the sloshed glass.

“I want that on a t-shirt,” I say, and Tattoo Guy immediately offers to design it — “I’ve got a guy who prints stuff.”

The lights spin above us, dizzy-bright. The kind that make everything feel a little more alive. For a while, I let myself forget. The boys who can’t decide. The messages left on read. The city that wants to swallow me whole.

But then I catch sight of George across the club — dim corner, low lighting, the kind of shadows that swallow things. He’s kissing a girl.

At first, I think my brain’s playing tricks on me.

She looks just like me.

Same hair — dark and messy like we both ran our fingers through it too many times tonight. Same build — same height, same posture, same kind of slightly hunched shoulders that come from never being sure if you’re taking up too much space. She’s even wearing a lace top and trousers combo that looks so similar to mine it’s almost funny. Almost.

My stomach flips. Sharp. Sour. Like I’ve swallowed something that’s about to come back up.

They’re by the bar — George and this almost-me — and he’s leaning in close, hand brushing her hip like he’s done it before. She’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head the way I do when I’m pretending not to care. And then, just like that, he kisses her.

It’s not even a maybe. It’s a full, real kiss. Slow, certain. Like he’s trying to say something with it. Like he means it.

And all I can think is: Is that what I looked like, when it was me?

Is that the version of me he wanted? Or maybe — and this might be worse — maybe any girl who looks vaguely like me would’ve done.

Suddenly the music is too loud, the lights too bright. The sticky heat of the club clings to my skin like shame. Like rejection. Like I’ve been replaced by a mirror image who doesn’t know yet that this ends in heartbreak.

She’s laughing into his mouth like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t once sit on his bedroom floor and paint his toenails. Like he didn’t say he was glad I moved back to him and then reject me entirely.

It hits me in the throat. A weird, mirrored ache. Like watching yourself be replaced in real time — upgraded or downgraded, who knows. Just... swapped out.

I turn away so fast the room spins.

And that’s when I see Will again.

He's leaning against the bar, shoulders slouched, hair a little too perfectly messy. I make my way toward him before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s self-destruction. Maybe it’s both.

When he sees me, something in his jaw tenses. But I don’t give him time to speak.

I slide close to him, too close. My fingers ghost along his wrist as the music blares, low and dirty. He stiffens at first, but then his hands find my hips like muscle memory.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his like it’s a dare. I don’t even know why I hate him now. Maybe I just want to. I’m angry and humiliated and wired with adrenaline, and he’s standing there looking at me like I matter. He’s probably telling the truth about Becky — I know that, deep down. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I also lost count of the amount of assorted alcohol in my system hours ago. Somewhere between the cheap rosé and someone handing me a tequila shot “for vibes,” I stopped keeping track.

“I know,” he says, low and hoarse.

We dance. Or something like it.

It’s all teeth and tension, hips brushing, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirty. It’s messy and desperate and soaked in the complicated residue of our back-and-forths and bad timing and too many feelings left unspoken.

When I left Ruth’s flat, I hadn’t planned on pressing my body against Will like that. I’d planned on ignoring him, on rolling my eyes and laughing with someone else, on pretending he didn’t exist. But here I am—hips swaying to a beat I can barely register, sweat slicking the small of my back, and his hands firm on my waist like he needs something to hold onto before the whole damn room spins away.

It’s messy and deliberate, our bodies in sync and out of sync all at once. I can feel the tension in his grip, the way his thumbs press a little harder when I move against him, like he thinks I might vanish if he lets go. His mouth is near my ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows words are useless here—too loud, too late.

I toss a look over my shoulder just to see how wrecked he looks. He does. His jaw’s tight, brows drawn together like this whole thing is hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to name. Good. I want him wrecked. I want him to feel something other than smug certainty.

“I still hate you,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to keep it intimate, like a confession sealed in bass and sweat and noise.

His grip falters just for a second, then tightens again. Like he knows this is the only version of an apology he’s going to get right now. Me—still dancing, still close, but furious and unforgiving in every breath. This is punishment. This is power.

And maybe, a little bit, it’s still wanting him.

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. To him. To myself. To George, who’s somewhere out there kissing the ghost of me.

Will says nothing else, just moves with me. And I let him.

There’s no forgiveness in it, not really. Just rhythm and proximity and the quiet relief of being touched by someone who still feels like home, even if that home is full of cracks. We don’t speak—our bodies do all the talking. Frustration, guilt, want. It thrums between us like a second beat under the music.

I don’t know when the plan changes, but we end up sharing an Uber home. Silent, shoulder to shoulder, the air between us is thick and buzzing like static.

I don’t reach for his hand.

And he doesn’t ask me to explain.

We sit there like two halves of a broken thought, still tethered by something neither of us wants to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his mouth on mine just hours ago, back when the night still felt full of promise.

Six months ago, the Uber with George to his flat was a bubble of warmth and quiet friendship — the heater cranked just right, the soft lo-fi humming through the speakers, raindrops blurring the city outside into a watercolor dream. Inside, I felt safe, like slipping back into an old jumper. The awkwardness dissolved into easy banter and the kind of comfort that only years of knowing someone can build.

Tonight’s Uber to Will’s flat couldn’t be more different. It’s too warm again, but the heat feels like a weight pressing down instead of a gentle hug. The windows are fogged, but the city beyond feels colder, more distant — the raindrops tracing lazy patterns like a slow, mocking countdown. The scent inside is less familiar: a mix of cheap air freshener and something synthetic, sterile.

There’s no easy music, no quiet laughter — just the hum of the engine and the tight knot twisting in my chest. I lean against the window, but instead of city lights bleeding into soft memories, I’m staring at shadows, wondering how I ended up here.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, neither of us moves at first. The engine hums softly, the night stretching between us.

We both get out of the Uber, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth inside. I stand there for a moment, hesitant, the quiet buzzing in my ears louder than the city around us.

Then I turn toward Will’s apartment foyer, the glass doors glowing faintly in the dark.

I breathe in the echo of the night and try to figure out if stepping inside with him is power… or just another kind of surrender.

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke imagine #will lenney #WillNE #willne x reader #willne fic #willne fluff #willne imagine #ukyt #george clarkey angst #willne angst #The Edges of Us

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rosiesrroses · 26 days ago

Text

tw - car accident

the day of the crash…

pierre had left before the sun rose, but not before giving you a goodbye hug (even though you were half asleep) and putting on the good luck bracelet you made him ages ago.

Now, sunlight was spilling into your room through your white lace curtains as you got ready to go to a friend's house.

your mom stood in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made you blueberry pancakes like she does every other morning.

“good morning, maman,” you sleepily beamed up at your mom once you’ve entered the kitchen.

“good morning, mon ange,” she kissed you on your forehead, “i made your favourite,”

you quietly thanked her as you sat down at the dining room table and began to eat your breakfast.

“maman, can i call pipou now please?” you asked her once you finished your breakfast.

she crouched down beside you and clicked on your brother's contact and handed you the phone as the soft ringing sound echoed in the kitchen… and went straight to voicemail.

but that didn’t stop you from babbling on as soon as the beep ended, leaving him a cheerful message for him to listen to before his last karting race.

“hi pipou,” you giggled sleepily, “maman made pancakes again and i saved you one for when you come back”

you slowly swung your legs beneath the table, “i wish i could come watch you, but maman said it’s too far. so today maman said i can go visit my friend,”

“bonne chance, pipou. i know you’ll win. bye bye” you took the last sip of your mom’s homemade blueberry juice, ending the call with a quiet hum and handed your moms phone back to her.

your mom smiled as she took her phone back, brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear, “go get ready, mon ange. we’ll leave in ten,”

you went back upstairs and got changed into the outfit your mom laid out for you the night before; a soft off white top and trouser set and slipped on your white nike sneakers.

after you brushed your teeth and your mom did your hair, you were in the passenger seat, legs curled up beneath you despite your mom’s warning that it wasn’t safe.

you didn’t know.

you just pressed your cheek to the window and watched the buildings blur past as your mom sang off key along to the radio.

you were just about to ask how much longer when the world tilted.

a flash of red.

brakes screaming.

glass exploding.

metal crunching next to you.

your mom pleading your name.

but then it was quiet,

the distorted voice of the radio show host,

your mom gripping your fingers, pleading with you to stay with her,

and your own breath, shallow, fading far, far away.

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years ago

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Not A Verstappen: A New World {1}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: With the season over it's time to turn over a new leaf as you start your next adventure outside the Red Bull family. Warnings: 18+ only, sexual themes, fluff, periods, blood, vomit WC: 2k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two

Christmas Eve 2022 “I could get used to this,” you murmured happily. The sun was warm on your skin, the waves gently rocked the boat and you were with your favourite people in the world.

“What, unemployment?”

You dared to open your eyes against the bright sunlight just to glare at Max as he stood on a paddleboard a few feet away from the edge. “Relaxing, you asshat.”

Lando rolled over at the disturbance but his eyes didn’t open before he settled back on his side and draped an arm over your stomach. “She’s got a job,” he mumbled half-asleep. “Lady of the House.”

“Lady,” Max snorted. “Good one.”

You sat up and stretched before getting to your feet, much to Lando’s displeasure. “Water looks nice.”

Max scanned the beautiful blue sea, spotting Charles kitesurfing where the wind was stronger beyond the lee. “It’s a little cold.”

“Even better.” You ran and leapt from the back of his boat, tackling him around the waist and knocking him off the paddleboard and into the frigid water. You were laughing as you resurfaced and found Max looking like a drowned rat as he tried to scramble back onto his board.

“Fuck off,” he shivered as you shook the board everytime he got on it, Lando’s loud laugh upsetting the gulls that hung around hoping for scraps.

“Nuh-uh, not until you admit I am a Lady.” You grabbed the board again and shoved it about. “Earthquake!”

“Sweetheart, stop harassing poor Max.”

“Poor Max?” You echoed as you gave him one last push before tipping your head back to float on the surface. “I can’t believe my mum’s favourite child isn’t even her own.”

“I don’t have a favourite,” she said as she set down a tray of baking at the outdoor table, P quickly following as she smelt the fresh cookies.

“You should, since you only have me, your numero uno.”

She rolled her eyes at your dramatics and you wondered if that's how you looked when you did the same thing. “Come and eat, honey. Now that you have no job there’s no need for those strict diets.”

You pulled yourself up the steps off the back of the boat and Lando held your towel open for you, wrapping it tightly in his arms so you were bundled inside. “I have a job,” you said with a laugh as Lando’s drying tickled you.

“That’s not a job,” Max reminded as he stepped onto the boat and dragged the paddleboard onto the deck.

“Obviously. But, seriously, you are looking at an Aston Martin pilot.”

“That’s a bit of a risk,” Max said with a frown at the news. “Lance’s father is always going to put him ahead of you.”

“Well as long as he doesn’t try to kill me then it’s already an improvement,” you said with a small laugh.

Max sat heavily on the padded bench and dropped head in his hands. He was still struggling to accept that Jos had tampered with your brakes and taken the fuse for the water pump before your last race. He had been obsessed with having the Verstappen name on the winners trophy.

Apparently he hadn’t tried to kill you, he was just trying to slow you down so Max would get the points he needed to win the championship. The brakes were meant to work too well, not stop working entirely. It didn’t change the fact that your own father had nearly been the death of you.

“That’s not funny, love,” Lando muttered in your ear, his arms tightening around you as he remembered the crash and the fear he had felt that day.

“No, but if I don’t laugh about it I will cry, and that’s not pretty.”

“I think you’re pretty,” Penelope said with a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie.

“Thanks, P, but no one is as pretty as you,” you replied and laughed when she smiled at the compliment.

“Mouth closed when we eat,” Max reminded her with a grimace at the sight of mushed food between her teeth.

You joined her at the table, grabbing a muffin from the tray and ruffling her hair. “I’m going to miss you tomorrow but I hope you have a good Christmas with your dad.”

“Do you think Santa will find his way? My stocking is at home.” She frowned and placed her cookie down. “What if I don’t get any presents?”

“Have you been a good girl this year?” She gave you a small nod after thinking for a moment. “Then he will find you wherever you are.”

Christmas Day 2022 The palatial mansion had gone quiet as everyone went their separate ways for the evening after the banquet. There was no way any one family could have hosted the Christmas get together since there were just too many people but the island destination worked perfectly. Charles’ family had arrived on his boat while Lando’s family had flown in on Max’s plane and they were all spending the next few days celebrating the end of the year with you.

“I never want to move,” you groaned as Charles rubbed your full belly. “I shouldn’t have had that last yorkshire.”

“Maybe it was the two bowls of dessert,” he teased.

“Or the bottle of wine,” Lando added, his hands massaging your feet that rested on his lap.

“I didn’t eat that much,” you huffed as you looked at your bloated midriff that seemed to dispute your words. “Where were you two planning on sleeping tonight? I’m sure there is a dog box somewhere on the island.”

“But then who would do this when your stomach hurts?”

You groaned as a sharp pain stabbed your abdomen and sat up. “Fuck.” Pushing off the couch you rushed to the bathroom and crumpled in front of the toilet, emptying your stomach of everything you ate before flushing the evidence away.

“Baby?” Lando nudged the door open and frowned you as curled your knees up and groaned in pain. “You didn’t eat that much…”

“It’s not the food,” you whimpered as the cramps grew stronger and Charles arrived looking worried at your condition. “Can you run the shower?” You could feel the blood running down your thighs beneath the dress and groaned at the timing.

“Should I call for a doctor?” Charles asked as he helped you to your feet while Lando warmed the shower. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you said, squeezing his hand as you doubled over in pain. Lando blanched as he saw the red streaks running down your legs and you saw the panic in his wide eyes. “It’s just my period.”

“What do we do?” he asked. “What do you need us to do?”

You would have smiled at the rushed words if you weren’t being crushed from the inside out. “Hot shower, clean clothes, painkillers, pads, cuddles and death.”

“You mean chocolate,” Lando corrected as he pulled his shirt over his head and kicked his pants off before stepping into the shower.

Charles didn’t give you the option to walk yourself in after, carrying you straight under the rainfall of steaming water. The heat saturated your dress and the water turned pink as it swirled around the drain at your feet.

“You guys don’t have to be here for this,” you murmured as you felt a hand dragging the zip down your spine.

“Silly Spitfire,” Lando chuckled as he reached for the special shampoo made for you, lathering it up in his hands while Charles released the updo you had styled for the dinner party. “We promised to take care of you, didn't we? So let us.”

Max grunted a good morning to Charles as he entered the kitchen on Boxing Day and made a beeline to the coffee maker. Everyone knew Lando would sleep as long as he was allowed but Max frowned when you didn’t follow Charles in, his eyes lingering on the empty doorway expectedly.

“She’s not feeling very well,” Charles said as he placed his cup under the espresso maker. Though there wasn’t the comfortable atmosphere they used to share, they were on friendly terms after finding equal footing in their support of you and how your season ended. They were friends, just not best friends.

“Ah, goodluck, mate,” Max chuckled, returning to his half empty coffee and his phone he was checking the news on. “There’s some spare rooms if you need some space.”

“Why would we need space?”

“I love my sister, but you are going to be in for hell.” He winced at the memory of spending the holidays with you when you raced for AlphaTauri. “Happens every year.”

Charles snorted and took his mug with a shake of his head. “Thanks for the concern, but we’re good.”

You woke to the smell of coffee and found Charles sitting up beside you, reading something on his phone, while Lando snored softly in your ear. You had fallen asleep with their body heat easing the ache in your muscles and they were better than any heat pack you had used before.

“Good morning, ma chérie,” he said as he placed his phone down, noticing you were awake. After helping you to sit up against the headboard he grabbed a plate from the bedside table and placed it on your lap before grabbing a glass of juice. “Plain toast and iBuprofen.”

“Breakfast of champions,” you murmured sarcastically before taking a bite and smiling softly. “Thank you, babe.”

Charles kissed your temple before handing you the tablets and drink. “It’s just because it says not to take these on an empty stomach. Once Lando is awake we can get you anything you desire, even if one of us has to pop over to the mainland.”

“I’d rather just have you.” The words had slipped out before you even realised it and you shoved another piece of toast in your mouth. “Sorry, hormones.”

Lando’s dark lashes twitched where they fanned across his cheeks before they fluttered open and he stretched as he rolled onto his back. “What about me?”

You looked down at him in confusion as he rubbed his eyes. “What about you?”

“Would you rather have me too?” he asked with a lopsided smile as he used your thigh as a pillow.

“Are you always just pretending to sleep?”

“No, I just wake up when I hear something sexy.”

Charles laughed as he combed his fingers through the wild mess of curls. “Why does that not surprise me, mon cher.”

“Well you can go back to sleep,” you said as you passed the empty plate back to Charles. “I feel disgusting, probably look worse, and don’t even try to tell me otherwise or I will cry.”

“Agree to disagree,” they said at the same time, sharing a small laugh.

“I still think you are the most beautiful woman in the world, love.”

“I can see that,” you teased as you looked down at the thin sheet that covered Lando’s lap. “You know what would make me feel better? You did promise me anything.”

Charles shifted beside you and his cheeks flushed pink as his mind ran wild with tempting thoughts. “Anything at all.”

Your tongue rolled across your bottom lip at the thought and their eyes darkened with each passing second. “I want to watch you two.”

“You sure you don’t want to join us?” Lando asked as his fingertip drew small circles on your thighs.

“Isn’t that gross?” you asked as you crinkled your nose and your legs closed tighter.

“It’s just blood,” Lando chuckled. “And red is Charles' favourite colour.”

You rolled your eyes but had to give him a little laugh as he eased the tension and Charles kissed his way down to your collarbone. “There’s nothing about you I would ever call gross. And you never have to be embarrassed with us, mi amor. We just want you to be comfortable.”

You swallowed at the sincerity in his voice but still shook your head. “I’m not brave enough today.”

“Okay, love,” Lando said with a kiss to your thigh before he sat up. “Then we will have to put on a show just for you, a late Christmas present.”

Click here for the next part.

#Charles Leclerc x reader x lando norris #charles leclerc fanfic #lando norris fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #lando norris imagine #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #formula one imagine

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a-cross-the-universe · 3 months ago

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SHARP TONGUE

Nagumo Yoichi x f!reader | Part IX: A Close Call ☎️💥🚘

TW: Mentions of (Your Name). I really didn’t wanna bring it up, but…

***

The safehouse was cramped, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old ramen cups. You’d been stuck inside with Nagumo for six hours now, observing the target’s building through the cracked blinds. Nothing had happened—no movement, no signals, just you, Nagumo, and the increasingly heavy silence between you.

You sat on opposite sides of the tiny table. He lounged with his feet kicked up, tapping his pen against a notebook. You stared through the binoculars, pretending to focus but all too aware of how close he was. It was the first time you were alone with him since the kiss.

"You’re quiet," he finally said.

"You’re loud," you shot back without looking at him.

"Still got it," he smirked, leaning forward. "Thought maybe you lost your bite after kissing me."

You turned slowly. "You kissed me."

Nagumo tilted his head, mock thinking. "Did I? Huh. Guess it was mutual, though. I didn’t hear any complaints."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the binoculars. "Maybe I was in shock."

"That would explain why you didn’t slap me."

It was playful, the same banter from before—but underneath it all, there was something raw. Unspoken. You wanted to bring it up, to just ask what are we doing, but something stopped you.

Hours passed. Night fell. You pretended to sleep on the couch, but your eyes cracked open when you heard Nagumo mutter quietly.

"...didn’t mean to screw things up."

You stayed still, breath slow, heartbeat loud.

***

The JAA debriefing room was colder than usual—or maybe that was just your mood. You stood with your arms crossed as the mission results were reviewed. Naoko leaned against the opposite wall, fake-smiling.

"Infiltration was successful," one of the heads said. "Thanks to Agent (Your Name)’s intel and Nagumo’s execution. Impressive work."

"Hmm," Naoko hummed. "Would’ve thought she’d be stuck in recon again. But I guess when you’ve got...personal help, anything’s possible."

You turned. "Excuse me?"

Nagumo’s voice cut in—lazy and smooth, but with an unmistakable edge.

"Naoko, you ever get tired of talking out of your ass?"

The room stilled.

Naoko’s expression froze—half-offended, half-stunned.

Nagumo grinned, tilting his head. "So unless you’re planning to contribute something besides jealousy and delusions, maybe shut up before you embarrass yourself again."

No one said a word. Even the director coughed and moved the meeting along.

After the debriefing, you caught up with him in the hallway. He was halfway into a protein bar when you stepped in front of him.

"What was that back there?"

He shrugged. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I say a lot of things.”

You blinked at him, torn between amusement and exasperation. “Look. I appreciate you stepping up. Really. But you don’t have to do that. I can handle Naoko.”

He smirked but nodded. ““I know. But maybe I let her get away with too much before. That’s on me. Besides, watching you handle her isn’t nearly as fun as watching her squirm when I step in.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Since when do you take accountability?”

He smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

You shook your head, half-laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“Not true. I’m highly possible. Just slightly chaotic.”

***

The car crash hadn’t been part of the plan.

One second, you were tailing the suspect—tight turns, sirens in the distance, your team a few blocks behind—and the next, the brakes locked. A truck swerved into your path, and all you saw was blinding headlights and the violent twist of metal before everything went black.

***

Nagumo had just walked out of the JAA meeting room when Shishiba caught up with him.

“You need to head to Tokyo General,” Shishiba said bluntly.

Nagumo slowed his steps. “What?”

“(Your Name) ’s in the hospital. That chase last night—her car got totaled.”

He didn’t remember dropping his coffee, but the splatter on the floor said otherwise.

“She alive?”

“Yeah. Barely. Unconscious when they pulled her out.”

Shishiba said something else after that, but Nagumo was already moving.

***

When you woke up, your whole body throbbed. Ribs screamed, your shoulder was bandaged, and your legs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each.

Nagumo was leaning against the window, arms crossed, scythe propped beside him.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. Not smug. Just… relieved.

You blinked slowly. “What happened?”

He walked over and handed you a cup of water, watching you drink like he didn’t quite believe you were real. “Car flipped three times. You were half-buried under the wreck when they found you. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, nasty concussion.”

You took another sip, wincing at the movement. “Didn’t know you cared.”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “You’d be surprised.”

There was a pause. You watched him closely. Then you said, “About the kiss. And what you said the other day.”

You locked eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. It felt weirdly normal. He moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed, tossing you a candy bar.

His posture tensed, just a bit. “You heard that?”

“Yeah.”

You studied him. “You said you didn’t mean to screw things up.”

“Wasn’t about the mission,” he said after a second. “I screwed things up with you. That’s what I meant.”

You nodded. “I figured.”

A pause. Then, without thinking, you added, “So… about the kiss”

He held up a hand. "If you’re gonna say it was a mistake, at least wait until I finish this chocolate."

You laughed, genuinely. "I wasn’t going to. I just... wanted to know what that was."

Nagumo looked uncharacteristically unsure. "I don’t know."

He leaned in, slow and smooth.You didn’t move. His thumb brushed your jaw, and for a second, the teasing melted into something softer. Real.

“Wanna try again?” he said, voice low. “For clarity.”

He was close enough that your breath hitched, and as his lips brushed yours—

The door slammed open.

“Oh wow, you’re actually awake!” Lu’s voice rang out.

You jerked back, wide-eyed, as Shin followed behind him holding a fruit basket.

Nagumo groaned, muttering something under his breath as he pulled away. You quickly pulled your blanket up, cheeks burning.

“Seriously, Nagumo?” Lu said, hands on his hips. “Making out in a hospital room?”

“I was checking her pulse,” Nagumo said dryly.

“With your mouth?” Shin asked.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at them both.

Behind your back, Lu elbowed Shin and whispered with a smirk, “Pay up. I said under a week.”

Shin grumbled, pulling a bill from his pocket. “Only because I thought they’d be emotionally constipated for another month.”

Neither of them noticed you and Nagumo glance at each other.

But you didn’t notice their quiet high-five either.

***

Sorry for the delay! I got sick—thought it was just allergies at first, but nope, turned out to be a cold. Can you believe it? Ugh. I’m feeling a lot better now though, and I finally managed to edit the next chapter. Nothing like a near-death experience to bring the lead couple closer, right?

There’s gonna be more fluff and banter in the next chapters, and I should be able to update again sometime this week.

If you’re new, check out my blog for the earlier chapters—thanks! And big thanks to everyone for the likes, reblogs, and sweet messages!

SPOILER ALERT 🚨

P.S. I miss Nagumo so much. We finally got to see him again, and it was just a glimpse of that handsome face! Also, what the hell is Shishiba thinking? That’s literally a suicide mission. If he dies, I swear, I won’t survive it. They already took Gaku from me—Gaku, my precious boy. I’m still holding out hope he’s alive.

#nagumo yoichi #sakamoto days #nagumo sakamoto days #nagumo yoichi x reader

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itsnesss · 16 days ago

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𝐢’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝

🖇️ more...

Kimi is standing in front of you, in the middle of the Red Bull hospitality, as if waiting for a punishment worthy of the FIA. The place is almost empty after the race, except for a couple of engineers pretending not to listen. Kimi is still wearing his overalls half-buttoned, his cap crooked, and his eyes shiny. Not because he retired, but because he saw you.

Because Max has been shooting him a death stare ever since he walked in. But you… you still haven’t said anything. And that’s worse.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t think you would brake so early,” Kimi murmurs, scratching the back of his neck like a kid who broke a vase in someone else’s house.

Max sighs deeply, arms crossed, leaning against the coffee bar. “What if it had been another car?”

“But it was yours,” Kimi replies quietly. Almost hurt. Like that made it worse. Like it hurt more to have failed with it.

You finally cross your arms. “And what did we learn?”

Kimi timidly raises a finger. “Not to lock up going downhill with cold tires.”

“And…”

“And that you guys still love me even if I ruin your Sunday.”

Max snorts, as if he doesn’t want to smile but can’t help it anymore. You do smile. And Kimi too. When Max turns around to get a bottle of water, Kimi turns to you and whispers, with a mix of hope and embarrassment:

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to call him ‘dad’?”

You ruffle his hair affectionately. “He does it every time he scolds you.”

Minutes later, the lounge in the hospitality feels more like a cozy living room than an operations center.

Max is stretched out on one of the couches, shamelessly with his feet on the coffee table, eyes half-closed. Kimi is next to him, wrapped in a blanket that’s clearly yours, with an ice pack on his neck. Neither of them speaks. They just watch the TV playing race replays, like exposure therapy.

You walk in carrying three steaming bowls of instant ramen, and immediately Kimi stretches out his hands as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Have you made up yet or do I have to use my mom voice again?”

“I’m not mad,” Max says without opening his eyes.

“I am. At you. For braking so early,” Kimi replies without hesitation.

Max throws a cushion without looking. It hits Kimi right in the face. Kimi complains with his mouth full of noodles.

You watch them, resigned but full of affection. “They’re two of a kind.”

Kimi smiles while slurping his noodles loudly. Max gets more comfortable and rests his head on your lap without saying a word. He closes his eyes like he can finally let the day go.

“Would you still love me if I crashed into an 18 year old kid?” he murmurs.

“I’d still love you if a truck hit you,” you reply, running your fingers through his hair.

#🖇️ f1 drabble #🖇️ max verstappen #f1 drabble #f1 drivers #kimi antonelli

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dameronology · 1 year ago

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home (frank castle)

warnings: a little bit of frank being depressed but that's about it. probably language too? i don't even notice anymore.

this is the first thing i've written in so long and it's very short buuuut i hope you like it

--jazz xx

You could always tell when Frank had had a bad night.

The signs were clear as soon as he got home. Boots thrown to the side with a loud thunk (he would apologise for the noise in the morning); body haphazardly hitting the mattress beside you as he let out a huff of exhaustion. Normally, his hands would be on you before he even in bed. He had to sleep with his chest pressed to your back, arms wrapped tightly around you, any signs of breaking free met with intense refusal until the morning. You felt safe but he felt safer.

Tonight was different. You heard the crash of shoes, and the thump, thump, thump towards the bed. The mattress dipped beside you but instead of his hands, you were met with Frank's back to you. It was tense, littered with pink scars and red ones, and fresh cuts and bruises. You could have reached out, but you didn't want to push it. A few years ago, before you, before this, before he'd learnt love again, he probably wouldn't have come home at all. He would have stayed out til the crack of dawn, fighting, fighting, fighting; fists beaten to a pulp and every part of him rigid and exhausted to his very core. Frank had learnt now: when he got really bad, he had to come home. When the going got too tough even for him, it normally meant it was the end of night. You were just grateful he had come at all.

You said nothing; just a small sigh. For him, for you, for whatever the morning would bring.

10AM came quickly. It was a Sunday, so Manhattan was nice enough to wake a few minutes later than usual. The silence in your bedroom was quickly filled with the sound of horns and brakes and the yells of the outside world. You didn't have work that day, thank god. That meant there was no rush. Frank could rise whenever he wanted.

Except - fuck - you had forgotten to turn off your alarm. It came blaring out your phone as soon as the clock struck on the hour, vibrating across your bedside table and onto the floor with a loud thud. Frank, being the world's lightest and potentially most dangerous sleeper, quickly rose. His hair was getting longer now, so it was tuftier in the mornings. You would have laughed if your chest wasn't so heavy.

You quickly hopped out of bed, sheepishly picking up the phone.

"Shit," you muttered. "Frankie, I'm sorry."

He let out a grumble, rubbing his eyes. "It's okay. I had to wake up at some point."

"Are you okay?" you quietly asked. "I know you're not but...I gotta ask."

Frank didn't say anything - instead he just sighed. Then, he opened his arms and ushered for you to come back to bed. You did so without hesitation, dropping into the sheets beside him. Strong arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you to his chest, one hand cupping the back of your head. You'd always found irony in the fact that he had to be the one to hold you when he was upset. No matter how shit he was feeling, Frank was always the big spoon. His ability to protect you was the one thing he could control. It was the one thing that made him feel a little okay again.

"It was a really rough night," he quietly admitted. "I'll be okay, sweetheart. I just wanna take it easy today."

Frank said nothing else. What he had said was beyond anyone else's wildest dreams; this was coming from the man who made a point of closing himself off, from refusing himself love and anything good. You were the only person he would ever say anything too. It was safe to assume at any given moment that he wasn't okay, but he was a little closer to it when he was with you.

The rest of the morning went like a ghost.

You moved around each other with ease; his small touches lingered - a hand on your back here, another on your hip there - and you could tell he was coming back around. Sure, he burnt the first three pancakes and didn't realise the milk was out of date til after he'd poured it into your coffee, but he was being Frank. You would have been more worried if he'd cooked properly or made good coffee.

You'd moved to the sofa by midday, dirty plates piled up in the sink and Max snoring on the rug in the middle of your living room. Die Hard was playing quietly in the background (Frank argued it was an all year round movie). You were sat between his legs on the sofa, large thighs either side of yours and arms wrapped around your front. He had his head resting on top of yours, giving you the occasional squeeze with his legs and arms.

"I love you," Frank quietly murmured. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You turned your head to look at him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I love you too."

"I'm sorry for being quiet last night. I didn't mean to ignore you."

"You don't have to apologise," you hummed. "I'm just grateful you came home."

"I'll always come home."

#frank castle #the punisher #frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle fluff #frank castle angst #frank castle imagines #the punisher x reader #the punisher imagine #marvel imagines #marvel fluff #marvel angst #frank castle x you #frank castle reader insert #frank castle x y/n

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lavenderstobins · 1 year ago

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It's the third day in a row that Wayne Munson has seen the girl in the diner.

Usually, he doesn't pay attention to new faces. He's been frequenting the diner for some years now and there's often ones he doesn't recognise: people passing through Hawkins, visiting family, etc.

The girl has caught his attention, though. She's sitting tucked into the far corner of the diner, a glass of water in front of her and nothing else. She's wearing the same t-shirt and flannel shirt she'd been wearing yesterday, and the day before, he's pretty sure. She didn't order any food yesterday; she hasn't ordered any food today.

Bev likes to joke he has a sense for kids who need help. Says there's an alarm in his head that makes him worry himself sick whenever there's a waif in need.

She's sitting next to him now, one eyebrow raised. He sighs. Waif in need alarm, indeed.

"What's the deal with the kid?" he murmurs, nodding subtly in the girl's direction.

Bev shrugs. "Beats me. That's Robert's girl, that's all I know."

He frowns. "Robert?"

"Nurse. Took good care of me when my knee went bad." She takes a swig of coffee, her eyes going sad. "Died, oh, maybe eight months back."

Wayne looks back at the girl. She's staring down at her half-empty glass of water. Tucked under the table there's a bulky-looking backpack.

"She got family?"

"Just her mother, far as I know. Met her a couple of times, too. 'Nother nurse. Seems nice enough."

"Hmph." Wayne turns back to his coffee. Ain't his business, he tells himself firmly. He should focus on his lunch.

When he gets up to pay, he glances once more in the girl's direction. He'll give it a couple of days, he decides. If she's still here then, still in the same clothes, he'll see if she's alright.

—

Wayne doesn't even last the day.

He's on his way home from work when he sees movement in a phonebox on the side of the road. The road's empty aside from him, and it's raining, and the sky's getting dark, so it immediately strikes him as odd. When he sees it's the teenage girl from earlier, he nearly crashes his truck with how hard he hits the brakes.

She's huddled down in the phonebox, clasping the backpack he'd noticed. She looks sodden. It had been raining heavier earlier; from the looks of it, she'd been caught in it. Her hair's plastered to her face and she's shivering.

He's winding down his window before his brain's even caught up to the movement. He's actually not sure how to go about it, very conscious of the fact that it's just the two of them out here and she's a teenage girl while he's an old man.

Feeling very much like he's approaching a wild animal, he clears his throat. "You okay, miss?"

The girl jumps, her head jerking up. She looks at him with wild eyes, wide and afraid. She reminds him of Eddie the day he showed up on his doorstep, timid and small.

"I'm f—fine." Her teeth chatter as she speaks. Where is this girl's mother? Where are her guardians?

"You need to call someone? I got a couple o'quarters, I think."

She shakes her head. Wayne frowns. Something ain't sitting right with him.

"You waiting on your ma?"

To his horror, her face crumples, and she buries her face in her arms. He's out of the truck like a shot, rushing over to find her shoulders heaving.

"Now, now—" He's panicking, admittedly. She can't be much younger than Eddie is.

"She—She—" the girl sobs. "She kicked me out and I—I don't have anywhere to go and it's so cold and wet and—and—"

A bout of rage washes over him. He pushes it down, tugging his jacket off and draping it over her shoulders. It doesn't have a hood, but it's dry. Christ, she must be soaked to the bone.

"Listen," Wayne starts, hesitating almost immediately. It's an insane suggestion from a strange man; he doesn't want to scare her off, but he doesn't want her spending the night in this phonebox, either. "I got a kid about your age. My Eddie. You come to mine and we can get you sorted out, okay? Or—Or I can find you a motel room, or something."

Sniffling, the girl looks up at him, wrapping herself up in his jacket. "Is that... is that okay?"

His heart breaks. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course."

She stands, wobbly, still clutching her backpack. She's soaked through like he'd thought, and she shivers once she's in the front seat. He's quick to turn the heating up, starting the truck again, and for a moment he's furious: her immediate agreement, the lack of hesitation about getting into a vehicle with a strange man, makes him boil with hatred towards this girl's mother.

The journey's quiet and, thankfully, not too long. Wayne ushers her into the trailer, already preparing to make a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Eddie's out at Jeff's for band practice, so he says, but Wayne knows him well enough to know he'll come home stinking of weed.

The girl stands awkwardly in the living room, still shivering. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he doesn't even know her name.

Still. An issue for later. He focuses on the hot chocolate. Once it's ready, he hands it over to her, and doesn't miss how eagerly she accepts it.

Only then does he broach the subject. "What's your name, miss?"

She's quiet a moment, cradling the mug in her hands. "It's Robin. Uh, Robin, sir."

"None of that 'sir' business," he says gruffly. "Name's Wayne. Eddie'll be home later but you can have his bed if you need a place to stay for the night."

This might be the most he's spoken in years, trying desperately to come across as reassuring. It breaks his heart how trusting she's being, though.

"Thank you." Robin goes quiet, her fingers curling around the handle of the mug. "I, um, I can pay you back for the ride—"

He waves a hand, frowning. "None of that. I'd like to think if it were my Ed in your shoes, someone would be there for him like this."

She manages a small smile. She's still in her soaking clothes. He hustles over to Eddie's room, raiding the drawers for whatever looks most comfortable. Eddie won't complain, he knows.

Robin gratefully accepts the clothes. He goes back into Eddie's room to give her privacy, unsure exactly how long to wait. There's that stereotype that women take forever to change, right? It must hold some truth.

He gives it an hour, just to be safe. When he emerges, he finds that she's curled up on the couch, out like a light. His jacket's pulled up to her chin like a blanket.

Waif in need alarm. He sighs. Bev's right after all. He won't be surprised if this situation resolves with him having another kid in his care.

Well, Eddie always wanted a sister, anyway.

#wayne adopts robin au #stranger things #wayne munson #robin buckley #eddie munson #my writing #st ficlet #st fic #this ran away from me so unbelievably badly #my wips #*thoughtsbyambs #*stthoughts

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vivace-formulala · 4 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐: 𝑺𝒐 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑶𝒏 𝑻𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 (𝑶𝑩𝟖𝟕 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

🫵: “ AFAB ; same-aged ; you can drive ; you’re British ; you like Taylor Swift ; you fix cars ; ”

⌛️: around winter break 2024

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You slide into the passenger seat, ready for round two. Same kid. Same car. Same terrifying driving. Only today, you’re feeling a little... less confident. Not in the “I’m nervous” way, but more like I have no idea what I’m doing here.

As you close the door, Ollie’s voice rings out.

“Oh hey, it’s still you.”

You glance at him, one eyebrow raised. “Of course it’s still me. How else will we know if you’re actually making progress?” You say it dryly, but there’s an edge to your voice, like you’re trying to remind him this isn’t just a joyride.

He laughs, leaning back in his seat. His laid-back energy is practically a shield, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s been a disaster behind the wheel.

“I suppose you’re right,” Ollie shrugs. “So, when do we actually get to drive on real roads?”

You blink at him, slightly taken aback at the test course. “This is a road, genius.”

He just grins, that carefree grin that’s equal parts charming and infuriating.

“You know what I mean.”

You look at him as dry as you can. “You have to promise not to subtract from the population.”

He flashes a gummy smile, and with that, you both set off, heading toward the road. At first, things seem almost normal. He’s taking it slow—like, really slow. The kind of slow that makes you question if you’re even moving or if the car’s stalled. But then, as the streets widen and the traffic thins, you feel it—a shift. It’s like a switch flips in Ollie’s head. His foot presses harder on the gas, and suddenly, you’re going just a little too fast.

You grip the seat again, but this time not out of fear—more out of frustration. Ollie apparently knows two speeds: full stop or flat out.

The first issue of the day comes when Ollie drives straight into a pedestrian zone without slowing down. You catch it just in time, slamming your foot onto the instructor’s brake pedal before he registers what’s happening.

Ollie glances at you, brow raised. “They weren’t going to cross anyway.”

You roll your eyes, giving him a pointed side-eye. “Yeah, but it’s a pedestrian zone, isn’t it?” you say flatly, your voice barely above a whisper but thick with sarcasm.

He doesn’t get it, but it’s okay. You’re just trying to teach him some basic consideration..

The worst part? He’s the opposite of every student you’ve ever had. Every other person you’ve taught has been timid, unsure of themselves, terrified even. But not Ollie. He’s far too confident. Like he’s already mastered this—like he’s just going through the motions. It’s frustrating as hell because Formula One was definitely nothing like on-road driving.

“Ollie,” you groan. “Causing a car crash on the road means jail time, not a penalty out here.”

You rub your temples as Ollie’s ears turn pink in embarrassment.

At the gas station, you ask him to pull up to the pump. You hand him the money to refill while you stretch your legs. It should be a simple errand, but when he comes back from inside, your eyes widen as he hands you a small, crinkled bag.

“I got you something,” Ollie says shyly.

You blink, confused. “What is it?”

He grins, a bit more playful now. “Some chocolates. Figured you could use something sweet after surviving another lesson with me.”

You chuckle, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly as you take the bag. It’s a small gesture, but something about it makes you feel... warmer. Despite the stress? Maybe he’s not so bad after all.

As the gas tank fills up, Ollie pulls out his phone, swiping through clips. "Want to see something?"

You nod, and like an excited puppy, he’s already showing you videos of his racing. Clips from F2, F3—different circuits, different teams. His driving is incredible. The way he handles a car at top speed, the precision in his movements... You can’t help but be impressed.

Even when he crashed, you were impressed. In one clip, Ollie in a red Formula car turns sharply on a track with Canadian flags. However, he misses his timing, sending his car into the gravel and straight into the barriers. On screen, it looks slow, but the replay report says it was at a heart-stopping 190 km/h.

You can’t hide your shock as you stare at the screen with a hiss, and Ollie gives a sheepish smile. “Yeah, not my finest moment. 15g I think.”

Suddenly, Ollie’s thick neck makes sense. You’d tried really hard to avoid looking at it yesterday, but now, there’s no denying it.

You thought that if ever his gummy smile, bright eyes, and brown curls failed him for his (terrifyingly handsome) defining traits, his neck could give him a run for his money.

Your eyebrows furrow as you absentmindedly lift your hand, facing him, and gently place your palm against his neck. His skin is warm, and you feel the muscle beneath your fingers, solid and strong.

Ollie sucks in a breath, his entire posture shifting as he focuses on you.

You, however, are completely absorbed by the strength of the muscle beneath your touch. Your gaze lingers, eyes tracing the curve of his neck.

But then the fuel meter dings, signaling a full tank, and you both snap back to reality. Ollie lets out the big breath he was holding and you feel your ears shoot up with red.

You both meet eyes in awkward silence.

You cough and pat his shoulder, and he gets the hint to return to the driver’s seat.

To fill the silence leaving the gas station, you admit you’ve never really been into racing. The idea of flying around a track at breakneck speed never seemed appealing. But cars? Cars you understood. You loved them—each one a project, a piece of you. Your garage was a testament to that, filled with fixer-uppers you were always tinkering with.

Ollie’s eyes light up. You’ve got his attention now. He’s practically drooling as you show him pictures of your cars at stoplights, even yielding at sidewalks to get a better look at your pride and joy. You can see it in his eyes; he’s really into it.

“That’s... wow,” Ollie says, swiping through your pictures. “You’ve got a serious collection.”

You shrug, a modest smile tugging at your lips. “It’s just a hobby.”

But it’s more than a hobby to you. It’s your passion. Every car is a project, a little piece of you that you’ve put into it.

And Ollie? When he’s behind the wheel—whether on the track with his helmet on or in this cramped car beside you—he’s got that same gleam in his eye. The one that says he’s looking at something that’s almost perfect, just a little more work to be done.

Ollie later on tries something new. He begins making risky overtakes, weaving between cars like he’s in a race. Your heart skips a beat every time he cuts it too close.

“Dude, what are you doing?” you ask, flicking his forehead as he swerves around yet another car, barely squeezing through.

He blinks, unfazed. “What? There’s a gap. I’m practicing overtaking like you said.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Yeah, I said overtake when it’s safe—not in the gap look at your mirrors Ollie.”

“The car would’ve fit, though,” he says, trying to reason with you, but the glare you give is enough to make him fall silent.

On the way back, it’s getting late, and you’re texting your dad to heat dinner up (your stomach growling might be a clue). But he’s not responding when Ollie suddenly turns left without checking the mirrors. Your head snaps up.

“Did you check the mirrors before you turned?”

His silence speaks volumes.

You glance at where you’ve turned and squint. “Are you serious?”

You end up pulling into a McDonald's drive-thru, and Ollie insists on paying for the food. “It’s on me,” he says sheepishly.

You're about to politely reject until:

“Plus, I heard your stomach grumble.” He adds without thinking—instantly flushing you red as your mouth opens and closes in embarrassment.

“I—”

Ollie realizes what he said and fumbles to correct himself. “I-It’s an apology for almost giving you a heart attack... lots of heart attacks. Please don't kill me.”

You can’t help but snort. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His grin widens, and you both settle in the parking lot, sharing a quiet meal.

After the snack, you head back toward the driving school. The day winds down, and there’s light conversation between you two. But there’s a strange sense of camaraderie, maybe even comfort. Despite all the chaos, the near accidents, the awkward neck touch, and fighting over the last fry, something about Ollie keeps you intrigued.

"You're born here in Chelmsford?" You ask on a red light.

“Yeah. You?”

You shake your head. “We moved here from Chelsea halfway through high school. Now I’m just waiting for my college applications to come back.”

Ollie tilts his head. “Where are you headed?”

“Kings, mostly. It’s where most of my friends are going. But Newark and Lincoln have good programs,” you shrug.

“What course are you taking? In the fall, right?”

“Yeah, fall.” You hum, considering. “I don’t actually want to go to college. A technical one would be fine, but my aunts insist I take engineering for a proper 4-year degree.”

You study him for a moment. “Do F1 drivers go to college?”

Ollie laughs. “No, thank God. The high school program I had barely let me survive. But then again, it was all Italian, so maybe that had something to do with it.”

“Or you’re just slow,” you tease.

He laughs, shaking his head. “The last thing a guy who drives cars for a living wants to hear is that he’s slow.”

As you arrive back at the school, your dad stands in the doorway, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

“So,” he says, crossing his arms once Ollie’s out of earshot. “Looks like you and Mr. Bearman are getting along pretty well.”

You freeze, your face flushing. “What?”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you two laughing in the car. What’s going on?”

You shake your head, trying to play it cool, but your dad’s smirk is enough to make you blush even harder.

“It’s nothing, Dad. Just... teaching him to drive.” You give him a pointed look. “Can we go home now?”

Your dad just chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment. You slide into the driver’s seat, trying to ignore how your heart’s still pounding a little faster than usual.

Was a week usually this long?

#f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #ollie bearman x reader #oliver bearman x reader #ob87 x reader #formula 1 imagines #formula 1 x reader imagines #f1 imagines #f1 x reader imagines #my work𓂃 ࣪⋆✍️˚ ༘

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